The Odd-Eyed Girl
However, it was no knight. Muslan had hurled his spear at the enemy threatening Chira atop the table, dropped down, drawn his sword, and cut down three men in a single breath.
The swordsmanship was chillingly precise. It looked as though he had launched three separate attacks within one exhale—a trajectory born from ruthless efficiency.
Only one exchange, yet its afterimage lingered in Isaac’s and Obben’s eyes. It was that striking, beautiful enough to be called art.
“That’s….”
Whoosh!
Muslan tossed the sword aside and snatched up the fallen spear. He swung it once, twice—sharp, whistling arcs.
“A spear too?”
Swords and sabers demanded subtly different handling; axes differed again. Each weapon carried its own character, so true mastery of them all was rare.
Yet the spear stood even farther apart. Simply holding it granted lethal reach, and when wielded with skill, its power on this battlefield eclipsed both sword and axe.
Whoosh!
A centrifugal slash. The long shaft moved so naturally it defied belief. Two rebel heads flew before anyone fully registered the motion.
Isaac, Obben, and Chira stared in stunned silence.
“Fight!”
At Muslan’s shout they snapped back to themselves and joined the fray. With him leading, the pressure on them eased considerably. A true melee finally erupted.
How long did the madness last?
Many allies still lived—especially Roccom Arena’s guards. Liscal had taken a blade but nothing fatal. Isaac, Obben, and Chira bore only light wounds. Muslan remained untouched.
Yet none of them looked well.
They held, but the enemy kept pouring in. Fatigue mounted; movements slowed. The rebels, sensing the shift, stopped their reckless charges and began conserving strength.
“Grab that bastard! The pretty-faced one!”
They meant Muslan.
“Take him alive! I want to see his blood!”
“That son of a bitch dropped dozens of us!”
Even amid the chaos, Muslan’s performance stood alone. Still, he had limits. His internal energy remained shallow; he needed rest. Chwihyeon-gyeong shortened that rest far below what any ordinary man required. One breath and strength returned enough to move again.
With careful allocation he could last another hour. His companions could not. So he spoke.
“We fall back while fighting.”
“What?”
“We’ve bought all the time we can. It’s safe to withdraw now.”
They began edging backward.
‘If we’re pushed further, we hide.’
Paying off debt was worthwhile, but not at the cost of their lives. The empire held no loyalty from him, nor any obligation. Clinging to the impossible was folly. That was why he had joined this fight without hesitation—he could escape whenever he chose, and he could keep Isaac, Obben, and Chira alive.
Whoosh!
A sudden roar like a massive fan sucking air filled the night. Something tore through the darkness overhead. Rebel screams followed, tangled with the wind.
Muslan recognized the energy as wind-forged. Isaac dropped to the ground.
“Damn, I’m beat.”
“They’re here! This time it’s real!”
* * * * *
Thud! Thud! Thud!
A figure landed with light, springing steps—a female knight in full plate. Each leap carried her more than five meters; her speed was astonishing.
‘Light-foot technique?’
Whoosh!
She joined the line in an instant, drove her longsword through a rebel’s gut, and hurled the body forward. Green light blazed from within her helm.
Crash!
The corpse flew over ten meters, dragging several allies into death with it.
“So the pretty one came out too?”
“Pretty one?”
The knight regarded Muslan.
“Good timing. Can’t have our pretty one getting hurt.”
Her voice was low and alluring. The helm hid her face, yet something about the tone felt familiar.
‘Who is she? I’ve seen no woman like this since arriving here. The body’s memories, perhaps?’
Nothing surfaced. The original owner’s recollections were ordinary—life in the Maran Kingdom, then sudden enslavement.
She was first; fifty more knights followed, each armed differently. Their eyes flashed intermittent colors, and with every flash came terrifying strength.
‘Now I understand why they’re called monsters.’
Their power resembled martial arts, save that it surged only when their eyes glowed. Their bodies already exceeded human limits; the rebels stood no chance.
Mages appeared behind them. Few in number, yet they slaughtered the rebels wholesale.
‘Their technique is nothing special.’
Muslan watched closely. Their sword work was pure rationality—no elaborate forms, no murim flourishes. Knights and common soldiers used essentially the same style; the knights simply moved twice as fast.
‘Or perhaps they see no need to reveal more.’
He studied every motion with absolute focus.
By the time the last rebel surrendered, the tide had long turned. Fear drained the color from every rebel face—and from most of the allies who had witnessed the knights, beings beyond heaven.
“Pretty one, you’re not hurt?”
“?”
The lead knight spoke, her armor streaked with blood.
“Ah… just a moment.”
She removed her helm. Red curls tumbled to her shoulders. She looked to be in her twenties, lips slightly full, skin pale, faint freckles beneath her eyes.
Muslan stared. Recognition struck.
“Still don’t remember? How about this?”
She sheathed her sword, pressed both hands to her ears, and performed an absurd little dance. Memory returned at once—the woman who always sat front-row during his matches, cheering loudly, and who danced even more wildly with her companions whenever he won. He had later learned it was a famous courtship dance in Airs.
“You’re….”
“Now you know me? Muslan. I’m your fan. My name is Dunepi—Knight Dunepi. Pretty one. You’re always welcome. Send word.”
She winked, replaced the helm, and vanished.
“You know her?”
“I do. The one who shouts from the front row….”
“Ah… the courtship dance? She’s a knight? Impressive.”
“Yes. I never imagined.”
* * * * *
The rebellion was crushed. As promised, half the debt was forgiven. Roccom honored his word, even providing written proof. Isaac, Obben, and Chira received rest and reward.
“And you… I heard. Quite the performance.”
“There was a good bow.”
“Still, you earned something extra. Rare, but… I’ll grant you a slave.”
“?”
“Don’t look so surprised. It’s not unheard of for a gladiator to keep a serving girl. Cheaper in the long run. Liscal.”
Liscal entered with a line of female slaves. Most were strangers, though a few faces were familiar from the arena.
“Choose. Feed them yourself once you have one.”
“It looks like every woman from the arena is here.”
“Yes.”
“Then any will do?”
“Yes.”
“Then I….”
* * * * *
“You’re actually insane.”
“I made a promise.”
“A promise?”
“There is such a thing.”
“Back out while you still can. Why?”
Liscal had argued until the moment Muslan entered the room. The choice made no sense to him.
A serving slave had been offered, and Muslan had picked the odd-eyed girl—the nameless, mismatched eyes, the filthy child even executioners refused to touch.
“Madman.”
After Liscal left, the girl stepped inside. She looked stunned.
“You may raise your head before me. I only kept my word.”
“I….”
“Wiris. I’ve had the name ready. From now on, you will be called Wiris.”
Muslan had gained a slave. He had no intention of treating her as one. When he left this place and formed his mercenary band, she would become a member—if she showed talent—or an attendant handling odd jobs. Every band needed versatile hands.
He could support one girl. Wiris, still uncertain how to accept her new reality, soon began to adapt.