Chapter 266: This Is No Charity, but Plunder
After finishing up that little incident with Roy, Steven finally strolled out of the hospital at his own leisurely pace.
Just like Roy had guessed—he had spared the man's life. But that was all. No more, no less.
After all, the only thing he needed from Roy was to make sure the message got delivered to those so-called "Darksteels" of the Armorless Union.
Of course, by doing this, the grudge between him and the Armorless Union was now firmly cemented.
Still, he didn't particularly care.
Be they Lazurite, Platinum, Darksteel, or Diamond—it made no difference to him. If they dared show up, he'd throw hands with any of them.
Rather than worry about those people, he was more annoyed by something else: the long, hour-plus walk back to his inn.
Without a motorcycle, it was boring as hell.
Worse, it was still surprisingly crowded in downtown Kazimierz even this late at night.
If he jogged or moved too quickly, it'd just cause another panic and another round of bystanders whispering and giving him those weird looks.
It wasn't that Steven minded being stared at like a weirdo… but that didn't mean he liked it, either.
"S'why the Ursus snowfields were better," he muttered under his breath. "I could run, roll, sprint, leap—whatever I wanted. Nobody looked twice."
With that quiet grumble, Steven sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and chose to take a slow, aimless walk back to the inn.
He had time to kill anyway, might as well enjoy a nighttime stroll through the Grand Knight Territory. Who knew? Maybe he'd stumble into something interesting.
And, well… as it turned out, he was absolutely right.
In a chaotic city like Kazimierz, tracking down a specific thing might be a pain in the ass—but if you were just looking for something entertaining?
Way easier than the snowfields.
The sheer density of people here was on a whole other level.
For example: Steven had only just turned into a narrow side alley, hoping to cut through and shorten his walk, when he saw… him.
Even in Kazimierz—where everyone dressed like they'd just walked out of a stage play—this guy stood out.
He was a strange knight.
Clad in an outdated, worn-looking chainmail that seemed like it had been pulled from a forgotten century, the armor nonetheless emphasized his hulking, V-shaped build. Red-and-black plating, scuffed and stained, clung tightly to his frame. It looked like it hadn't been polished in years.
But the cape on his back—made from some kind of pelt—was clean. Immaculate, even.
Clearly, the guy took care of that.
And then there were the weapons.
One hand gripped something that looked like a guandao—more of a slaughtering tool than a blade. On his hip, a curved saber swayed with his movement.
Still, the real attention-grabber?
The helmet.
Forged from several twisted, blood-red chunks of iron, the thing covered his entire face and looked like it had been grown out of raw violence. It resembled congealed gore shaped into armor, and gave off a sinister, almost primal pressure.
Steven couldn't even tell if the guy could see through that thing.
Then again… his own helmet wasn't exactly "standard," either.
So he let it slide.
Truth be told, spotting someone like that in a dim alley—especially someone armed—was enough to give anyone a scare.
If Steven had been some delicate little girl, he probably would've screamed and bolted right then and there.
But unfortunately for the knight, that wasn't the case.
Instead of running, Steven walked right up with casual curiosity, interest gleaming in his eyes as he studied the stranger up close.
There was something off about the man.
He exuded a bizarre, oppressive aura. One that seemed to trigger an instinctive fear, a primal urge to flee. For a normal person, just laying eyes on this guy might be enough to send them sprinting in the opposite direction.
But Steven wasn't normal.
Far from it.
If anything, that eerie, unnatural aura only piqued his interest.
Was it a type of Originium Art?
Or maybe… something innate? A racial talent? A passive skill baked into this world's biology?
Whatever it was, Steven's guard was already halfway lowered.
And that was mainly because of what the knight was doing at that moment…
Despite the intimidating guandao in his hand, the sight of this fully armored knight rummaging through a trash can… really killed the cool factor.
It was honestly hard to imagine a warrior who looked so badass, so larger-than-life—being reduced to this, dumpster-diving just to survive.
"Who are you?"
The moment Steven leaned in curiously, the knight finally noticed him. From behind that bizarre crimson helm, a pair of eyes flicked toward him. His voice, muffled by the iron mask, was low and rough—clearly not a local dialect.
But more than anything, the knight sounded confused.
A normal person would've already been scared stiff by now. His oppressive aura alone was enough to send most people running. But not this man in front of him. He didn't even flinch. No fear. No hesitation.
Why?
The knight silently released the trash can lid, tightening his grip on the guandao instead. With one fluid movement, he shifted into a battle stance—tense, ready.
"Whoa, whoa—chill!" Steven quickly raised both hands in a non-threatening gesture. "I'm just passing through, alright? Not here to start anything. I just thought you… looked kinda hungry?"
