Chapter 7
Arnulf deftly dodged the leg of a thug lunging at him and blocked the punch aimed at him, counterattacking by striking the thug’s side.
Even in the darkness, Arnulf’s red hair fluttered vividly, and the gang leader, who was watching closely, narrowed his eyes sharply.
“Wait… isn’t that the brat?”
“Huh?”
A subordinate standing beside the leader asked with a puzzled expression.
“You know… the troublemaker from the Duchy of Pomozein.”
It was only then that the subordinate realized something and let out a low exclamation.
While the two thugs argued over Arnulf’s identity—or ignored it entirely—Arnulf, having taken down the surrounding gang members and gained a little breathing room, exhaled heavily.
Under normal circumstances, he would have easily defeated them. Arnulf, a veteran of the battlefield who had constantly fought for survival, was far beyond mere alley thugs in skill.
But the problem was that this body belonged to Joseph.
“Hah… huh… hah!”
Every part of him ached as if his lungs would burst, and his arms and legs throbbed from the continuous exchange of blows. The more he thought about it, the more absurdly weak his body felt.
While Arnulf lamented his condition, the thugs who had fallen began to get back up. They, too, noticed that Arnulf’s state wasn’t particularly good.
“Hey, brat prince, maybe you should run before you get hurt?”
The gang leader, realizing Arnulf’s identity, sneered. Having been surprised by the sudden attack earlier, they had regained some composure.
“No need to worry. I’ll have you all lying on the ground before that happens.”
Arnulf wiped the sweat running down his face and replied calmly, though his eyes were full of fighting spirit.
The gang leader laughed scornfully.
“You’ll regret this badly, you know?”
Arnulf simply raised his index finger—a signal to stop talking nonsense and attack.
“Gotta hit to wake up, right? Come on, strike!”
The fight resumed.
Finn, watching his master struggle, fidgeted anxiously. He couldn’t understand what Joseph’s mindset had been to jump into such a dangerous situation.
Of course, Joseph wasn’t completely inept at fighting. He had some skill in punching and kicking, and he often got into scuffles, so Finn had seen him handle himself before.
But Joseph fighting to help someone? Finn had never seen this side of his master. It was impressive, and Finn wanted to cheer him on—but the situation was far from safe.
“Ah! Joseph!”
Finn cried out when a thug kicked Arnulf in the side.
Arnulf staggered backward but managed to regain his footing, dodged the incoming punch, and tripped his attacker.
“Oh no… what to do, what to do!”
Though Arnulf seemed to be fighting well, Finn’s worry didn’t diminish. He noticed that Arnulf’s movements were gradually slowing.
If this continued, Joseph might be overwhelmed by the thugs.
Unable to stand idly by, Finn quickly turned to seek help.
But he froze in place.
Unexpectedly, someone was standing behind him.
“Leave it.”
A handsome man, watching the alley with interest, spoke casually behind Finn.
“Wha… Sir… Sigmund?”
Finn stammered in shock, immediately recognizing the man.
Then he remembered Sigmund’s words. Leave it? Joseph was in a perilous situation…
“Sir Sigmund! Please help! Joseph is—!”
Finn urgently called for help, pointing into the alley. Naturally, Sigmund’s gaze followed, but he quickly paused and spoke.
“Doesn’t look like help is needed.”
Just as Finn had seen, the thugs around Arnulf were all sprawled on the ground, groaning.
Sigmund stepped forward as Finn stood there, stunned.
Arnulf, exhausted, leaning against a wall and breathing heavily, looked at Sigmund approaching him.
No matter how much he cared, as Joseph, he thought it was better not to engage further. Meeting Sigmund would only make things complicated.
Yet, strangely, a sense of foreboding crept in.
“We meet again, Sir Sigmund.”
Why did ominous feelings always prove true?
Arnulf’s expression remained calm, though his breathing was still ragged.
Sigmund stared at him intently. Over the past few days, his subordinates had relayed every detail of Joseph’s activities: what he did after leaving the hospital, who he met, how he lived at the mansion.
“Joseph Pomozein started exercising this morning.”
Sigmund knew Joseph as someone who didn’t exercise at all, typically waking in the afternoon and staying up until dawn—a lifestyle befitting a carefree troublemaker.
“He spent time reading or taking walks in the morning.”
Reading? Joseph and reading didn’t fit at all. Sigmund also knew that Joseph’s usual companions were alcohol and medicine.
Even accounting for Joseph’s memory loss, this change was unbelievable.
“By chance, I passed by and saw something interesting happening.”
“I see…”
Arnulf nodded nonchalantly, stood up against the wall, and dusted off his injured hands.
“Ah! Joseph! Don’t treat your injured hand so carelessly!”
Finn rushed over from the alley entrance, horrified. He already had a handkerchief ready.
Without realizing Sigmund had arrived, Finn frantically examined Arnulf’s hand—scraped, torn, bloody, bruised, and swollen.
“Oh my… what do we do with this!”
Finn’s face contorted with worry.
“I’m fine. Doesn’t hurt. Here, take it.”
Arnulf looked completely unfazed despite his injuries.
Sigmund, standing behind, quietly observed the young master and his loyal servant. His eyes settled on Arnulf as he wrapped his hands with the handkerchief.
Sigmund knew Joseph hadn’t been particularly adept at fighting. At a recent social club party, he had only exchanged a few punches and later grabbed hair, yet here he was, defeating multiple thugs.
Is that really Joseph Pomozein?
Moreover, his fighting style was familiar to Sigmund—dodging attacks and exploiting openings. The only person Sigmund knew who used that technique had learned it naturally in one-on-many combat during the war. Joseph could not possibly know it.
Of course, Joseph and Arnulf were not strangers—they were from the same academy—but the only person connecting them to this style was Sigmund himself. There was no way Joseph could have learned it.
He must have been indifferent.
Recalling someone he could no longer see, Sigmund gave a bitter smile and looked at Arnulf again. Their gazes met.
For some reason, the expression—calm yet faintly indifferent—reminded him slightly of someone he had lost.
But Sigmund shook off the thought with a wry smile. How ridiculous to think of the past in front of someone entirely different.
