Hauge had been having a thoroughly miserable stretch lately.

Commoner status had reduced this former Demon Valley supreme leader to grinding humiliation at every turn — job hunting, training, all of it met with contempt. There were moments he genuinely wanted to scream at the people sneering down at him: I am a Supreme-tier-five powerhouse. If we weren’t in Human Valley, you wouldn’t be fit to lick the soles of my feet.

But this was Human Valley. A place where force, categorically, could not be used.

Had Hauge possessed any real skill with puppet constructs, even his commoner status might have let him carve out a respectable living. But he’d spent his whole life looking down on constructs — slow, mindless things incapable of growth, beneath his attention. He’d always preferred investing in war beasts with real potential. A man obsessed with cultivation had never wasted time on something as limited as construct work.

Now the regret had arrived. Far too late to matter.

If not for Ren Tiange, the Silver-Eyed Great Sage, and the rest of his old companions occasionally stepping in to help, Hauge would likely have been reduced to begging in the streets. His temperament made the situation nearly unbearable — he wasn’t built to quietly absorb abuse from petty, exploitative merchants, to grind through degrading labor designed to wring every last drop of value out of him. He hadn’t been born a slave resigned to his fate. He was a reincarnated challenger carrying Supreme-tier-five strength in his bones, and no matter how crushing the present circumstances became, some part of him simply refused to fully inhabit the role of a powerless commoner being trampled underfoot.

“Get out. You can’t even handle simple work and you have the nerve to question my instructions? Filth — get out of my sight, and don’t ever let me see your face again!” In a small shop, the proprietor spat his fury directly at Hauge, venom dripping from every word, ordering him gone on the spot.

“You miserable worm.” Hauge’s face contorted with rage.

The mess had been the shop owner’s own fault — sloppy, contradictory instructions that had set the whole job up to fail. If anything, Hauge’s competence had kept the damage from spiraling further; he’d effectively saved the entire operation from a much costlier disaster single-handedly. By rights, he deserved commendation. Instead, the proprietor — desperate to deflect blame — had pinned the entire failure squarely on him.

Had Hauge retained the ability to use force, he would have torn the man apart with his bare hands and rearranged the pieces into thirty distinct configurations of corpse art.

But this was Human Valley.

A man who could have looked down on every fighter in Walnut City was reduced to being thrown out of a menial job like garbage.

Hauge had been telling himself to hold out — save enough to buy the cheapest possible construct, take on mercenary work, slowly claw his way back to stability. At Supreme-tier-five, even unable to fight directly, his command of even a low-grade construct should have been enough to clear plenty of difficult contracts. The problem was, he genuinely couldn’t take another minute of this. Since arriving, not a single day had passed without insults, dismissals, or being chased off like a vagrant.

“I’m buying a construct and coming back to tear this rathole apart,” Hauge roared as he was thrown out, fury boiling over. His low status and volatile temper, combined with frequent shouting matches with employers, had made him something of a local celebrity in Walnut City.

Plenty of people had taken to mocking him with a nickname.

“Hothead.”

Some bored busybody had even started privately tallying how many employers had fired this particular returning commoner. His reputation had grown enough that petty people had begun hiring him specifically to mess with him — handing him impossible assignments designed purely to set him up for humiliation, for the entertainment of watching him fail.

The old saying held true: poverty narrows the mind. Hauge knew perfectly well when someone’s intentions were rotten, but desperate for crystals, he often had no choice but to grit his teeth and accept anyway.

Today’s shop owner had been exactly that sort. The man had never genuinely intended to employ him — only to torment him — and in the process had very nearly wrecked his own shop.

Buried under this kind of relentless humiliation, tragedy was practically guaranteed.

After being thrown out, a coworker — a young stockboy named Ganlin — caught up to him, quietly pressing a small pouch of Shard Crystals into his hands.

