I had no idea why I'd jumped into this mess, but my inner hero clearly woke up before my common sense.
Which, annoyingly, was still asleep—and snoring.
The man with the gleaming bald head pinned me with a cold stare. His eyes were steel-gray, the kind that made you want to either vanish or suddenly remember every prayer you never learned.
He looked me up and down, snorted, and drawled:
"Who exactly are you to meddle in my affairs?"
Excellent question. I would also love to know. Instead, I lifted my chin like I had a clue what I was doing.
"I'm this boy's personal maid. And I have every right to know why you're trying to seize him."
The crowd muttered. The boy twitched and clenched his fists under the cloak but kept quiet.
"A personal maid?" The man sneered. "For this… seven-year-old?"
"Yes, a personal maid," I repeated as firmly as I could, silently begging the kid to play along. "He's a respected young lord."
The boy gave the tiniest nod. Bless him—he didn't rat me out.
The man's smile shifted—less mocking, more predatory, like a cat spotting a mouse dumb enough to show its teeth.
"And whose 'young lord' would that be?" His voice carried, crisp and audible even over the market noise. "I have a feeling… you're lying, girl."
The crowd held its breath. Even the apple juggler stopped mid-toss.
"Well, you know," I said evenly, "some people feel the world is flat. Doesn't make them right."
And in my head: plus one karma for philosophical sass… minus three for suicidal tendencies.
"Too sharp a tongue for a common liar," he said icily.
"And you're a little too suspicious for a man in an expensive cloak who chases children down alleys," I shot back. "Did your 'Villain by Profession' badge fall out of the carriage?"
He squinted; his lips twitched into something between a smirk and a nervous tic.
And then it hit me:
"Wait… you haven't even introduced yourself!" I slapped my forehead theatrically. "How am I supposed to know you're not just some dangerous bald creep playing 'hunt the boy'?"
The crowd gasped. The kid under the hood snickered. A chill skittered down my spine.
Then the nastiest thought crawled in. I shivered, shoulders tightening, and gave him a look like I'd just realized a terrible truth.
"Don't tell me you're one of those… men who fancy little children?" I said, dripping disgust, like I'd found a cockroach in my soup.
He looked at me in a way that made me start writing my will in my head. His bald dome flushed a furious crimson, ripening into tomato territory.
"Watch your mouth, girl," he grated.
If anyone says suspicion doesn't show on skin, I'll show them this guy. He was boiling like a lobster in a pot.
"Uh-huh," I nodded. "Suspicious, nameless, bald. Straight out of the survival handbook: don't talk to strangers—especially if their forehead is all that's left of their hairstyle."
"You're playing with fire," he growled.
"And you're playing with your reflection," I snorted. "Want a bigger hood? Your free time and your bald spot are catching too much sun… from all the wrong angles."
Someone in the crowd snorted, then slapped a hand over their mouth. Everyone else went dead quiet when the stranger's glare swept over them.
I kept talking like I wasn't terrified, though my legs were screaming, Run, idiot, run!
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth squeaked. Apparently, he decided it'd be easier to settle this with fists than words. He flicked his hand—two thugs climbed out of the carriage.
Each looked like he ate a barbell for breakfast, washed down with a bucket of protein and a bowl of nails.
Oh. Seems I overdid the wit…
"For insulting a noble and for deceit, I'll have you punished," he said, eyes dropping to my pendant. "Boys, break this impudent girl's legs."
"Imagine—being lectured by a maid to a pathetic bastard," he added with a curl of his lip.
Something inside me snapped with a bright, ringing crack.
I smiled so wide I probably looked unhinged. "Really? At least I'm not a coward who hides behind furniture."
[CENSORED]—that word boomed in my skull at full volume.
I stepped forward and, like in an old martial-arts anime, slid into a karate stance.
The boy and—yes, the same floating picture thing—ducked behind me at once.
Thanks, Grandpa, for making me go to karate while everyone else played soccer… I sighed inwardly.
The thugs traded a look, lifted their brows, and lumbered toward me like they were about to teach a masterclass in "How to Press a Maid into Cobblestone."
