The manor looked even more pathetic in the evening light.
Cracked walls. Broken tiles. Weeds growing through the foundation. Viktor pushed through the door, which creaked like it was about to fall off its hinges, and immediately collapsed onto the sofa.
The old cushions wheezed under his weight, dust puffing up around him.
"Shit," he muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes. His entire body screamed for rest.
"Master, are you alright?" Helena's voice came from somewhere above him.
"Nothing. Just kind of exhausted." Viktor breathed out slowly. His body had every right to be. Since early morning—exercise, fucking Helena, walking nearly half a mile to the village, dealing with emotional peasants, collecting herbs on the way back.
The day had passed with night arriving, and his body just wanted sleep.
Helena nodded. "Then rest, master. I will cook food."
Viktor looked at her through half-closed eyes. She was already moving to put the herbs away, organizing them with practiced efficiency. His gaze naturally drifted lower—her thick ass covered in that maid dress, swaying slightly as she moved.
He breathed out. "Yeah, just do that."
Part of him was disappointed. She didn't take initiative to have sex with him. Not even a suggestion. Just straight to cooking like some... normal couple.
But his body was too exhausted to care. Viktor closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him.
'Maybe... this is how real world couples live, after all... hah.'
The thought drifted through his mind as sleep pulled him under.
"Hm? Helena?" Viktor woke to darkness.
Not the comfortable darkness of evening—true, deep night. The kind where you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
Something was wrong.
His instincts screamed before his conscious mind caught up. Viktor's eyes snapped open, his body tensing despite the exhaustion still clinging to his muscles.
The room was silent. Too silent.
Where was Helena? He should hear her moving in the kitchen, smell food cooking. But there was nothing.
Viktor sat up slowly, his hand instinctively reaching for—shit, he didn't have a weapon. The sofa creaked under him, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness.
"Helena?" His voice came out rougher than intended.
No answer.
Viktor stood, his bare feet touching the cold floor. The moonlight through the broken windows provided just enough light to see shapes—the table, the chairs, the doorway to the kitchen.
But no Helena.
'Where the fuck did she go?'
Then he heard it. A sound from outside. Faint, barely audible.
A woman's voice. Crying.
But not Helena's voice.
Viktor moved to the window, peering out into the night. The village in the distance was dark except for one spot—a flickering orange glow that was growing brighter.
Fire.
And screaming.
"What the..." Viktor's blood went cold.
The door to the manor burst open behind him. Viktor spun around, his heart hammering.
Helena stood in the doorway, her dress torn, blood on her hands—but not her blood. Her eyes were wide, terrified.
"Master," she gasped, "they're burning the village. Mira's hut—Toby—"
Viktor stared at her, his exhaustion forgotten.
"Who?"
"Bandits. A whole group of them." Helena's voice cracked. "They came right after sunset. I went to check the well for clean water and saw them. Master, they're beating people and Mira..."
"Fuck."
Viktor didn't think. His body moved before his mind caught up.
He burst through the manor door, the rotten wood nearly coming off its hinges.
His bare feet hit the dirt path, sharp stones cutting into his soles, but he didn't give a shit.
The orange glow in the distance pulsed brighter, smoke rising like a dark pillar against the night sky.
"Master, wait!" Helena's voice called behind him, but he was already running.
His lungs burned. His legs—still exhausted from the day—screamed in protest. The half-mile stretch between the manor and village felt like ten miles. Each breath came harder, his chest heaving.
The screaming grew louder.
Not just one voice. Multiple. Men shouting. Women crying. The crackle of flames eating through dry wood and thatch.
Viktor's heart hammered against his ribs. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck—'
He rounded the last bend, and the scene hit him like a fist to the gut.
The outer section of the village—where Mira's hut stood—was chaos.
One hut was fully engulfed in flames, the fire so bright it hurt to look at.
An old man, his face blackened with soot and blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, stumbled between his burning home and the well.
He carried a wooden bucket, water sloshing over the sides as he ran, throwing it onto the flames with shaking hands.
It did nothing. The fire ate through the water like it wasn't even there.
Other villagers cowered inside their homes, faces pressed against windows, watching but not helping. Too terrified to move.
And in front of Mira's hut stood four men.
Bandits.
Viktor's eyes took them in with cold clarity. These weren't desperate thieves. They were organized.
The first one—the leader, clearly—stood directly in front of Mira. He was massive, easily six-foot-three, built like a fucking wall. Barrel chest straining against a leather vest that looked like it had seen a hundred fights.
Scarred arms thick as tree trunks. A short sword hung from his belt, the blade reflecting the firelight. His face was weathered, brutal—a nose that had been broken multiple times, a jagged scar running from his left eye to his jaw.
Dark eyes that held no mercy whatsoever.