“This is everything you and your sister have saved for over ten years. Why?” Hauge had never in his life felt a money pouch this heavy — heavy enough that his heart couldn’t bear the weight of it.

“My sister said you’re not an ordinary wanderer. You’re a good man with real purpose, real ambition… you’re different from us. I’ll always be a commoner. Low birth, no particular skill — there’s no real chance for me to accomplish anything in this life. We talked it over, my sister and I, and decided to give this to you. Buy a construct with it. With one, you might finally be able to leave Walnut City behind, chase whatever it is you’re meant to chase. Hauge — I’m someone who never even had a dream to call my own. I hope this can help you reach yours. It’s all I’m capable of giving.” Ganlin — slight, frail, painfully timid — was the only person in the shop who ever spoke to Hauge as an equal. Hauge had never imagined this shy boy would empty his family’s entire life savings on his behalf.

“Ganlin — this is everything you have. What happens to you and your sister?” Hauge had seen Ganlin’s sister once — bedridden year-round from a congenital weakness so severe a strong wind could have knocked her down, blind in both eyes, able to do little beyond fumbling through weaving red cords and small handicrafts to help cover the household’s expenses. Even stepping outside for a walk was a luxury she rarely managed.

He held the small pouch in his hand, feeling it both feather-light and mountain-heavy at once.

How many cords had that blind sister woven? How much paper cut, how many small crafts assembled, to scrape together this much?

And Ganlin himself — endlessly mistreated. Saddled with the heaviest, most exhausting tasks, shorted on his wages, struck and berated regularly. Hauge looked at the rope-burn scars striping those thin shoulders from years of hauling heavy loads. At the swollen bruising on his face from regular beatings. At the sincere, hopeful eyes of someone who had every reason to despair and chose, instead, to fund another person’s dream. At the boy in front of him, perpetually hungry, never once allowing himself a full meal, his body wasting away — and at the pouch of crystals in his hand, accumulated who knew how slowly.

Hauge felt the overwhelming urge to break down and weep.

He hated himself — hated that he had no way to give this brother and sister a better life, and instead it was they who were emptying their entire life’s savings to support him.

“We’re used to it. It’s fine. We have food, and payday’s coming soon — don’t worry about us.” Ganlin glanced nervously back toward the shop, confirming the proprietor wasn’t about to come after him with a broom, before lowering his voice further. “We genuinely want you to succeed. If you do — maybe you’ll become a mercenary captain someday. Let me follow you when that happens. I’ll work hard, I promise I won’t slow you down… My sister says you’ll definitely succeed, because you’re someone who actually dares to chase what he wants!”

“Yes.” Hauge’s voice came out unsteady. “I will succeed. I promise you that.”

“I need to get back to work, or the boss will hit me again.” Ganlin caught the sound of cursing carrying from inside the shop and hurried to say goodbye.

“Ganlin.” Hauge couldn’t help calling out.

“Yes?” The thin, timid boy turned back, startled.

“Wait for me. I’m coming back.” Hauge gripped the pouch of crystals hard. He wanted to make the boy a hundred promises, but he was afraid of failing to keep them, afraid of leaving him disappointed. What he could swear with absolute certainty was this: success or failure, he would come back, no matter what — and he would change the fate of this boy and his sister.

“Good luck. You’ll definitely make it…” Ganlin kept his voice as low as possible, terrified of being overheard, and gave a small wave — his version of a send-off.

Hauge watched his retreating back disappear into the shop.

He felt his eyes go hot.

He had never imagined a day would come when he’d find himself dependent on the charity of a pair of siblings who didn’t even possess Earth-rank strength — and one of them blind, bedridden, disabled.

But refusing wasn’t an option either. Wasting their generosity meant prolonging his own desperate situation, pushing his success further out of reach, and by extension, delaying the day he could change their lives in return. Weighing both outcomes, Hauge — a Supreme-tier-five powerhouse in every sense but circumstance — lowered his head and accepted what they’d offered. He needed this money. He needed this pitifully small handful of crystals to change his accursed fate.

