Chapter 4 : The Fallen Brother

“Is… is the Grand Duchess at the villa, by any chance?” 

The boy, catching his breath, spoke with urgency. 

At his words, Ethan turned his head toward the annex. 

His gaze fixed on one of the windows, and he shouted, “Hans!” 

In an instant, a figure bolted out. 

“You called, my lord?” 

The man who came running, Hans, glanced at the young soldier. 

The situation was clear in a heartbeat. 

He turned to the boy and barked, “Keron, you little punk! How dare you stand so stiffly before him? This is the Grand Duke himself!” 

“The… Grand Duke?”

Keron stammered, but Hans didn’t give him a chance to recover. 

“This kid’s one of the village’s volunteer guards,” Hans continued swiftly. 

“He shows up every time the youngest lord gets drunk and causes a ruckus in town. Probably here looking for the Grand Duchess…” 

“My sister?”

Ethan asked. 

“Yes, my lord. No matter how plastered the youngest lord gets, he always listens to the Grand Duchess. That’s why this runt comes running up here every time there’s trouble.” 

The village guards were powerless to rein in a duke’s son. 

And so, it fell to this scrawny, inexperienced boy—the least seasoned of the lot—to trudge up the hill time and again, seeking someone who could tame the youngest lord. 

As Hans looked at Keron with pity, Ethan’s face darkened. 

In this cursed, twisted past, even his siblings’ personalities seemed to have been turned upside down. 

He thought of the youngest, Myers. 

A knight who had devoted every waking moment to discipline and training. 

Myers, the insufferable goody-two-shoes who’d once said, with a straight face: 

“Haha, Father, liquor? You’re joking, right? That stuff would only sap my muscles. I’ll stick to milk.” 

Even when offered celebratory wine after a great deed, he’d spouted such nonsense. 

Food, sleep, training, muscles, milk—those were the five pillars of Myers’ existence. 

Always going on about muscles and milk, he’d grown into a hulking figure, larger than any of his siblings. 

And yet, what was this? 

Myers in a tavern? 

Not just drinking, but causing a scene—brawling, even? 

The words felt so alien, so utterly detached from the brother Ethan knew. 

“Where is this place?” he demanded. 

“It’s likely the Golden Tankard, my lord. The youngest lord’s been hanging around with some lowlife thugs…”

Hans began, but Ethan cut him off. 

“Lead the way.” 

“Y-Yes, my lord! Right away!” 

Hans shuddered under Ethan’s gaze. 

Earlier that morning, after a stinging slap to the face, Hans had been secretly watching Ethan train from the second floor. 

When Keron arrived, he’d been curious to see how the Grand Duke would handle it. 

But then, as if sensing his presence, Ethan had looked straight at the window where Hans stood and called his name. 

His heart had nearly stopped. 

How the hell did he know I was there? 

It was as if the man had eyes in the back of his head. 

That eerie feeling had sent Hans scrambling to answer the call. 

Now, drenched in cold sweat, Hans hurriedly led the way. 

“Uh…”

Keron stared blankly as the distance between him and the two men grew. 

His mind lingered on Ethan’s frail frame. 

Can someone that scrawny really stop the youngest lord’s rampage? 

Myers might be a mess in every other way, but his strength was monstrous. 

Worry gnawed at Keron as he sighed and started down the hill after them. 

After about thirty minutes, a small village came into view. 

Spotting the tavern wasn’t hard. 

Crash! 

“Bring me more booze!” 

“Good heavens, my lord!” 

The shouts and chaos spilled out from within. 

Hans pushed open the door with a creak, and Ethan stepped inside. 

The place was a disaster. 

The stench of cheap rum wafted from shattered bottles, and a group of thugs pretended to restrain someone—though their half-hearted efforts were painfully obvious. 

Ethan saw through their act at a glance. 

The so-called attempts to calm Myers were a farce; their eyes betrayed not a shred of sincerity, only annoyance. 

He smirked. 

To think that even street rats now dared to prey on the ducal family. 

Just how far had the house’s reputation fallen to attract such vermin? 

Ethan strode toward a table, his fist clenched. 

With a single, thunderous strike—Boom!—the table splintered into pieces. 

“What the—?” 

“What’s going on?” 

The tavern fell silent for a moment. 

All eyes turned to the shattered table, then to Ethan standing beside it. 

Myers was no exception. 

His bleary, drunken gaze locked onto Ethan as he slumped into a chair, clutching a bottle of cheap rum as if his life depended on it. 

“Almost dropped my drink,” he slurred, hiccupping. 

“But am I that drunk? Why am I seeing you, big brother? Nah, can’t be. I’ve got the best tolerance on the continent. So this… this must all be a dream, right?” 

Ethan blinked. 

Was this a dream? 

In his final memory, Myers had been one of the two brothers standing against an army of dragonkin, holding them off so Ethan could strike at the Dragon Lord. 

