Revenge In Reincarnation: Fated To Rule Over An Eternal Harem

"Thief!" Konrad cried out in vain; the guards ignored him.

If the scammer's head start wasn't enough, he had a clear home turf advantage, too.

Aset's market square was wide but crowded. Once they turned a corner, the streets became almost empty, but much narrower, too.

Many crossroads, forks, back alleys, and cover.

While the boy could almost grab that vinegar-scented cloak at first, it kept slipping away. At least he could follow that irritating smell for quite a while, even if the distance was growing.

"Stop, bastard!" his shouting earned no more than an out-of-breath laugh.

"Make me," the trader disappeared in a narrow alley, right after flipping him off.

He was no match for someone who navigated like he was born on these streets.

It was like a cat-and-mouse game, and he was losing it fast.

They threaded in and out of the market and through the labyrinth of smaller pathways. And with each turn, the scammer increased his advantage.

The crowd gave way for him, while the boy had to slalom between the strolling townsfolk.

And it didn't help that Konrad had to drag his gear around, too.

He considered throwing them away, but the stuff he carried was all he had.

Waterskin, travel rations, a bedroll—and Welf's reforged blade. He could've stabbed the bastard when he was still close, or at least kept it ready to draw, but now it only slowed him down.

What if he left everything in the alley?

Would he find his way back? Would his gear stay there, too?

That thief had no such considerations.

The way he abandoned his 'expensive' wares in a heartbeat spoke volumes about their value.

Or was his crystal worth that much? Konrad sure wanted it back.

He dragged his legs with clenched teeth, but lost sight of the scammer.

The guards' long spears and fancy armor were for show against bandits, not for chasing thieves.

They stood by and watched as the boy was about to spit his lungs out.

He dashed to reach the next fork of an alley, only to find nothing but the discarded cloak. The convenient smell trace stopped, too. The merchant was either gone or had become invisible.

"Damn it," he wiped the sweat dripping on his temple.

He grabbed the rag, checking each pocket, but all that remained was the terrible smell.

Konrad stomped on the cloth and smashed his fist into the nearest wall. His knuckles bruised, blood dripped down the back of his hand. It painted his triangle of birthmarks red.

That noble heritage was yet to help him in a situation.

"I lost more gold I've made in three years," he cursed.

Unless, of course, if it was worth even more.

Taking the cloak as the only lead he had, he dragged himself back to the market. One wrong turn, and it took him five extra minutes to find the main square again.

The cart was still there, and nobody even touched those 'magical items'.

Nothing to him seemed worth stealing, either.

The only sign of the arcane was the glowing runes all over the useless tools. What they did was anyone's guess, but he didn't feel the same warmth from them as the crystal radiated before.

"Now you've done it, Zoltan," an angry voice cut through the market's noises.

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, and Konrad's heart almost stopped.

"Who?" he turned to find himself surrounded by the town's guard. They were the same spearmen who wouldn't even flinch when he shouted for them minutes earlier.

"We told you to clear out of our streets," one of them warned.

"Aset had had enough of your scams with the glowing ink."

So that was the trick. Glowing ink. Paint it on the random junk others threw away, and sell them as magic items. Simple, yet it could—

"Hold on, why are you arresting me?"

Konrad tried to shake the hand off his shoulder, but it was too strong.

"We have a warrant against you, Zoltan Sudberg," they laughed, a voice dripping with malice.

Sudberg? That meant the bastard was a, well, a bastard— like himself.

"Are you out of your minds?" he thrashed. "My name is Konrad. I shouted 'thief', chasing that—"

SMACK — a slap across his face silenced him.

"Then why do you have this cloak?" A guard pried it from his hand as he spat blood.

"We know your smell and dirty tricks, Zoltan," the other sneered. "Next time, you'd claim that you're Maou Midori. This face-changing illusion won't work on us anymore."

An illusion? So the thief was more than your average scammer.

And now they thought it was him. That was both genius and terrifying.

And most of all—magic.

He had no more chance to clear his name. A spearman swung his spear, and the shaft wound him so hard, he found himself keeled over in the dirt.

Face down, unable to breathe. The guards' laughter sounded distant, muffled.

"Oh, no. You thought you were so smart," they kicked him even on the ground. "But don't worry, the Captain will dispel your fancy illusion mask in no time."

They might've cracked a rib, searing pain flashing through his body.

It wasn't as bad as the Griphlets' talons, but he felt even more helpless. Nobody cared what he had to say. Bullies here were no different from those in his previous life.

"Stop," one kick after the other, a heavy boot pressing down on his spine. "Help!"

People averted their eyes. A kid kicked around in broad daylight must've been the norm around here. And he thought a world stuck in the medieval ages would be better.

Stupid. Here, laws were a mere suggestion; only power mattered.

Someone stomped on his hand, right on the triad. This is how little that noble heritage mattered. If he could at least draw his sword—

Even if winning was hopeless, he could've gone down fighting. But he couldn't move at all.

He deluded himself. Being free from Father Alastair didn't mean he was in control of anything.

While he wasn't prepared, starting over meant nothing. He was still a helpless little boy, shaking with anger and powerless to fight injustice.

He needed to become stronger.

The magic, he came chasing to this town. He had to seize it.

To show the people who they were messing with. But he had none of that. Not yet.

All strength left him. Once he'd no longer thrash around or bite his captors, they dragged him around as they pleased. As if he were a common criminal, humiliated in front of the crowd.

The barracks were at the northern gate, where they had entered the city earlier. His only hope now was that the guard captain could indeed dispel any illusion magic.

Then they would realize the mistake—

"You idiots," the captain yelled, as he expected.

It was a man in his forties, wiping blood and grime off Konrad's face. Holding up the boy's hand, he pointed at the birthmark triangle, shouting even louder.

"Do you even know what you did?" Yes, there it was.

He'd call them out for the stupid mistake.

"You dragged a noble cross-town," the captain fumed. "I could have you executed."

Hold on, did he say noble? Konrad's ears were still ringing from the beating.

The captain kneeled before him, head bowed. "My deepest apologies, Lord Halberg."

Who? What?!