“At the age of fifteen, hunters of Vardos are expected to skin and bring back a monster or demon the size of a deer.”

His monologue goes on.

“It’s expected that three in ten die and another six lose a limb”.

He takes two steps forward, fastening his pristine white gloves in place.

Not wanting to respond, I wipe my cheek. At my lip is blood, and at the point of impact, the tender familiarity of a bruise.

“This is something.”

For a short duration, I revel in self-pity.

However, after a second, I push my attention back to the situation at hand. Bracing myself for a long-winded monologue, I inhale a deep breath, biding my time all the while.

“Lucius, I will allow you to stay in Alpha-One under one condition.”

Guillaume raises an index finger and smiles down at me, an eager Morgana walking to his side.

“If you beat the both of us in combat.”

So, an impossibility. Besting Guillaume at combat is like besting water at being wet. In other words, my butler has no intention of allowing me any choice in the matter.

“That’s stupid. In the first place, I’m never going to be assaulted out of the blue by people as strong as you, so your precious lesson isn’t applicable to real life.”

“Well, you just were, weren’t you?” Morgana retorts, a resounding crunch resonating across the room as her foot crushes my pristine FULGER 3 Pro tablet.

“You do know that was a unique model right?” I sigh.

Aside from the 200,000 laine price tag and it being the first ever produced, it was also signed by my three favourite movie stars. And yet, there it lies, destroyed in a single stomp of my irrational assistant─pieces of its crystal screen scattered like splintered wood.

Now naturally, I can send it in for repairs and have it fixed in no shortage of time.

But that’s beside the point. Some things, like the knowledge of having an unbroken, mint-condition tablet, are priceless—being beyond quantifiable value.

“Very well. If we are to escalate to violence, then so be it. It’d be a shame to have all those medical facilities and no one to use them on, after all.”

Deciding to retaliate, I grab a golden Vont-Blanche fountain pen from my back pocket. It is a banal thing without any tech or pre-loaded spells to activate. But, for all that, it is long, and for what my current situation necessitates, perfect.

Engaging my focus, I whisper under my breath, preparing an incantation. “Lacuere”.

Warmth seeps throughout every vein in my body.

My fingers tingle as magical energy flows into the object. In a split second, the tip of my pen has become sharper than the finest needle and the frame stronger than aeroplane-grade titanium.

With a simple wrist flick, the pen flies across the room until it surgically plunges into its target; Morgana’s outstretched hand. Making quick work of her flesh and bone, the makeshift arrow comes out the other end before lodging itself in the wall with a satisfying thud.

“Heh”.

Reaching for my back pocket, I ready to take several more. But my advance is stopped. As I prepare to launch another volley of makeshift missiles, I suddenly find myself rapidly accelerating upwards along with the sofa.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I wonder for a moment why I’m flying.

Then I understand.

Something is before me. There’s a figure ducked down, hands beyond sight. Focusing my eyes on the figure, the once-quickened blur becomes a clear individual.

“Guillaume!””

Having registered the figure as my butler, I understand that I’ve made a minor oversight. That is underestimating Guillaume’s speed.

Indeed, it seems my giant butler was not only able to launch me and a sofa multiple meters into the air but also to cross the room in less than a half-second. Jumping ship, I abandon the flying sofa, hoping to soften my fall by taking a plush cushion with me.

The next second, I crash back to earth, narrowly dodging my Xpew designer glass table.

“Damn.”

I’ve crashed face-first into the ground. This is bad. I have to gain height. The longer I am on the floor, the more disadvantageous it is.

Forcefully, I press the soles of my two feet into the ground, attempting to push myself up.

To no avail. Each of the two times I try ends in failure, toppling me back to the ground.

But why?

Argh.

The realisation hits me mid-movement, a gleam of metal catching my attention.

Transpierced through my left hand is a thin yellow needle. Presumably, Morgana’s doing.

In response, I rush to pull the needle out with my right hand. But then, an even sharper pain takes hold, preceded only by a one-word incantation from Morgana. It’s all too fast. Suddenly, she appears before me, her raised boot in motion. The crunch of bone follows soon after as two, no, three separate stomps crash against my right hand.

“A hand for a hand.”

The pain is immeasurable. My right hand, immobilised by countless stomps, can only struggle limply. How has it come to this, I wonder? Considering my options, the possibility of retaliation is quite limited.

With two disabled hands and only legs for movement, there’s not much I can do.

Best to lay limp and beg for mercy.

Or so one would think.

In actuality, there’s still one last gambit I can pull off.

One final bid at victory.

Channelling my mana, I utter yet another incantation.

“Pienta!”

Magic flows into the open palm of my undamaged hand. Though what feels like hot irons are impaled through it, I continue nonetheless, pressing onward. If Morgana thinks she can stop me with a simple pain spell, then she’s mistaken.

In a single motion, I rip my left hand from the ground, tearing with it bits of dangled flesh.

“ARGHH!”

I aim my hand at Morgana’s chest without hesitation. Blue light crackles as my mana transforms into an orb of energy—changing into the spell known as ‘Magic Orb’.

“Arh.”

However, my spell is interrupted halfway. At this very moment, another area of my body is afflicted with pain. This time, in the centre of my chest.

“Guillaume...”

His name wrenches out of my lungs, strained with begrudging breath. Though his leg retreats faster than lightning, the effect it implants lingers. In a split second, Guillaume has kicked me in my chest, destabilised my median, and toppled me. And, of course, tumbling to the ground that I am, the missile from my open palm hits the ceiling instead, just so happening to break a few parts off my faux-chandelier.

It really is over now.

Feeling the air leave my lungs, I instinctively draw my arms closer and cradle my body as a shield. There, standing above me is my supposedly loyal butler and my supposedly loyal assistant alongside him, a hint of not-so-charitable fervour in their eyes.

“GET HIM, GUILLAUME!”

The next minute is a bombardment of senses. The two repeatedly take turns kicking me from both sides, assaulting me from front to back. Meanwhile, more than enthusiastic groans and yells pierce the air, leading me to wonder how I ever enjoyed eating dinner with them.

“THAT’S FOR NOT USING SKINCARE!”

“CONSIDER THIS AN EXTENSION OF YOUR EDUCATION!”

Halfway to the realm of unconsciousness, an idea springs to mind. Appeal to logos. Money runs the world, after all. If I can just get them to come to their senses…

“You do know that I pay your salari-”

Thwack.

Morgana cuts me off with a boot to the jaw.

“GUILLAUME HAS A TRUST FUND, YOU NARCISSIST!”

I relent, shutting my mouth as I wait for the storm of kicks and insults to pass. Although I think it crazy at first, I gradually succumb to the idea that I am indeed being mauled by my butler and assistant and, in turn, give up on thinking.