Chapter 25

“Whoaaa... why on earth do we have to pull patrol at this hour?”

The man was in his late twenties, clad in armor emblazoned with the silver sword and obsidian-colored wings of the Order of the Holy King. He let out a massive, jaw-cracking yawn, his voice thick with lethargy.

His subordinate, who was accompanying the blatantly unmotivated officer, offered a sharp chiding.

“It’s our job, so stop complaining, Squad Leader. It’s not like I enjoy being out here at five in the morning either.”

The clock had just ticked past 5:00 AM. In truth, their patrol had begun at sunrise, around 4:00.

The reason for the early start was the row of shops already bustling with life. The taverns, in particular, were thriving. During the three days of the annual Fighting Tournament, most of the local fishermen took time off. They spent their days drinking from noon onward, throwing boisterous parties as they got swept up in the excitement of the competition.

With drunks flooding the streets, brawls were frequent and public order tended to fray. The patrol was meant to be both a deterrent and a rapid response unit.

“Just because it’s a festival doesn’t mean they have to be so damn loud, I tell you.”

“And yet, despite the whining, why are you trying to sneak into a liquor store?”

The subordinate grabbed the shoulder of his superior, Squad Leader Cody, who had tried to veer into a shop as if guided by magnetic force. That the junior officer could use such informal language was a testament to Cody’s relaxed personality; it wasn't a lack of respect, but a familiarity Cody encouraged.

“The ale is calling my name.”

“Don’t say stupid things with such a straight face.”

Cody’s subordinate dragged him back onto the patrol route. Cody watched the liquor store recede into the distance, looking utterly defeated. To an outsider, it would have been impossible to tell which of them held the higher rank.

“Sigh... I have to spend three more days watching everyone else drink while I suffer in sobriety?”

“You say that, but you’re a lightweight anyway, Squad Leader.”

Besides, you’re an annoying, clingy drunk, the subordinate added under his breath.

Cody shot back, “I don’t drink because I like alcohol. I drink because I like being drunk!”

For Cody, the ale was a means to an end. He declared with total conviction that as long as he reached that state of bliss, the quality of the booze didn't matter. For those forced to endure his company during those bouts of cheap, tasteless drinking—and the inevitable "clingy" phase that followed—it was a nightmare.

As the two continued their pointless bickering, the sharp sound of shattering glass echoed from an alley up ahead. A woman’s scream followed, swallowed by a rising commotion.

The two officers locked eyes and shared a simultaneous, weary sigh.

“Looks like it’s time to clock in.”

“Good grief... Can’t people just be 'happy' drunks?”

“You’re the last person on earth who gets to say that, Squad Leader.”

“Quiet, you. Come on, Robin-kun. Let’s use that terrifying face of yours to scare some sense into them.”

Cody’s feet moved as fast as his mouth as he sprinted toward the noise. He rounded the corner and began shoving through the gathering crowd to see the source of the trouble. He ignored Robinson—affectionately dubbed Robin—who was grumbling behind him about his "choice of words."

“Alright, excuse me, coming through!”

“Hah? Don't you go barging in—!”

A brawny fisherman spun around to snap at the interloper, but the words died in his throat the moment he saw Robinson looming behind Cody.

Robinson stood nearly six-foot-three with a massive, muscular frame and skin tanned darker than the local sailors. His slate-gray eyes, combined with a natural, sharp-angled squint, gave him a look of malicious intensity. He looked far more dangerous than most monsters.

In reality, Robinson was quite gentle, but he was the type of man cursed by his own appearance. Of course, in the line of duty, it was often an asset. A weak-willed thug would lose heart just from a glance, and in a crowd like this, people tended to clear a path.

The effect was immediate. The crowd parted like the Red Sea the moment they registered Robinson’s presence.

“Honestly, Robin-kun, things are so much easier when you’re around.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment... I guess.”

When they reached the center of the clearing, they found a boy, an adult, and a third person who had been shoved headfirst into a large water jar. The man in the jar was flailing his legs helplessly.

While Cody and Robinson were still processing the scene, the boy reached out and hauled the man out of the jar by his collar. As the soaking wet man collapsed onto all fours, coughing and wheezing, the boy looked down at him with a look of pure coldness.

“Well? Has the water sobered you up, or do you need another dip?”

The man was too busy gasping for air to answer. Instead, his companion lunged at the boy in a rage.

“You little brat! What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Are you blind? You seem to have lost your senses too. Perhaps you’d like to join your friend in the cold water? Though, if you weren't sane to begin with, I suppose it’s a waste of time.”