“Brother, I’ll handle this. Go!” 

Without hesitation, Myers had thrown himself into the fray, carving a path through countless enemies. 

Without him, Ethan would’ve been bogged down fighting fodder, never reaching the Dragon Lord. 

That was who Myers had been. 

And yet… 

Ethan let out a bitter laugh. 

The stoic, disciplined brother he’d known was gone. 

In less than a day, he’d become a drunken wreck. 

His head throbbed. 

Approaching Myers, Ethan pressed a pressure point on his neck. 

The slurring fool fell into a deep sleep instantly. 

Silence hung heavy in the tavern until a voice shattered it. 

“Grand Duke! These are the ones—the filthy thugs who’ve been dragging the youngest lord down!” 

It was Hans, pointing accusingly at the gang, his voice booming. 

Ethan’s gaze shifted to them, landing on their leader, Alfonso. 

Alfonso tilted his head, stunned by Hans’ words. 

Grand Duke? 

A figure flashed through his mind—the Grand Duke, rumored to have fallen into a coma ten years ago after a mana overload. 

And that’s the guy who just smashed a table to bits? 

Alfonso’s face hardened. 

A man whose mana core was supposedly shattered had just split a table in two with his bare hands. 

Blood doesn’t lie, does it? 

He recalled the tales. 

The duke had four children, and when asked who was the most talented, nine out of ten would name the Grand Duke. 

Though he’d collapsed and faded from memory soon after, his reputation lingered. 

Better call it a day, Alfonso thought, glancing at Myers. 

For three years, he’d been trailing the youngest lord, plying him with liquor and women, trying to reduce him to a husk. 

And now, this Grand Duke had shown up out of nowhere, throwing a wrench into his plans. 

Not a pleasant turn of events. 

“Little boss, what do we do?” one of his men whispered. 

“We’re done here,” Alfonso replied. 

The Grand Duke, though stripped of real power, was still the heir to the ducal house and famously held an imperial pardon. 

He could slaughter them all right here and face no consequences. 

If he decided to draw a blade, they were finished. 

Alfonso forced a grin as he addressed Ethan. 

“Haha, so it’s the Grand Duke himself. I was worried about the youngest lord getting too drunk, but it’s a relief you’re here. I suppose we can head out now…” 

“Leaving?”

Ethan cut in. 

“Y-Yes, if you’d pass on that the youngest lord had a good time…” 

“Who said you could go?” 

Alfonso flinched. 

Those eyes… 

He’d survived countless street fights and never neglected his training. 

He could take down half a dozen thugs without breaking a sweat. 

Yet facing this scrawny man’s gaze was like staring into an abyss. 

He lowered his eyes slightly. 

This Grand Duke didn’t seem inclined to let them off easy. 

What now? 

The man’s gaze held something dangerous, and that single strike earlier weighed heavily on Alfonso’s mind. 

Then Ethan began to walk forward, his steps deliberate. 

One of Alfonso’s men scowled, stepping in front of him. 

“Look, you skinny bastard, you’d better—” 

Thud! 

The tavern wall trembled. 

“Huh?” 

Some of Alfonso’s men rubbed their eyes, unable to process what had just happened. 

One moment, their comrade had stepped forward; the next, a deafening crash sent him slamming into the wall. 

All in less than a second. 

Even Alfonso was stunned. 

He hadn’t caught exactly what Ethan had done. 

His instincts screamed warnings—this man was dangerously, lethally so. 

“Stay back!”

Alfonso shouted, but Ethan was already moving. 

A faint blue glow shimmered around his wrist. 

Mana! 

Alfonso threw up his arms to block, desperation kicking in. 

Mana was a rare gift, reserved for the chosen few, but it wasn’t omnipotent. 

From what he could sense, Ethan’s mana was pitifully weak. 

With his raw strength, Alfonso should be able to hold his own. 

Or so he thought. 

The moment Ethan grabbed his arm, it bent like soft clay. 

“Argh!” 

Alfonso screamed as both arms went limp, joints twisted unnaturally. 

But the pain didn’t stop there. 

When Ethan’s hand grazed his leg, the same excruciating agony flared again. 

“Arghhh!” 

“Little boss!” 

A few of the thugs charged at Ethan, fists raised. 

With a smirk, Ethan rose from his seat. 

Soon, screams filled the tavern. 

Hans, watching the chaos unfold, shivered. 

Whatever Ethan was doing, each punch sent the thugs collapsing, shrieking in agony. 

Thirty seconds. 

That’s all it took for the limbs of the village’s reigning gang to be twisted and broken. 

A monster… Hans thought, trembling. 

He’s a monster. 

“Hans,” Ethan called. 

“Y-Yes, my lord!” 

“Clean this up.” 

With that, Ethan grabbed the unconscious Myers by the collar and dragged him out of the tavern, heading back toward the hill.