I walked around the side of the manor and found them gathered where the service road met the hedgerow — four boys clustered like a petty court. One of them lounged on an upturned crate with the insolence of someone born to command; that was Lucan Magnus, second son of Duke Magnus. He might be a nominal friend of my father, but our fathers' acquaintance never translated into anything resembling camaraderie between us. In aristocratic circles, proximity to power is an inheritance; for children, it takes the form of brandished weapons and casual tyranny.
Lucan looked every bit the patrician bully. He wore that same insolent half-smile I'd seen on him since infancy, the one that proclaimed "I have rank, therefore I have right." Around him were three acolytes — boys who mirrored his mannerisms, their postures rehearsed to suggest menace. One clenched a cudgel at his hip, another twirled a practice rapier with careless dexterity, and the last bore the look of someone who'd been taught to laugh at other people's misfortune.
For a long time I tolerated it. Nobles are taught restraint; there is an onus to preserve face and lineage. If I had answered Lucan's jibes before, my mother would have been mortified, my father would have had to placate Duke Magnus, and the delicate lattice of aristocratic relations would have crumbled in a single ill-judged scuffle. So I endured the humiliation, swallowed the slurs, and let them mistake my frailty for impotence.
But today felt different. My mother had departed for the capital on some interminable errand of diplomacy; the household's usual canopy of supervision had been lifted. There was no matron's timely intervention, no tutor to scold, no sergeant-at-arms to impose order.
Lucan's voice carried the expected taunt. "Look who finally crawled out of his bed—Arclayne's ghost," he jeered, letting the epithet hang like a gauntlet. The three boys snickered on cue.
I leaned back against the low wall, letting the sun gild my lashes. The restraint I'd practiced for years felt less like duty and more like a lie. My bones no longer creaked with the same certainty of collapse, my breath had become less labored — the small mercies of recovery had been buying me time to plan.
Beneath my calm, something ancient uncoiled: not wanton violence, but a precise, economical resolve. There was no appetite to mar a child's body — there are limits even vengeance should not transgress — but I had no intention of being Lucan's perpetual butt. If he wanted to play at dominance, I could oblige him with a demonstration that would remind him how fragile reputation can be when confronted with consequence.
I fixed him with a look that had nothing of the limp, apologetic son they expected. "You know what you're doing is juvenile," I said, my voice deceptively even. "But if you insist on making sport of weakness, I'll oblige you. Only this time, I won't break bones unnecessarily. I'll just make your insolence expensive."
Lucan's smirk flickered — curiosity and annoyance warring across his face. His cronies straightened, the practiced menace suddenly subject to a different cadence: the possibility that their target might not be as feeble as he appeared.
For someone raised on the choreography of noble brutality, I'd learned one immutable truth in thirty lives: power is less about the size of your weapon than the clarity of your intent. Today, clarity was mine.
[When did you start talking like an actual noble, Host?]
The familiar voice hummed inside Adrian's mind just as he stepped fully into the courtyard.
He exhaled through his nose, lips quirking in faint irritation. "Shut up. I'm an aristocrat now, remember? Got to match the pedigree."
[Ah yes, the aristocrat who's currently planning to 'punish' a group of children. Very dignified, my lord.]
Adrian's temple twitched. "They're not children, they're sadistic little nobles-in-training. There's a difference."
[Semantics. You've lived long enough to call their great-grandfathers 'children.']
He stopped mid-step. "...Wait, what?"
[Technically speaking, Host, there may not be anyone older than you left on this planet. You've been reincarnated thirty times. Your soul's age likely exceeds the current era's written history.]
Adrian frowned slightly, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular. "You're saying I'm older than old men with walking sticks?"
[Considerably. You are, in essence, the world's most senior toddler.]
He pinched the bridge of his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. "You really enjoy dismantling my dignity, don't you?"
[It's my only hobby.]
"Wonderful," Adrian muttered, straightening his posture and rolling his shoulders back. The mid-afternoon light traced a bright gleam along his hair as his expression sharpened into something calm and aristocratic.
"You know," he said quietly, "there was a time when people feared my presence. Entire guilds, kingdoms, sects—all trembling because I walked into the same room. Now, I have to deal with snot-nosed brats calling me 'stick.'"
[Ah, how the mighty have fallen.]
He smirked faintly. "No. How the mighty have reset."
[You sound like a man about to commit a crime.]
"Correction," Adrian replied with a grin as he stepped forward, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. "I'm about to commit discipline."
The system sighed—a perfectly simulated sound of exasperation.
[This is why reincarnation insurance doesn't cover you.]
Adrian chuckled lowly, voice rich with satisfaction. "Relax, system. I'll keep it educational."
[Your version of 'educational' involves broken pride and mild trauma.]
"That's still character development."
[For you or for them?]
"For both," Adrian said simply, and walked on.
"What's wrong, stick? You look pale. Don't tell me you're trembling already. Are you so frightened you can't even walk straight?"
Adrian exhaled lightly, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. His gaze was steady — too calm for someone being taunted. "Nothing of the sort," he replied evenly. "I'm merely feeling a little dizzy."
Lucan's brow furrowed, the smirk still plastered on his face. "Dizzy? Is that what you're calling it now? Don't tell me you're already making excuses before we even begin."
Adrian tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement curling his lips. "Oh, no," he said, voice smooth and faintly edged with mockery. "It's not fear, Lucan. It's nausea."
Lucan blinked. "...What?"
"It happens," Adrian continued calmly, "every time you open that distorted black hole you call a mouth. The sheer concentration of your breath could wilt crops. It's almost admirable, really — a natural disaster condensed into human form."
