In a spot shielded by several large trees, a group of burly men in servant uniforms was laughing loudly under one of the trees, as they'd just witnessed something hilarious.
"Hold him down! Since you dared ruin my mood—disgusting commoners deserve to die! String her up and beat the crap out of them!"
Among the thugs, a curly‑haired boy dressed fancier than the rest was directing his vicious-looking lackeys.
An emaciated old man and a wild‑haired girl lay beaten on the lawn.
The ragged, skinny old man struggled furiously, mumbling incoherently—he clearly wasn't good with words, his pronunciation all wrong, but it was obvious he was hurling curses.
The girl just cried, most of her face hidden by tangled hair, her muffled sobs the only clear sound.
Seeing the smirking noble lapdogs move to tie up the girl, the old man fought like a madman. One of the men holding him slipped, took a headbutt to the gut, and let out a pained yelp.
"You damn bastard!" The injured thug gritted his teeth and started punching and kicking the frenzied old man.
Just then…
"What the hell do you think you're doing!"
A thunderous shout startled everyone, freezing them in place.
The knot‑tying thugs froze, looking around for the source of the voice.
The curly‑haired boy, startled at first, scowled and roared, "Who said that! Show yourself, you moron!"
"Try saying that again and see what happens!" Glen's voice rang out from above, making the flustered group look up.
They saw a man older and bigger than them standing on the trunk of a large tree. Far from backing down, the curly‑haired boy cursed even louder.
"You lowlife scum! Get the hell away from here, now! This doesn't concern you! You're just some filthy beggar who hangs around outside!"
Glen didn't get angry at the insults—he just gave a cold smirk. "Well, if you put it like that, I guess I'll have to come down and have a 'chat' with you."
With that, he leapt off the trunk, landing to tower over the curly‑haired boy.
The boy glared up, still trying to provoke him.
"You wanna fight me, loser? You know who my dad is, trash…?"
His sentence was cut off by a crisp, loud slap.
The thugs behind him had been grinning, but when they saw their "Young Master Ravell" get spun half a turn and sent sprawling by a single slap from a plainly dressed commoner, their faces stiffened.
The air hung heavy for a moment—no one, including the old man and girl on the ground, could process what had just happened.
That commoner just hit a noble?! The lackeys all thought the same thing.
The surreal mood only shifted when the curly‑haired boy on the ground trembled, then struggled to his feet.
Ravell wiped his hand across his mouth, bright red blood greeting his eyes. His expression was pure disbelief, lips quivering as tears streamed down.
"Beat him to death!" Ravell's tear‑choked scream snapped his stunned followers out of it.
They suddenly realized—their young master had been struck!
If they went back like this, they'd be punished. The master household doted on Ravell; injuries like this meant serious consequences!
Forgetting everything else, their only option was to capture the "reckless commoner" and drag him back to take the blame—maybe that'd lessen their punishment.
Seeing the hulking thugs charging at him like madmen, Glen's fingers literally itched—he loved teaching brats like this a lesson.
After a series of pained yells, the intimidating goons were all sprawled on the ground a few minutes later, clutching their wounds and howling.
"Y-you! You're finished! I'll tell my father! I'll tell my mother!" Ravell wailed, then abandoned his men and fled at impressive speed.
"Remember! My name is Glen Nibanklu! I live in Bayek Town!" Glen called out before the boy got too far.
Ravell turned mid‑run, his swollen, tear‑streaked face twisted with hatred, locking eyes with Glen to burn the image into his memory.
Glen glanced down at the old man and girl, about to vault over the wall—
But the battered old man struggled up, helped the girl, and called, "Wait… wait!"
Glen turned, puzzled.
"You've offended a noble… they'll take revenge… run, leave this town, far… far away!" The skinny man mumbled urgently.
Glen smiled at him, studied him again, then pointed at the girl. "Is this your daughter?"
The old man blinked, then nodded dumbly. "Yes… my daughter, Martha."
"You're a good father." Glen praised him sincerely.
But the old man grew anxious again. "Kind sir, now's not the time for that! You must run!"
Glen waved him off. "It's fine. Just some spoiled noble—I can handle it. Don't worry about me."
"Huh? Really?" The older man stammered.
"Of course." Glen was brimming with confidence.
He had the strength, and Dylan's past dealings with nobles had taught him exactly what they were capable of—and how little real power they could wield without backup.
The simple-minded old man seemed to accept Glen's words and fell silent.
"Why were they beating you?" Glen asked curiously.
The man gave a bitter smile. "Son, nobles don't need a reason to beat commoners. I was taking my daughter to school, I appeared in their sight, ruined their mood—so they beat us."
Yep, sounds like the nobles I know… Glen's face twisted with contempt.
"Do you know Laila?" he suddenly asked the girl.
Assuming they went to the same school, she might.
"Huh?" The girl looked up through her tears, thought for a moment, then sobbed, "I know of her, but she doesn't know me. She's famous at our school—many boys have a crush on her."
"I see…" Glen nodded thoughtfully. "Have you seen her recently?"
"Yes." The girl nodded. "Are you her friend?"
"Sort of. I was passing by and thought I'd check in."
She didn't seem surprised. "Should I go call her over?"
"Nah, just watch out for Curly Teddy from now on. I'm leaving." Glen warned, then vaulted over the wall and vanished.
"Curly Teddy?" The old man's mouth hung open, while the girl let out a sob‑turned‑giggle.
…
At the academy gate, Ravell had a black‑uniformed middle‑aged man by the collar, screaming, "Get me a carriage now! Or my father will make you pay dearly!"
"But… Young Master, the academy rules—I can't leave at this time…" The man was being shaken by a sixteen‑or‑seventeen‑year‑old, yet he only stammered meekly.
"Useless trash! I need a carriage! Didn't you hear me!? I want to go home!" Ravell's face contorted, spit flying onto the man's face as he ranted.