James stood with his fists trembling and his chest rising hard with each breath. Blood ran down his knuckles, vivid and fresh against his skin. Not his blood. The noble's.
The market had gone still. Even the wind seemed unsure whether to carry this moment forward or let it hang suspended. Dozens of villagers stared from the edges of the square, caught between awe and dread, eyes locked on him like a trial was already underway.
I didn't need to hear his thoughts to feel the weight pressing on him. His heartbeat roared beneath the silence, louder than anything else. He'd done it. Thrown the punch. Broken the line that most people tiptoe around but never cross.
Something flickered across his face—maybe doubt, maybe shock at himself. It passed quickly, but it was there. Just a glimpse of the question creeping in. Was it enough? Would it change anything?
If he regretted it, he didn't show it. His shoulders stayed firm. His grip didn't loosen. He looked like a man ready to take whatever came next, even if he was terrified of what that meant. But fear had taken root somewhere behind his ribs. I could see it in the stiffness of his spine, in the way his breath caught just a second too long. He wasn't trained for this. No soldier. No mage. Just a man who planted crops and raised a family.
The nobleman, who had reeled back a few steps, finally lifted his fingers to his mouth and looked down at the blood smeared across them. He stared at the red, then slowly began to smile. That's when the air changed. Not suddenly—but like a storm stretching awake.
A low hum. A static tingle. Rage bloomed across his face. Mana flared. Blue lightning rippled up his arm. The air snapped with static. He took one step forward and struck.
James blocked the first blast with his forearm—it seared the skin, flinging him back into a fruit stand. Apples rolled. Stalls shook. People screamed. Then came the second.
A whip-crack of energy slammed into James's side, tossing him like a rag doll across the cobblestones. He coughed. Blood. Teeth. But he got back up. One foot. Then the other.
Barely standing. But still standing. The nobleman walked forward, slow and deliberate. Mana danced across his shoulders now, flickering like fireflies with a death wish.
Each strike came down harder than the last, each one slower and more deliberate. The nobleman wasn't fighting to win anymore. He was punishing. Drawing it out. Turning pain into spectacle.
James no longer raised his fists. He stood there, barely holding himself up, absorbing the punishment with a grim sort of silence that felt heavier than any scream.
Then a voice broke through the crowd.
"Dad!"
It was small and strained, almost too quiet to notice at first. But the sound cut through everything. Lyra's voice cracked under the weight of panic and tears.
She pushed forward, trying to force her way through the wall of villagers, but someone grabbed her—an adult with both arms locked around her shoulders, holding her back.
"No! Let me go! Dad, stop! He's hurt, please!"
At the sound of her voice, James turned. His lips parted as if to speak, and blood slipped out, dark and slow. Despite everything—despite the bruises, the burns, and the broken stance—he managed a smile. It wasn't whole, but it was real. A quiet, beautiful thing.
"It's okay, Lyra," he wheezed, barely above a whisper. "It's okay…"
The nobleman paused, attention shifting toward the girl. He looked at her, then slowly turned his gaze back to James. The smile on his face disappeared, replaced by something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous.
He lifted one foot, not to cast a spell this time, but to end it with the weight of finality. No flare, no drama—just a quiet decision to break what was left.
Inside me, something surged.
No. No. Don't do it. Don't you dare.
CRACK!
The impact came with a sickening sound.
James didn't cry out. His body jolted, his limbs convulsing for a moment before giving out completely. He collapsed, his leg twisting beneath him at a brutal, sickening angle.
And still—still—he curled toward Lyra like a shield, trying to reach for her, to smile.
"Dad…!" Lyra's voice broke. Her scream cracked. Then shattered. "No… NOOOOO!"
The nobleman stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Justice," he said coldly, "delivered." He turned.
That's it.
Something inside me snapped.
A thread. A fuse. Maybe whatever counted as my soul. My entire being boiled. I burned. I seethed. Something bubbled inside me—maybe mana, maybe fury. Probably both. This wasn't justice. This wasn't fate. This was cruelty wearing silk.
"Lyra…" I whispered.
She didn't hear me.
"Lyra."
She cried harder, choking on every sob.
"Lyra! Look at me!"
Nothing.
I roared inside. Words cracking from desperation.
"LYRA, LOOK AT ME!!"
Her head jerked toward the basket.
Eyes wide. Shocked.
She saw me.
Not as a toy. Not as a rock.
As me.
She twisted free from the villager's crowd and staggered toward the basket—away from James. Toward me.
"It's me." I spoke clearly now. Voice echoing in her head like thunder wrapped in fire.
She stared, trembling. "W-What…?"
"Throw me. Throw me now." I didn't know why I asked. Instinct? Rage? Fate? But I meant it.
She shook her head, confused, terrified. "Wh-What do you mean?!"
"Throw me. Let me roll."
"But—"
"THROW ME ALREADY!!!" I screamed out loud.
Lyra was shocked but her hand reached for the basket. She grabbed me. Clutched tight.
"NOW!"
She hesitantly threw me..
I spun.
I glowed.
I clattered.
