The kid in the fancy embroidered tunic puffed up like a rooster that just found out it owned the whole coop.
Garrick, son of the village head, nineteen and already carrying that special brand of asshole energy that came from never hearing the word no.
Two bigger guys flanked him, arms crossed, faces set in the bored expression of people who got paid to look mean.
One of them had a scar across his knuckles that looked fresh, like he practiced on whoever was slower that week.
"Look at the cripple who finally woke up," Garrick said, voice loud enough for the whole square to hear.
A couple of chickens scattered.
"Pay what you owe or I'll break that pretty new face of yours. My father's been patient long enough with trash like you."
Lucien chewed the last bit of the old bread the lady had given him, the crust scraping against his teeth in a way that felt almost satisfying now that his body didn't feel like it belonged to someone else.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let the corner of his mouth curl up into that same crooked smile he used to wear back in São Paulo when the boss sent another passive-aggressive email at 11 p.m.
"Patient, huh?" Lucien said, keeping his tone light, almost friendly.
"That's cute. Most people call it lazy when they wait this long to collect pocket change from a dead guy's shack."
Garrick's face twitched, one eyelid jumping like it had its own opinion about being talked back to.
His buddies shifted their weight, boots scraping the packed dirt, but they didn't laugh.
The air in the square felt thicker all of a sudden, like someone had turned the humidity up without warning.
A few villagers who'd been pretending to mind their own business slowed down, eyes flicking over from the edges of the square.
An old man near the dried fountain clutched his walking stick a little tighter.
Nyx had slipped into her small fox form without anyone noticing, curled on Lucien's shoulder like a scarf made of smoke and bad decisions.
Only he could see her clearly.
Her fluffy tail brushed the side of his neck, warm and soft, while her voice slid straight into his ear, quiet and sweet with an edge underneath.
"Want me to wrap them in illusions until they're crying for their mothers?" she whispered, golden eyes gleaming.
"I could make the ground look like it's swallowing their feet. Or turn their own shadows into teeth."
Lucien kept his face straight, answering under his breath so only she caught it.
"Nah. Not yet. I want to steal their pride first. Make it hurt slow so they remember the taste."
Garrick took a step forward, cracking his knuckles with a wet pop that echoed a little too loud.
"You think you're funny now? After lying in that rotting hut like a corpse? The tax is double this month because of the bad harvest, and you're still breathing our air. Hand it over or we'll take it out of your hide."
One of the thugs snorted, shifting his belt where a short club hung.
The other just stared, jaw working like he was chewing on the fact that the "weak orphan" wasn't shaking yet.
Lucien felt the Greed Bloodline wake up in his chest, warm and curious, already sniffing around for whatever scraps these three were carrying.
He let the Primordial Presence leak out just a touch, nothing flashy.
The air didn't crackle or glow.
It just got heavier, pressing down on shoulders like an invisible hand that had been sitting in the sun too long.
Garrick hesitated for half a second, that eyelid twitching again, before he swung a sloppy punch aimed at Lucien's jaw.
Level five, probably.
The kind of punch that worked fine on scared farmers who owed money.
Lucien leaned back just enough for the fist to whistle past his ear.
The movement felt lazy, like dodging a slow bus on a quiet street.
At the same time the Devourer's Gaze kicked in, peeling the technique apart in his head—angle, force, the little twist at the end that was supposed to add power.
He copied it clean, then the Greed Bloodline took over and twisted it, smoothing the wasted motion, adding a snap that wasn't there before.
Before Garrick could pull back, Lucien tapped him once in the center of the chest.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The contact made a dull thud, like hitting a sack of grain that had gone soft from the rain.
Garrick flew backward five meters easy, boots leaving grooves in the dirt.
He hit the ground on his ass, skidding another meter before stopping near the dried fountain.
Dust puffed up around him.
His mouth opened, closed, then blood trickled from the corner of his lip where he'd bitten his tongue on impact.
