My Servant Is An Elf Knight From Another World



Fights were never fun. 

Be it the bullheaded clumsiness of a brief scuffle, or the prolonged, tedious advancement of a ruined battlefield, Michael never much relished either scenario.

Perhaps he has simply experienced too much of it. Repetition, to the point of utter revulsion. There was rarely anything, if any, that he outright despised… fighting was one of those exceptions. 

Even now, encircled by the malice and spite of the four men in front of him, seeing the rage smoldering in their eyes, all rationale and logic burnt to cinders as fuel surging into their trembling fists, Michael resolutely stuck himself to reason. 

"I broke your knife," he said, directing all focus to the crudely severed weapon still uselessly clenched in the first man's hand. "Easily, I might add. Do you think anyone can just do that? Now, I suggest you take a moment to think about what you're going to do next… and very carefully at that." 

Despite being completely blinded by anger as they were, the four individuals seemed to recognize at least that in spite of greater numbers, this wasn't an encounter to be easily bested. 

Once the shock had subsided, the man called George, the one closest trembling, and gripping his broken blade even tighter, finally spoke up again, in a low voice that only echoed his anger tenfold.

"It's just scum after scum with this fucking city, isn't it?" Then with eyes wide with scorn, he looked past Michael over to the man still catching his breath, grime and dirt spattered all over his bloodied face. "How much, Dave? How much of all our hard-earned cash did you waste away hiring some lowlife dickhead to watch your back? That suit - that - that -  watch you're wearing… the fucking car you're driving… how fucking much, Dave?! How much?!"

"He's not paying me," Michael said.

"He isn't? Good! Then fuck off!" 

"You're riling yourself up again. I suggest you - " 

There was a smack. George had suddenly shot his arms, exerting all his efforts into his hands and shoving Michael… who did not budge in the slightest and had only inversely sent him stumbling a couple of paces back at the effort. 

"And just who the fuck…!" He roared, quickly springing himself back inches away in front of Michael's face. "Is this your life? Is this all you amount to? Protecting scum like him so he can just continue screwing over more innocent people?! No standards, no dignity, no fucking clue!" 

"And you haven't an ounce of consideration," Michael said. "Killing's messy. You'd be doing a lot of people a great service, especially yourself, not murdering a man in an alley. It's a hassle." 

For a moment, all four men had different yet equally stumped expressions on their faces. None seemed to have any clue what to make of Michael and his stoic response, and Dave was no expectation…  looking at him with a peculiar stare through puffy, swollen slits. 

"A hassle…" George's mouth rapidly flung open and closed a few times over. "So, I - you - you want us to just walk away from this? Turn the other cheek? Bastard walks free? Do you even understand… do you even know… all the fucking slimy, shady shit this piece of shit does for a living?" 

"I have a strong notion, yes," Michael briefly glanced at Dave. All charm and glamor stripped off of him, leaving only bruises, welts, and the man that he had suspected him to be all along. "Places like these, there are only two kinds of men - men that drink, and men that simply pretend to… waiting for men like you. You've been swindled. It's unfortunate. But comeuppance isn't going to resolve any of your issues."

"No… no… no, you fucking don't - don't!" Suddenly George was closer, close enough that Michael could see the tears welling in his eyes. "Don't you dare suggest that I just learn to live with it! That shit happens! I'm beyond that. We're beyond - listen, listen! We're not fucking walking away!" 

"O-Offer still stands, however…" Dave sputtered weakly, leaning a hand against a wall trying to keep balance. "I'm willing to forgive and forget so long as you are. It could be so much worse, George, believe me on that. You all can still - "

"No, you shut the fuck up!" hearing Dave riled the hatred within him again, and he tried lurching forward, only for Michael to continue thwarting him back at every attempt. "Move! Fucking bastard - MOVE!" 

"You didn't know any better, none of you did," Michael said. "Maybe you should have."  I think you should take a look at

"So, now it's all our fucking fault, huh?! What! You're telling me you've never been cheated before?! Never made a fucking mistake in your whole fucking life!?!"

Amidst the constant yelling, the distant sounds of traffic, and faded music still blaring, Michael heard himself let out a sigh.

"I have," He said, "More times than I count. That's why I'm asking you to take this as a lesson. While you're still alive, while you still have a chance to."

Then Michael took a step back, turning his back to the group of four, hoping still that, despite all the odds, they'd see to reason… see their only right solution.

"Just walk away." 

As he approached Dave to assess his injuries, Michael caught the look on his face. The shock, the alarm, bulging his swollen eyes wide open, signaling him, warning him… only just too late. 

Michael felt a slight pinch in his back. 

He instantly stopped in his tracks, slowly reaching around, fingertips grazing the soft fabric of his clothes until he felt it… the coarse, slightly clammy grip of the broken knife protruding out the back of his coat. 

Once again, above the frantic gasps and heaves surrounding him, the soft trickle and drop of blood splashing by the heels of his feet, Michael let out another dismal sigh.

Fighting was never fun. 

Striking fear, however, was just ever so slightly above that. 

"George, was it? I understand you're upset," He said nonchalantly. "But you just made another mistake." 

Michael casually unstuck the knife embedded deep in his skin, spinning back around slowly to find shock and horror imprinted staring back at him in all four faces. The one closest, the one most bewildered, quickly retreated back into his group. 

"I…? Fuck… how…? How are you…?" 

All of a sudden, a sharp, shrill whistle pierced the air, loud and disorienting, instantaneously followed by a crackling explosion as the brick wall behind them splintered open, and as they all quickly turned to look, they found themselves staring at George's broken knife wedged deeply into the concrete, a large web of fissures and cracks surrounding the epicenter. 

"You can make another one, go ahead," Michael said, lowering his hand, and staring at George directly. "But I can guarantee you won't learn anything on the next one." 

One of the four whispered something to George; doubt and horror in panicked mutters. His face twitched, teeth and gums showing in a tight bitter clench. His rage never waned in the slightest, but now fear, finally fear, had him grudgingly taking a step back.

"Please…" quietly, his voice soft and strangled, George began to plead. "Don't make me walk away. Don't let me off empty-handed. I need this, one thing - this thing! I have - I have nothing!" 

Michael stood his ground. 

"Keep going with this," He said to him. "And I promise you really will have nothing." 

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