Chapter 63: Just Beat Respect Out Of Them (part 2)

"What are you doing?!"

Oliver's voice came sharp, confused—cutting through the mounting tension as he took a wide leap backward. His bare feet barely caught the dust, his eyes locked in disbelief.

Garron had just pushed forward like a mad dog, standing between Oliver and a group of advancing Centaurs. His broad frame crouched low, muscles tensed, eyes scanning the threat like a man used to sizing up death.

"Ensuring your safety, obviously. That’s what you pay me bowls of rice for, isn’t it?" Garron’s tone was dry but clipped with warning.

Oliver frowned, the confusion still plastered across his face. "But... they’re just scared slaves. I have no quarrel with them. Why would you—"

Garron’s gaze turned on him like a slap before the real one came. “What the hell were you thinking? Giving them all the potions?”

Oliver blinked. “If I have to. They mean no harm.”

And that was when it happened.

One of the Centaurs lunged with a grunt of fury, hooves thundering. Garron dropped low, dodging the blow by a hair, rolling back into a crouch. He turned sharply and took two steps toward Oliver, his face flushed with rage.

His hand cracked across Oliver’s cheek.

A resounding slap. One that stunned Oliver more for its meaning than the pain.

“I don’t know what your issue is, kid—but right now, you’re no different from a fool.” Garron's voice seethed through clenched teeth. Fir the furst time, Oliver did not see that cunning smile in his eyes.

In fact, it was closer to disgust.

“Before you stand men who will take from you if you let them. You think because you showed them kindness, they won’t tear it from your flesh if they have to? People are greedy bastards. They take... and take... and take. Hell! I myself, exist because of greed.”

Oliver blinked, shocked not just by the words, but by the heat in Garron’s eyes. Beneath the anger was something more—fear? Memory?

“And you? You’re acting like a child with a king complex. Like those stupid nobles that died moserable deaths back home. I don’t get what you’re doing, and most times, I never do. But the kid I saw kill a grown man with cockroaches in the belly of a ship,and againsy all odds… he wasn’t this dumb.”

That stopped Oliver cold.

But no time for reply—another Centaur grabbed Garron by the throat, lifting him halfway off the ground.

“By the time we’re done with you, you’ll beg for your life, human commoner scum.”

Garron spat blood. "If I had a shard of silver for every time I've heard that..."

He swung a knee into the Centaur’s gut, knocking him back a half-step. But another came in from the side and slammed a punch into Garron’s ribs. The crunch echoed.

Another twist, a hoof to the arm—and Oliver heard it pop. Garron’s elbow had dislocated. His scream of pain was raw, primal.

It was three on one. Garron was a trained street brawler at best, not a warrior. His bloodline ability definitely gave him an advantage.

But centaurs were a breed that began fighting since they fell from their mother's womb.

And right now, Garron was losing.

Oliver just stood there at first—paralyzed.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The scene played again in his head, as if time slowed.

What had he been thinking?

That they’d thank him for kindness?

Of course not. They’d take what they could. And when there was nothing left, they’d turn on him like carrion. His mind raced, colliding with memories of the Somara Empire, of the ships, of the branding on his neck. His suffering in his past life.

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These slaves were not his enemy. But still, even if he wanted to stand against the empire, survival must first be ensured.

He looked around.

The other slaves were watching.

Waiting.

Just like on the ship.

Respect meant nothing without fear. Without power.

His hands trembled. Coward. That voice again. That doubt in his head.

Because of it, he had almost watched his sister die by Sir Bolton's hands.

And while he never liked Garron, the cunning man had not been bad to him. Even now, this brawl was for him.

Was he really going to stand and watch?

No—he had come too far to play the scared little brother again.

Oliver moved.

He launched himself into the air, a small figure against the towering Centaur, and slammed a two-footed kick into the face of the one pinning Garron.

The beast reeled backward, snorting blood. Oliver was ten. Normally, such a move should not be able to be effective against Centaurs because if their natural strength.

But the night trial had done wonders to his body.

“MOVE!” Oliver shouted at Garron.

It worked—just enough for Garron to slip out, stumbling away with one arm hanging limp, wheezing painfully.

But the victory was short-lived.

Now all three Centaurs turned toward Oliver.