A few of Lucan's lackeys stifled their laughter, unsure if they were allowed to find it funny. The smirk on Lucan's face faltered, twisting into something far less composed.
Adrian smiled — not kindly, but with the effortless confidence of someone far too used to winning wars of words and wills. "Do yourself a favor," he said softly, "and exhale in moderation. The ecosystem might not survive another full sentence."
Lucan's expression hardened. "You think you're funny, do you?" he hissed, rising from his seat.
"I don't think," Adrian replied smoothly. "I know. And considering your reputation, it must be exhausting living in a world where everyone else does the thinking for you."
The air grew heavier; the other boys took a small, unconscious step back. Adrian's words were delivered with surgical precision — no shouting, no bravado, just quiet venom wrapped in noble diction.
[I am legally obligated to inform you that verbal annihilation may cause long-term psychological damage.]
Lucan's boots crushed the grass beneath him as he took a deliberate step forward, his grin widening into something feral. "You've got quite the mouth for a cripple," he sneered, hand reaching for the hilt at his side.
Then, without warning—he lunged.
Steel flashed, slicing the air with a shrill whistle. The sword thrust forward, gleaming under the midday light — fast enough that an ordinary eye would have barely caught the motion. Lucan followed with a savage swing, cutting through where Adrian's head should have been.
But the blade met only the wind.
For a brief moment, Adrian's figure shimmered — then dissolved into motes of pale light, leaving behind an afterimage, a hollow silhouette carved from residual motion.
"What—?!" Lucan hissed, his pupils contracting.
"Behind you!" one of his lackeys screamed, panic sharp in his voice.
Lucan twisted on his heel, his sword arcing in a wide, desperate sweep behind him — the motion elegant yet frantic. The blade met nothing once again; the afterimage dissipated like mist in sunlight.
And then—Adrian was there.
He reappeared at Lucan's flank, expression calm, eyes half-lidded — detached, almost bored.
Lucan barely had time to process the sudden proximity before Adrian's fist shot forward.
The impact was clean, almost artful — no wasted motion, no excess force, just perfect precision.
Lucan's head snapped to the side, and his body was lifted off the ground by the sheer kinetic weight of the blow. He was thrown several meters away, colliding with the soft earth in a graceless tumble, the grass crushed beneath his fall.
Silence reigned.
The lackeys froze, staring at their "leader," whose cheek was now a violent shade of red, eyes glassy with disbelief.
Adrian exhaled softly, lowering his hand and flexing his fingers as though evaluating the craftsmanship of his own strike. "Hmm," he murmured under his breath. "A bit lighter than I intended. I should probably adjust the angle next time."
[Adjust the angle, he says. You nearly remodeled his jawline, Host.]
"Exaggeration," Adrian muttered. "He still has most of it intact."
One of the boys took an involuntary step back, his face paling. Adrian's gaze slid toward them, indifferent yet coldly elegant.
"Tell your master," Adrian said softly, his tone polite but glacial, "that if he intends to play at dueling, he should first learn how to stand after being touched."
Lucan pushed himself off the dirt, cheeks flushed red not only from pain but from humiliation. His uniform was slightly torn at the shoulder, a visible reminder that the sickly "stick" he used to toy with had just sent him flying with one clean hit.
"How dare you!" he barked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You were just lucky! Don't think you're some kind of fighter now, Adrian!"
Adrian tilted his head slightly, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and pity. "Oh, you're conscious," he said mildly, brushing dust from his sleeves with deliberate calm. "That's good. I was starting to think that single tap might've scrambled what little sense you had left."
Lucan's eyes blazed. "You—!"
"Now, now," Adrian interrupted, his voice light but his words sharp enough to draw blood. "Let's not make this about pride. If you plan to throw another tantrum, at least be prepared to take responsibility for the outcome. I don't enjoy making children cry."
That last remark hit like a slap. The three boys behind Lucan—his usual lackeys—snickered nervously but stayed still, unsure if they should step in or stay quiet. They'd never seen Adrian speak like this; usually, he just stayed silent, letting the bullying pass.
Lucan grit his teeth. "You're still talking big for someone who can't even run without wheezing!"
Adrian smiled faintly, the kind of smile that was calm yet carried an undercurrent of something dangerous. "Ah, that's true," he said, voice almost thoughtful. "But you see, I've had plenty of time to learn how to make others stop running."
Without warning, Lucan lunged again, the sword aimed clumsily forward. He was fast for a child, but his stance screamed inexperience—reckless, emotional, wide open. Adrian stepped aside with fluid precision, leaving behind a fading afterimage as his hand darted out and flicked Lucan's wrist.
The sword fell with a dull clatter.
Before Lucan could even realize it, Adrian's fist lightly tapped his stomach—not strong enough to injure, but with enough controlled force to knock the wind out of him.
"Ghh—!" Lucan wheezed, stumbling back, eyes wide.
The other kids froze, unsure what just happened. Adrian's expression remained calm, almost bored. "Next time," he said quietly, "make sure your blade doesn't move faster than your mind. It's unsightly."
Lucan dropped to one knee, clutching his stomach. His face twisted between pain and disbelief—he couldn't comprehend how the weak, sickly boy he mocked could suddenly move with such grace.
Adrian looked down at him, voice low but steady. "Don't glare at me like that. You invited this. If you start fights, be prepared to lose them."
He turned away then, brushing off his clothes with a small sigh. The afternoon sun cast his shadow long over the grass, stretching past Lucan and his friends as if marking a quiet line between them.
[Host's physical control efficiency—stable.]
[Detected emotional fluctuation: mild satisfaction.]
"Oh, be quiet," Adrian murmured with a smirk as he walked away. "I just disciplined a pack of spoiled brats, not conquered an empire."