Victor crashed into the back of a bandit facing away from him and, with full force, slammed his hammer into the man's back. The hammer, continuing its momentum, flattened the hapless victim against the ground, squashing his body upon impact.
Taking advantage of the moment, the knight lunged forward and severed the head of the second bandit, spinning around to cleave the skull of the third.
Shocked by the carnage, the remaining gangsters exchanged nervous glances and fled in panic. The knight stood with his sword raised, but as the bandits disappeared from sight, he sank to his knees. Exhausted, he had expended all his mana reserves in the fight, sustained only by sheer willpower.
Seeing the fleeing thugs, Victor relaxed, and in that instant, his armor and shield vanished as if they had never existed.
Almost immediately afterwards, his head began to spin, and the last thing he saw was frightened Lulu rushing towards him.
***
When consciousness returned, the young man found himself sprawled across pillows in a carriage, shaken by its movement, with the little maid seated nearby, watching him anxiously.
— Where are we? — he asked as soon as he came to.
— You've been unconscious for two days, and we're almost there. I'm so relieved you're awake—I was scared you'd never wake up again. Waaaaaaa, — the girl dissolved into tears.
Mechanically comforting her, Victor felt uneasy about such intense displays of emotion. After his mother's death, he had grown accustomed to a world where empathy was increasingly rare.
Back on Earth, cynicism dominated society, and media exposure desensitized people to suffering. Feeling sympathy for someone else's demise was difficult when tragedies were broadcast constantly.
But this girl's sincere concern surprised him; she wasn't worried about herself or her future but genuinely mourned for him. It affected him strangely because he wasn't used to empathizing with others. For the first time, he felt pity for someone else, having spent his former life consumed by self-pity.
Every day had been a litany of complaints about life's unfairness, even though he didn't envy others' wealth or luxuries. He merely craved a semblance of normalcy: steady income, adequate food, visits to restaurants, decent clothing, and freedom from the gnawing dread of impending misfortune.
Now, sitting beside him, was a girl he felt protective towards, wanting sincerely for her to stop worrying.
— Stop crying, Lulu. I promise I won't sleep... for a long time, — he assured her again.
Wiping her tears and managing a smile, she asked the driver to halt the carriage, explaining they were approaching the estate and she needed to disembark.
Once she switched to another vehicle, the carriage resumed its journey, arriving at the manor four hours later.
Upon stepping out, Victor faced Knight Algannis, dirty and blood-stained, yet staring at him with admiration.
His lordship couldn't fathom why the knight regarded him with such reverence but nodded politely and walked toward the manor.
Servants lined either side of the entrance, and the butler greeted him.
— Welcome home, young master, — the elderly butler announced formally. Unlike Jinn, his tone lacked sincerity, sounding more like mockery cloaked in polite formality, akin to a knife wrapped in cloth, visible to all.
Victor recalled everything associated with this butler. Memories revealed that Taross had always been dismissive, favoring Victor's younger brother, Andros, whose mother was the daughter of a marquis. Two years after Victor's mother died, the count wed her.
Contrastingly, Victor's mother descended from a bankrupt baronial family, loved by the count but dying in childbirth.
Adding insult to injury, Victor lacked magical abilities.
His half-brother, Andros, however, demonstrated genius-level talent. Even Victor admitted it was logical for Andros to succeed him as heir, harboring no resentment.
In truth, he'd always been humble, inheriting this trait from his mother.
Nursery stories recounted how, if not for occasional laughter, his mother would have gone unnoticed in the household.
Currently, the butler's subtle taunts bothered him, but there was a problem: he wasn't the same person anymore.
Passing by the butler, he pretended to stumble, crashing his full weight into the old man, slamming him to the floor.
— Thank you for helping me, pardon me, forgot your name? — he said, dusting himself off as if dirtied. Ignoring the butler's shocked silence, he walked away.
Taross dared not lift his head, fearing exposure of his rage. Displaying anger openly in a noble's household invited swift execution.
Whatever feelings people harbored toward Victor, he was undeniably the legitimate son of the count. Showing contempt risked accusations of disrespect, punished severely.
Having exacted this minor revenge, Victor strode into the manor, allocated exclusively to him, proceeding directly to his bedroom and collapsing onto the soft mattress.
Travel and recent events had taxed his recovering body.
Awaking early the next morning, he sat up in bed as three maids entered with washing essentials.
Hygiene rituals differed starkly from Earth customs. Nobles bathed by having servants wipe them with wet towels and water basins; commoners sometimes went months without bathing.
When dressed, which felt alien and uncomfortable, a servant delivered a tray bearing a letter. Upon reading it, Victor learned he was summoned to meet his father post-lunch.
Another cumbersome tradition. Even trivial details, like scheduling meetings, necessitated formal written correspondence when verbal messages sufficed.
Putting aside the note, he headed to the dining hall, where a place was set at the head of a long table.
Breakfast was modest: boiled eggs, oatmeal porridge, bread rolls, and a beverage resembling herb-infused water rather than tea.
Initially, Victor searched for butter but, failing to find it, consulted his host-body's memories, confirming its complete absence. Many other staples were similarly missing.
Finishing his meal, he retired to the library, spending the remainder of the morning browsing books on magic. They provided general concepts, not specific spellcasting techniques.