They were built for war. And what’s worse—they fought with their entire bodies. Their fists definitely raged, but so did their hooves.

Oliver dodged one punch, only to catch a swipe from a foreleg. He ducked another strike, but a back kick caught him in the ribs, and then—

Crack!

He hit the dirt hard, his back bouncing off the ground, the metallic tang of blood seeping into his mouth, but his bloodline never allowing it out of his body.

Garron tried to crawl toward him, but he was barely able to breathe.

Oliver stared up at the sky, the pain a white blur across his vision.

What did you expect?

That they’d listen? That they’d change?

He heard the whispers of the others. Saw their eyes, as they closely watched the confrontation.

He even saw his step brother leston—a broad smile on his face.

If they didn’t fear him, they’d use him. Strip him bare.

The slave sigil buzzed in his mind, the timer showing 5 mins left in the Trial clock.

Five minutes left to fight.

Five minutes to show them who he was.

Not a victim. Not a kind soul. Not a naive royal boy.

But at the same time how was he to do it?

At such a time, one of the Centaurs hooves came down.

Oliver had not judged well, But Garron had seen it coming and pushed him to take the blow.

Arrrgh!

He screamed in pain. "Goddamn it kid. I ghought you at least had Aether sense. Cant you just move?"

Those words were like thunder making it's arrival. Somehow, they clicked something in place. Something he had been missing.

How did Garron know that he had Aether sense?

Garron had an usual bloodline ability that could extensively study a person's body language. And he had always watched Oliver move.

But that was the thing, Aether sense was not just for sensing Aether in the immediate vicinity. After all, Aether was the fundamental energy in all things.

Even though it had thinned out in recent years, there was nothing and no one that did not have it.

Oliver rolled onto his knees, sweat dribbling down his chin.

A chilling realization had dawned on him.

He smiled.

And it was not a kind smile.

And then—Oliver moved.

Without warning, his eyes sharpened, and his breath slowed to a crawl.

He had activated it.

Aether Sense.

The world shifted.

Instantly, to Oliver's eyes, everything changed. The colors dulled and melted away until only outlines remained—except for Aether.

It was everywhere. Golden particles floated like dust in the air, dancing with motionless purpose. The walls, the earth, the bodies of the slaves around him—all were glowing faintly, encased in the threadwork of the world’s breath.

But most of all, people glowed.

Aether pulsed beneath their skin like a second bloodstream. Every heartbeat, every strain, every twitch of muscle echoed in yellow flashes—visible only to him. The Centaurs, especially, shimmered brilliantly. Their bloodline held so much power.

If Oliver was to tag it. It was beautiful.

But Oliver?

Oliver had honed his edge. He had used days and nights to study this move. Practise it through pain, again and again.

And now, more than ever, since he began to learn the move, the missing puzzle clicked in place.

He shouldn't have been practising the move alone. He should have merged it with his other abilities.

In his head, his battle with the monk in the Night trial merged with this one.

Now he understood. And just like the monk, his body and aether moved as one.

With a sudden kick against the ground, he launched himself forward.

The Centaur didn’t expect it. He still had that cocky victorious smile on his face.

Oliver’s movement was too fast. Too fluid.

And then—instinct.

Oliver’s fingers found the space between breath and flesh, between motion and stillness. His arm snapped forward.

The technique he had forged in the dream realm night after night—the motion his bones and muscles now remembered more than his mind ever could—activated.

His fingers touched the Centaur’s thick ribcage.

And then they folded in.

The One-Inch Punch.

For a moment, the world went still. No sound. No movement.

The Centaur slowly turned his head toward Oliver with a puzzled look, as if trying to understand what kind of foolish gesture this boy had just attempted.

And then—

A violent jerk spasmed through the Centaur's body. His eyes widened. Blood burst from his mouth in a wet, confused spray. He stumbled, legs trembling beneath him.

It was a stumbling sight.

He fell.

Thud.

The Centaur collapsed like a mountain breaking.

Silence descended like fog.

Every other slave around froze. Even the wind seemed to halt its screaming. They looked from the fallen Centaur to Oliver, who stood breathing softly, his gaze focused and unreadable.

Shock. Stillness.

Something had shifted in the atmosphere.

To be continued...