The Construct Guild.

Hauge poured out every last coin he had, pawned everything on his person that held any value at all.

He barely scraped together enough for a single Iron-Claw Wolf construct — barely above bronze tier, the weakest of the weak. Outside Human Valley, he could have shattered something this pathetic with a sneeze. The purchase cleared out his very last Shard Crystal. After this, he had nowhere to sleep, no certain meals ahead.

The one thing he could take comfort in: he finally owned a construct.

A construct meant he could fight. Fighting meant mercenary work, and mercenary work meant income. The path forward had just taken its first small step.

“Well, well — Hothead actually has a construct now. Is this the day the worm finally turns?” A sharp, mocking voice rang out behind him. A young man with thin, blade-cut lips, narrow eyes, and a flat nose approached, flanked by three burly thugs, clicking his tongue with theatrical scorn, every word dripping deliberate provocation.

“Hmph.” If they weren’t standing in Human Valley right now, Hauge could have ended this man with his little finger. As things stood, he had no real recourse.

This particular specimen of human filth was a relative of Walnut City’s lord — the son of the city lord’s cousin. His name was Moba, a minor noble’s son who lived for bullying the weak, who took genuine pleasure in trampling other people’s dignity. Hauge, with his stubborn refusal to accept his circumstances quietly, had become one of his favorite targets.

“A filthy commoner should know his place — should serve nobles like myself for the rest of his life, a loyal dog working for scraps. A commoner who refuses to accept that station is exactly the type I despise most. Oh, you want a fresh start? This young master will give you one!” The petty noble Moba produced a challenge scroll with theatrical flourish, snapping it open.

A flicker of strange light surged.

It linked itself to both Hauge and Moba simultaneously.

This was a mutual-consent duel scroll — a small-scale, non-lethal combat challenge that activated instantly the moment one party issued the invitation.

Hauge’s face drained of color. He turned to bolt out of the Construct Guild immediately, but the reaction came too late. Moba and his three followers’ constructs had already encircled the Iron-Claw Wolf Hauge had just spent everything on.

There was no chance to even resist. A silver-tier hunting hound construct and three bronze-tier wild boar constructs annihilated the Iron-Claw Wolf in seconds.

Forget a four-on-one ambush — any single one of those constructs alone could have ended the Iron-Claw Wolf without effort.

“This isn’t possible. This can’t be happening. I never agreed to your challenge.” Hauge felt himself plunge into total despair, nearly losing his mind entirely. A decade and a half of savings from a pair of struggling siblings, every crystal he’d scraped together through swallowed pride, his entire fortune poured into that one Iron-Claw Wolf — carrying every hope he and Ganlin had between them — reduced to scrap metal in under a minute.

“There’s a short-term work contract you signed back when you took that job. Your signature’s right there on it. Ha — clever of me, wasn’t it? Even the law works in my favor. What chance does filth like you ever really have? You’re meant to be a slave for the rest of your life — that’s the destiny of people like you. Any struggle, any resistance — it’s all just a pathetic joke!” Moba cackled with delighted superiority. Crushing other people’s dreams was his favorite pastime. The more pain he inflicted, the more dignity he destroyed, the more shattered someone’s ambitions became — the happier and more accomplished he felt.

“You—” Hauge’s eyes nearly split with rage. He had never in his life hated another human being this completely.

“Anger gets you what, exactly? Going to bite me? Try grinding me under your heel — if you actually managed that, I’d happily bark like a dog for your amusement. But as it stands, you’re the one who gets to crawl under my heel like the pathetic dog you are! Want this young master’s pity? Get on your knees and bark for it — make me happy enough, and maybe I’ll toss you a bone!” Moba mocked the nearly-feral Hauge without restraint, savoring every flicker of pain on his face.

“My lord — what should we do about that Ganlin boy and his blind sister?” one of the thugs asked, eager to ingratiate himself.

