Mystical Fantasy : The Lazy Real Young Master [EN]
Chapter 12 - 3.1: Blood-Slap

Chapter 12: Chapter 3.1: Blood-Slap

It was almost seven in the morning.

A young man lay sprawled across his bed, hair messy like a lion fresh out of the dryer, just about to close his eyes after staying up all night.

Seeing that it was still fifteen minutes before seven, Al let out a sigh of relief. Still enough time for a quick nap. To integrate with the family, at the very least, he had to join the family breakfast. Besides, breakfast was always a plus.

But before he could even shut his eyes—

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Young Master."

Al murmured quietly,

"Ughhh, I was just about to sleep..."

He got up and opened the door, finding a male servant holding a breakfast tray.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"Your breakfast, sir," the servant replied.

"Huh? Isn’t breakfast supposed to be in the dining room?"

"I’m sorry, Young Master, but Master Edward doesn’t want you at the table this morning. Because of yesterday’s incident."

Al shook his head, amused by the irony. The combination of the foul and fragrant smells yesterday had almost knocked his father out.

"That old man must still be traumatized by me."

Al felt a little disappointed by the treatment.

But the moment his nose caught the scent of warm milk and toasted bread, his eyes slowly opened to the delicious sight. His disappointment instantly vanished.

"Well, this will do for now."

He moved swiftly, snatched the breakfast tray, and shut the door behind him without another word.

"Thanks," he muttered softly.

The servant stood there stunned. One moment, they were talking—and the next, the tray had vanished, now just an empty one in his hands. His eyes widened, as if he had just witnessed a magic trick. Still dazed, he called out a message to Al through the closed door, stammering slightly,

"Y-Young Master, please get ready. Master Edward is waiting in front."

Inside, Al sat down, scooped a bite, chewed... and then dropped his head onto the table.

Fast asleep.

---

A few minutes later in the front lounge, Edward recalled the events of yesterday and asked,

"David, why didn’t he ride in your car yesterday?"

David replied,

"Al took too long, Father. I was in a hurry, so I left first."

Edward nodded, as if that was understandable.

"And why didn’t you pick him up after school?"

"Sorry, Father, but I didn’t know which school he attends, so..."

"Ah..." Edward murmured, feeling a tinge of guilt. He hadn’t bothered to look into any of the important details about this newly discovered son—not even what school he attended.

He glanced at his watch and frowned when he noticed that Al still hadn’t appeared.

"Where is that boy?" he asked, annoyed.

Everyone just shook their heads silently. No one knew where Al was.

"You, servant." He turned to the man he had tasked with waking Al. "Didn’t I tell you to wake him? Where is he?"

"My apologies, sir. The Young Master was already awake when I brought him breakfast," the servant answered respectfully.

David stepped forward and took the initiative,

"Father, I’ll go check on him."

His tone was full of responsibility, although there was a slight hint of wanting to show off.

"Fine. Tell him to get down here at once! Doesn’t he have school? That boy is such a nuisance!" Edward snapped.

David quickly headed to Al’s room.

Once there, he peeked through the tiny hole in the door and saw Al sleeping soundly, seated with his head on the table, spoon still in hand.

Seeing this, a wicked idea popped into his mind. He turned and left without waking Al.

Back in the lounge, David returned with a sullen look, holding his cheek, which was slightly red as if he’d been hit.

His father saw this and immediately panicked, checking his son’s cheek.

"What happened to your face, David?" he asked worriedly. "Did that boy hit you?"

"No, Father, I’m fine. I just... um... accidentally bumped into a... mmm... wall. Yeah. A wall," David stammered, obviously scrambling for an excuse.

"David, if he hit you, just say it," his father insisted.

David stayed silent, head down, not saying a word.

Seeing his son sulking, Edward grew even more furious.

"That brat... Wait here."

He stormed off toward Al’s room.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The knocking was thunderous—like Thor’s hammer smashing into the door.