The two thugs froze, mouths hanging open like they'd been unplugged.
One scratched the back of his head, the scar on his knuckles whitening as his fist clenched and unclenched.
The other took half a step back, then caught himself and tried to play it off by spitting on the ground.
Whispers started from the edges of the square.
An old woman clutched her basket tighter.
A teenage boy who'd been sweeping nearby stopped mid-sweep, broom handle trembling in his hands.
"Did you see that?" someone muttered.
"The orphan just… the headman's son…"
Lucien walked over casual, boots crunching on the dirt.
He crouched beside Garrick, who was still trying to suck air back into his lungs, face red and eyes wide with that special mix of shock and growing hate.
"Nice punch technique," Lucien said, voice low enough that only Garrick and his boys could hear clearly.
"Had a little hitch in the follow-through though. Fixed it for you. You're welcome."
Garrick spat blood onto the ground, the red mixing with the brown dirt into something muddy.
His embroidered tunic was already dusty and torn at one shoulder.
"You… you cheated. That wasn't normal. What the hell are you?"
Lucien shrugged, reaching down to unhook the small coin pouch from Garrick's belt before the kid could react.
It felt light, probably just a handful of copper and a couple silver pieces, the kind of money that meant everything to a villager and nothing to someone who could multiply rocks into mana crystals.
He slipped the pouch into his own pocket, where it vanished instantly into the Infinite Chaos Treasury without a sound or a bulge.
"Call it a humiliation tax," Lucien said, standing back up.
"Consider the debt paid. With interest."
The thugs finally moved, helping Garrick to his feet.
One of them kept glancing at Lucien's hands like they might sprout claws any second.
Garrick wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, leaving a red smear across the fancy fabric.
His breathing was still ragged, but the hate in his eyes was sharpening into something colder.
"You're not the same weakling anymore," Garrick rasped, voice shaking but trying to sound steady.
"My father's going to hear about this. And he's not like me. He doesn't just break faces. He breaks families."
Lucien tilted his head, that sarcastic little smile still stuck on his face.
Nyx's small fox body shifted on his shoulder, her whiskers brushing his ear as she let out a tiny, almost silent huff of amusement.
Garrick turned with as much dignity as a guy with dirt on his ass and blood on his chin could manage.
His two buddies followed, throwing nervous looks over their shoulders every few steps until they disappeared down one of the narrower paths between the huts.
The square stayed quiet for a long beat.
Then the murmurs picked up again, louder this time, mixed with the cluck of chickens and the distant sound of someone hammering a nail into wood that didn't want to stay put.
The old lady who'd given Lucien the bread was watching from across the way, her face wrinkled but eyes sharp, like she was trying to decide if this was going to make her life easier or burn the whole village down.
Lucien rolled his shoulders once, feeling the new strength settle into his muscles like it had always belonged there.
The coin pouch was already gone, converted somewhere inside the treasury into points that the system hadn't even bothered showing him yet.
He could feel the Greed Bloodline purring, satisfied with the small win but already looking ahead.
Nyx hopped down from his shoulder, shifting back to her girl form in a quick swirl of purple-pink that only he seemed to notice.
She stood beside him, tail swaying slow, one ear twitching toward the path where Garrick had vanished.
"First taste," she said softly, golden eyes bright.
"How does it feel, stealing something that small?"
Lucien exhaled through his nose, the village smells hitting him again—old bread, damp earth, sweat from scared men, and underneath it all the faint metallic tang of blood on dirt.
"Like the first level of a game that doesn't know it's already lost," he muttered.
He started walking toward the edge of the square, Nyx falling in step beside him.
A couple of villagers nodded as he passed, quick and nervous, the kind of nod you give when you're not sure if the person is a savior or the next problem coming down the road.
Behind them, the dried fountain sat silent, the blood and spit already soaking into the ground like it had never happened.
But Lucien knew better.
News like this didn't stay in one square for long.
And the headman wasn't going to send his son next time.