In a secluded glade sheltered by the sprawling canopy of ancient trees, a group of burly men in servant’s livery laughed raucously, their amusement fed by something vile.
“Hold him down! The nerve of him to spoil my mood! Filthy commoners deserve nothing but death! String them up—beat them senseless!”
The one barking orders was a curly-haired youth, dressed in fabrics far finer than his retinue, his face contorted with arrogance as he commanded his brutish attendants.
Sprawled on the grass lay a frail, emaciated old man and a disheveled young girl, both already battered and bruised.
The ragged elder struggled with desperate, wiry strength, muttering incoherently—his speech thick and clumsy, his words mangled, yet the venom in his tone was unmistakable. The girl, meanwhile, wept in silence, her face hidden beneath a curtain of tangled hair, her muffled sobs the only sound she could muster.
When a pair of sneering lackeys stepped forward to bind the girl, the old man went berserk, thrashing wildly. One of the men, caught off guard, took a headbutt to the gut and doubled over with a sharp cry.
“You damned old wretch!” the lackey roared, recovering to rain punches and kicks upon the struggling elder.
Just then—
“What the hell are you doing?!”
The shout cracked through the air like a thunderclap, freezing every man in place. Even those holding the rope halted mid-motion, turning wide eyes to search for the source.
The curly-haired youth flinched, then his face darkened with fury. He spun around, screaming, “Who is there?! Show yourself, you bastard!”
“Curse again, and see what happens,” a cold voice drifted down from above.
The group craned their necks upward to spot a man standing casually on a thick branch—older and far more imposing than any of them.
The curly-haired boy, far from retreating, only grew more incensed. “You lowborn scum! Get lost while I am still being merciful! This has nothing to do with you, filthy beggar!”
Glenn did not frown, nor did he show anger—only a faint, icy smile played on his lips. “Since you put it that way, I suppose I must come down and reason with you personally.”
He dropped lightly from the branch, landing before the youth, his shadow swallowing the smaller boy.
“You want to fight me, peasant?” the boy sneered, chin high. “Do you even know who my father is? He is—”
Smack!
A sharp, ringing slap cut him off mid-sentence.
The lackeys froze in disbelief. Their young master, the nobleRavel, had just been struck—spun halfway around and thrown to the dirt by a single, casual backhand from a plainly dressed commoner.
For a long moment, the glade was silent. Even the beaten old man and the tear-streaked girl stared, dumbstruck.
Did that pauper just strike Young Master Ravel—a noble?!
The air was thick with stunned silence until Ravel stirred. Trembling, he touched the corner of his mouth, pulling his fingers away to find them smeared with bright red blood. His eyes widened in disbelief, his lips quivered, and then tears burst forth in a mix of rage and humiliation.
“Kill him! Kill him for me!” he shrieked, his voice cracking.
The servants jolted as if awakened from a nightmare.
The young master had been struck—if they failed to retaliate, they would be punished severely. The lord doted on this boy; the consequences of inaction would be dire.
Without another thought, they charged at Glenn like a pack of wild dogs.
Glenn cracked his knuckles, almost amused. It had been a while since he’d had such willing volunteers for a beating.
Moments later, the grove echoed with screams. When the dust settled, the once-fierce lackeys lay groaning in the dirt, nursing broken bones and bruised egos.
“You… you are finished! I will tell my father! I will tell my mother!” Ravel howled through his tears, abandoning his fallen followers as he scrambled up and fled.
“Remember the name!” Glenn shouted after him. “Glenn Nibankru, fromBayek!”
Ravel glanced back, his swollen, tear-streaked face twisting with pure hatred. He burned the name into his memory before stumbling away.
Glenn turned toward the victims. Just as he was about to leave, the battered old man struggled to his feet, pulling the girl up with trembling hands. “W–wait!” he croaked.
Glenn looked back, puzzled.
“You have angered the nobles,” the man stammered, fear in his eyes. “They will seek revenge. Leave this town—go as far as you can!”
Glenn studied him briefly, then smiled. “Is that your daughter?”
The man blinked, startled, then nodded dumbly. “Y–yes, my daughter,Martha.”
“You are a good father,” Glenn said with quiet admiration.
But the old man waved his hands anxiously. “Good sir, this is not the time for pleasantries! You must flee!”
“It is fine,” Glenn replied calmly. “He is just a noble. I can handle it. You need not worry about me.”
“R–really?”
“Of course.” Glenn’s tone carried absolute confidence.
He had every reason to be confident. He was strong—strong enough to face far worse than pampered aristocrats. He knew their kind, their cruelty, and their limits.
The old man seemed convinced, or perhaps just overwhelmed, and said no more.
“Why were they beating you?” Glenn asked.
The man gave a bitter, resigned smile. “Boy, nobles need no reason to beat commoners. I was taking my daughter to school. Our mere presence offended them, so they struck us.”
Yes… that sounded exactly like the nobles he knew.Glenn’s lip curled with contempt.
“Do you knowLayla?” he asked the girl suddenly. “She studies at your school, does she not?”
The girl blinked through her tears. “I know of her. But she does not know me. She is quite famous… many boys adore her.”
“I see,” Glenn murmured. “Have you seen her recently?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Are you her friend?”
“Something like that,” he said with a faint smile. “Just passing by.”
“Do you want me to call her for you?” the girl asked timidly.
“No need. Just be careful of that curly-haired brat from now on,” Glenn replied, then vaulted easily over the wall and disappeared from sight.
“Curly-haired brat?” the old man muttered in confusion, while the girl let out a small, watery laugh.
At the academy gates, Ravel clutched the collar of a middle-aged man in a black uniform, screaming furiously.
“Get me a carriage—now! Or my father will make you pay dearly!”
“But, Young Master… the academy rules forbid leaving at this hour…” the man stammered, visibly terrified of the raging youth.
“Idiot! I said I need a carriage! Now! I am going home!” Ravel’s face was twisted with fury, spittle flying as he shouted.