Parallel Memory

Chapter 549: A lackey

The fight had turned into something no one had expected. Vance, once so confident, was now clearly out of his depth. Sweat streaked down the sides of his face, mixing with the dust and faint traces of blood where Misha’s strikes had landed. His stance was no longer the proud, calculated posture of a platinum guild heir—it was defensive, hesitant, and desperate.

When the S-Rank observers stepped in to stop the exchange before it turned ugly, Vance’s sword lowered a fraction too fast, as if the intervention had been his only salvation. The tension broke like glass under pressure, but instead of withdrawing quietly, Vance immediately began talking—fast, and in a tone that tried to straddle humility and self-justification.

"I... I only acted this way because of how I was raised," he began, looking between Hiro and Misha as if they might understand. "Where I come from, your worth is measured by your family, your wealth... and nothing else. I was taught to believe that background and money were the ultimate forms of power. When people bowed, I knew exactly why—it wasn’t respect for me, but for what I represented. You have to understand, it shaped everything I am."

It might have been a touching confession in another context, but here—on the stage, after his defeat—it came across more like an attempt to save face. Hiro stood across from him, arms loosely folded, his gaze fixed and unwavering. There was no malice in his expression, but there was no sympathy either—only the calm firmness of someone unwilling to excuse the damage caused by arrogance.

Misha didn’t even grant him the dignity of a glance. She had already stepped to the sidelines, lowering herself to sit on the cool edge of the stage. She wasn’t sulking, nor was she brimming with pride—she simply looked done with the matter, quietly resting her arms on her knees as she caught her breath. Her indifference to his words said more than anything she could have spoken.

The officials conferred briefly, their voices low but urgent. When they finally turned back, the head referee’s tone left no room for debate. "The match is over. Victory goes to Hiro and Misha."

The announcement drew a ripple through the crowd—first a murmur, then a wave of noise. Cheers and whistles rang out, punctuated by heated discussions. The audience wasn’t just talking about the duel they’d seen—they were buzzing about the potential of the others in the group. Some voices called out Lisa’s name, others gushed over Sylvia’s skill. Everyone seemed to have picked their favorite, already forming invisible lines of fandom and rivalry.

From the corner of her vantage point, Mia watched it all. Her lips curved slightly—not just at the result, but at what she had seen unfold. Misha’s growth, the way she had kept her composure even in the heat of provocation, was a marked change from the shy, reserved girl Mia had first met. Quiet pride settled in Mia’s chest as she stepped forward to congratulate them.

"Well done," she said simply, her tone carrying a warmth that needed no embellishment. Hiro nodded in acknowledgment. Misha offered a small, almost sheepish smile before lowering her gaze again.

It might have ended there—another match concluded, another lesson learned—but Vance’s presence didn’t vanish with the verdict.

From the very next day, he was there. Every. Single. Time.

If the group went on duty, Vance followed. If they trained, he stood nearby. If they were off duty, he somehow "happened" to be in the same area. He didn’t need guards anymore; he didn’t even pretend to. Instead, he kept close as though proximity alone tied him to their reputation. To the casual observer, it looked righteous—admirable even. After all, wasn’t he just keeping his promise from the bet, sticking with them even after being embarrassed in front of a massive crowd?

But beneath the surface, Vance’s mind was already working. He didn’t intend to simply shadow them—he wanted to become part of them, at least in the eyes of others. If he could ride the momentum of their achievements in the war against the devils, the glow of their success would reflect back on him. Back home, it would erase the sting of his failure to ascend to Rank S, even after wasting rank-up potions.

The group, however, was far less charmed. His constant presence disrupted the quiet rhythm they were used to. Conversations felt different, silences were shorter, and their moments of privacy became scarce.

Sylvia, though, found it endlessly entertaining. Normally she was the only one in the group who spoke enough to keep things lively—but now, with Vance tagging along, she had a new toy to play with. She called him "lackey" more often than his name, and he never once complained. She dragged him along for drills, had him carry equipment, even roped him into sparring sessions he clearly hadn’t signed up for.

To everyone’s surprise, Vance complied without a single protest. He listened. He obeyed. He behaved like an actual servant, and the transformation shocked those who had known him before. The proud, arrogant heir was now... well, almost humble.

It was during one of these quieter moments—between drills, when Misha was quietly adjusting her gauntlets—that Vance found out she was, in fact, the shyest member of the group. Something about that truth seemed to strike him harder than any blow from the duel. He realized then how much pressure he had put on her, forcing her to act out of character just to respond to him.

He approached her awkwardly, standing just close enough for his voice to carry but not enough to crowd her. "I... owe you an apology," he said, his tone lower than usual. "I didn’t realize. I pushed you too far, and... I’m sorry for that."

Misha glanced up, studying him for a second, then gave the faintest of nods. It wasn’t warm forgiveness, but it was acknowledgment. For Vance, that was enough.

The others noticed the shift. He was still Vance—still prone to little flashes of self-importance—but there was a change in how he carried himself. Especially when he spoke to Misha. And Sylvia? She was absolutely thrilled. She finally had someone in the group who matched her energy in conversation, who could volley her banter back with the same speed.

For the first time, Vance didn’t feel like he was performing for the crowd. He was performing for acceptance—and oddly, that made all the difference.