Ha-ha, I'm doomed. But at least it'll be fun!
"Well then, gentlemen—who wants to experience the ancient martial arts of my world first?" I yelled, brain blissfully disconnected by rage and adrenaline.
Thug One—arms thicker than my thighs—lunged and tried to scoop me like a sack of potatoes.
Oh, no-no-no. I've been the potato once, falling into a barn. Not doing seconds.
I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and, like in jiu-jitsu drills, turned my hips. His own weight did the rest—he flew past me and crashed shoulder-first into an apple stall.
The crowd applauded. I bowed.
"Rule one of healthy eating: more fruit in your diet," I muttered, dusting off my skirt.
Thug Two—face like a brick—roared and charged. I tilted my head, grinning.
"Come on then, big man. Impress me."
He swung; I slipped off the line, his fist humming past my ear. I stepped in, drove an elbow into his solar plexus, then trapped his arm and cranked it into a lock.
He howled, dropping to one knee.
"There you go, friend," I whispered. "Free anatomy lesson: joints only bend one way."
Thug One was back up, convinced that second time's a charm. I saw the swing coming; at the last moment, I sank and punched straight into his knee. He screamed, clutching his leg.
The crowd gasped.
Oh wow, that worked. Thanks, Grandpa, for karate.
Thug Two tried to rise; I clipped his ankle with a sharp kick, throwing my weight through it. The man toppled with a curse.
Both came at me again, this time sloppier. I slipped through their swings, answering with short, precise shots—to the liver, the elbow, the chin.
Their punches slowed; their footwork fell apart.
Finally, one folded, arms around his gut, and the other staggered back to brace against a wall, wheezing.
I straightened, breathing hard, and swept the crowd with a dare.
"So, gentlemen," I panted. "Ancient arts, modern world. Who else wants a free workshop?"
The crowd stepped back in unison.
I was about to tag Thug Two again when I heard the most horrible sound—an ominous rrrrrrrrip.
No, no, no… anything but that.
I looked down—my poor maid uniform was splitting at the seam right under my arm. A little more and I'd be fighting in my underwear.
Today's choice: preserve dignity or preserve bones.
I swallowed. The scenario was not ideal: either the thugs break me, or I become the market's free entertainment.
"Well, Saya, ready for humiliation…" I whispered, resetting my stance anyway.
And then the air thickened.
Baldy lifted his hand, and a star flared above his palm—not a painted one, a living one, one of those projections Evelyn had told me about.
Constellations… this world's magic.
Light sharpened into hard lines, like a chunk of night sky deciding to fling itself at my face.
Great. Time to find out what I taste like as minced meat.
He released the spell—a shining bolt tore toward me.
I flinched, throwing up my arms—but the impact never came.
Instead, something dark streaked in front of me.
A dry pop, and the spell… burst like a soap bubble.
I cracked one eye open.
A figure in a black cloak stood between us, hood shadowing his face. His arm was still outstretched. He had caught the spell—like it was a paper ball, not magic.
The crowd gasped. Even the thugs froze.
The black cloak turned his head toward Mr. Bald and spoke, voice low and steady:
"You've gone too far."
Baldy's face twisted like his scalp was about to turn into a live coal.
But the scariest part wasn't that. The newcomer didn't even bother to look at him. His eyes—cold, wary—were fixed on me.
"Who are you?" he asked, each word ringing like a verdict. "And why are you calling yourself this boy's personal maid?"
I froze. Somewhere inside, something squeaked like a mouse under an elephant's foot.
Oh… I think I just climbed to the very top branch of the Problem Tree. Please let this branch not be rotten…
Behind me, the boy stood with his eyes squeezed shut, wearing the universal expression of If I can't see them, they can't see me.
I gave a tight smile and said:
"Wel-lll… it's a long story. With hints of rescue, heroism, moral… and possibly a teensy mix-up in definitions."
Silence stretched taut as a string. I swallowed.
How, exactly, did I land in this mess? One suspicious stranger, and another thrown in for free.
Not a deal I signed up for.