[1]
At first, I laughed. Of course. Of all numbers—fate throws me a one. Even with this rage and unfairness she rolled me [1]not [6]
But then... something clicked.
I felt it.
Not just the number—its weight. Its potential.
Even a [1] carried magic. Enough to nudge fate... or twist it.
I think I could sense how much power that roll contained, but also how little Lyra—my vessel, my link to this world—could handle. Her body wasn't made for channeling this kind of energy. Not yet. Probably.
I wanted to unleash everything. Humiliate them. Break their pride, shatter their silk-wrapped cruelty. Make them feel helpless the way she did. The way James looked. But I couldn't go overboard. Not because I couldn't—but because if I did, it wouldn't be them who suffered.
It would be Lyra. Even with this rage, not sure why I still had my rationality. And the Swift family—humble farmers, not fighters—they wouldn't survive the aftermath of something divine exploding in the middle of a marketplace.
So I prayed. To whatever governs the balance. "Just enough," I whispered inside the magic. Enough to humiliate. To terrify. To make sure they never cause another scene like this again. And then I let go. My form unraveled. I stopped being a dice. And for one brief moment—
I was magic.
I lost my usual POV. My sense of self melted—becoming one with the mana, with the rage, with something ancient and stupidly powerful. Silence. For one heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then—
SLIP.
The nobleman's boot met something slick and traitorous.
A banana peel.
A lone, unassuming curve of chaos that had absolutely not existed a second ago. His foot shot forward like it had aspirations in interpretive dance. He flailed, arms windmilling like a drunken marionette.
"Wh—?!" He staggered back—
WHUMP.
A cabbage, launched with ballistic precision from a vendor's tilted cart, struck him clean in the back of the head.
His monocle popped off.
He spun.
His cape tangled around his arms.
His balance abandoned him like morals in a tax office.
SPLAT.
A crate of overripe tomatoes erupted beneath him.
Crimson guts and seeds sprayed in a perfect arc, baptizing him in salad.
He slipped again. Twice. Three times. Desperately trying to stand—only to land on a rogue radish that sent him flipping sideways into a wheelbarrow.
WHOOSH.
The wind came out of nowhere. A dramatic, divine gust that tore through the market like it had a personal grudge. Skirts lifted. Hats flew. Chickens panicked. And the nobleman's prized, custom-tailored trousers—stitched from imported imperial silk—ripped with a thunderous snap.
And then… they were gone. Swept away like his reputation, vanishing into the sky. Leaving behind—
Bright pink underpants. On the front? A smiling cartoon dude with a thumbs-up. On the back? A heart-shaped cutout. Right on the butt. And in front of him? An entire market full of stunned onlookers. His wife gasped so sharply it echoed off the fruit stalls. The noble boy let out a high-pitched scream that cracked into three octaves. The villagers froze. Stared. Then—
Snort. A giggle. A cough that was definitely a laugh. And then—like a dam bursting—
Laughter burst across the plaza like a wave. It rolled through the crowd, unstoppably loud and shamelessly bright. Merchants dropped to their knees, gasping for breath. Children pointed with wide eyes and wild joy. Even the town rooster let out a cluck that somehow sounded judgmental.
The nobleman, drenched in tomato juice and public disgrace, scrambled toward a nearby sack of potatoes, as if salvation could be found under burlap.
But the laughter kept growing. One laugh became another. Then another. Until the entire square had erupted in uncontrollable noise.
Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Lyra. And James. And me.
As the whirlwind of tomatoes and torn pride finally settled, my awareness returned. The magic slipped away, quiet now, like a storm that had already spent its fury. But I felt something else.
Lyra.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for me. Her grip was weak, her hands cold, and her lips had lost all color. Each breath came too shallow, too fast, like her body was struggling to stay upright.
I hadn't just drawn power from the world around me. I had taken it from her too. She had paid the price without even knowing the cost.
And still, even drained, even shaking, even with those tiny, wobbly legs—
She ran. Straight to her father. Clutching me like a lifeline.
She dropped to her knees beside him. "Dad…" Her voice cracked. "Dad, please…"
James barely conscious at first. His body was a wreck—bruised, bloodied, his leg bent in a way no leg should ever be. But at her voice, he stirred. His eyelids fluttered. A faint groan slipped out. Then came a breath.
"…Lyra?" The word escaped his mouth like a thread unraveling.
She nodded quickly, tears sliding down her cheeks without pause. "I'm here. I'm right here."
He tried to sit up, but pain rippled through him, and he gave up with a grimace. She reached out and took his hand. Both of her small hands wrapped around it, clinging tightly as if letting go might break her completely.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "It's because of me. Your leg…"
The words broke again. Her mouth quivered.
And then it came.
"Uwaaa… your leg… I'm so sorry… uwaaa…"
She sobbed without filter, the kind of cry that tore out from somewhere raw. And somewhere between the breathless hiccups and the shaking shoulders, she fell asleep in his arms.
James looked down at her. His smile was faint, but it was real.
"You did fine," he whispered. "You're safe. That's all I ever wanted."
With the little strength he had left, he raised his hand and gently placed it on her head.
"My brave little knight."