Cherreads

A corrupt prosecutor reincarnated

kaitoExio
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Chapter 1 - chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Golden Handshake and the Rude Awakening

Arthur Finch, Chief Prosecutor of the sprawling metropolis, often likened himself to a particularly well-fed spider in the center of a very lucrative web. His office, a testament to his "success," was a lavish expanse of polished mahogany, rich leather, and more discreetly placed safes than a small bank. The city bustled below his penthouse window, a symphony of commerce and crime, both of which Arthur orchestrated with a conductor's precision and a connoisseur's appreciation for fine cash.

He wasn't just corrupt; he was an artist of avarice. Others dabbed in bribery; Arthur painted masterpieces of legal manipulation, extortion, and character assassination, all for the right price. His reputation preceded him like a foul but intoxicating odor. If you wanted a rival official discredited, a sticky legal situation vanished, or a substantial sum laundered through legitimate-looking channels, Arthur was your man. He knew every loophole, every backroom deal, every skeleton in every closet – mostly because he'd helped put them there.

"Ah, Mr. Henderson," Arthur purred, leaning back in his chair, a smug smile playing on his lips. Across from him, a sweat-slicked councilman fidgeted, his usually robust jowls quivering. "So, the mayor's office decided your 'misappropriation of public funds' was a simple accounting error, did they?"

Henderson practically sagged with relief. "Chief Prosecutor, I cannot thank you enough. My career, my reputation… you saved it all!"

Arthur waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that still managed to convey an underlying demand. "Think nothing of it, Councilman. Just a matter of understanding the nuances of municipal budgeting. And, of course, the swift, decisive action of my office to correct… misunderstandings." He gestured subtly to a briefcase sitting innocently on the corner of his desk.

Henderson, a man well-versed in the language of the corrupt, sprang to action. He opened the case, revealing stacks of crisp, uncirculated bills. Arthur's eyes, usually a dull, calculating gray, lit up with the predatory gleam of a shark spotting chum. He inhaled deeply, as if the very scent of the money invigorated him. This was his oxygen, his fuel, his raison d'être.

"Excellent," Arthur said, the word a purr of pure contentment. "Now, about that zoning variance for the new downtown development… I believe the mayor is *very* interested in seeing that move forward smoothly."

Henderson nodded vigorously, already pulling out his phone. "Consider it done, Chief Prosecutor. Anything you need."

Arthur leaned back again, a king on his throne. For years, he had operated with impunity, untouchable, untouching, soaring above the petty squabbles of honest men. He was the architect of their downfall, the silent partner in their illicit gains, the ultimate power behind the curtain. He genuinely believed he was invincible, the most powerful man in the city, perhaps even the country. He had seen judges cower, politicians grovel, and even crime bosses pay homage to his legal prowess. What could possibly stand in his way?

He dismissed Henderson with a curt nod and began to count his new acquisition, a ritual as soothing as a lullaby. The soft rustle of money filled the room, a melody only he could truly appreciate. He was halfway through stacking the hundreds when the office door, usually secured by layers of digital locks and a stern-faced bodyguard, burst open with an alarming crash.

Arthur looked up, annoyed. His bodyguard, a mountain of a man named Boris, was sprawled on the floor, a growing crimson stain blooming on his pristine white shirt. Before Arthur could even register the sight, two figures in black, their faces obscured by balaclavas, were already in the room.

"What in the…?" Arthur started, his hand instinctively reaching for the panic button hidden beneath his desk. But it was too late.

One of the figures moved with terrifying speed, a glint of metal in his hand. There was a sharp, searing pain in Arthur's chest, a sudden, shocking coldness spreading rapidly. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and the neat stacks of money on his desk seemed to swim before his eyes. He coughed, a terrible, wet sound, and felt warmth gush from his mouth.

"You… you can't… I'm Arthur Finch!" he gasped, clinging to his identity as if it were a shield. "I'm the Chief Prosecutor! I own this city!"

The second figure stepped closer, their eyes, visible through the mask, were chillingly devoid of emotion. "Not anymore, you don't," a voice, distorted and mechanical, replied.

Darkness, sudden and absolute, swallowed him whole. The last thing Arthur Finch, the most corrupt prosecutor ever, felt was the bitter taste of irony. He had orchestrated countless demises, but he had never imagined his own would be so… unceremonious.

***

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, like a faulty lightbulb flickering to life. First, there was the oppressive weight, then the sensation of being swaddled, constricted. Then came the noise – a cacophony of high-pitched wails that seemed to emanate from his own throat.

*What in the blazes?* Arthur tried to move, to sit up, to demand an explanation, but his limbs were unresponsive, heavy, and strangely small. His voice, when he tried to speak, came out as an undignified gurgle.

A warm, gentle hand lifted him, and a soft, cooing voice filled his ears. "Oh, my little darling. Are you hungry again?"

