Chương 18: Battle of Oakley Street

Vanessa's Diary Log #12 The instant he left, I fell to my knees. Tears fell off my face like a burst dam, ruining the amazing makeup the maid made. The stress finally reached its boiling point, and I couldn't contain it anymore. I had made the most important decision of my life, and I made it so callously. Guilt wrenched my insides. I know shouldn't stay. I should burden him with my terrible family. I don't want to burden him with me... But I finally found it. A light in the dark tunnel of my life.

I know I made the best decision. Tarion"For the third fucking time, ladies, it's a gift. For both of you." Wooden wheels jerked on the stone road on the way to Oakley Street. I sat in front of a stubborn woman who couldn't take a gesture.

"But Tarion, it's too much. We are fine with the clothes we brought with us." Jen looked at her dumb friend incredulously and said, "Us? Woman, don't deny me a free gift cos' you're shy. It's but a few coins for him."

"Jen is right. Money is no object. Hell, they may even give us free garments on the account that I am the damn Duke." Vanessa looked out of the passenger window.

"People out in the cold are struggling to feed their families. I… I don't know." Reincarnation or not, she is still the goody-two-shoes I loved reading about. But I didn't care at that time.

"Let me be frank. Your dresses look like hand-me-downs from seven centuries ago, and several big-boned women in your lineage wore them a bit too much." Jen and Vanessa looked at me, frozen in shock.

"What. the. fuck…"

"It's not that bad." Vanessa retorted.

"Ladies, I can smell the hard work and struggle of poverty lingering on your clothes."

"Lands above, are you actually a Duke!?" Jen exclaimed.

"Since my dad perished, yes. And being a Duke means presenting your best self at all times. Whether it's personality or appearance. Hey, don't give me that look, Jen." I looked out the window with Vanessa.

"Do you want to help them?" Vanessa turned to me.

"... Yes."

"If you were them, would you trust a beggar promising you food and warmth? Or would you look them sideways and ignore the person, thinking they were suspicious?" Vanessa looked down to the carriage floor.

"If you think I am going to dress you like the Dowager, you are mistaken. But we just need to project an image of professionalism that shows that we are the true authority that can help. That shows you are Osberg's representative. MY representative." Vanessa breathed in resignation.

"Okay. I will accept. But only because I want Jen to have new clothes." I saw a touch of a smile on her full lips. A crack in her wall. I can't wait for the shopping arc.

"Looks shit." Vanessa showed off a dress a commoner would disdain to wear.

"Are you sure? I think it suits me quite well." Sitting on a sofa in the garment store, dressed in my black jerkin and trousers, I turned to Jen on the right of me. She already had her choice of clothes picked out. Several bags full of them.

"Jen, it looks shitty, right? It's not because I have a man's brain, is it?"

"No, Your Grace. It is very 'shitty'. Having a friend with such bad taste is saddening." Vanessa frowned, jokingly throwing the bad dress at Jen. They burst into laughter as they threw more bad clothes at each other. This is the Vanessa I saw in the Manhwa. A bright smile, worth millions. More time has moved the clock above. Many dresses tried, many discarded. She looked beautiful in each. The clothes wear her. I clicked my fingers. The tailor, frightened of my presence in her shop, still came to me at my call.

"Use her sizes. Make the best debutante dress possible; money is no object." Her mouth went ajar.

"YES, YOUR GRACE." I put my index finger on my lips, and the tailor quieted down, bowing as she left.

"Debutante… For whose party?" Charles asked, standing behind. I turned on the sofa to face him and grinned.

"Mine." The big man's eyebrows scrunched together.

"The Beast of Osberg? Throwing parties? The world is fucking ending."

"Language."

"Fuck off, Your Grace," Charles replied with a bow, half laughing. Beast of Osberg. That's what they are calling me? Nice. My senses still heard them following. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Fucking hell. I hate stalkers.

"Kurt, keep them safe." My third circle bowed and kept his attention on my duchess from the back. I stood up, and the gold-painted sofa creaked from my weight. Vanessa noticed me leaving. I put my hand up.

"Don't mind me. I'm going to peruse the other shops for a while. I will be back soon." She nodded, reading through the gaps.

"Grace." My sword was presented to me in Charles's hands. I stared at it. Too long. Like he read my mind, a dagger slipped from his back. I grasped it like a mini sabre; it looked vicious in my hand. Lovely, bubbly. Plonk Dagger arts lv 15 I see. It seemed that my assertion was correct. Skills that I had already 'Levelled' up in my past will be added. I wondered how much of my past skills I could add. I was quite handy with a firearm. But to bring that tech to this world. Not yet. I wanted to have fun.

And shit, most warriors could a bullet or two. Guns may not have a place in this world, not because it's dangerous, but it's a futile effort to create.

"Stay safe, Tarion." Charles bowed, hiding his face in his shaggy wheat hair.