Inside, Al—still asleep with his head on the table and a piece of bread stuck to his cheek—jolted awake and suddenly shouted,

"Die, you perverted shaman!!!"

He leapt up in a fighting stance, fists clenched, eyes wide... then froze.

Confused.

He looked around his room. Half-eaten bread stuck to his left cheek, drool mixing with strawberry jam. He wiped his face with his hand.

"Oh... it was a dream."

Right then, a voice more terrifying than the one in his nightmare rang out—

"Open this door right now! You lazy, insolent brat!"

"Ah, Dad’s voice," Al thought.

He quickly peeled the bread off his face, wiped his cheek, and opened the door with the most innocent expression and polite voice he could muster from watching YouTube tutorials.

"Good morning, Father. I’m sorry, I just—"

SLAP!

A sharp slap landed on his cheek like a divine curse from above.

"Are you not going to school?! What kind of child sleeps like a vagrant at this hour?!"

Al stood frozen. His cheek burned—not from shame, but from confusion.

"I’m sorry, Father, I..."

"And you! How dare you hit David! He’s a respectful, well-mannered boy! What’s wrong with you?!"

Al was even more confused.

"I... hit David?"

His mind started working like a detective in a crime film, until finally, he let out a soft sigh.

Looks like I’ve been framed... again.

Al bowed his head—not out of guilt, but out of respect for his father. Something was bothering him, making it hard to focus on what was happening next. And then—

SLAP!

Another slap landed, this time on his right cheek. Even harder than the last. His head jerked to the side, nearly hitting the small cabinet by the door. Al’s eyes widened in shock.

"...Huh?"

No wounds. No bruises. But the throbbing pain was very real.

He was confused. He had a passive magical barrier—strong enough to deflect bullets and high-level spells—but it hadn’t reacted at all. It was as if... the slap had been destined to bypass it.

Al blinked, the pain and confusion mixing into one. His eyes instinctively turned to his father, Edward Virellano, still standing there, red with fury.

"Get rid of that wild attitude if you want to be part of this family! Get dressed and go to school!"

Al said nothing. But it wasn’t out of fear—he was analyzing.

Could this be... the effect of blood relation? Could an attack from a biological parent bypass barriers?

A theory crept into his mind—Blood Magic. A branch of magic once considered trivial due to its instability. But if his theory was right, Blood Magic might be one of the few forms that could bypass someone’s natural defenses—thanks to its emotional and biological roots.

He just stared. His gaze was blank. Not sad, not angry... just empty.

Like someone trying to make sense of a world that was far too absurd.

His father turned away, still muttering under his breath, and slammed the door on his way out.

Silence.

Al touched his cheek.

"It’s been a while since I felt pain like this."

He sighed. Not out of frustration—but because...

"This... is what it feels like to have a parent?"

He slowly sat down at the edge of the bed. Not traumatized. But not exactly at peace either.

"I guess Father’s the type who hits out of love. Hm... No way. That kind of thing’s bullshit in my case. But it does hurt. Hope I don’t get into it with him again."

He began wondering how he should act as a son. Tolerating a parent’s strict attitude and punishments could be necessary—especially when you’re in the wrong. But tolerating unreasonable and unfair punishments? Should one fight back? How much unfair treatment is too much?

Thoughts swirled through his mind, banishing any trace of drowsiness.

He let out a dry laugh. Bitter.

His eyes sharpened.

"And David... I’ve tolerated you once. Let’s play your game—your way."

Al then finished his breakfast while enduring the pain in his cheeks. He sipped the now-cold milk.

"Huff, I forgot to explain my school hours again. And about that stalker. Hope Dad’s still out front."

After that, Al chose to bathe like a regular human. No magic. No shortcuts. No illusionary auto-dry.

The bathroom? Not in his room—but out back, where the servants usually cleaned themselves.

He passed several servants who looked awkward seeing the Young Master heading there. But Al just grinned and said:

"Relax. I won’t dirty up the bathroom."

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