Lucien stepped out of the shack into the morning glare like he was walking into a bad hangover he'd paid for himself.
Sun already beating down on the dirt paths, turning everything dusty and mean.
No mist this time, no Nyx on his shoulder whispering jokes.
Just him, 1.93 meters of new-body muscle that still felt half-stolen, purple-pink hair catching light at the tips like cheap neon nobody asked for.
The golden scar over his left eyebrow itched again, that low-grade burn the Greed Bloodline liked to send when it smelled easy marks.
He didn't bring weapons. Didn't need them.
The soldiers' camp sat half a klick out, smoke from their breakfast fire hanging low and greasy.
Horses stamped, metal clinked, voices carried the kind of bored grumble guys get when they're stuck babysitting a village they don't even want.
Lucien kept his hands loose at his sides, boots kicking up little clouds that stuck to the sweat already forming on his neck.
Classic move, he thought, half smirk half eye-roll at his own brain.
Walk straight into the lion's den wearing flip-flops and a smile. Brazilian office-worker logic at its finest.
The first guard spotted him from twenty meters away.
Spear came up fast, point shaking a little like the guy had drunk too much of that sour ale last night.
Two more joined, boots scraping dirt, faces stuck between confused and pissed.
One of them—older, scar across the jaw—spat to the side and called out, voice rough from shouting orders that never stuck.
"The orphan came to surrender?"
Lucien stopped five paces short.
Close enough to smell the camp stink: horse piss mixed with burnt grain and unwashed armpits.
He let the words hang, tasting the sarcasm in them like cheap street food that somehow still hits.
The older guard shifted his weight, spear dipping then steadying.
Behind him the kid—Tomás's grandson, maybe fourteen, wrists raw from rope—sat slumped against a post, eyes wide and wet, the kind of scared that makes your stomach twist even if you pretend it doesn't.
Lucien's chest did that familiar greedy tug, not for the gold or the power, just for the fact that this whole setup was already his to flip.
He didn't answer right away. Let the silence stretch until one of the younger soldiers cleared his throat like he was about to cough up a lung.
Then Lucien let the Primordial Presence leak out, just a trickle.
Nothing flashy. No glowing aura, no dramatic wind.
Just enough weight in the air to make the spear tips tremble, like someone had bumped the table they were resting on.
The metal hummed faint, almost embarrassed.
"Surrender?" Lucien said, voice low and flat, the São Paulo edge still clinging to the edges even after the transmigration smoothed everything else.
"Nah. I came to take back what's mine."
The words landed heavier than they should've.
The kid's head snapped up, hope flickering behind the fear like a match in a drafty room.
One guard muttered something under his breath about "crazy bastard," but nobody moved to stop Lucien when he took another step.
The Presence pressed down gentle, reminding ribs what breathing used to feel like before the count's men showed up.
The older guard's scar twitched.
He glanced sideways at the others, the kind of look guys share when the script just got rewritten and nobody told them the new lines.
Lucien reached into the Infinite Chaos Treasury with a thought—easy as checking his wallet back on Earth—and pulled out a small pouch of the same gold he'd lifted from them two nights ago.
The coins clinked soft, warm from sitting in pocket space, edges still carrying that faint oil smell from the baron's strongroom.
He tossed the pouch once in his palm, letting the weight settle loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Release the boy," he said, tilting his head toward the kid.
"I'll pay for the 'protection' you didn't give."
The sarcasm cut clean, no extra flourish.
Just the truth dressed up in their own words, handed back with a crooked smile that showed teeth but not too much.
The older guard's jaw worked like he was chewing on something sour.
One of the younger ones—barely older than the prisoner—shifted his spear from hand to hand, knuckles white then loosening.
"Count's orders," the scarred one started, but it came out weak, like he already knew how this ended.
Lucien shrugged, one shoulder only, the kind of move that said your problem, not mine.
"Count's not here. You are. And that gold's heavier than whatever bullshit orders he gave you before breakfast."
The camp went quiet except for the horses and the low crackle of the fire someone had forgotten to feed.
Lucien could feel the kid's eyes on him, wide and unblinking, the rope digging red lines into skinny wrists.
Random thought hit him sideways—kid probably just wanted to brag to his friends about the new fruit in the square, and now he's tied up like yesterday's laundry.