This man really was on edge. Just one look and he was ready to swing?
Steven flashed a friendly grin—completely unbothered by the tense posture of the warrior in front of him.
Sure, this guy looked like something straight out of a nightmare, but right now? He reminded Steven more of an angry kitten with fluffed-up fur.
Still, there was something undeniably pitiful about watching a fully armored knight dig through garbage.
Steven fished out a piece of bread from his inventory and casually held it out. "Here," he said. "No strings attached."
The knight froze.
His grip on the guandao didn't loosen completely, but it definitely wavered. His gaze flicked from the bread to Steven's face, as if trying to read some hidden intention behind the gesture.
The alley fell into a thick silence.
And then…
Growl
A terribly timed stomach rumble echoed through the narrow passageway, completely shattering the tension in the air.
Steven's smile widened. His eyes dropped down to the knight's abdomen. 'Ah, well. That explains the trash-diving.'
He shrugged playfully. "So, what do you say? Why not eat first, then we can chat after?"
With a casual underhand toss, he lobbed the bread toward the knight.
The warrior didn't dodge. Instead, he caught it silently with one hand.
And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the knight slowly tucked the bread into a pouch on his chainmail, and finally opened his mouth.
"This is plunder, not charity. Come. I offer you the honor of fighting me."
"…Huh?"
Steven blinked.
Okay, that was not the response he'd expected.
The guy was… serious. Like, dead serious. Even with that awkward stomach rumble just now.
Despite the cryptic phrasing, Steven had spent way too much time talking to people like Kal'tsit, and had long since become fluent in decoding this kind of cryptic knight-speak.
So what this guy meant was—he didn't want to see the bread as charity. That wounded his pride. Instead, he'd rather treat it as a spoils of war. Which meant… he had to fight him for it.
What kind of tsundere logic was this?
Steven couldn't help but laugh quietly. Still, strangely enough, this weird, honor-bound knight earned a few points in his book.
After spending so much time in Kazimierz watching "knights" do everything but act knightly, it was refreshing to meet someone—real knight or not—who still held onto some kind of personal code.
Even if it was… eccentric.
But if the guy was going to issue a challenge like that… well, he had no reason to say no. A fight, huh?
Perfect. He'd actually been a little bummed about not getting his fill tonight.
"Alright. I accept your duel," Steven said with a grin. "But before we begin… shouldn't you eat first? I don't want it to look like I'm taking advantage of you."
For once, he dropped his usual playful tone and gave the strange knight a serious nod. He even rolled his wrists a little, loosening up, slipping into that easy, ready stance of someone who'd seen more than their share of battles.
And in that moment—their brainwaves actually synced.
"No need," the knight replied, voice firm. "You wear no armor. I have no strength. That… is fairness."
He planted his guandao into the ground beside him with a metallic thunk. It was a gesture of trust, and of will.
The knight hadn't expected Steven to accept his challenge so readily. A flicker of something passed through his voice—was that… relief?
He was right, though.
Steven looked like a civilian. No armor, no weapons, not even a particularly athletic build. Facing off against a guy in full chainmail should've been one-sided.
But the knight? He was at his physical limit. Worn down. Drained. That armor, which should've protected him, was now little more than a burden. In that sense, their duel was fair.
As a descendant of the Khagan, he couldn't accept charity. Not even well-meaning charity. Even if he knew this stranger gesture was made with genuine kindness… to him, it was unacceptable.
So this was the only path left to him: to turn that "gift" into spoils earned through battle.
And something in him told him that this stranger wasn't ordinary. Not at all.
"Heh… trading punches, huh? That's exactly my style."
Steven chuckled, then nodded, signaling the start of the duel without another word.
The moment his voice fell, the "weak" knight exploded into motion—no hesitation, no restraint. A gust of iron-scented wind surged forward as the massive figure lunged, shoulder aimed like a battering ram.
It may have been a spur-of-the-moment duel… but this guy wasn't holding back at all.
That kind of resolve—
Steven liked it. He respected it.
He didn't know what had brought the knight so low. Didn't know who he was or what he'd lost. But that courage—that tenacity?
That deserved acknowledgement.
But… that was the limit.
With a sidestep as graceful as flowing water, Steven slipped past the charge. His hand shot up and—
BAM!
A single punch. Direct hit. Square in the chestplate.
The knight's body shot back like a cannonball, slamming into the alley wall with a resounding crack. He slumped down, unconscious, his head lolling to the side.
Steven lowered his fist with a sigh.
"Too bad," he murmured. "I don't like losing either."
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Note: Character Illustration is in this Google Drive:
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1iuyfwNVFHzIi9H4rWNT_lAm7jTSiah_M
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