“Keep talking, you little shit! I don’t care if you’re a kid, I’ll kill you!”

Fueled by liquid courage, the man wound up a massive right hook and charged. Cody, realizing he was too far away to intervene physically, began to sprint forward to break it up.

That was when he saw it. The boy’s eyes.

Even with an enraged adult charging him, the boy showed no fear—not even interest. His gaze was bone-chillingly calm. And more impressively, even as he faced his attacker, he had already registered Cody’s rapid approach from the periphery.

His composure and situational awareness were far beyond his years.

The boy’s eyes met Cody’s for a fraction of a second. In that instant, a flicker of shock—and then sharp wariness—crossed the boy’s otherwise expressionless face.

But the moment passed in a heartbeat. The boy slipped under the man’s clumsy swing and drove an elbow straight into his solar plexus.

It was a perfectly executed strike. The man’s knees buckled instantly. As the boy stepped over the collapsing body, he was met with a round of applause from the onlookers, but his eyes remained fixed on Cody, cold and calculating.

Cody felt a chill. No way... did he sense my strength? Just from that split-second eye contact?

Cody intentionally hid his true power, content to act like a lazy squad leader to avoid the headaches of high-ranking politics. In reality, he was one of the Order's elite, capable of trading blows with Vincent van Westervoort, the man expected to be the next Grand Master.

If this boy had sensed that hidden strength and was already on guard, then his reaction was staggering.

Taking down a grown man with one hit is impressive, but that level of intuition? Cody thought. To accurately gauge an opponent's level—especially one stronger than yourself—required a massive amount of personal power. The boy was clearly a monster in the making.

Hoping to defuse the tension, Cody raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture and offered a tired, easygoing smile.

“Whoa, hey now. That was some impressive work, kid. You really surprised me.”

Cody’s laughter was intentionally boisterous and a little suspicious, but the boy seemed to decide Cody wasn't looking for a fight. He relaxed his stance, if only slightly.

“Sorry to bother you,” Cody continued, “but could you tell me what happened here? We just got here and we’re still trying to piece it together.”

“...A pair of drunks were brawling. One of them was knocked toward me, so I handled him.”

“I see. Well, your 'handling' of him was practically an art form. No joke.”

The image of the legs flailing out of the water jar made Cody want to chuckle. It would make for a great story over a pint later.

The boy made to leave, clearly finished with the conversation.

“Wait, wait! You aren’t hurt, are you? Even a scratch can get infected if you aren't careful.”

“I was dealing with trash that didn't even qualify as a warm-up. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? Don't be stubborn. If you move your arm like this, does it hurt—?”

“You’re tedious. If you want a report, ask the crowd. Or do you intend to waste my time with a formal interrogation?”

“Whoops. Caught me, did you?”

In truth, Cody only cared about the "report" for 20% of the conversation. The other 80% was pure curiosity; he wanted to keep the boy talking to figure out who he was. It hadn't worked.

The boy gave Cody a flat, unimpressed look and walked away.

“Squad Leader, what are we doing with these two?” Robinson asked, gesturing to the downed men.

“Ah, right. Let’s wait for them to wake up, and in the meantime...”

Cody began giving Robinson instructions, but his mind remained on the black-haired boy. That level of insight, those refined movements, and the sheer nerve to stand his ground against someone of Cody's caliber—those were traits only forged in the fires of real combat.

The boy looked twelve, maybe thirteen. Where could a child possibly have seen that much blood?

He’s a strange one, Cody mused. But I think I’ll pay close attention to the tournament today. I have a feeling things are about to get very interesting.

Based on the "warm-up" comment, the boy was almost certainly an entrant. Since the Under-13 Division was starting today, the age fit perfectly.

What had started as a boring work day had suddenly gained a spark of excitement. It was only after the boy had vanished into the crowd that Cody realized he had forgotten to ask for his name.

---

(That was close! Way too close! Why the hell is Cody here?!)

Harold had retreated into a secluded alleyway, away from the prying eyes of the crowd, and was currently clutching his head in frustration.

The source of his panic was his encounter with Cody. As Harold’s internal encyclopedia confirmed, Cody was a significant character from the game. He would eventually become the leader of "Frieri," a mercenary band of drifters. He was a wild card—sometimes an ally, sometimes a manipulator, but generally a "good guy" who acted as a high-level helper for the protagonist’s party.

Harold knew Cody had been a knight once, so the armor wasn't a shock, but he hadn't expected to bump into him in a random alleyway.