“Toss the boy in the dark cells. Pin a theft charge on him, let him rot down there for life, never seeing daylight again until he’s nothing but bones. The blind girl’s too thin to bother with — no fun in that. Charge her for damaged goods owed, throw her in the rat pits to mine. What’s that — she’s blind, can’t mine? Ha, that’s exactly the point. Let her stay down there feeding the rats for the rest of her life, let them gnaw her hands and feet down to nothing! Dreams. How amusing. Did you actually think filth like you gets to have dreams?” Moba shrieked the words straight at Hauge, who was now striking his own chest with such furious force he’d cracked one of his own ribs.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hauge’s whole body trembled with rage so intense blood began trickling from the corners of his eyes.

“Still got some fight left in him? Ha, even more entertaining!” Moba lifted one leg, peeled off shoe and sock to reveal a filthy, foul-smelling foot, and sneered. “Get on your knees right now and lick my toes — or I’ll have my construct violate that blind girl a hundred times over until there’s nothing left of her.”

“Lick it, lick it, lick it — get between every toe!” the three thugs chanted in unison.

“Refuse, and that blind girl dies under me within the hour.” Moba’s narrow eyes gleamed with venomous satisfaction, like a snake baring its fangs.

“I am going to kill you—” Hauge’s fury had burned past anything resembling rational thought. Only one idea remained in his mind: kill this subhuman creature standing in front of him, by whatever means necessary.

“That’s just a fantasy. Dreams are lovely things — but wake up. Reality is considerably crueler. The truth is, you can’t lay a finger on me, not one hair, and you’re destined to suffer under my heel for the rest of your worthless life. Everyone you’ve ever cared about — friends, family — they’ll all become mud beneath my feet, mine to trample, mine to play with however I please. That’s the fate of a powerless commoner with no one to protect him!” Moba laughed without a trace of fear.

“He can’t kill you — so what about me?” A voice, clear as flowing spring water, cut through the room from the entrance of the Construct Guild.

A noble lord stepped through the doorway, his face concealed behind an exquisitely crafted silver mask, flanked by more than a dozen guards.

He strode forward without hesitation.

Ignoring the stunned Moba entirely. Ignoring everyone else in the room.

He walked straight to the despairing Hauge, and a smile broke across his lips brighter than sunlight itself. “You’re my distinguished cousin Hauge, the long-lost member of the great Titan family, aren’t you? A wanderer who has suffered terribly out in the world, finally reaching the end of his hardships. I’ve finally found you.” He turned. “Iron Lion — bring Lord Hauge his noble insignia, proper attire, and a dedicated gold-tier war construct. Long lost or not, newly recovered or not, he is a member of the honored Titan family, and at no point may anything diminish the dignity of the Titan name.”

Hauge’s eyes went wide. At first, disbelief held him completely still.

Then it broke. His mouth twisted into something that wanted to be a laugh, and instead two streaks of hot tears came pouring down his face, impossible to suppress no matter how hard he fought against it.

The silver-masked noble lord only smiled — that same smile, brighter than sunlight, the kind that seemed to reach straight into a person’s chest.

Hauge seized the masked lord by the collar and roared with thunderous fury. “And if someone deliberately defiles the supreme honor of our Titan family?”

The silver-masked lord answered with the casual indifference of a man instructing a servant to swat a fly. “Whoever’s foolish enough to try that — eliminate them. No one challenges the Titan family and walks away.”

“Good. Then this piece of garbage is mine. Anyone who tries to take him from me is going to have a problem.” The moment Iron Lion fastened a gold-tier bracelet onto his wrist, Hauge wasted no time, summoning a gold-tier lion construct and lunging straight at Moba — whose face had already gone the color of ash as the situation collapsed around him. “You son of a bitch — didn’t you want a one-on-one duel? Fine. This young master is more than happy to give you exactly what you asked for!”

(End of Chapter)