East Blue, Hamlet Fishing Village, village entrance.
Rain pattered against the cobblestones and crude thatched roofs. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the smells of earth and faint woodsmoke. Kyle stood fewer than five paces from Boer. At this distance, he could feel that crushing, mountain-toppling pressure with utter clarity.
At 1.75 meters tall, Kyle cut a tall figure in a fishing village where adequate nutrition was rarely assured. His muscles were solid, brimming with youthful strength. Yet now, looking up at the figure in heavy metal armor towering over 2.2 meters before him, he felt as small as a child facing a reef. The man merely stood there in silence, but his full suit of armor, with its cold, hard lines and matte black sheen, seemed to embody an indescribable "weight." It was not merely physical; his bearing and sheer presence were overwhelming.
Kyle's breathing involuntarily quickened, his chest visibly rising and falling. Both hands gripped his broken blade, their knuckles white from excessive force, trembling slightly. He could feel his calf muscles quivering beyond his control.
His gaze swept quickly over the man: wet black hair, smooth and glossy, reaching his shoulder blades, clearly meticulously maintained and nothing a fisherman battered by sun and wind could possess; armor that was simple in design and entirely unadorned, yet whose materials, workmanship, and seamless fit spoke of a quality far beyond anything the village blacksmith could imagine; the skin on his right side, pale and smooth in that aristocratic way that suggested it scarcely ever saw sunlight...
This guy... he's definitely a noble! A high-ranking noble! A thought mingling jealousy, shame at his own inadequacy, and a deeper anger darted into Kyle's heart like a venomous snake. He had seen the town's tax collector and the lesser nobles who