Robbed - In the Fool's embrace (Lord of the Mysteries x multiverse)

Ulysses S. Spanda did not believe in equality.

To him, it was never about some moral fantasy of balance or shared status. It wasn't supplementary to assume that one could be above others when it comes to the standard upbringings from their birth.

It wasn't arrogance—it was reality. A simple fact of life.

Some people were born to serve. Others were born to rule.

He ruled.

"After all… how could those of lesser birth presume to know me?"

He took a slow sip of his tea, savoring its delicate bitterness. The porcelain cup met his lips with a quiet slurp, its sound oddly pronounced in the silence of the refined café.

Spanda sat straight, posture perfect, dressed in the elegant fabric of nobility: tailored silk, pristine cuffs with gold accents .

He had one leg crossed over the other with idle grace.

Across the room, the women at the counter whispered.

Then, one of them—a waitress—finally summoned the courage to approach. She held a small notepad close to her lips, as her light footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.

"Umm… Sir?" she asked timidly, voice barely above a whisper. "Is there… anything else I can get for you?"

Behind her, several other waitresses peeked from behind the bar, faces painted with curious blushes and expectant glances. The girl before him avoided eye contact, her fingers tightening around her notepad like a lifeline.

Spanda didn't answer right away.

Instead, he let the silence stretch—just long enough to let them want his attention.

He placed his teacup gently on the saucer with a soft clink and rose from his seat. The wooden chair slid back with the quiet grace of practiced movement. Then, he walked up to the girl, who stiffened as he approached.

Without hesitation, he took her hand.

"W-What…?" she stammered, eyes darting around the room as her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red.

Then he smiled.

A soft, practiced, gentle smile—just the right curve of the lips, just the right narrowing of the eyes.

And just like that, her words vanished.

The stammering stopped. Her trembling slowed. She looked up into his gaze—wide-eyed and unblinking, as if some part of her had fallen into a dream.

Gasps rang out behind her. The other girls stood frozen, mouths agape, hands pressed to cheeks like schoolgirls watching a prince from a fairytale.

With theatrical precision, Spanda reached into the inner pocket of his coat and retrieved a thick bundle of bills from his wallet—crisp, clean, and impossible to ignore. He placed it delicately into the waitress's hand.

Her blush faded. Shock took its place.

"A small courtesy," he said, voice silk. "A token of my thanks."

Then, he turned to the others behind the counter and offered a graceful wave.

The café erupted into soft squeals, hushed gasps, and stunned giggles.

And then he was gone.

The café door swung gently behind him, bell chiming faintly in the distance. The waitress remained rooted in place, clutching the bundle in trembling fingers, eyes dazed—staring at the door long after he'd left.

. . .

"Heh heh heh… Too easy."

Ulysses S. Spanda sauntered down the street with exaggerated confidence, his polished shoes clicking against the cobblestones in a steady rhythm. His posture was proud, chin high, and his smirk wide enough to invite glares—and admiration.

His footsteps pranced as if the world itself were his ballroom.

"They all look at me with such reverence," he thought, eyes lazily sweeping the crowd. "Of course they do… They know I'm above them."

He paused, adjusting the cuff of his embroidered sleeve. A few passing civilians gave him sideways glances, which only fed his ego.

From his coat, he produced a wallet bulging at the seams, thick with neatly stacked bills. He cradled it with the affection of a mother to her child, his fingers caressing the leather like it held the secrets of the universe.

"I merely rewarded her for understanding her place…" he mused, chuckling darkly. "So rare nowadays. So few with the decency to bow to superiority."

He laughed—loudly and without shame. The wallet flapped with his movements, the money inside rustling like applause.

"A shame…"A real shame…"

Just as he was about to tuck the wallet away, fate intervened.

. . .

"THUD."

. . .

Spanda stumbled back a step, his expression immediately turning sour. His eyes narrowed at the small figure that had collided with him.

A boy, young, dusty, and wide-eyed, stared up at him, frozen in place.

"Boy… Watch yourself," Spanda said with a scowl, as if the mere contact had tainted him.

The child flinched. He bowed quickly, head nearly hitting the ground, and then darted off without another word—vanishing around a corner.

Spanda scoffed.

"Tch. I remember when I had servants like him. Loyal…and.... disposable…"

A momentary frown crossed his lips. But then his mood brightened as he reached toward his pocket, his fingers already twitching in anticipation of the reassuring feel of his money.

But he felt nothing.

His expression faltered.

His fingers scrambled.

He checked his other pocket.

And the inside of his coat.

And his back pocket.

Nothing.

Then, realization struck.

Hard.

"MY WALLET!!!"

His voice cracked the air like thunder, sending birds scattering from the trees nearby. Pedestrians flinched and looked over with confusion and curiosity.

Spanda stood in the middle of the street, eyes wild, mouth twitching, arms patting down every inch of his body as if hoping the wallet had somehow turned invisible.

Gone.

That boy…

That filthy little brat.

The realization hit him harder than the collision had.

He'd been robbed.

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Lumian chuckled as he tossed the wallet up and down, the weight of it satisfying in his palm. The thick wads of cash inside slapped gently against the leather with each toss.

"Oh, that was too easy. Honestly… I might be in the wrong business. I'm making a great living off idiots."

He grinned as he tried stuffing the oversized wallet into his pocket—only to find it wouldn't go in. He shoved it harder, gritting his teeth with each push.

"…Come on… get in there…"

No use.

