Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

The boy didn't get far. A large hand shot out from the crowd, grabbing the back of his ragged shirt and yanking him backward.

He was caught.

The man who had him was a burly figure with a blacksmith's arms. He locked the boy in a grip the child had no hope of breaking.

The boy struggled, kicking his small legs, but he was weak from hunger.

The crowd, which had been a river of bodies, now swirled into a whirlpool around the captured thief.

The restaurant owner finally caught up, his face red and sweaty.

"That's the same boy who stole my money a week ago!" a woman shouted from the crowd, pointing an accusing finger.

SLAP!

The blacksmith's hand cracked across the boy's face, a sharp, ugly sound.

The small loaf of bread fell from his grasp, landing in the dirt.

"These filthy kids," the restaurant owner spat, his chest heaving. "We need to teach him a lesson for life. One he never forgets." He drew back his foot and delivered a solid punch to the boy's gut.

The child cried out, a thin, reedy sound of pain, tears finally breaking free and streaming down his dirty cheeks. He collapsed to his knees.

More people joined in, a spectacle of public justice turning into a mob.

The boy ignored the hands and feet that struck him. His eyes were locked on the bread lying on the ground. He reached for it, his small fingers stretching.

Another kick came, this one from a man in the crowd, knocking his hand away. He cried and cried, curling into a ball, his only instinct to protect the stolen food.

In that moment, watching the boy's desperate, tear-filled eyes fixated on that single loaf of bread, Azrael felt a jolt, a painful shock of recognition.

He saw himself. He saw his own desperation, his own hunger, his own fight for a life that was always just out of reach.

Another kick came, aimed at the boy's ribs.

But this time, it was caught.

Azrael's hand had shot out, his fingers wrapping around the man's ankle like a steel trap. He let go of the leg, and the man stumbled back, his face a mixture of shock and fear as he met Azrael's deadly gaze.

The restaurant owner was the first to speak, his eyes narrowing as he took in the fine fabric of Azrael's academy uniform. "Boy, don't interfere in the matter of us common people. You are an outsider from the academy. You don't know what we face. These things are not new."

A slow, cold smile spread across Azrael's face. "I may be new. I may be an outsider. But the situation here is not new. I can see through it. I am not blind like the rest of you."

The crowd erupted in angry murmurs. "What did you say, kid?" the blacksmith growled. "You should thank God you're from the academy. If you weren't, we would have-"

"Would have what?" Azrael cut him off, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "You are a lowlife in front of me. If I were to tell someone I know about your bad behavior, she would most certainly destroy this little village of yours."

No one spoke. The threat, backed by the clear authority in his voice, silenced them completely.

He moved through the now-parted crowd and knelt in front of the crying boy. His eyes took in the dirty bread clutched in the boy's hands, the bruised face, the swollen eyes.

"Tell me, boy," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Why did you steal that bread? Be honest."

The boy flinched, then looked up, his eyes dry now, his tears spent. "My mother is ill," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't have money to buy food for her. She... she is unable to even stand. I bought her medicine with the last money I had." He looked down in shame. "With the money I stole."

"Why did you start stealing then?" Azrael asked. "Why not ask for help?"

"I did," the boy said, fresh tears welling up. "But no one gives something for free. They won't be benefited from it. My mother was the only one who earned money, but after her health... she is bedridden. I did everything I could to help her. I tried to get a job, any job, to get money, but they won't take a useless child. They even thought I would steal from them. I had no other choice. I am sorry."

'As I predicted,' Azrael thought. 'This boy is the same as me.'

Hearing the boy's confession, Azrael could see the perspective of the crowd shifting.

The anger in their eyes was turning to a quiet sorrow, to shame.

He stood up and turned to face them.

"All this bullshit won't clear the sin you committed," he said, his voice ringing out across the silent street. "You stole money to buy medicine. A sin. You stole bread to feed your mother. A sin. Again and again, a sinner."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air, then his voice grew louder, heavier with meaning.

"A sinner… and yet a son.

A thief… and yet a child.

A criminal… and yet a boy with nothing but his mother's breath to fight for."

He took a step forward, his violet eyes burning into the crowd.

"You call him filthy? And yet he is starving.

You call him wicked? And yet he is desperate.

You call him scum? And yet he is only trying to keep the only person he has in this world alive."

His voice lowered, each word a sharp, cutting blade.

"Tell me—who is more guilty?

The boy who steals bread to live?

Or the people who have bread to spare… and yet do nothing?"

He looked around at the faces staring back at him, the faces that had been twisted with rage just moments before. "Look at all these people, gathered to enjoy the sight of a child being beaten. Some of you already joined the queue."

"All of you are the real scum," he spat. "Filthy. Wicked."

"I know this beating wasn't for any food. It was for the frustration you all have, from days and days of your own miserable lives."

He pointed to a man in the back. "Some of you are here after your higher-ups scolded you, ready to unleash that anger. Some of you are here because you're failures to society, poor and tormented, and this is your only way to feel strong. Some of you are here after losing your bets, or your fights. And some of you just had a fight at home with your wives, your children, your parents."

"You are all here to relieve that frustration," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "On the sinner, of course."

"So come forward," he challenged them, gesturing to the small boy. "He is right in front of you all. Crush him. Unleash your frustration. End him here. It would be enough, right?"

"Why are you not coming now? Hurry up."

No one moved. They looked at the ground, at their own feet, anywhere but at him. The shame was a heavy blanket over them.

"Where is your anger? Your ego?" he mocked. He looked at the blacksmith. "Hey, you. You said this is not new to you. It means you've handled this before, right? So handle it. I want to see. Go on."

The man flinched and took a step back.

Azrael turned his back on them and knelt by the boy again. He gently patted his head. "Never think twice before taking any action for your mother. Be it criminal, liar, or villain. There is no person greater than a mother."

He reached into his uniform and took out a small, heavy pouch of gold coins. He handed it to the boy.

"Sir, this is too much," the boy whispered, his eyes wide.

"This is too small for the act you have done," Azrael replied. "Take it as a reward. And yes, take out one coin. Give it to the woman you stole the money from. Say you're sorry."

The boy scrambled to his feet and went to the woman who had accused him.

He handed her the coin. She refused to take it, her face full of shame.

"Now," Azrael said, "give a coin to the man you stole the bread from. Ask him to forgive you."

The boy went to the restaurant owner. The man refused the coin, his own eyes filling with tears. He suddenly fell to his knees in front of the child.

"I am sorry," the man sobbed, his voice thick with regret. "I am really sorry. I have committed a crime I will never forget." He wiped his tears and then hugged the small, startled boy.

"From now on," the man said, pulling back, "don't forget you are not alone, boy. You have an uncle now. And until I am alive, you don't have to worry for food, because your uncle has a restaurant! Oh, wait, let me get something packed for your mother... ah, sorry, I forgot. No, I know you must be more hungry than her. So why not eat here while I pack? How does that sound?"

The boy looked from the crying man to Azrael, completely confused by what was happening. He tilted his head, a silent, heartfelt thank you in his eyes.

Azrael stood up and walked away from the scene, rejoining his stunned teammates.

As they began to walk towards the guild hall, he turned to the guide.

"Hey, you," he said, his voice returning to its cold, commanding tone. "I want the best healer in this town, or even a royal healer, to treat that boy's mother."

He threw the man the last of his own money pouches. "Take this. If it is less, then force them. Tell them the Ashveils will be pissed. It is their order."

The guide trembled at the name, his eyes wide. "Ashveil?"

From beside him, Isolde let out a small, amused laugh. "The assessment hasn't even started," she said, her eyes twinkling. "And senior has already broken the very first rule: to hide our identity."