Chapter 40: I Make the Rules Here

Tia's answer genuinely surprised Glen.

He looked at Lavelle, a mocking grin playing on his lips. "With your temper, surely you bully them? Like doing something lewd..."

"No!" Lavelle's face flushed crimson like an angry bull calf. "My mother strictly forbade me from mistreating the servants! And assaulting women is beneath noble dignity!"

This family... is strange. But since they crossed me, they get what they deserve. Get ready to experience oppression firsthand... Glen thought wickedly to himself.

From the memories inherited from his predecessor, many young nobles he'd encountered had blood on their hands; bullying commoners and servants was practically routine. Glen would definitely deliver well-deserved lessons to such individuals if he encountered them again. As for this Lavelle, if he hadn't seemed the type to have killed, Glen might have already sent him to meet his ancestors. His past life had exposed him to countless types of people; his judgment on killers was usually accurate.

Tia, standing beside them, looked utterly bewildered. She didn't seem to grasp why Lavelle understood what Glen was implying before he finished speaking.

"What are you talking about? Assaulting women? Hurting us? Young Master Lavelle hasn't done anything like that!" Her curiosity was palpable.

Her question was ignored outright.

"You still haven't told us where we're going?" Lavelle seized upon Tia's earlier question.

"Where else? My place. Don't worry, it's not far."

...

Returning to the spot where he'd hidden the cart, Glen was fortunate. The cart, its supplies, and the giant stag were all still there. The tethered stag munched grass contentedly, its fuzzy, stubby tail swishing lazily. Seeing Glen, it ambled closer, nuzzling him affectionately.

Lavelle and Tia, who had never seen such a creature, stared with wide-eyed fascination.

Glen reattached the cart to the stag. He gestured for the two newcomers to find space among the supplies on the cart, and they set off into the outer woods surrounding Bayek.

It didn't take long for the two young newcomers, unfamiliar with such an environment, to become infected by the forest's eerie and sinister atmosphere. They visibly shrank back, apprehension tightening their features.

"Young Master Lavelle," Tia whispered, her voice trembling as she huddled closer to the boy who was also trying to make himself smaller, "could this be the terrifying witch-haunted forest from the bards' tales? It's so scary..."

"Shut up!" Lavelle snapped, glaring fiercely at the maid.

Tia flinched, shrinking her neck down and falling silent.

Glen, driving the cart from the front, heard the hushed exchange behind him but offered no explanation. He simply urged the stag to move a little faster.

When they arrived at Glen's modest dwelling, Lavelle didn't bother to hide his disgust as he climbed down from the cart. He actually dared to complain loudly to Glen:

"You expect me to live here?!"

Glen gave him a sidelong glance and pointed toward a dilapidated, abandoned shed beside the main house. "No. You live there."

Lavelle stared at the ramshackle structure, cobbled together from scraps of wood barely larger than a kennel. He was dumbfounded. "Th-That's a doghouse?!"

Glen rolled his eyes. "It's a shed."

"But what's the difference?! I refuse to live there! I... I want to live there!" Lavelle jabbed his finger toward the neighboring, clearly luxurious villa.

Glen glanced at it. It was an empty villa; he'd noticed a For Sale sign on the door when passing earlier, and his senses detected no living presence inside. Though currently unoccupied, Glen had no intention of squatting. He had his own principles. "That's not my house. And even if it were, you wouldn't be living in it! One more word, and I'll thrash you!" Glen growled menacingly.

Lavelle flinched violently, lowering his head and falling silent. Only the furious flames of hatred burned in his eyes.

"Young Master Lavelle, don't worry! I'll help you clean it up! I promise it'll be spotless soon!" Maid Tia, seeing her master scolded, rushed forward to grab his sleeve, trying to offer comfort.

Lavelle shook her off dismissively.

Before she could say more, Glen's voice drifted over coolly. "You won't help him. He cleans it himself. If it's not done by nightfall, he gets a beating!"

Lavelle's fists clenched tightly.

"How can that be! The Young Master has never done such rough work! I must help him!" Tia protested vehemently.

"I make the rules here," Glen stated flatly. "Alright, you, come with me inside."

His tone brooked no argument. He turned and walked into the house.

Tia hesitated for a moment on the spot, casting one last worried glance at Lavelle, then reluctantly followed Glen inside.

Glen found an unused room and addressed Tia as she entered. "You'll stay here. I'll fetch bedding later. Your job is to clean this place and do the household chores. Understood?"

"I came to care for the Young Master! Not to be your servant!" the maid retorted indignantly.

"I make the rules here," Glen repeated, his voice firm.

With that, he walked straight out the door.

Lavelle was already working on the shed, albeit with extreme reluctance and awkward, unpracticed movements. Glen didn't interfere; he would judge only the result.

Hitching the stag cart again, Glen took the furniture he'd acquired to the pigpen area. His daily inspection couldn't be forgotten. After unloading the furniture and greeting the guarding Nightroar, he gave the pigs a quick once-over. Everything seemed fine, so he returned, reassured.

...

Nighttime.

A boy dressed in commoner's clothes walked down a street in Dudetown. No other pedestrians were in sight; he was utterly alone. A night breeze swept through, making the boy pull his collar tighter, his eyes wide with intense nervousness.

As the silence around him deepened, he suddenly quickened his pace.

He didn't notice the tall, dark figure that had been shadowing him all along, moving with trained silence, its footsteps making no sound. The figure seemed to tilt its head slightly, scanning the surroundings. Confirming absolute solitude, it acted decisively. A large hand shot out, clamping firmly over the boy's mouth and nose!

The boy panicked, struggling wildly, kicking his legs in a frenzy. It was useless. The figure was powerfully built; its hand covered most of the boy's head.

Just as the boy was about to be dragged into a dark alleyway, a sharp crack shattered the silent night. The figure cried out in pain, clutching a bleeding hand as it staggered back several steps. The boy tumbled to the ground. Without looking back, he scrambled to his feet and fled.

A group of officers in dark uniforms seemed to materialize from nowhere, charging toward the injured figure. Leading them was the Captain with the distinctive mustache.

Seeing the officers converge, the figure gritted its teeth against the pain. Its uninjured hand darted to its waist, pulling out a gleaming silver short-barreled pistol. It fired toward the oncoming officers.

"Take cover!" the Mustachioed Captain roared, his voice like thunder.

The officers dove and rolled aside, but one wasn't fast enough; a bullet grazed his arm.

The Captain, clearly experienced and agile, dodged the direct shot. He lunged forward, closing the distance to the figure in a flash. A powerful, well-timed punch slammed squarely into the figure's face.

Blood erupted from its nose as its head snapped back. It collapsed heavily.

A surge of triumph rose in the Captain's chest—finally, a tail to grab onto in this long-running case! But before he could react, a puff of purple smoke billowed out from the figure's jacket. It surged toward the Captain's chest like a living thing.

An intense sensation, as if his brain were being violently shaken, overwhelmed the Captain. His eyes rolled back, white foam bubbled from his mouth, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Seizing the chaotic moment, the wounded figure scrambled up and vanished into the night's shadows.

...