Lucy didn't smell as much like shit. Which, considering his previous state, was progress worth celebrating with fireworks. Or at least with a cookie.
Thanks to Edgar — a farmer, cart driver, and apparently a crisis therapist — he had a quick rinse in a stream along the way. It wasn't a deep clean, but at least he regained a bit of dignity.
"Better?" Edgar asked as the cart rolled forward.
"I stopped attracting flies. I think that counts."
Edgar chuckled softly, like he'd heard a joke he didn't want to admit was funny.
"That's something. Not everyone can say that after falling in a pile of shit."
Lucy ran a hand through his still damp hair, feeling the dry crust that refused to completely come off. Still, for the first time in hours, the air felt breathable. The feeling of being alive without smelling like a fermenting corpse was surprisingly comforting.
Along the way, he recovered a fraction of his mana and got used to the dull inner ache.
The path narrowed, surrounded by twisted trees that seemed to whisper "suspicious environment" with every crack. Lucy already had a bad feeling.
That annoying tingling you feel right before life kicks your teeth in with iron boots.
The silence in that part of the forest was different. Not the peaceful silence of nature, but a tense, expectant one. The branches didn't crackle — they whispered. The birds didn't sing — they seemed to have hidden. Lucy frowned.
"This smells like an ambush, or a cheap tragedy," he muttered to himself.
Edgar swallowed nervously. "We're close. Don't say anything, let me talk, okay?"
"Sure. I love it when kidnappers have protocols."
"This is it," Edgar whispered.
"This is what?" Lucy asked, though he suspected the answer.
And then they appeared. Five figures stepped out from the bushes with the confidence only idiots who are way too sure of themselves have. They all carried weapons, wore dark clothes, and had that classic "nobody loves me, so I'm going to be a bandit" attitude.
"Edgar," one said with a voice like a drunk with a cold, "about time. Thought you forgot the quota."
"When have I ever failed you, Borrek?" Edgar replied with a forced tone.
"I brought milk, cheese, and freshly baked bread. The usual."
Lucy stayed still, listening without intervening. The air felt tense. Not because of imminent danger, but from accumulated discomfort. Like a family dinner where nobody talks about the elephant in the room… which turns out to be a group of thugs with mafia complexes.
"And that one?" another bandit asked, pointing at Lucy. "New servant? Or some weird pet?"
"He looks blind. And he reeks…"
"Just a strange kid I picked up on the road. Doesn't talk much, but he doesn't cause trouble either."
Lucy didn't react. He said nothing. Didn't frown. Just kept silent. The kind of silence that's not submission, but concentrated passive-aggressive judgment.
Also tightly pressed lips so no inappropriate comment would slip out.
But of course, expecting these guys to get subtlety was like asking a donkey to do algebra.
"Is he asleep?" one said, laughing.
"Maybe he doesn't even understand what we're saying. Or better yet, maybe he's so useless he can't even talk."
"Or maybe…" another added, stepping closer.
"He's a freak pretending to be tough so they don't kick him."
Lucy swallowed. He could ignore the smell, the insults, even the stupid laughs.
But then, a hand landed on his shoulder. A hand with calluses, slender fingers, and disrespect carved into its DNA
"Hey," another mocked, "are you deaf too, kid? Or just stupid?"
No response.
"Tch. Let's see if he really is blind."
The man grabbed Lucy's bandage and lifted it a bit.
"Hey!" Edgar protested nervously.
There were his eyes: a mix of blue and gray, like storms trapped in glass.
The thug stepped back slightly, puzzled. "…Tsk. Nice eyes for a street rat."
And that's when Lucy felt it: that fire in his throat. Not the blind rage kind, but the contained sarcasm fighting to get out.
He exhaled through his nose.
"You know what, buddy?" he said calmly.
"If your intelligence was as big as your stinky breath, you'd be a legendary wise man."
Silence was immediate.
"What did you say?"
"Sorry, want me to spell it out? Or are you allergic to letters too?"
The thug growled and without waiting more, threw a punch straight to his face. Lucy tried to dodge, but the hit was quick, and he was still weak. The impact shook his head, though not as much as expected.
He growled, touching his cheek. And then, as if an invisible line had been crossed, he slowly got up, turned his face toward his attacker — or what he interpreted as his face — and said:
"Oh, so this is how it feels to not dodge in time. Thanks for the reminder."
And without more, he threw a punch. Nothing elegant. No technique. Just a direct hit to the nose.
The sound was glorious. Like snapping a dry twig underfoot.
The guy flew backward a couple of meters, landing with a groan that echoed between the trees.
One of the other bandits blinked, as if his brain was still processing what he had seen.
"That runt… knocked him out with one punch?"
"I thought he was blind!" another whimpered.
"That makes it worse! He just broke my nose without seeing a thing!"
Lucy stood still, flexing his fingers.
"…Didn't expect to hit that hard."
The group stood dumbfounded. They looked at him like he had just dropped gold in front of them. Confusion. Surprise. And above all, a wound to their pride.
"That brat…!"
"Let's finish him!"
"Broken nose for every word he said!"
Five pairs of feet began advancing toward him with the elegance of a stampede of idiots.
Lucy sighed, adopting a defensive stance. Hurt, low on mana, and knowing this time it would really cost him.
"Perfect. Unequal fights. Free hits. And zero motivation. Maybe tomorrow a lightning bolt will fall on me too. Or a tree. After all, the universe already has me on its blacklist."