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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Awakening
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Please take good care of me.
"What's in there?"
"Looks like nothing but straw from what I can see. I'll head out first, so poke around and check if anyone's hiding."
"Ah, let's go together! Don't be a coward!"
The footsteps of the raiders, chattering away, faded into the distance.
'Did they really leave? Or are they pretending to go far and waiting?')
Having stayed in the straw pile for so long, it was hot and sweaty, but he couldn't even think of wiping the sweat away.
As Arsen wrestled with the urge to peek out and confirm they'd really gone, the sound of returning footsteps made him quickly huddle back down.
"Damn it all. They always make me do this crap..."
The clinking of something metallic, followed by stabbing sounds—thud, thud.
Arsen realized after a moment what it was: the raider was jabbing at the straw piles around the barn with an iron pitchfork from the corner.
And the sounds were getting closer.
"Come out, come out, come out now—I'll chop you up nice if you do—"
The raider sang a tune that mangled any sense of pitch or rhythm, thrusting the pitchfork everywhere.
Arsen noticed his own teeth chattering uncontrollably and quickly pressed his head down, clamping his jaw shut.
'Please, just go past. Please.'
He gritted his teeth, screaming it only in his mind, when something flashed right in front of his eyes.
From 3cm to 5cm away—right at his nose—the pitchfork stabbed in and out. Arsen panicked for a moment.
Ridiculously, it kept him from making a sound.
"See? Told you there's nothing. Shit!"
The door slammed open with a bang, and only then did Arsen snap back to awareness, startled.
He'd been holding his breath without realizing it; his lungs burned up to his throat.
'Damn, that was close.'
Worse, he felt something warm and wet trickling down his pants.
'Lord Rha, thank you. Truly. I have nothing to give now, but when I get rich, I'll donate plenty.'
Clutching a stone in place of a holy relic, Arsen offered thanks to the god and passed the time praying to it while waiting for the sounds to die down.
How much time passed? As his pants grew cold, a new threat arrived.
There'd been a foul stench of blood and burning smells before, but now the smoke was thick enough to choke on.
The raiders must have set the barn ablaze, or fire from elsewhere had spread here.
"Oh, please..."
He carefully parted the straw and looked back; several piles were already aflame.
Staying safe in this barn until it was over was impossible now.
He slipped out cautiously, only to have a sharp yell pierce his ears.
"What's that little brat!?"
That was the first time Arsen faced one of the raiders who'd invaded the castle.
Matted hair unwashed for a decade, face smeared with soot and grime hiding its original color, clad in patched rags.
Arsen wore rags too, admittedly no better, but their vibe was different.
If Arsen was a poor slum kid or beggar, these were wild humans through and through.
"Grab him!"
The moment they pointed him out, Arsen bolted the opposite way with all his might.
Malnourished, he wasn't big or sturdy, but he was naturally nimble, with quick feet.
Plus, the raiders had no real drive to chase a scrawny kid—no threat like an adult soldier, no prize like a pretty girl.
He shook them off quickly.
But it wasn't a safe situation yet.
'Running like this won't work forever.'
This area had already been swept by raiders—eerie with corpses and shattered doors.
He thought hiding in any house would do, but fires were spreading between buildings; nowhere felt secure.
He needed a spot that absolutely wouldn't burn.
'The well!'
Recalling a nearby well, Arsen crouched low and crept toward it.
Luckily, he reached it without meeting anyone.
Peering in, he saw a floating corpse.
Whoever it was, perfect. He climbed down the bucket rope, hiding beneath the body.
Recent dry weather had lowered the water level enough to stand.
Using a human corpse like a blanket was gross and unsettling, but butchering small animals had toughened his stomach; he endured.
In a life-or-death spot, did that even matter?
Hours here meant hypothermia, but up top was instant death by blade or flame—no time for complaints.
Thirsty, but the well water mixed with the corpse's blood and waste? No thanks.
'Deep mountain spring, who comes to drink...'
Arsen hummed the song in his head, passing time in the well.
Footsteps approached a few times, but seeing the corpse he'd placed overhead, they left—no issues.
How long? When cold—not fear—made his teeth chatter unbearably, he decided to climb out.
The quiet above sparked hope the raiders might be gone.
Grabbing the bucket rope to ascend—
"Huh?"
Snap. The worn rope couldn't hold his weight and broke.
He hadn't climbed far, so no injury, but the situation crushed his spirit.
Trapped in a 3-4m deep well, with no one to help.
"No, wait! You piece of—"
He tried scaling the walls—impossible.
The well was too smooth, no fingerholds; not climbable.
He tried repeatedly, but after 1m, it was sheer—no grips.
A pro climber maybe, but not a normal kid like Arsen.
"Almighty Rha, calling on you again. Please, save me this time too."
Sighing at becoming a prayer machine again, he stood blankly in the well, pleading.
He hadn't just prayed in despair, of course.
Tying the fallen rope to the corpse's shoe to reach the top—tried.
