Ch 6: Taking out the Trash- Part 1

Kyle watched with mild interest as the trembling soldier lowered himself onto the chair, his every movement stiff and hesitant, as though he were preparing for something unpleasant but unavoidable.

 Beads of sweat formed on the man's brow, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his entire body visibly tensed the moment he placed his full weight down.

And then—

CRACK!

The wooden legs of the chair snapped instantly beneath him, sending him crashing toward the cold, hard floor.

Before he could even register what had happened—

SLASH!

A sharp, searing pain tore through his thigh, cutting into flesh and muscle with ruthless precision.

For a single, agonizing second, there was nothing—only a sharp pause as his body struggled to understand what had just happened.

Then—

The pain hit.

The soldier screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he twisted on the ground, clutching at his leg in sheer panic. 

His fingers pressed against the deep wound, but the warm, sticky sensation of blood gushing between them told him what he already feared—he was losing too much, too fast.

Kyle remained exactly where he was, his face untouched by even the slightest flicker of emotion.

'This is pathetic. I can understand if an untrained person makes such noises after being hurt, but a soldier must be trained to endure anything. Are the standards of training in this world dog-shit?'

He watched, unimpressed, as the soldier's body spasmed, his desperate fingers trying—and failing—to stop the bleeding.

The man had internal energy, but he was not using it.

"Keep your balance." 

Kyle's voice was smooth, unhurried.

But the soldier, whose legs had already gone numb from the shock, couldn't obey even if he wanted to.

His body gave out completely, his chest heaving as he collapsed flat on his back, panting like a dying animal.

"P-please…I—I'm injured! Please, s-spare me!"" 

The soldier's voice broke, his wide, panic-stricken eyes darting toward Kyle, pleading for mercy. 

Kyle didn't move. He only watched this shameful conduct with a blank look on his face.

He didn't even blink.

Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, his piercing gaze devoid of even a shred of sympathy.

"You should have been more careful. If you didn't want to get hurt… you shouldn't have sat down. I did give you a choice to make." 

He said, his words slow, deliberate. 

The soldier whimpered, his body trembling violently as another wave of pain wracked his frame.

His strength was draining quickly.

'T-This is not the young master…is the young master possessed by some evil spirit? Fuck! Am I going to die because of this?'

The puddle of blood beneath him was growing larger, darker, thicker—a sign that his time was running out.

Kyle knew that the soldier wouldn't last much longer. And the soldier knew that as well.

But before the soldier could breathe his last—

Footsteps.

Kyle's ears caught the sound instantly—light, controlled steps echoing through the hall, approaching the dining chamber.

Kyle's gaze flickered toward the entrance.

A moment later, the large wooden doors creaked open—

And a young man stepped inside.

The newcomer appeared to be in his early twenties, his well-tailored clothing hinting at high status. 

He carried himself with an air of elegance and refinement, his features sharp and aristocratic, his neatly combed hair giving him the appearance of someone who had never once faced hardship in his life.

But the instant his eyes landed on the bloodied scene before him—

He froze.

The newcomer's entire body stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat.

His gaze darted between the unconscious soldiers, the shattered remains of the chair, the dark crimson stain spreading across the floor, and then—

His eyes landed on Kyle who not only looked unphased, but also like he had nothing better to do.

And for the first time, true hesitation flickered across his face.

The injured soldier let out a weak, strangled gasp, desperately struggling to lift his head. The poor man looked like he had seen his saviour and he tried to reach for the older teen.

"Y-Young Master Christan—!" 

He croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

He reached out with a trembling, bloodied hand.

But before he could say anything more, before he could even beg for help, the last remnants of his strength gave out completely.

Kyle had stepped over the man and it caused the now unconscious soldier to crush his fingers.

His fingers twitched once before they went lax.

Then—

His body went limp.

Kyle exhaled through his nose, his expression bored, almost disappointed.

"Already done? For someone with mouths as big as yours, I expected better. But I guess those who have a huge mouth usually do not last long." 

He murmured under his breath, watching the lifeless form at his feet with a faint flicker of amusement.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he turned his gaze back to the young man standing in the doorway.

Christan.

Kyle had already figured out who he was the moment he stepped in.

The oldest son of the family.

The one everyone believed was the "rightful heir" of the Armstrong family….or so Kyle had heard. 

The one who would have inherited everything if not for the existence of the previous owner of this body.

For a few seconds, Christan didn't speak.

His face remained ghastly pale, his expression torn between shock and wariness as his mind scrambled to process what he had just walked into.

Finally, after a long pause, he forced himself to break the silence.

His voice was hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to the question he was about to ask.

"Wh—What… is going on here? Kyle, you bastard! Did you cause this incident? How dare you-!"

Kyle met his eyes, his own expression completely unreadable.

Then, in a voice that was neither rushed nor aggressive—but carried an undeniable weight—he replied:

"Hmm, what did I do so wrong? I was just taking out the trash. Are you telling me that I made a mistake?"