Chapitre 7: The nerd
As nightfall settled within the castle, a vast hall became a bustling hub of activity. Boys of various ages and sizes lined up, their beaten and broken dishes held out eagerly for the food to come.
A lady stood at her cauldron, dishing out meager portions of soup and chunks of bread. The air was filled with a mix of impatience, hunger, and competition.
Pushing and shoving broke out among the boys as they jostled for position in the line. The atmosphere was tense, with the anticipation of a meal fuelling their actions.
Alfred, clutching his bowl and worn spoon, took his place in the line, his belly rumbling in hunger. "Finally," he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the front of the line where the food awaited.
Once Alfred received his food, he settled down at an empty spot to eat. The aroma of the soup wafted up to greet him, and he eagerly submerged his spoon into the bowl.
Just as he was about to take his first mouthful, a group of boys approached him, their faces adorned with admiration and respect. "That was a good fight," one of them praised. "We're looking forward to training with you."
Alfred found himself surrounded by the excited camaraderie of his fellow cadets, their friendly gestures and words making him feel welcomed.
Handshakes and pats on the back were exchanged, and for a moment, Alfred basked in the sense of belonging that their actions conveyed. However, as quickly as the group had formed around him, they began to disperse.
'How nice boys' Not fully understanding the shift in atmosphere, Alfred returned his attention to his food. He dipped his spoon into the soup bowl, only to make a startling discovery: his food was gone.
His wide eyes blinked in bewilderment as he stared at the empty bowl and the chunk of bread that had vanished. The realization dawned on him, and his once-content expression contorted into one of anger and frustration.
The friendly gestures had been nothing more than a ruse, a distraction to pilfer his meal.
The surrounding cadets chatted and laughed as they enjoyed their meals, blissfully unaware of Alfred's mounting fury.
Suddenly, his voice erupted like a lion's roar, cutting through the din of the hall. "Who stole my food?" Alfred's words reverberated with an intensity that caught the attention of everyone present.
Conversations halted, and all eyes turned toward Alfred. The room fell into an expectant silence as the cadets awaited his next move. A moment later, the hall erupted in laughter, the cadets amused by the outburst.
"The newcomer just learned the most important lesson of this academy: food is everything," a voice declared amidst the laughter.
With his anger igniting his determination, Alfred began to stride purposefully between the tables, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his fellow cadets. His heart pounded with a mix of betrayal and indignation, and he searched for any sign of recognition among the boys who had congratulated him.
As he neared a corner of the hall, a cluster of boys, including Bran, stood in conversation. The moment piqued Alfred's curiosity, and he approached them in an attempt to understand the source of their amusement.
Laughter echoed from their corner as Alfred slipped between the boys, his curiosity getting the better of him.
He glanced toward the corner where their attention was focused, and his gaze settled on a disheveled cadet, Tod, who was attempting to rise from the ground. Blood stained his mouth. Behind him was a beaten up cup with his soup on the ground.
He clenched his fists, preparing for another round in the ongoing confrontation.
The sight of Tod's readiness to continue his battle sparked amusement among Bran and his gang. Laughter echoed as Dab, a member of the gang with a burnt arm, chimed in. "Look at that, mate. He still has fight left in him."
Bran, the ringleader of the group, couldn't help but find humor in Tod's tenacity. "Don't pity the poor guy, Dab. He actually believes that his studying will serve him well on the battlefield," Bran quipped, his tone mocking.
The group's laughter grew as another boy added his jest. "The nerd," he declared, his words accompanied by an eruption of shared amusement.
Alfred, drawn in by the camaraderie and jesting, joined in the laughter, making light of Tod's situation. "Yeah, what's he going to do? Read them a bedtime story? 'Once upon a time, there was a battle...'"
The laughter swelled among Bran's gang, their initial surprise at Alfred's participation quickly giving way to a realization: Alfred was not one of them. The mood shifted, and Bran turned his attention to the interloper, his voice laced with hostility. "What the heck are you doing, fresh meat?"
Alfred, undeterred by Bran's aggression, shrugged with a playful grin. "Trying to make friends. You guys seemed close."
"Yeah, we come from the same village–why am I answering you?" Bran's irritation was palpable as he grabbed Alfred and roughly pushed him next to Tod. "Mind your own business, fresh meat, or you'll be next."
Fueled by a sense of justice, Alfred positioned himself in front of Tod, his gaze unwavering. "It's not nice to pick on the nerd."
Bran and the others with blank faces, 'You just did that too'
Bran's gaze narrowed, his anger mounting. "You better stay out of it. You can barely even beat a girl, and that's only with cheating," Bran taunted, his words dripping with derision.
Amidst the laughter of his companions, Bran's remark served as a catalyst for more insults. "Those glowing fingers of yours must be great for using the latrine in the dark," one of Bran's cronies chimed in.
"But not for some late-night entertainment under the blanket," another added, prompting further laughter.
"Though I doubt a glowing fingertip would intimidate anyone in a real fight," Bran added with a mocking tone.
"Are you sure about that?" asks Alfred and raises his hand. He tries to look cool, but his hand remained normal, no glowing. He made another attempt with a trying face, but the result was the same.
"He can't even use it properly," Bran's laughter rang out, his amusement infectious among his gang.
Frustration and embarrassment surged within Alfred, his fists clenching as he fought against the urge to lash out. However, before he could act on his anger, a hand grabbed his shoulder, urging him to pause.
When he turned to face the source of the intervention, he found Tod standing steadfastly behind him.
"Get out of the way," Tod's voice was serious, an unwavering determination in his eyes. "A man needs to fight his own battles."
Alfred hesitated, torn between his instinct to defend and his respect for Tod's request. Reluctantly, he stepped aside, giving Tod the space he desired. Laughter echoed around them, Bran and his gang seemingly triumphant in their mockery.
"You don't even need to worry about Bran if he doesn't have a weapon. His fists are so small, it's like fighting a girl," Tod's taunt carried a hint of amusement.
Bran, his temper inflamed by Tod's words, struggled to control his anger. He quickly concealed his clenched fist, the gesture not unnoticed by those around him.
"Then take this," Bran declared with a sneer, his fist colliding with Tod's face in a swift strike.
Tod staggered back from the impact, a euphoric smile spreading across his face. In a perplexing turn of events, his smile seemed to convey a sense of joy, as if he welcomed the fight. In his fantasy, he thought about that Layla was hitting him.
Bran's confusion mirrored his companions' surprise as he paused mid-motion, halting his next punch.
Tod's grin persisted, unfazed by the hit. He gazed at Bran with defiance. "Is that all you've got?"
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
NIHILA
NIHILA I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone