First (5)
First (5)
"Well, look who it is. Ain't that the Young Master himself? Been a while."
One figure stepped forward from the shadows.
Marcus.
The ringleader of the thugs the old Ravin used to run with back in his hell-raising days.
No.
The hell-raiser label never really got scrubbed off, so maybe it's more accurate to say back before I was the one wearing this skin.
Either way, the first thing I did after becoming Ravin was scrape off the leeches.
Didn't need the original story to recognize a pack of human garbage.
Pathetic punks who weren't even competent thugs. Utterly useless.
"You look like absolute shit. Where've you been rolling around? That precious fiancée kick you to the curb again?"
Marcus circled me with a cheap, jeering laugh.
The others behind him cackled in agreement.
The laughter curdled in the alley.
"Heard you're getting booted from the family too. And now the fiancée's bound to drop you.
Even for a real high-and-mighty type, it all falls apart in a second, huh, Ravin."
Another one knocked my shoulder.
A foul mix of cheap cologne and stale sweat brushed past.
"Whoa, look at those eyes. Like he's about to kill somebody.
Loosen up a little. We used to be pretty tight, remember?"
I didn't say a word.
I just watched them.
I was exhausted.
Didn't even have the energy left for a pointless verbal brawl.
"Sure, Kyle beat you like a dog and you dropped us, maybe the head injury rattled something loose. Still."
I wanted cheap liquor, harsh tobacco, and a blank stare at the ceiling.
That was the full extent of my aspirations right then.
"Hey, why so quiet? The old you would've thrown some cash at us and told us to know our place and get the hell out of your sight.
Oh, right. No money left?"
Marcus's fist came at me without warning.
The movement was slow and clumsy.
And I didn't dodge.
Couldn't dodge is probably more accurate.
A body steeped in alcohol and nicotine stood rooted to the spot, independent of whatever my will wanted.
Thud!
A dull impact twisted my head to the side.
The taste of iron seeped across my mouth, slow and rank.
The pain caught up a beat later.
"This bastard's finally lost it, hasn't he?"
Marcus grabbed me by the collar and hauled me up.
The crumpled uniform collar choked against my throat.
Pure delight glinted in the punk's eyes.
Obvious, really. How often does some nobody backwater noble get the chance to beat on a member of House Edelgard, one of the Empire's five great families?
Only possible now because I'd been reduced to the half-wit cripple about to be thrown out, but the name Edelgard still carried weight.
"So once Lady Serepina breaks off the engagement, what happens to her? Huh?
Maybe she ends up with that bastard Kyle? Saw them looking real cozy the other day.
Lucky son of a bitch. I mean, her body is just so goddamn...."
Life was profoundly shit.
Why was I living here as Ravin?
This vermin smirking in front of me was profoundly shit.
Why does a wretch like that get to breathe the same air and stand in front of me?
The old Ravin's memories, things I never lived through, tormenting me at every turn—profoundly shit.
Wish the thing floating in front of my eyes had handed me a useful ability instead of a semi-transparent message.
The original Ravin was a jack of all trades, master of none.
Could do a dozen things badly, none of them well.
Being buried under infamy and disgrace I never earned, constantly misunderstood—profoundly shit.
Because in this world, not a single person listens to a word I say.
Serepina, Rana, the father I've never once seen, my mother who died when I was young, the entire household, the Academy students, even these insects chewing on my name for entertainment.
Why was the world so densely packed with garbage like this?
Maybe the problem is just me. A walking disaster.
Couldn't possibly be the fine, upstanding people surrounding me, could it.
Getting shot in the head didn't change a thing, so I suppose this much doesn't matter.
I seized Marcus's wrist where he was gripping my collar.
And twisted.
Crrk.
A dry, sickening crack, like snapping a dead branch, echoed through the narrow alley.
At the same instant, a scream like a stuck pig tore out of him.
I didn't miss the opening. Drove my knee square into his solar plexus.
Guhk!
Marcus crumpled, clutching his chest, spine curling like a shrimp.
The others faltered for half a second.
I didn't let up.
Threw a fist into the face of the one standing closest.
The nauseating crunch of nasal bone transmitted clean through my knuckles.
After that, it was a genuine mud-slinging dogfight.
No elegant swordsmanship, no graceful magic.
Any bystander would've questioned whether these idiots in school uniforms were really students of a prestigious academy.
Just wild punches, kicks, and cheap curses filling a dark, forgotten alley.
Truthfully, it hurt like hell.
Every hit landed felt like bones splintering inside my skull, like I might collapse on the spot.
My fighting sense isn't great. So rather than dodge, I took the hits, caught my breath, then swung again.
When that didn't work, I went for their eyes, grabbed them by the hair, and drove my knee into their faces.
It wouldn't have looked clean, or cool, or impressive.
More like filthy dogs locked together trying to tear each other apart.
That's the nature of street thug brawls.
Someone who could really fight—whether me or these morons—wouldn't be in this back alley. They'd be drilling in a proper knights' training hall.
With the grand household name tacked onto mine, even half-decent skill would've guaranteed a captain's rank someday.
Anyway. How much time passed?
When I came back to myself, the only things around me were bodies groaning and sprawled on the damp ground.
I looked down at them, breathing ragged.
My whole body was wrecked.
The crumpled uniform was ripped in half a dozen places, my face smeared with blood and grime.
A vicious, sharp ache pulsed from my battered ribs, and my left ankle—maybe twisted from all the kicking—was so swollen I'd lost sensation entirely.
I spat on the ground.
Red spit, threaded with blood.
No reward came with it.
Beating the hell out of some punks doesn't give you experience points or gold like a game... well. Money, maybe.
I straddled Marcus where he lay groaning and rifled through his pockets.
A wallet, a few notes, a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
Regrettably, not much.
Barely enough to cover the next drink.
"Well. Fucking nothing goes right."
I pulled a crushed, cheap cigarette from the pack I'd lifted off Marcus and stuck it between my lips.
Lit it with a match from his wallet.
Didn't taste particularly good.
Maybe the alley air was just too foul.
I ground the burning cigarette out against Marcus's cheek—he still hadn't come to.
Ssss.
The disgusting smell of burning flesh curled up.
Marcus screamed again, but there was no force behind it.
Still irritated, I kicked at the downed bastards a few more times for good measure.
Not sure what comes next.
I'm getting expelled anyway. The family will handle it.
Neither outcome mattered much to me.
If things really go south, I can always do what I did last time. Blow my brains out in front of Vina and be done with it.
I limped away like a cripple.
Walking through the streets in a state that drew eyes, I felt a hundred stares prickling against me.
Murmurs buzzed, but nothing pleasant would come of listening, so I didn't bother.
When I finally got back to my room and pushed the door open to catch my breath, a familiar silhouette was the first thing I saw.
Vina sat on the sofa in my room, legs crossed like it was her private parlor.
"You—what in the world is that appearance...."
Confusion, not contempt, laced her voice.
She'd probably braced herself for a drunk brother sprawled out senseless—not a blood-soaked cripple staggering in.
"It's tonight after all."
I walked past her and headed for the bottle on the table.
A faint trace of expensive perfume drifted from her. At least it wasn't the lilac that makes me want to retch.
"I have a rough idea why you're here, but I've got nothing to say. And no intention of listening."
I uncapped the bottle and drank straight from it.
Harsh alcohol scoured the cuts inside my mouth and seared down my throat.
Finally. A vague sensation of being alive.
"Get out, Levina. I don't have the bandwidth to trade words with you."
I staggered toward my bed, bottle in hand.
Every step sent a shard of agony up from my left ankle.
My vision fogged strangely around the edges as I collapsed onto the mattress.
The last thing that surfaced was Levina's face—shock and bewilderment tangled together.
That was a sight worth seeing.
In the old Ravin's memories, and in my own experience, Levina had always looked down at me, or glared, wearing nothing but contempt, disgust, or cold authority.