Made the Greed hum louder, not angry, just practical.
The soldiers started arguing among themselves, voices low and clipped.
The scarred one kept glancing at the pouch like it might bite.
A younger captain—face still carrying baby fat under the helmet, eyes tired like he hadn't slept since the baron dragged them out here—stepped forward.
His hands shook a little when he took the pouch, testing the weight, then looked back at Lucien.
"You're really just… handing this over?"
Lucien's smile stayed crooked, the one that started in traffic jams and never left.
"Handing? Nah. I'm buying back what was already mine. Difference matters."
The captain hesitated, thumb rubbing the seam of the pouch.
Subtext sat thick between them—the kid watching, the other soldiers pretending not to listen, the whole village half a klick away holding its breath without knowing it.
Finally the captain exhaled through his nose, sharp and defeated, and jerked his head at the guard holding the rope.
"Cut him loose."
The rope hit the dirt with a soft thud.
The kid stumbled forward, legs wobbly, and Lucien caught him under one arm before he face-planted.
Skinny shoulders, damp shirt sticking to his back, smell of fear-sweat and dirt.
Lucien hoisted him up easy, settling the boy on his shoulders like he weighed nothing.
The kid's hands gripped his hair for balance, tentative at first then tighter.
The scarred guard muttered, "The count's gonna hear about this. Every damn detail."
Lucien turned, the boy's weight steady on his neck, and threw one last look over his shoulder.
"Hope he does. Tell him the orphan says hi."
No big exit line. Just the words, flat and real, hanging in the greasy smoke.
The captain's face twitched—half irritation, half something closer to respect he'd probably deny later.
Lucien started walking, boots kicking up dust that clung to his calves, the kid's breathing slowly evening out against the top of his head.
Back through the treeline the village came into view, roofs sagging but somehow less pathetic this morning.
The mana seeds under the dirt were doing their quiet work; Lucien could feel the faint pulse even from here, like a second heartbeat under the soles of his boots.
Word had already spread.
People trickled out of huts, old lady with her basket pausing mid-step, the blacksmith wiping his hands on a rag that used to be a shirt.
No loud cheers. Just quiet nods, hands half-raised then dropping like they weren't sure if clapping was allowed yet.
Fear still sat in the corners of their eyes, but admiration crept in too—slow, careful, the kind you give someone who just walked into a hornet's nest and came out carrying the kid you thought was already gone.
Tomás waited at the edge of the square, cap twisted in his fists so tight the fabric looked ready to rip.
When he saw his grandson on Lucien's shoulders the old man's face crumpled for half a second, then smoothed out into something raw and grateful.
He didn't say thanks out loud.
Just took the boy down gentle, ruffled his hair once, and gave Lucien a look that carried more weight than any system panel ever could.
Lucien rolled his shoulders, feeling the absence of the extra weight like a small victory he wasn't gonna brag about.
The Greed Bloodline purred low, satisfied with the math: one kid freed, zero real fight, and the count's men now owing him a story they'd have to explain later.
He headed back to the shack alone, sun warm on the back of his neck, village murmurs following like background noise he could almost tune out.
The crooked smile stayed stuck on his face the whole way.
Nyx waited inside, door half-open, ears flat against her silver-pink hair.
She didn't move when he stepped in.
Just stood there by the wobbly table, tail still, golden eyes fixed on a scrap of paper she held like it might burn her fingers.
The air in the shack felt thicker than usual—straw, leftover bread smell, and something sharper underneath, like ozone before a storm.
"Elara's gone," Nyx said, voice flat but carrying that primordial edge that made the words land heavier.
She pushed the note toward him without looking up.
"Left this. Went alone to the camp. Said she doesn't want you carrying everything anymore."
Lucien took the paper.
The handwriting was neat, hurried, ink still a little smudged like she'd written it fast while he was out playing hero.
His chest did that weird tug again—not the Greed this time, something closer to the bond they'd locked in nights ago.
The note ended abrupt, no fancy goodbye. Just her name at the bottom, small and stubborn.
He stared at it a second longer than he meant to.
Outside, the village kept moving, quiet applause still echoing in his head like static.
Inside, the shack felt suddenly too empty in one corner.
Nyx's ears twitched once, low.
Lucien crumpled the note slow, the paper crackling under his fingers like it was already regretting its choices.