Chapter 3

Next day

He sat on the edge of his straw pallet, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands.

They were smooth, elegant, the hands of a man who'd never known a hard day's work—except they weren't his, not really. Three years in this body, and it still felt like a borrowed skin, a costume he'd slipped into after death spat him out here. Last night, though, it had felt real. Too real.

Lilia's face flashed in his mind—her stern mask cracking, her breath hitching under his touch. He'd undone her by that stream, unraveled her in a way that left his pulse racing even now. Back on Earth, it would've been another notch on a belt already worn thin by conquests.

He rubbed his thumb across his palm, half-expecting to feel her warmth still clinging there.

He stood, pacing the cramped shack. The wooden floor creaked under his boots.

Lilia wasn't some barfly he could charm and discard. She was tied to the Greyrats—Paul, Zenith, that odd Rudeus—and that made her dangerous. He'd seen her in the morning, carrying water from the well, her auburn hair pulled tight, her eyes fixed ahead. She'd passed him without a word, her posture rigid, her lips a thin line. No flush, no flicker of last night's fire. Just cold distance.

"Damn it," he muttered, kicking the rickety table. The leg wobbled but held. She was pulling back, retreating behind that maid's armor of hers.

Loyalty to the Greyrats, probably. Or shame. Maybe both. He should've expected it—she wasn't the type to melt into him and stay soft. But it stung, more than he cared to admit. Not because he'd lost her—he hadn't, not yet—but because it forced a question he'd dodged since waking up in this world: What was he doing here?

Back home, life had been simple. Booze, women, fights—chase the next high, damn the wreckage. He'd been a bastard, sure, but he'd owned it. This place, though? It was different. magic, gods, a story he half-remembered from a manga. He wasn't just a man anymore; he was a piece on a board he didn't understand.

He stopped pacing, his gaze drifting to his hands again. That tingle—the Nullifying Grasp, as he'd started calling it—itched beneath his skin. It was the one thing that set him apart, the one clue to why he'd landed here. If he could figure it out, control it, maybe he'd have a purpose beyond seducing maids and hauling water. He snorted at the thought. Purpose. What a joke. He'd never been the type for grand destinies. But the idea gnawed at him, persistent as a fly.

The shack was too small, the walls too close. He grabbed his cloak from the peg and stepped outside, the cool air biting at his face. The village hummed with its usual rhythm—chickens clucking, a distant hammer striking wood—but it felt off, like a song played just out of tune. He needed space, a chance to think.

He slipped behind the shack, where a patch of scrubby grass stretched toward the forest. A rusted hoe leaned against the wall, its handle weathered and splintered. Perfect. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The tingle flared, faint but insistent, like static before a storm. He focused, willing it to do… something. Anything. His fingers tightened around the wood, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then—a crack, sharp and sudden. The handle split, shards flying as the metal head clattered to the ground.

Leon stumbled back, heart pounding. "Holy shit," he breathed, staring at the wreckage. The tingle faded, leaving his hands cold. It wasn't the first time—mugs, spoons, that villager he'd dazed in a brawl—but it still rattled him. What was it? Magic? He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to glow or spark. They didn't. Just smooth skin, trembling slightly.

A rustle snapped him out of it. He turned, and there was Marta, the woman who'd welcomed him years ago, peering around the shack's corner. Her basket hung limp in her arms, her weathered face creased with something between curiosity and unease.

"Leon?" Her voice was cautious, like she was testing the air. "What was that noise?"

He forced a grin, kicking the broken hoe behind him. "Just dropped this old thing. Clumsy today."

Her eyes narrowed, flicking to the ground where the shards lay half-hidden. "Looked like more than a drop. You alright?"

"Fine," he said, too quick. "Just working out some stiffness."

She didn't buy it—he could see it in the tilt of her head, the way her lips pursed. But she nodded, stepping back. "Careful with those tools. We don't have many to spare." She turned away, her steps slow, deliberate. He watched her go, a knot tightening in his gut. Marta wasn't stupid. She'd seen something, and in a village this small, "something" spread fast.

By midday, the whispers had started. He caught them as he hauled water from the well—hushed voices behind hands, eyes darting his way. "Cursed stranger," someone muttered, loud enough to carry. "Found him in a ditch, no past, no kin. Now things break around him." It was nonsense, village gossip spun from boredom, but it hit too close. His arrival had always been a mystery, a crack in their simple world. The Nullifying Grasp just widened it.

He kept his head down, finishing his chores. Lilia's avoidance, Marta's suspicion, the rumors.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, he sat by his door, sharpening a knife he rarely used. The rhythm steadied him, kept the questions at bay. Until a shadow fell across him. He looked up, and there was Tobin, a wiry villager with a nose for trouble, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Evening, Leon," Tobin said, his tone too casual. "Heard you had a little accident today. Hoe snapped clean in half, they say."

Leon's grip tightened on the knife. "Things break. Happens."

Tobin's smirk widened. "Not like that, it don't. Marta swears she saw you do it—bare hands, no effort. Funny, ain't it? How stuff keeps breaking around you."

Leon set the knife down, slow and deliberate, meeting Tobin's gaze. "You got something to say, say it."

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