In a secluded spot sheltered by several towering trees, a group of burly men dressed in servant’s garb were laughing raucously beneath the shade, seemingly entertained by something vilely amusing.

  “Hold him down! How dare he spoil my mood? Filthy commoners deserve to die! Hang them up—beat them hard!”

  The one barking orders was a curly-haired youth, clad more finely than the rest, his face twisted with arrogance as he commanded his brutish attendants.

  On the ground lay a frail, thin old man and a disheveled young girl, both already beaten and sprawled across the grass.

  The ragged old man struggled with desperate strength, mumbling incoherently—his speech clumsy and his words often mispronounced, yet his tone unmistakably venomous. The girl, meanwhile, wept silently; most of her face hidden beneath tangled hair, her muffled sobs the only sound she could still make.

  When a few of the sneering lackeys stepped forward to bind the girl, the old man went mad with rage, thrashing wildly. One of the men was caught off guard and took a headbutt to the stomach, crying out in pain.

  “You damned old wretch!” the man roared, baring his teeth as he rained down punches and kicks upon the struggling elder.

  Just then—

  “What the hell are you doing?!”

  The sudden shout cracked through the air like thunder, freezing every man in place. Even those holding the rope stopped mid-motion, turning wide-eyed to search for the source.

  The curly-haired youth flinched, then his face darkened with fury. He spun around, shouting, “Who’s there?! Come out, you bastard!”

  “Try cursing again and see what happens,” came a cold voice from above.

  The group turned their heads upward, spotting a man standing on the thick branch of a tree—a man older and far more imposing than any of them.

  The curly-haired boy, instead of retreating, only grew more enraged. “You lowborn scum! Get lost while I’m still being kind! This has nothing to do with you, filthy beggar!”

  Glenn did not frown nor show anger—only a faint, icy smile. “Since you put it that way, I suppose I’ll have to come down and reason with you personally.”

  He leapt lightly from the branch, landing before the youth, his shadow falling over the smaller boy.

  “You want to fight me, you peasant?” the boy sneered. “Do you even know who my father is? He’s—”

  Smack!

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  A sharp, ringing slap cut him off mid-sentence.

  The lackeys froze in disbelief. Their young master, the noble Ravel, had just been struck—spun halfway around and thrown to the dirt by a single slap from a plainly dressed commoner.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Even the beaten old man and the tear-streaked girl stared, dumbstruck.

  Did that pauper just hit young master Ravel—a noble?!

  The air was thick with stunned silence until Ravel stirred. Trembling, he touched the corner of his mouth, where bright red blood smeared his pale fingers. His eyes widened in disbelief, his lips quivered, and tears burst forth in a mix of rage and humiliation.

  “Kill him! Kill him for me!” he shrieked, his voice breaking.

  The servants jolted as if awakened from a nightmare.

  The young master had been struck—if they didn’t retaliate, they would be punished severely. The lord doted on this boy; the consequences would be dire.

  Without another thought, they charged at Glenn like wild beasts.

  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 it was over, the once-fierce lackeys lay groaning in the dirt, clutching their bruises.

  “You… you’re finished! I’ll tell my father! I’ll tell my mother!” Ravel howled through his tears, abandoning his fallen followers as he turned and fled.

  “Remember the name!” Glenn shouted after him. “Glenn Nibanklu, from Bayek Town!”

  Ravel glanced back, his swollen, tear-streaked face twisting with hatred. He burned the name into his memory before stumbling away.

  Glenn turned toward the beaten pair. 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’ve angered the nobles,” the man stammered. “They’ll 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’re a good father,” Glenn said with quiet admiration.

  But the old man waved his hands anxiously. “Good sir, this isn’t the time for that! You must flee!”

  “It’s fine,” Glenn replied calmly. “He’s just a noble. I can handle it. You don’t need to 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 and said no more.

  “Why were they beating you?” Glenn asked.

  The man gave a bitter smile. “Boy, nobles need no reason to beat commoners. I was taking my daughter to school. Our presence offended them, so they struck us.”

  Yes… that sounded exactly like the nobles he knew. Glenn’s lip curled with contempt.

  “Do you know Layla?” he asked the girl suddenly. “She studies at your school, doesn’t she?”

  The girl blinked through her tears. “I know of her. But she doesn’t know me. She’s 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, tearful laugh.

  …

  At the academy gates, Ravel was clutching 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’m going home!” Ravel’s face was twisted with fury, spittle flying as he shouted.