Harold had been woken up at 4:00 AM by the noise of the city. The restless, festive atmosphere reminded him of the college festivals from his previous life in Japan, and he’d found himself drawn out into the streets.

He’d been wandering the market for about thirty minutes, getting some light exercise, when he heard shouting. Two men were brawling, knocking over tables and smashing glassware. Harold wasn't the type to play hero, and he’d intended to walk right past them—until one of the men was shoved directly toward him.

He could have dodged. In fact, he was going to. But then he saw a small girl standing right behind him. If he moved, she was going to get flattened by a hundred and eighty pounds of falling drunkard.

His body moved before he could think. He swept the man's feet and guided him into the water jar with practiced ease. After that, his "Harold Mouth" had taken over, provoking the second man into a fight. He had reached a point of grim resignation regarding his own verbal abuse; fighting against his own personality was just too exhausting.

He had planned to end the fight quickly, but Cody’s sudden arrival had thrown him off. In his momentary confusion, he’d accidentally put a bit too much "oomph" into the elbow strike.

(Sorry, nameless old man. I definitely overdid it.)

As he offered a silent prayer for the man’s ribs, Harold began to calm down. Looking back, he realized he probably shouldn't have run away.

In the game’s original plot, there was no real interaction between Harold and Cody. By the time the story starts, Harold is a knight and Cody has already left to form Frieri. Their paths might have crossed briefly, but it wasn't canon.

(Wait, wouldn't it have been better if he knew my face?)

Cody eventually works with Rainer’s group. Having a bridge to him could have been a goldmine for intel on the protagonist's party. He’d probably acted too impulsively.

Resolving to try for a friendlier (or at least less frantic) interaction next time, Harold headed back to his inn for breakfast. He ran into Itsuki just as the older boy was stepping out.

“Good morning, Harold-kun. Where have you been?”

“Scouting the venue.”

He’d caught a glimpse of it on his walk, so it wasn't a total lie. Honestly, the size of the stage had made him feel a little bit of stage fright.

“You seem ready. In that case, I have something I wanted to give you.”

“...What is this?”

Itsuki handed him a paper-wrapped parcel. Harold opened it suspiciously. Inside was a masquerade-style mask designed to cover the upper half of his face.

“Since you’re entering under a pseudonym, I thought it might be fitting to hide your face as well.”

“Like I'd ever wear that!”

It was the most sincere retort Harold had delivered since his reincarnation. Lately, Itsuki’s character was becoming a mystery to him. He’d initially pegged him as a serious siscon, but the guy had a bizarre playful streak—one that actually reminded him of the game’s version of Erika.

Then again, Itsuki said these things with such a straight face that Harold wondered if he was actually just an airhead. Was this really the same man who had cleverly trapped him and Erika into a dinner date last night?

Exhausted by the mask proposal, Harold then discovered he had been officially registered under the suspiciously chuunibyou name "Mr. Lord." This led to a second shouting match with Itsuki right before the opening ceremony.

By the time he actually stood on the stage for his first match, his nerves had been replaced by sheer, grinding fatigue.

The crowd was a wall of noise and heat. Their gazes were physically heavy, pressing in on the stage. The moment he stepped out from the waiting area for the under-13 bracket, the roar of the crowd hit him like a physical blow.

“And in this corner, the man of mystery—Mr. Lord!”

As his ridiculous name was called, Harold stepped onto the stage. He was the only person in the entire tournament using a fake name, which, naturally, made him stand out like a sore thumb.

Isn't this the opposite of keeping a low profile?

Trying to swallow his shame, Harold adopted a perfectly expressionless mask. To the spectators, he looked like a cold, focused warrior. To the young boy facing him, he looked like a literal demon.

The match was about to begin. Harold scanned the crowd... and froze.

Her blonde hair caught the sunlight, longer than he remembered, tied back in a neat ponytail. It was the girl he had saved three years ago. Her face was still that of a child, but he could see the echoes of the woman she would become five years from now.

Colette Amarele was sitting in the front row.

Her hazel eyes were locked onto his. Harold looked away instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She knew. He could tell by the way her eyes had widened in shock.

This was the absolute worst-case scenario. A reunion with Colette, in a city where Erika was also present. If there was a god in this world, Harold decided he hated them.

(Dammit... I should have worn the mask Itsuki gave me. It would have hidden my face AND probably gotten a laugh from the crowd. It was the ultimate item all along...)

Faced with impending doom, Harold did the only thing he could: he retreated into a very deep state of denial.