4 Chapter 4: Roll or die(1)

Begging for forgiveness or trying to threaten him won't work; we're way beyond that point. Usually, being a noble should mean something in times like these. However, the truth is that the magical hierarchy holds more weight than the noble hierarchy. If a commoner rises through the ranks of strength, the crown would favor them more than a noble with stagnant magic. In this situation, strength speaks louder than nobility.

While my family holds influence in the kingdom, and the crown might hesitate to see me dead, I care less about that. What matters to me is finding a way to survive, not seeking revenge after the fact. After all, if they seek revenge for me, I'll already be gone, right?


The protagonist is hell-bent on taking my head, and there's nothing that can stand in his way. He's not tethered by rationality; if he even catches a whiff of the smallest threat, he'll nip it in the bud. What's worse? He's a master at playing the long game.




As I sat in my room, trying to calm my nerves by reading a book, I couldn't help but think that this might be my last meal. Death seemed imminent and all I could do was hope for a miracle. But knowing my luck, it seemed like fate had already decided my fate; pitting a crazy guy against an even crazier one. And let's just say, it wasn't looking good for me. As the pages of my book fluttered in the breeze coming in through the open window, I couldn't help but wonder if death had a VIP section because it seemed like I was about to secure a spot there tonight.


Glancing around the room, I couldn't help but wonder how the whole place would soon be turned upside down. I had this gut feeling that Lucas was en route, ready to unleash some serious chaos and probably aiming for my sorry ass. The calm before the storm, you know?

Right before me, a table stood proudly, boasting a fine bottle of wine alongside two glasses. Battling against Lucas was about as feasible as a fish riding a bicycle, so my only play was to engage in a battle of words. Hell, it was a long shot—I figured not even Odysseus could talk that son of a gun down. So, here I am, preparing to be more charming than a cat with a ball of yarn.

"It's roll or die," I muttered to myself as I caught sight of a shadow entering through my window. Lo and behold, it was Lucas Grey. Alright, Ross, put on a smile and nod. Look as harmless as a kitten. We're treading on thin ice here, playing with our life hanging in the balance.


"Good evening, I was waiting for you," I spoke in a hushed tone, eliciting a surprised look from Lucas. "How did you know I was coming?" he questioned, cautiously advancing towards me, his eyes scanning the room for potential traps. As if anything could harm him right now...

"Exactly," I stammered nervously. "None of what happened was intentional. I sincerely hope we can bury the hatchet after, of course, addressing the issues between us." The words spilled out hastily, akin to water cascading down a turbulent river, as nervous tension continued to grip me. "Is this wine supposed to be a peace offering?" Lucas asked, pausing about half a meter away. I nodded in response, and he, with a thoughtful expression, said, "I see."


Straightening his posture, he towered over me and reached for the wine. Oh, bloody hell. That look on his face—I knew trouble was brewing. And just as I feared, he grabbed the bottle by the neck and swung it down on my temple.

I sprawled to the ground, bits of glass and alcohol raining down on my hair and face. Face down on the floor. Well, that didn't go as planned. Cheers to diplomacy, I guess.



I fell to the ground, dazed and disoriented from both the blow and the alcohol that now coated my hair and face. Before I could regain my bearings, Lucas kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. As I lay curled up on the floor in pain, he continued his assault without mercy.


"You destroyed everything!" he yelled between kicks. "Our family's livelihood, our grain reserve. Do you have any idea what you've done?"


His words struck me like daggers, but they were nothing compared to the physical pain he was inflicting on me. And yet, even in his rage, Lucas managed to speak with calculated precision


"You think a bottle of wine and a few words can fix this? You're delusional," he spat out, his frustration evident. Lucas paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he crouched down and grabbed me by the hair. His eyes bore into mine, a mixture of anger and desperation. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.



Before I could even think of a witty reply, a monstrous force slammed my head onto the unforgiving ground. The impact triggered a party in my senses, leaving me no room to utter a single word. Pain coursed through my skull like a reckless rollercoaster, and for a brief moment, the only thing I could perceive was a dazzling haze of stars. As I lay on the ground, trying to make sense of the situation, I realized that speaking would be like trying to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded, and just for a comparison I was never able to solve one .


And to top it off, my mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood, making it impossible to speak without sounding like an undead vampire. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I knew I had to blurt out something, anything, to buy myself a few more precious seconds of survival.

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