A Man's Growth, Remarkable to Behold (2)
The Mercenary King.
He was a legend. Not a legend of the South alone, but a man whose name rang across the entire continent.
He had fought the emperor of heaven who raged against humankind—the Sky Whale—through a hundred days and a hundred nights, and quieted the whale's fury. Hired by the sultan of the weakest sultanate in the West, he had raised that realm until it stood among the West's three greatest powers. With the thirty-four of his own company, the Wolves of the Wilderness, he was said to have broken a hundred thousand monsters.
There were countless other tales besides, and every last one of them was so outrageous that it was no wonder they sounded, at first hearing, like lies. One thing, however, was certain. People might only half believe the anecdotes, but no one ever doubted his strength.
He had gathered the continent's mercenaries where they lay scattered like a rabble, raised the vast body known as the Mercenary Union, overturned the old mercenary market, and become the Union's first master. That he held every one of those mercenaries—fierce as wild dogs—in his grip was, by itself, enough to show how formidable he was. Had he set his mind to it, he might have taken a throne on any continent and founded a new nation, and no one would have thought it strange.
Such was the man.
And now that great man stood before his eyes. In its way, it was the sort of moment that ought to have set a heart trembling—
"The parent and guardian conferences ended some time ago."
"...?"
Lee Han was not looking at a legend. He was looking at a guardian who had turned up hopelessly late, beating the drum long after the parade had passed.
He'd already met too many legends. Not by any plan of his, but people of that rank were something Lee Han had encountered often enough, and by now—
The Mercenary King showing up.
It was a little late for the effect, and it stirred nothing much in him. If the man had wanted to surprise him, he would have needed to come no later than this time last year. So Lee Han was not greatly startled, and he was treating him less as a legend than as a guardian.
"Still, since you've come all this way, I'll speak about your disciple. Overall he's excellent, and eager when it comes to learning. The trouble is, even when he scores high in physical classes like swordsmanship, he fails the liberal studies and the scholarly ones. Seems he got that way by skipping his work to go on dates..."
"Ahem!"
"Oh, and the next time you see him, tell him that if he's going to see women, he should stick to one and mean it. Two-timing was the baseline. He sprouted octopus legs, and the women nearly started cutting each other. He didn't lay a hand on our chicks, so I let it pass, but what did those girls do wrong? Every one of them goes home somebody's precious daughter. Tsk."
"...I'll have to break all three of that brat's legs."
"Three?"
"A man comes with one more leg than you'd think."
"Oh..."
Lee Han caught the meaning at once, and just as quickly understood that it was no empty boast. And well he might.
"Smearing mud on the company's face is bad enough, but failing? The same brat who said a slapdash pass at his studies would do—and he fails?! Aigo. I should have known better than to trust the one I trusted."
The face the Mercenary King wore as he called his disciple to mind was vicious beyond words, as if to say there had never been a greater disgrace.
They say that on that day, a certain man in the Royal Capital felt a chill sink into his very bones.
"So you really are the Mercenary King?"
On the road home, Lee Han was walking with him—partly so he could leave some fish with Layla—and he let a small doubt show.
"Hm? Do I look like I'm lying?"
"Not that. It's just that the rumors put the Mercenary King in his late seventies, and no matter how I look at you, you don't seem a day past your late thirties or early forties."
"Heh heh! Flattery."
"Flattery, nothing..."
He meant every word. Lee Han's doubt was only natural. Caesar de Wolf looked astonishingly like a young, handsome man. Lee Han had said late thirties, but that was only because of the old shrewdness in his eyes. Take that away, and calling him a man in his twenties would hardly have been too much. He kept himself well, besides: hair and brows neatly trimmed, clothes tidy and rather fine. Honestly, if he had introduced himself as a noble rather than a mercenary, it would not have seemed strange at all.
"Haha! So that was it? Well, now. Praise makes a man bashful."
"It sounded like praise to you?"
In a way it was the same as saying he didn't look like a mercenary, and hearing it taken like that was absurd. But Caesar de Wolf meant it.
"Of course it can only be praise. Why does a mercenary do mercenary work? To make a great deal of money and succeed. So looking like a noble is a compliment to one of us. It means I look as successful as all that."
"...When you put it that way."
"And for all I may look like this, the master of the Mercenary Union is me. My face represents the Union. It is the very symbol of success. I have to show the mercenaries how far I've come. Wealth, honor, power, strength! If I don't show them I hold all of it, why would the Union's mercenaries work hard—so that their future selves might become what I am? Heh heh."
"So that was it."
"And I'll tell you one thing more. I'm on the modest side of dressed up. Among the heavyweight mercenaries, some plate every tooth in gold, or set jewels in them. Some set jewels in their skin. Those ones dress so gaudy they make targets of themselves on the battlefield, of course. They can only do it because they're confident in their skill. No skill, and you die."
"......"