Using bottom gravel to hack footholds maniacally—tried.
All failed; only prayer left.
Soon, fatigue from the water set in; sleep crept up.
They say frustration forges men, but you gotta live to grow.
'Ah, crap. Sleeping means real death.'
He slapped his cheeks to stay awake, but consciousness faded.
Fading mind, water now warm not cold, body sinking slowly from exhaustion.
Arsen lost consciousness, sinking into the water.
As he teetered on death's edge in a haze, a miracle happened.
Long ago, ancient mages built castles and estates around mana nexuses flowing through the land.
Naturally, Crata Castle had one underground, brimming with vast mana.
Usually, it just flowed harmlessly, but Arsen's near-dead body touching the well bottom changed that.
The deepest well in the castle, closest to the earth—his comatose flesh touched bottom, mana seeping in.
Normally nothing, but death's brink made his body hypersensitive; it instinctively sensed and absorbed the mana.
That triggered the knight bloodline from his father.
His body, now circulating mana itself, drew it from the floor to his heart, infusing blood that surged through veins.
Mana-rich blood circulated, supplying oxygen and energy to cold limbs and brain, raising his temperature.
Feeling warmth return, Arsen jolted awake, springing up.
"Cough, hack! Blech..."
Vomiting water for a while, he regained senses—and noticed the well's interior clearer than before.
The deadly chill gone; unknown power surged through him.
Only then did he realize he'd stepped to death's door and back.
And what this new power was.
'No way... mana?'
Hot blood pumped vigorously; vitality flooded him.
Arsen grabbed a pebble and smashed it into the wall vigorously.
Unlike before, a few strikes cracked the stone.
Worried about collapsing the whole thing, he carved just enough shallow holds for hands and feet, climbed, repeated.
Smashing pebbles as he went, after many trips up and down, he reached the surface again.
"I'm alive!"
He yelled in joy unwittingly, but surveying surroundings sank his mood fast.
Burned-out building skeletons everywhere; ground littered with charred or fire-killed corpses—indistinguishable.
The lord's residence, protected by ancient magic, stood intact—but likely empty of life.
Listening carefully, no signs of movement.
Confirming raiders gone, Arsen entered the lord's residence.
Only corpses inside; valuables stripped clean.
So thorough—even horn cups gone; only heavy furniture left.
"Rick, Lia, Odin, Erta..."
Lenoc Knight's direct children, eligible for the lord's residence, all dead here.
Adults were out hunting with the lord, so all kids Arsen's age.
Their mothers, servants—all slain.
And Arsen scavenged the corpse pile of his siblings for edible scraps like a starving rat.
Small mercy: Raf Ram, closest to him, wasn't here.
Maybe outside somewhere.
"Damn it."
Muttering curses—at raiders? Himself?—he searched the residence, finding nothing.
Poor folk themselves; not a handful of flour left.
Stripped a dead brother's clothes to wear—only gain.
Even that felt grimy, unwanted, but better than his blood-soaked, hole-ridden rags.
Finishing search, opening the door—right there stood a filthy vagrant gripping a jungle-knife-like blade.
"Ugh, fuck. Got a bump on my head. Hurts like hell... Huh?"
No better dressed than the others; obviously same gang.
'Thought they'd cleared out!'
Rusty but sharp, bloodied blade in adult hands—body froze like facing a snake.
Arsen knew he had mana now, but never fought with it; no confidence against a sword-wielder.
The swordsman froze too, surprised at a live one, but seeing small, scared kid, laughed derisively.
"Tough little bastard. I'll send you off personally..."
Swinging the blade side to side approaching, he stopped, staring at Arsen's face.
After a moment, a hideous grin spread on the blank face.
Arsen instinctively sensed the lust in that expression; goosebumps everywhere.
"You're pretty cute, kid. I like 'em like you."
Lust it was.
Thrusting sword into ground, he grabbed Arsen's rigid arms.
Arrogant—fairly. Not tall, but 170cm adult vs. kid half his size; bare hands should've won.
But pity—Arsen had fresh mana.
Mana-activated body stronger than expected; he shook one arm free, slamming fist into gut.
Speed too fast to react, power enough to drop him.
"Cough! Gack!"
Ribs cracked; as swordsman crumpled, Arsen mounted him.
Light body—he could buck off with effort—but no chance; fists rained on face.
One, two—hammer-like blows bloodied the face each time.
"Die! Die! You dog, fuck, die!"
Threat to life and chastity, fear of counterattack, thrill of violence—half-panicked, Arsen unleashed.
Until teeth shattered flying, pleading hands rose then fell limp.
Dozens of punches later, he calmed.
"Huff, haah... ha..."
Swordsman long dead.
Shock at first kill brief; danger lingered. Arsen scanned quickly, yanked the grounded sword.
Ripped two leather pouches from waist: one water, one dried meat chunks.
One left didn't mean no more—or returns unknown.
Sword in one hand, pouch in other, Arsen headed for the castle's west gate.