His right hand was raised, fresh red marks on his knuckles.
Mira sat crumpled on the ground, clutching Toby to her chest.
Her face—the left side was swollen, an angry red handprint blazed across her cheek. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
Her eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down, but she held her son tight, shielding him with her body.
The torn fabric of her dress had slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing more skin than she'd ever shown in public.
Her free hand clutched at the neckline, trying desperately to pull it back into place, but her fingers trembled too badly to hold it.
Toby was crying. Not the vacant stare from earlier—pure, raw fear. His small body trembled violently against his mother.
Three more bandits emerged from Mira's hut.
"So?" The leader's voice was gravel grinding against metal. Deep, rough. "Did that fat noble give you money or not?"
Mira's voice came out broken. "N-no. No money. He just—"
"Just what?" The leader leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Came to your shithole hut for fun?"
The rat-faced one laughed, high-pitched and grating. "Maybe he wanted to fuck her and couldn't get it up!"
Mira flinched violently at the words, her whole body going rigid. Her face flushed deep red—not from anger, but from raw, burning shame. She curled tighter around Toby, trying to make herself smaller, invisible.
The others joined in, their laughter cruel.
The fat one waddled out of the hut, holding something. "Boss! Nothing but dried grass and weeds in there. No coin, no food, nothing worth shit."
He threw his hand out, and dried herbs scattered across the ground. The cloth pouch Viktor had given Mira tumbled in the dirt.
Mira's eyes went to it immediately. Her trembling hand reached out, fingers closing around the tattered cloth. She clutched it to her chest like it was worth more than gold.
The leader noticed. His eyes narrowed.
"What's that?"
"N-nothing. Just—" Mira's voice broke. "He was trying to help my child."
Silence.
The leader blinked. Then his face twisted into something between disbelief and rage.
"Helping you?" He straightened up, his voice rising. "For free? Are you a fucking idiot?"
The young one with the axe stepped forward, grinning. "Boss, maybe that noble got interested in her body."
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat.
Mira's breath hitched. Her shoulders hunched forward as if the words had physically struck her. The heat in her face spread down her neck, her mortification visible even in the firelight.
"PHUAHAHAHAHA!"
Then they all burst out laughing.
Not just chuckling—full, deep belly laughs that echoed through the night. The rat-faced one doubled over, slapping his knee. The fat one wheezed so hard he nearly dropped his club.
"Her body?" The leader wiped tears from his eyes. "Come on, do you really think those noblemen would fall for some dirty village old woman? Look at her!"
He gestured at Mira with disgust. "Saggy tits, thick as a cow, face already marked by age. What noble in his right mind would waste time on that when they've got young pretty maids?"
Each word landed like a physical blow. Mira's free arm instinctively crossed over her chest, trying to hide herself despite already holding Toby. Her body seemed to fold inward, shoulders curling, head ducking.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears still leaked from the corners, her entire frame trembling—not just from fear anymore, but from the acute, suffocating awareness of every inadequacy they'd named.
The laughter continued, each guffaw driving the shame deeper.
Mira's face crumpled. Her arms tightened around Toby, who buried his face in her chest, his small body shaking with sobs.
'Motherfuckers.'
Viktor's vision went red.
---
He didn't plan it.
His hand just moved—grabbing the stone from his pocket, the one he'd gotten from Toby. His arm cocked back.
The throw was perfect.
The stone spun through the air, covering thirty feet in less than a second.
THUNK
Direct hit. Right to the leader's temple.
The laughter cut off instantly.
The leader staggered, his hand flying to his head. "What the—"
The stone fell, landing in his palm. He looked down at it, his eyes widening.
Then he looked up, his gaze following the trajectory.
Viktor stood at the edge of the firelight, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His expression was cold, flat. Dangerous.
The leader's face changed. The amusement vanished, replaced by something else.
Recognition.
"The fat lord from the manor," the young one added, his cocky grin fading fast.
The leader's jaw tightened. His hand closed around the pebble, knuckles white as the stone crumbled into dust between his fingers.
For a moment—just a brief, dangerous moment—Viktor saw him consider it. Saw him weigh the options.
Four armed men against one unarmed noble.
Easy fight.
They could make pulp of him easily, but if Viktor's calculation was correct, they would just run away.
Because Viktor wasn't just some random person. He was a noble. Exiled, poor, pathetic—but still a noble with a family name.
Hurting him meant more than just a fight. It meant retaliation. Not from Viktor himself, but from the system.
The duchy would send soldiers. They'd hunt down every single member of this bandit group just to ensure this never happened to any noble in the future. Torture them. Execute them in the town square as an example.
Over one fat exiled lord.
The math didn't work.
The leader's expression shifted to something almost... respectful.
"Let's go," he said, his voice flat.
"But boss—" the young one started.
"I said let's go."