Listening, Lee Han found his past life rising unbidden. Plenty of famous people overseas—successful rappers and influencers, especially—had dressed to flaunt just how far they'd come. That was no cause for scorn. The desire to show off one's wealth lived in everyone. If anything, it was Lee Han's idea of a mercenary that had been the narrow one.
"My mistake, then, picturing a mercenary as nothing but old leather armor and a month without a wash."
"Not a mistake. Most of the middle and lower ranks look exactly like that."
"Then why is Garand like that? That kid walks around looking precisely like a mid-to-low-rank mercenary."
"...When I see that brat, I won't let it go. He's single-handedly ruining the dignity of mercenaries."
And so Caesar went back to stockpiling rage at his disciple. He was a man of deep self-possession, though, and he hid that rage again in the blink of an eye.
Instead—
"But tell me."
"...?"
"Is that all you have to ask?"
"Pardon?"
"No, I mean... I revealed myself rather grandly, and your reaction was so faint I had to say something."
"Was there more I was supposed to do?"
"...Put like that, I've nothing to say, but this is... ahem."
Caesar scratched his cheek. He had gone to the trouble of unveiling himself with a flourish, and the man had no curiosity at all. It felt rather empty. And he had thought himself fairly famous.
"Aren't you curious why a man of the Mercenary King's standing came to see you?"
"You said you came because you were curious about the man who hit a king."
"Well, yes, but..."
"Sure, there's probably some other reason. You're not the sort of man with that much time on his hands. But... I'm not particularly curious."
"Why not?"
"I have a feeling I'd get dragged into something troublesome. Only a feeling."
"......"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No, it's just... how should I put it. You're nothing like that Baltar brat."
"...?"
"They said you were his disciple, so I thought you'd be similar. You're a completely different article. Heh heh."
"...Who is whose disciple?"
Lee Han was genuinely offended.
Then—
"Not his disciple, then. In that case. Only a supposition, mind..."
Caesar's meaningful smile sharpened, and for an instant his eyes flashed like a wolf that had found its prey.
"......"
"Heh heh. Don't take it so seriously. Only a joke."
"Doesn't seem like one..."
Lee Han was not fool enough to miss the line between a joke and the truth.
"...Woof?"
Blink.
Orthrus opened his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been out. The sundial pointed to noon, and still he was dazed. The back of his head throbbed like a hangover, and he fully intended to stay sprawled where he was.
"Nureongi. If you're awake, quit resting and do some work. How long are you planning to loaf?"
"Woof?!"
As if he had just heard the most unjust words in the world, Orthrus shot upright—then flinched so hard he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Arf!?"
"Ah. Yesterday's mutt with no manners. Sleep well?"
"Grrrr!"
Orthrus had never gotten a look at the face, but he had a nose that remembered the scent of the one who had cracked him across the back of the head, and he bared his teeth in threat at once.
But—
Thock!
"I told you to help with the work. Who said you could threaten people? Insolent mutt."
"...Kiiing."
"Don't you play pitiful."
No, he really was the wronged one here.
Flicked on the skull again, Orthrus grumbled at the unfairness of it. That human had started it. Why was he the only one getting this?
"Quit the act. ...Stop feeling wronged. You don't have to say it. I'll settle that grudge for you."
"...?"
"Can't you see what we're doing?"
"......"
At those words from his human master, Orthrus looked at what the two humans were about. There was a square stage some sixteen feet across. Calling it a stage was almost embarrassing—it was nothing but lines drawn on the ground—and Orthrus wondered what the humans thought they were doing.
"From here on, we're holding a Mercenary Catechism."
"Awoo?"
And what's that?
Orthrus tilted his head, and the human master, catching the question, explained while binding a bandage around one hand.
"To put it simply, it's how mercenaries settle a difference of opinion. You may use only one fist. No kicks, no biting. Weapons, of course, are out. A truly 'reasonable means of conversation,' and a 'way of making peace.'"
"I agree. Where in the world is there a smoother means of conversation?"
"Mind you, if the conversation gets a little heated, one side's jaw may crack. A minor thing."
"Quite. Very minor. It's not as if anyone ends up half-paralyzed, or dead. Haha!"
"......"
Orthrus's look asked whether this was minor at all. Regardless of that doubt, an hourglass was set down before his paws.
"You're the referee. Give the signal every three minutes."
"...Awoo."
"So long as you understood, that's enough."
"Awoo!?"
Orthrus had not meant that he understood. He had meant that he had no idea what this situation was. This time he and his human master failed to meet, and before he knew it the man had stepped inside the sixteen-foot square.
Watching that, still hopelessly confused, Orthrus wondered whether he ought to fetch the sand board.
"Ho. Left-handed?"
"I use both hands well. And you?"
"I use both well myself. Oh, and do try to block properly. I'd hate to crack your jaw by accident."
"Mm. I have a feeling it's your fist that breaks..."
"...?"
"Well, never mind. —Begin."
"......Awoo."
Orthrus no longer had the courage to stand in the way of those "monsters," their preparations already finished, and so—
Awooo—!
Orthrus's howl rang out, as if to give the signal.