Hungry? Darling? Arthur's eyes, or what he presumed were his eyes, struggled to focus. He saw a blurred expanse of light, then the indistinct features of a woman smiling down at him. She had kind eyes, though worry lines were etched around them, and her hair, a faded brown, was pulled back simply.

*This isn't my penthouse.* That was his first coherent thought. The ceiling was low, made of rough-hewn timber. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something faintly earthy, not the crisp, sterile scent of his office, or the expensive cologne he favored. And this woman… she certainly wasn't his housekeeper.

Then the full, horrifying realization hit him. He was being held like… a baby. A tiny, helpless, utterly vulnerable baby. His body felt alien, unfamiliar, utterly without control. He thrashed weakly, emitting another series of outraged squawks.

"There, there, little Arthur," the woman murmured, settling him against her chest. "Mama's here. Mama will feed you."

Arthur. The name was familiar, yet utterly divorced from the powerful, imposing man he remembered. He felt a soft nipple pressed against his mouth, and to his utter mortification, his instincts took over. He latched on, sucking instinctively, a primal need overriding his conscious horror. The warmth, the nourishment, it was undeniably comforting. This was a nightmare. A bizarre, humiliating, utterly nonsensical nightmare.

He was a baby. He, Arthur Finch, the man who had bent the law to his will, who had commanded respect and fear, was now reduced to this indignity. He spent the next few weeks (or what felt like weeks, time was a blurry concept in this new, humiliating existence) in a constant state of internal outrage. He wanted to scream, to rage, to demand his money back, to fire his bodyguards, to sue someone, anyone, for this travesty. But all he could do was cry, eat, and sleep. And, most maddeningly, defecate. The sheer indignity of it all!

He was swaddled, changed, burped, and cooed at. He learned, through sheer repetition, the faces of his "new" parents. His "mother," a gentle woman named Elara, had a perpetually worried expression. His "father," a stern but kind man named Lord Alaric, had a weariness in his eyes that spoke of burdens he couldn't quite fathom yet. They lived in a small, drafty manor that was crumbling at the edges, a far cry from the opulent estates Arthur was accustomed to.

This was Nasha Kingdom, he eventually pieced together from snippets of conversation. And he was Arthur Valerius, the newest and most inconvenient addition to the "Valerius" noble house, a name that seemed to carry an invisible weight of poverty and misfortune. He was reborn, just like in those ridiculous Japanese "Isekai" stories his nephew used to babble about. Reincarnated! As a baby! A noble baby, yes, but clearly the most impoverished one. Where was the opulence? Where were the servants? The private jets? This was a cosmic joke, and Arthur was the punchline.

He listened intently, even in his infant state, absorbing every word, every nuance. The Valerius family was destitute. Their lands were barren, their tenants starving, their coffers empty. They were nobles in name only, clinging to a fading legacy. The thought of being poor, truly poor, sent a shiver of revulsion down Arthur's spine. His entire previous life had been dedicated to escaping and exploiting poverty.

***

Nine years passed in a blur of forced growth and simmering indignation. Arthur grew, physically, but inside, the calculating, avaricious mind of Arthur Finch remained. He learned to walk, to talk, to read, devouring every book in the Valerius' pitifully small library. He hated being small, being weak, being dependent. He yearned for the days when a snap of his fingers could make mountains move.

He learned of the kingdom of Nasha, its feudal structure, its political landscape, its prominent noble houses. He quickly deduced that the Valerius family was at the very bottom of the social ladder, teetering on the edge of irrelevance. Their manor was old, drafty, and badly in need of repair. The few servants they had were loyal but unpaid.

His father, Lord Alaric, was a man of honor, a trait Arthur found utterly bewildering and, frankly, irritating. Alaric spent his days trying to manage their meager lands, trying to squeeze a few more coins out of stubborn earth, and always, always putting his family and people first. Arthur watched, a cynical observer, as his father struggled, always barely making ends meet, always on the verge of ruin.

One brisk autumn morning, Lord Alaric led a nine-year-old Arthur to a dusty, neglected corner of the manor's courtyard. A few rusted, dented pieces of armor lay piled against a wall, and a single, surprisingly well-maintained sword rested on a wooden rack.

"Arthur," his father said, his voice unusually grave. "It is time you learned the ways of our ancestors."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Swordsmanship, Father? I've been reading about the political machinations of Duke Blackwood. Perhaps a treatise on land reform would be more useful for our current predicament."

Alaric sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "There are some problems, son, that cannot be solved with words alone. Our family, though fallen, still has a name to uphold. And in these lands, strength is often the only currency." He picked up a blunted practice sword, its weight surprisingly light. "Your grandfather was a formidable swordsman. And though I may not be his equal, I will teach you what I know."

Arthur grumbled but complied. He'd always considered physical exertion beneath him. His weapons were legal documents, his battlefields courtrooms and back alleys. But as his father patiently demonstrated basic stances and strikes, a strange satisfaction began to blossom within him. It was a different kind of power, a raw, physical force that was undeniably appealing. He was surprisingly adept, his sharp mind quickly grasping the intricacies of angles and leverage. He practiced diligently, driven not by honor or tradition, but by a cold, calculated desire for self-preservation and, perhaps, a nascent craving for a new kind of dominance. He still preferred a well-placed bribe, but a sharp sword certainly had its uses.

A few weeks later, the precarious peace of the Valerius manor was shattered by the arrival of a gilded carriage, pulled by four magnificent, plumed horses. It was an ostentatious display of wealth in a region known for its austerity. Arthur, who had been practicing his sword swings with a newfound, almost disturbing enthusiasm, watched from the training yard as the carriage pulled up to the manor's dilapidated front door.

A portly man, adorned in ridiculously embroidered silks and dripping with gaudy jewelry, emerged from the carriage like a pampered slug from its shell. His face was a picture of self-importance, his eyes tiny, beady, and full of disdain. He was followed by two burly, armed guards.

"Lord Alaric!" the man boomed, his voice gratingly loud. "Or should I say, 'pauper Alaric'?"

Arthur recognized the voice. It was Baron Theron, a neighboring noble whose lands, though not vast, were considerably more prosperous than the Valerius holdings. Theron was known for his arrogance, his avarice, and his tendency to bully smaller, weaker houses.

Lord Alaric and Lady Elara emerged from the manor, their faces etched with weary politeness. "Baron Theron," Alaric said, bowing stiffly. "To what do we owe this… visit?"

Theron sneered, his gaze sweeping over the manor's crumbling facade. "Visit? My dear Alaric, I'm here to collect what's mine. Your overdue tribute, for starters. And perhaps… a little something extra, for the inconvenience of having to grace this hovel with my presence." He gestured dismissively at the manor. "Still living in this pigsty, are we? I'm surprised it hasn't collapsed on your heads already."

Lady Elara flinched, her hand going to her chest. Lord Alaric's jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. "Baron, you know our lands have suffered. The harvest was poor. We are doing our best to gather the tribute, but we simply do not have it yet."

Theron chuckled, a fat, unpleasant sound. "Poor harvest? How convenient. Perhaps you should try praying harder, Alaric. Or perhaps… you should consider selling off some of that useless land to someone who can actually *manage* it. Someone like me, for instance." He winked conspiratorially, then spat on the ground near Alaric's feet. "I could get this entire estate for a song, you know. A very cheap song, at that."

Arthur watched, his small hands clenching into fists around the hilt of his practice sword. He felt a surge of something unfamiliar, something beyond mere indignation. It was a burning, incandescent rage. To see his parents, kind and honorable people, humiliated like this, by such a boorish, arrogant swine! The memory of his past life, of the power he once wielded, surged through him. He had been the one making people squirm, but he had done it with a certain elegance, a calculated ruthlessness. This Baron Theron was nothing but a crude bully.

"Now, now, Alaric," Theron continued, enjoying their discomfort. "Don't look so glum. Perhaps I'll be generous. For the right… considerations, I might even consider extending your payment period. But it will cost you. Every penny you have, and then some. Or, better yet, just sign over that eastern pasture. It's quite useless to you anyway, isn't it?"

Lord Alaric's face was a mask of despair. The eastern pasture was the last remaining piece of fertile land they owned. To lose it would be to condemn his family to utter ruin. Lady Elara's eyes welled with tears.

Arthur's mind, always analytical, always seeking an advantage, began to whir. He had been a ruthless predator in his past life, but never had he felt such a personal affront. This wasn't just about money; it was about dignity. His family's dignity. His *new* family's dignity.

He dropped the practice sword with a clatter. Baron Theron, startled by the noise, turned his beady eyes on the boy. "And who is this scrawny brat?" he sneered. "Another mouth to feed, Alaric? Your problems only multiply."

Arthur stepped forward, his small frame surprisingly resolute. "You will cease your insolence, Baron Theron," he said, his voice, though still childish, carrying an unexpected weight of authority. "You are on Valerius land. And you are speaking to the Lord and Lady of this house with egregious disrespect."

Theron burst into laughter, a high-pitched cackle that echoed across the courtyard. His guards smirked. "Oh, listen to the little squirt! He thinks he's a grown man! Go back to your toys, boy. This is adult business."

Arthur's eyes, normally sharp and assessing, narrowed to dangerous slits. He had seen that look before, on the faces of arrogant fools who underestimated him. And they always, always regretted it.

*This is it,* he thought. *This is why I'm here. Not to be some pampered, useless noble, but to fix this mess. To make them pay. To rise again, not as a corrupt prosecutor, but as something… more. Something better. And far more terrifying.*

His journey had just truly begun