He stayed there until noon, then returned to the dining hall for a filling lunch before visiting his father.
Shermanin's estate encompassed an area comparable to a small village. The distance from Victor's mansion to the main building was roughly three kilometres.
The carriage conveyed him there, and upon disembarking, he encountered Butler Taross and two maids by the entrance.
The building resembled a three-story palace shaped like the letter 'П'. Before the entrance stood a fountain surrounded by a driveway designed for carriages to loop around and halt before the entrance.
Windows peppered the façade haphazardly, suggesting they were installed after construction, disrupting architectural symmetry.
Escorted through the massive oak doors, Victor ascended a broad staircase to the second floor.
At the corridor's end, two knights stood guard, and the butler requested him to wait while he reported his arrival.
A minute later, he was ushered inside, finally encountering his father for the first time.
A statuesque figure in his forties occupied the chair behind the desk. Two other men in the room resembled him strikingly, apart from subtle differences indicating varying ages.
Victor towered at two metres, slim, with black hair and brown eyes, chiselled cheekbones, prominent jawline, arched brows, and neatly combed hair.
The primary distinction between them was the streaks of white in his father's hair.
Count Alexander sat, head bowed, motioning toward a chair before him with his quill.
Victor took his seat and waited silently for his father to acknowledge him.
Ten more minutes elapsed before the count discarded papers and laid down his pen.
— I heard you fell ill and lost consciousness, but it appears you're doing well now, — the count stated flatly.
— Thank you for your concern, Father, I am in perfect health, — Victor replied cautiously.
— Good, because we're attending Duke Alestor Lemoville's reception, where your engagement to his daughter will be announced, — Alexander declared, observing his son's reaction. Finding none, he continued: — she turned out to be equally mediocre, hence our decision.
It was customary practice among nobility. To conceal flawed offspring, they paired them with equally inadequate partners.
Contrary to Victor, the duke's daughter possessed mana and was technically a mage, but her mana capacity was below average, rendering her marriage prospects among elite nobility futile.
Securing a groom of graph status was a stroke of luck for her, irrelevant to Victor, who couldn't decide anything anyway.
Her qualities were immaterial. Relationships among nobility were loosely regulated by mutual consent. Spouses took lovers or secondary husbands/wives freely, while men often married multiple wives and had countless mistresses.
— As you wish, Father, — was all he could respond.
Father and son conversed emptily, and Victor departed, aiming to return to his mansion, when he crossed paths with his stepmother and younger brother.
— Dearest Victor, you're so rarely here and never visit your dear mother, — cooed the woman, who appeared no older than twenty-five.
Beside her, Andros bore her likeness. Shorter than Victor, blonde-haired with blue eyes, he was handsome, attracting droves of female admirers. Combined with his talents, he could choose from an array of elite women.
— Please excuse me, Mother, my fragile health prevents me from showing proper respect, — Victor apologized.
Predictably, she wasn't upset by his absence but relished the opportunity to remind him of his unwelcome status in the main estate.
Had this been the old Victor, he would have dwelled on such snubs, but the new Victor was indifferent to petty intrigues and especially to his father, who wasn't truly his parent.
Like his Earthly counterpart, he lacked a father figure, rendering the term meaningless.
— Hello, beloved brother, given your frailty, you should avoid unnecessary risks and stay home, — Andros mocked, betraying no real concern.
— Thank you, Brother, that's precisely why I'm returning to my mansion, — Victor replied, excusing himself and departing hastily.
Their company nauseated him, provoking an impulse to rip off their masks and slap them both. However, his magically-gifted sibling and stepmother's status as lady of the house were obstacles he couldn't overcome presently.
Returning to his mansion, Victor immediately retreated to the library. All day, he searched for clues to explain what troubled him and what occurred during his journey.
Where did the shield, hammer, and armor originate, and how could he summon them again? Having scoured the library, he slumped in frustration into a chair. The library was a cavernous hall spanning about two hundred square meters, stacked with books from floor to ceiling.
However, the tomes were bound manuscripts made from specially processed animal skins, each page limited to fifty words, yielding no more than a thousand words per book.
Reading them was tedious, especially given the alphabet comprising convoluted lines linked together.
Slouched in his chair, Victor sorted through fragmented memories of the previous Victor and what he'd gleaned from books, but none explained his experience.
— If it isn't documented here, could it be something I brought from my world? — he mused, closing his eyes.
Testing this hypothesis, he attempted to summon the fantasy-standard system or any related feature but encountered nothing.
Jumping to his feet, he stood in the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and replayed the fight with the bandits vividly in his mind.
Reliving every detail, he focused on the sensations experienced, reopening his eyes to find the familiar shield and hammer in his hands.
Fully armored, he approached a brass mirror in the corner and studied his reflection.
It was an imposing image, clad in full plate mail, brandishing a massive shield.
"A young paladin, this is now your path, and only you determine how to tread it. May you live a happy life," a voice echoed in his head.
Attempting conversation, he received no reply.
Something had indeed changed. The armor now felt natural, as if worn for decades.
Thinking about removing it, the armor vanished instantly. Practicing repeatedly, he mastered equipping and dispelling it. Now, armor activated upon vocal command.
Settling back into his chair, he pondered the mysterious voice and the nature of paladins. This world had neither paladins nor any recorded mention of them.
— Am I now a paladin? — he voiced aloud.