James stood there, fists trembling, chest heaving,knuckles dripped red with the nobleman's blood. The market had gone silent. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if unsure whether to carry this moment forward. Dozens of eyes watched—waiting, measuring,judging.
His heart pounded louder than the silence. He'd done it. He'd crossed a line he couldn't uncross. And for a flicker of a second, doubt crept in.
What if that was a mistake?
What if that punch wasn't enough?
He didn't regret it—no, not that. But fear?
Yeah. It curled somewhere in his gut. Cold. Tight.
He wasn't a soldier. Wasn't a mage.
Just a farmer. A father.
Then the nobleman staggered, reeled back, not in pain.
Touched his lip.
Stared at the red.
The audacity.
And smiled.
That's when the air changed. Not suddenly—but like a storm stretching awake.
A low hum. A static tingle.
Rage bloomed across his face. Mana flared.
Blue lightning rippled up his arm. The air snapped with static.
He took one step forward.
And struck.
James blocked the first blast with his forearm—it seared the skin, flinging him back into a fruit stand.
Apples rolled. Stalls shook. People screamed.
Then came the second.
A whip-crack of energy slammed into James's side, tossing him like a rag doll across the cobblestones.
He coughed. Blood. Teeth. But he got back up.
One foot. Then the other.
Barely standing. But still standing.
The nobleman walked forward, slow and deliberate.
Mana danced across his shoulders now, flickering like fireflies with a death wish.
Each hit after that came heavier. Slower. Crueler.
Not to defeat.
To punish.
To humiliate.
James didn't even raise his fists anymore. He just took the blows.
And then—through the crowd—
"DAD!!"
A voice broke through.
Small. Cracked.
Lyra.
Tears streamed down her face. She shoved through the gathered villagers, but a pair of strong arms held her back.
"No! Let me go—DAD! STOP! HE'S HURT, PLEASE!"
James turned.
His lips parted. Blood spilled out.
But he smiled.
A broken, beautiful smile.
"It's okay, Lyra," he wheezed. "It's okay…"
Dice POV: ".........."
The nobleman stopped.
Looked at Lyra.
Then back at James.
His expression twisted into something… colder.
Crueler.
He raised his foot.
No spells this time.
Just weight. Finality.
Dice POV: "No. No. No. Don't you dare—"
CRACK.
James didn't scream.
His body jerked.
Twitching.
Then slumped.
His leg twisted beneath him at a sickening angle.
And still—still—he curled toward Lyra like a shield, trying to reach for her, to smile.
"Dad…!"
Lyra's voice broke.
Her scream cracked.
Then shattered.
"No… NO!"
The nobleman stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
"Justice," he said coldly, "delivered."
He turned.
That's it.
Something inside me snapped.
A thread. A fuse. Maybe whatever counted as my soul.
My entire being boiled.
I burned.
I seethed.
Something bubbled inside me—maybe mana, maybe fury. Probably both.
This wasn't justice. This wasn't fate.
This was cruelty wearing silk.
"Lyra…" I whispered.
She didn't hear me.
"Lyra."
She cried harder, choking on every sob.
"Lyra! Look at me!"
Nothing.
I roared inside. Words cracking from desperation.
"LYRA, LOOK AT ME!!"
Her head jerked toward the basket.
Eyes wide. Shocked.
She saw me.
Not as a toy. Not as a rock.
As me.
She twisted free from the villager's crowd and staggered toward the basket—away from James. Toward me.
I spoke clearly now. Voice echoing in her head like thunder wrapped in fire.
"It's me."
She stared, trembling.
"W-What…?"
"Throw me. Throw me now."
I didn't know why I asked. Instinct? Rage? Fate?
But I meant it.
She shook her head, confused, terrified.
"Wh-What do you mean?!"
"Throw me. Let me roll."
"But—"
"THROW ME ALREADY!!!"
I screamed out loud.
Lyra was shocked but her hand reached for the basket.
She grabbed me. Clutched tight.
"NOW"
She hesitantly threw me..
I spun.
I glowed.
I clattered.
[1]
At first, I laughed. Of course. Of all numbers—fate throws me a one. Even with this rage and unfairness she rolled me [1]not [6]
But then... something clicked.
I felt it.
Not just the number—its weight. Its potential.
Even a [1] carried magic. Enough to nudge fate... or twist it.
I think I could sense how much power that roll contained, but also how little Lyra—my vessel, my link to this world—could handle.
Her body wasn't made for channeling this kind of energy. Not yet. Probably.
