It's amazing how people sometimes underestimate their abilities and how much a fool can think of himself. This is how some neighbor's toy terrier barks at a wolfhound, not knowing how weakly the leash is fastened to the collar of the large dog.

How could the broad-shouldered painter know that he was the terrier? The painter was broader and taller, obviously stronger, and obviously not very bright. He just had to play the role of a wolfhound here.

So why was he scared to death when the slight, though fit, Cyril turned around?

The inconspicuous guy's eyes flashed with fire. His lean hand shot up to the painter's massive shoulder and gripped it in a firm grip. The guy growled something, then clenched his fingers.

"Aah! Damn!"

There was a crunch of bones.

Cyril curled his lips in a predatory smile and yanked a hand at himself, causing the broad-shouldered man to fall to the pavement. He felt his heart beat wildly.

'I didn't think I'd miss a fight.' Cyril thought, and looked up with burning eyes.

"You faggot." The skinny one in the whitewash whispered.

"Well, you asked for it." Ginger grinned.

Cyril still couldn't remember his name.

But he met skinny in the whitewash perfectly. He just threw out his fist, and skinny bumped into it face-first. The cap fell off, and the fist went through the bones of the skull, sinking gently into the brain.

Cyril pulled his hand back and brushed a few teeth from his fist. The teeth fell to the pavement next to the dead body. Now two men lay at Cyril's feet, one of them moaning softly with a broken shoulder.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a passerby duck through the nearest door.

Another amazing feature of small dogs is the bravery with which they rush together at the wolfhound. Even the terrible, literally impossible death of a comrade could not stop the desire of the workers to punish Cyril for taking Clara from them.

Of course, Clara never belonged to the bathhouse patrons. Moreover, the hard workers were married and two of them even had children. It was just the ginger and his team were damned sorry that it was the nondescript, puny Cyril who had robbed them of at least the chance to see her sometimes.

Cyril didn't know it, but he knew there was no point in trying to humiliate him. And what, if not humiliation, can be considered a blow with the shoulder? And what if not a danger, it is possible to consider the attack from three sides?

Ginger went head-to-head. Prune dived to Cyril's left to hit him in the ribs.

The poor man didn't even have time to cry out in pain when he broke his own arm on those ribs. Because the next moment, an elbow landed on the back of his head. The elbow sank into the base of the skull, instantly taking prune's life.

Several passers-by ran across the street, shouting.

Ginger didn't have time to assess the situation. Before he knew it, two of his three friends were dead. He didn't have time to remember that his wife and children were waiting at home. He wanted to punish the impudent man who had so unceremoniously ruined the pleasure of washing near the house, and he was going to crush him with the mass.

Suddenly, Cyril remembered his name.

"I'm sorry, Felix." He growled. "It's your own fault."

Felix loomed over him like a ginger Hulk, but a straight hand had already pierced his stomach. He stared in horror at the blazing eyes and sank down gently on the cobblestones. He tried to cover the wound with his hands, but the mixture of blood and the recent meal was pouring out like a warm river.

At the sight of the blood, a young woman on the sidewalk threw herself into the arms of a richly dressed man, who quickly led her away. The horse neighed, almost knocking over the embracing couple, and the golden wheels rolled the carriage on.

"They're all such sissies." Cyril whispered with disdain. "Now, Amon, are you ready to run?"

The fire in his eyes faded like startled passers-by from the sidewalk, and Cyril left the work crew behind.

"Okay, one more time." He said to himself, and broke into a run.

He soon overtook the carriage. The three horses thumped their hooves frantically, but they couldn't keep up with barefoot Cyril.

'So we can make a deal, right?' He thought, so as not to lose his breath.

The shouts of passers-by had already died down, but Cyril still didn't see any guards.

"No guards, no fucking agents, and no responsibility for a triple murder in the middle of the city." Cyril laughed, still running. "Hahaha! But I've got power of a demon inside, and I can negotiate with it. Fucking great!"

He was laughing as he slapped the pavement, and he noticed that this time his breathing was steady, even though he had been running for several minutes. Cyril soon got to the usual places and stopped.

"You know, Amon." He said with a smile, looking at the familiar intersection. "I wanted to be good. But you can see the local assholes throwing themselves at me."

Cyril, of course, began his acquaintance with this world by throwing himself under the wheels and then provoking thieves in an alley. But otherwise, he was right. No one had forced Lady Oink to set her personal guards on him. And no one forced the agents of Fate to stop him from taking the body.

"And now the wizards are keeping my maid, and I don't like it one hell of a lot." Cyril said. "This way, I guess."

In the distance, among cheap buildings made of wood and clay, there rose the white walls.