"Haha, worrywort. Take care of the girls for me." A bell rang as I left the shop. Hands in trouser pockets, I strut down the high street a foot taller than everyone. He came closer, his steps clumsy. His footsteps quickened to a jog, then a run. I strafed to the right, the hitman's blade an inch from my cloak. I slapped the idiot with my left knuckles on his chest, blowing the air out of his lungs. Before his knees touched the pavement, I grabbed the man by his face.

"We are going to take a little walk." I dragged the wiggling assassin across the stone. I diverted pedestrians like a rock wading through water. Gangster in hand, I turned left, then right, and I found an avenue. Buildings were tall on both sides. No light passed from the rooftops to the ground. Nothing but rubbish smelling in the corner, and rats scurried away from my footsteps. I walked through, serving myself on a silver platter. I halted. I lifted the poor man up. Bones crushed in my fingers.

I looked into the man's eyes. They followed me. Not after the saint?

"Bounty on my head?" I snapped the neck, a corpse thrown in the rubbish where it belonged. Figures slithered in through the other side. I heard many voices from behind.

"How much is the bounty!?" My voice echoed between the walls.

"Enough to be worth it."

"Ha!" The gangsters came closer. Their blades glinted in the shadow of the buildings. Dozens in front, dozens behind.

"What's so funny, Duke? Has fear broken your mind?" I flicked my dagger in the air, catching it with twists and flips around my finger. The blade snapped in my hand in a reverse grip. Great joy.

"Where's your famous sword, sire? We were looking to pinch it off your cold corpse when we were done with ya! HAHAHHAHH!"" I sprang forward, pulling the ground. A hundred metres passed in a moment; I lunged. Piercing a neck through another. I pulled up with two hands, separating two men's heads from their chins to their hair. Blocking a strike from a sword, a dagger swooped like a swallow in flight, piercing deep in a man's neck.

A lean back saved my head from badly moulded iron, and my left palm struck the pommel, and the sword ejected. A horizontal cut disembowelled a weaponless fighter.

"Your blood's too putrid to dirty its steel." I charged with mana ablaze on my dagger. Cutting weeds in my way. I heard men rushing from the other side. I cut the first circle before blocking my back. My sword swept the enemy's weapon up, and I cut under his arm. A sword struck at my knee, and my blade greeted it. My dagger pushed the sword to the floor, and I ended the man with jabs to the stomach and chest that whipped through the air with cracks.

I flowed under a spear coming from my left, parrying it away with mana armour fist.

A mana-infused kick cracked the fellow's chest. Stabbing down, the curled man burst open a second circle's skull. Death. I unleashed all the mana I could control into my legs. Death. I leapt back, dagger and arm to protect me. Death. Steel clashed. My dagger, cloaked with mana, exploded like shattered glass, making me throw it away. My left hand protected my eyes, and through its fingers I saw him. Death. The dark-cloaked figure followed. his blade wasn't stopped. Its blade felt inevitable.

It couldn't be stopped as it flew to my head. I felt death coming to visit me again. NOT YET! Feet dragged on the ground, stopping my momentum. The enemy's blade was an inch from my forehead; The heat from his mana singed my skin. I bobbed left. The sword made a mark on me as I collected mana on my back and exploded. My back burned, but it worked; like a jet, the acceleration pulled my face back as I wound up my fist. I threw the most desperate punch of my life.

By the hooded masked man's left shoulder, black-gloved palm easily blocked my fist. We stood silent. Measuring each other. The fourth stats are extremely high. Especially skilled in speed and technique. The man was a bit shorter but would never be seen as average height in Freidland. A body built for bursts of strength; it's obvious he was very well trained from a young age. A black hooded jacket flowed to his ankles, embroidered with detailed patterns that would cost a lot of silver to create.

His sword, not of Freidland that is for sure. I remember its shape from the wuxia story my brother loved. Jian, they were called. Golden hilt, his runes inscribed on the blade. And an artefact in the hands of a bounty-hunting gangster. But the strangest thing about him was what was under that mask.

"Used to the cold, the foreigner?" The darker fellow cuffed under his mask. Even his laugh had an accent strange even to Tarion's ears.

"With runes and mana, it is endurable." His brown eyes, brimming with confidence, gestured at my neck. His sword slowly moved to it. I chuckled.

"Truce. For now?" I looked at my left hand. All the mana I had became a terrible storm in my fist. Close to the masked man's stomach, it waited. We both laughed at this precarious and funny situation. As if the battle hadn't ended, we parted. The mana in my hand dimmed, and the foreigner's blade was sheathed on his back.

"Drac lost!"

"No! A draw!"

"What do we do!? We can't do it without him!!"

"But look at him! The duke is tired, we have a CHANCE-" From his masked mouth, mana resonated with the air. Sound weighed heavily on the weak; I felt a tickle.

"LEAVE." Like pigeons, they scatterered away, their weapons clicking as they run. He's top dog.

"You're good." He pumped his chest.

"Fix it before I have to kill you." A step and he disappeared. Ubra step? Something close to it. Maybe a southern land version. I squeezed my hand that will take a day to heal. My heart beats well enough. This world is amazing.