Elara reached out and rested a hand over her daughter's as she seemed to also suppress tears and choking sobs.
Roy looked to her for support, but from the resigned look on her face, he could see that he would get no assistance from her. She did not look at Roy, the obvious guilt in her eyes too overwhelming.
"I can change this!" Roy blurted suddenly, panic bleeding through his voice. "I swear. I can still fix this! I'll train, I'll work, I—"
Adam stood up.
The chair behind him didn't scrape. It didn't wobble. The man rose with the certainty and grace of someone who had already decided on everything. It was obvious that no amount of words or pleading would change his decision.
"You had years," he said coldly. "You wasted every one."
Roy stood too fast. His chair toppled backward with a sharp crash, echoing through the dining hall.
"I'm your son!" Roy shouted. "You can't just—"
"I can."
The words were absolute.
Adam reached into the sleeve of his long robes and produced a small leather pouch. He tossed it onto the table.
Clink!
The sound of coins rang louder than the fallen chair.
"That is enough to keep you alive for a short while," he said. "Spend it wisely. Or don't. It no longer concerns me."
Roy stared at the pouch.
Then up at his father.
"What… does this mean?" he asked hoarsely.
"Do I need to repeat myself?" The patriarch's gaze was merciless. "From this moment on, you are no longer my son."
The world seemed to tilt in Roy's POV.
Ariana let out a quiet, broken sound, quickly smothered by her hand. Tears streamed freely now, though she still refused to look at him.
Elara finally did.
Her expression wasn't angry.
It was resigned.
As if she had already mourned him.
"I would rather see a capable man marry into this family through Ariana," Patriarch Taur continued, voice thick with contempt, "than allow trash like you to finish what my ancestors built with their own sweat!"
The word trash was spat like venom.
Roy's fists trembled. "You'd replace me with some outsider?" It didn't feel like he was the one speaking anymore. For some reason, emotions he couldn't explain sprang out of him, like the old host was taking over. His heart was wounded.
"I already have," the man replied.
Heavy footsteps echoed as two guards entered the hall—the only ones left in the estate. Their expressions were stiff and uncomfortable, but obedient nonetheless.
"Take him out," Patriarch Taur ordered.
The guards stepped forward.
Roy held up a hand. "No."
They paused.
"I don't need to be dragged like a sack," Roy said, his voice low and broken. He bent, picked up the pouch, and straightened. He didn't know these people, but something inside of him broke that day. "I'll walk out on my own."
"Where was all that bravery and courage when you needed it?" He asked, but he didn't say any more than that. He let him do as he pleased.
Roy gave Ariana a look. Honestly, she looked more devastated than he was, but she had always been like this.
Unfortunately, they had long since drifted apart, which made him question the legitimacy of her tears. Besides, she had no say in matters such delicate matters. He turned and walked away without looking back.
The doors closed behind him with a final, hollow thud. It didn't take long to walk through the corridors to the main entrance.
Outside, the air felt cold.
Roy stood there for a moment, clutching the pouch of money in his hands, his jaw tightened, and his eyes burned with an unseen flame.
"Even in another world," he muttered bitterly, "my luck is absolute dog shit." He sighed.
...
A carriage rattled to a halt at the gates of Flaming Stag City, the merchant's escort grumbling about the late hour as they waved Roy off with curt nods.
The pittance from his father, a pouch of quite a few silver coins, jingled lightly in his pocket, enough to secure a room at a decent inn and maybe a hot meal for the next few months.
Flaming Stag was a beast of a place; its streets were like a labyrinth of torchlit chaos even at this witching hour. Merchants hawked dubious wares from shadowed stalls, their voices a cacophony of haggling and laughter.
Women in revealing silks sauntered past, their hips swaying like pendulums, their low-cut blouses teasing glimpses of full breasts. Roy's eyes devoured them, his mind already spinning.
He had already decided on one way to spend some of the silvers in his pouch. 'Fuck, this place is paradise, might as well lose my V-card here,' he thought.
He was about to walk toward one particularly lovely young lady with big tits that reminded him of someone when he yawned deeply.
He'd arrived quite late. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, painting the sky in bruised purples and blacks.
So he decided that fun could wait till tomorrow. Exhaustion clawed at him, and his ass was sore from the bumpy ride.
Spotting a sign for the Golden Hind Inn from afar, a sturdy two-story building with warm lantern light spilling from its windows, he quickened his pace.
His fine noble's attire, a tailored doublet of deep crimson wool embroidered with the faded Taur crest, marked him as easy prey in the dim streets.
But Roy was too cocky, too lost in fantasies of maybe bedding the inn's serving girls, to notice the greedy snickers directed at him.
One moment, he was striding confidently toward the inn; the next, man-shaped shadows detached from the walls and walked toward—four figures, with ragged cloaks hiding scarred faces and glinting daggers.
They moved with the practiced grace of street rats who'd smelled fresh meat from blocks away. The leading man, a wiry man with a jagged scar splitting his lip, stepped forward, his grin yellowed and feral.
"Well, well, look what wandered into our yard," the leader sneered, circling Roy like a wolf eyeing a lame deer. His companions chuckled, low and guttural, fanning out to block any escape.
"W-what?" Roy's heart slammed against his ribs. His body was handsome, sure—tall, lean-muscled, with chiseled features that turned heads—but it was weak as a kitten in mana terms.
A base black core, he had no spells in his arsenal. Just a transmigrated soul with a raging libido and zero street smarts, alone at night in front of an alley, wearing expensive-looking clothes.
He might as well have been asking to be robbed.
"Hand over every coin you have, pretty boy," one of the thugs growled, a burly brute with arms like tree trunks. He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. "And maybe we'll let you keep your smallclothes."
Roy's mind raced. 'Fight? Run?'