With an annoyed sigh, Lumian brought his hands together in a casual seal.

Poof!

A puff of smoke burst beside him, revealing a perfect clone of himself—arms already crossed, eyebrow arched.

Lumian held out the wallet.

"Hey, take this back to the apartment for me."

The clone stared at the wallet… then at him.

"You gonna say please?"

Lumian smirked. "Fine, please."

The clone narrowed his eyes, gaze unblinking, then huffed and snatched the wallet.

"You bastard... always treating us like your errand boys."

"That's because you are my errand boys."

"I'm you, idiot."

"Exactly."

The clone rolled his eyes but didn't argue further. With a swift hop, he sprang onto the wall, and expertly raced up the side of the building. A moment later, he disappeared onto a nearby rooftop—gone in the blink of an eye.

Lumian stood there for a moment, staring after him with a smirk.

"Man, I love being me."

He grinned before exiting the alley and blending into the crowd of people outside it.

. . .

Lumian walked with quiet steps, the soles of his sandals brushing gently against the stone-paved road. As he moved, he tapped his glabella with two fingers.

The spiritual shift was subtle, almost imperceptible—but suddenly, the world around him changed.

People became smears of light and color, their chakra patterns painting vivid silhouettes against the darkening street. Lumian grinned, watching without watching, his eyes barely moving.

This was a hunt.

Not for food. Not for battle.

But for garbage.

"Let's see…" he murmured under his breath, blending in with the crowd. "Time to separate the trash from the pearls."

Truth be told, when Lumian had first started walking the path of the Marauder, he hadn't exactly felt comfortable stealing from just anyone. There were two very good reasons for this.

First:

There was always the chance, a very real, very terrifying chance, that the person you decided to rob was secretly a rogue shinobi. Or worse, a Jonin with bad knees and a short temper.

You lift their wallet, think it's all in the clear… and next thing you know, you're being chased across rooftops by someone who throws kunai like rain.

No, thanks.

Second:

Conscience.

Yeah, that annoying little voice that tells you things like "Stealing is wrong" or "Maybe don't ruin someone's week for a handful of ryo."

So Lumian made a rule.

No targeting regular people.

He only stole from the trash.

And what defined trash?

Simple. People who deserved it.

Imagine this:

You're a normal person. You leave the house with a wallet stuffed full of cash. You hop in your car, or bus, or wagon, or bird, or whatever the hell you travel with.

You go to buy your favorite thing. A new game, new clothes that change out of your stinky attire, a necklace for your partner.

You're happy.

Then you get home.

And your wallet's gone.

Panic sets in. Your heart races. You scramble to call the bank, cancel the card, mourn your precious cash. But it's too late. Someone already bought three ramen sets, a pair of shoes, and a weird mask off the black market.

And your cash?

Gone.

. . .

That sucks, right?

Exactly.

. . .

That's why Lumian had standards.

He didn't rob civilians.

He took out the trash.

It was practically a public service. He was doing the world a favor.

"How kind of me," he mused aloud with a smirk, hands in his pockets. "Keeping the village clean, one rat at a time. I'm like a discount Robin hood!"

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He turned a corner, stepping into a quieter street.

A few paces later, something caught his eye—an old, wooden sign stretching across a wide entrance:

Hot Springs

Lumian blinked."Huh… Come to think of it, I've never actually been to a hot spring before."

He glanced around, scratching the side of his head. The evening air was still, no pressing business tugged at his mind.

"Hm... I don't really have anything else going on today," he muttered. "Wouldn't hurt to relax a little."

A grin slowly spread across his face.

"Yeah. I earned it."

He took a step toward the entrance—when something strange flickered at the edge of his vision.

His spirit sight, still quietly active, caught a murky, smeared chakra signature lingering nearby. The color was... off. Muddy, darkened at the edges.

"Ugh... Gross."

Lumian frowned.

"Trash? Near a hot spring? I guess creeps hang around here hoping for a peek…"

He cracked his knuckles, picked up a loose stone from the ground, and gave it a quick toss in his hand.

"Yosh."

With practiced ease, he hurled the rock straight toward the strange chakra.

THWACK.

"OW! What the hell?!"

A loud yelp echoed as a tall figure tumbled out of the bushes, clutching his head.

Lumian grinned, fist pumping."Bullseye."

He casually walked over, shutting off his spirit vision."Hey you! What the hell do you think you're doi—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes widened.

The man groaned as he stood, brushing leaves off a long crimson cloak. He had spiky, waist-length white hair tied back in a ponytail, with two shoulder-length bangs that framed his rugged, pain-struck face.

Lumian took a cautious step back, blinking rapidly.

"No way…"

How had he not recognized him the moment he saw the silhouette? Hell, he should've recognized him mid-fall!

Any Naruto fan would've screamed at him for not recognizing him on sight.

The Student of the Third Hokage.The Teacher of the Fourth Hokage.The Godfather of the Seventh Hokage.The Legendary Pervy Sage himself…

Jiraiya.

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(Author's note:

Hey guys! Looks like Jiraiya's finally appeared in the story! After all, how can there be a fanfiction on the world of Naruto if the legendary pervert himself isn't in it! lol.

Anyways, I barely got this chapter done today.

I was busy fighting for the republic in battlefront 2. That game's been really popping off this past month. Honestly, the only thing that the sequels of Star Wars did right.

Sigh.... Well you guys know what to do.

Chapter 32 - Robbed