I wanted to unleash everything. Humiliate them. Break their pride, shatter their silk-wrapped cruelty. Make them feel helpless the way she did. The way James looked.
But I couldn't go overboard.
Not because I couldn't—but because if I did, it wouldn't be them who suffered.
It would be Lyra.
Even with this rage, not sure why I still had my rationality.
And the Swift family—humble farmers, not fighters—they wouldn't survive the aftermath of something divine exploding in the middle of a marketplace.
So I prayed.
To whatever governs the balance.
"Just enough," I whispered inside the magic.
Enough to humiliate.
To terrify.
To make sure they never cause another scene like this again.
And then I let go.
My form unraveled.
I stopped being a dice.
And for one brief moment—
I was magic.
I lost my usual POV. My sense of self melted—becoming one with the mana, with the rage, with something ancient and stupidly powerful.
Silence.
For one heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then—
SLIP.
The nobleman's boot met something slick and traitorous.
A banana peel.
A lone, unassuming curve of chaos that had absolutely not existed a second ago.
His foot shot forward like it had aspirations in interpretive dance.
He flailed, arms windmilling like a drunken marionette.
"Wh—?!"
He staggered back—
WHUMP.
A cabbage, launched with ballistic precision from a vendor's tilted cart, struck him clean in the back of the head.
His monocle popped off.
He spun.
His cape tangled around his arms.
His balance abandoned him like morals in a tax office.
SPLAT.
A crate of overripe tomatoes erupted beneath him.
Crimson guts and seeds sprayed in a perfect arc, baptizing him in salad.
He slipped again.
Twice.
Three times.
Desperately trying to stand—only to land on a rogue radish that sent him flipping sideways into a wheelbarrow.
And then…
WHOOSH.
The wind came out of nowhere.
A dramatic, divine gust that tore through the market like it had a personal grudge.
Skirts lifted.
Hats flew.
Chickens panicked.
And the nobleman's prized, custom-tailored trousers—stitched from imported imperial silk—ripped with a thunderous snap.
And then… they were gone.
Swept away like his reputation, vanishing into the sky.
Leaving behind—
Bright pink underpants.
On the front?
A smiling cartoon dude with a thumbs-up.
On the back?
A heart-shaped cutout. Right on the butt.
And in front of him?
An entire market full of stunned onlookers.
His wife gasped so sharply it echoed off the fruit stalls.
The noble boy let out a high-pitched scream that cracked into three octaves.
The villagers froze.
Stared.
Then—
Snort.
A giggle.
A cough that was definitely a laugh.
And then—like a dam bursting—
The entire plaza erupted.
Laughter spilled into the streets like a flood.
Merchants doubled over.
Children pointed.
Even the town rooster clucked mockingly.
The nobleman lay there, soaked in tomato juice and shame, desperately trying to crawl behind a sack of potatoes.
And then—one laugh. Then another.
Until the plaza exploded with laughter.
Except Lyra. And James. And me.
As the whirlwind of tomatoes and trousers settled...
My awareness snapped back.
The magic faded.
But I felt something else.
Lyra.
Her fingers trembled as she picked me up.
Her lips were pale.
Her breath shallow.
Her face—too pale.
I hadn't just drawn from the mana around me.
I also drew from her.
She paid the toll.
And yet—even shaking, even drained—
Even with those tiny, wobbly legs—
She ran.
Straight to her father.
Clutching me like a lifeline.
She dropped to her knees beside him.
"Dad…" Her voice cracked. "Dad, please…"
James was barely conscious—broken, bruised, his leg twisted unnaturally beneath him.
But at her voice, he stirred.
His eyelids fluttered.
A groan.
Then a breath.
"…Lyra?" he whispered.
She nodded, tears falling freely.
"I'm here. I'm right here."
He tried to sit up—then winced and gave up.
She grabbed his hand—both of hers wrapping around it like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Because of me… your… your leg…"
Her voice cracked again.
"Uwaaa—your leg… I'm so soweeey… uwaaa…"
And then—mid-sob—she finally fell asleep in his arms.
James smiled. Weak. But real.
"You did fine," he said softly.
"You're safe. That's all I ever wanted…"
He lifted a trembling hand—rested it gently on her head.
"…my brave little knight."
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Author Note:
Thanks for reading,
I know the story might feel like it's starting off slow, but I promise—it only gets better from here.
If you're enjoying the journey so far, even just one review or adding this to your Library would mean the world to me.
Your support keeps me writing. 🙏
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