The Gauntlet's Triumph
They arrived at a rundown mansion. Though spacious, it felt desolate from years of neglect. Fitting for a taxidermist’s home, the halls were filled with stuffed monsters and animals.
Inside sat a man in his forties reeking of alcohol.
Thud!
Liscal tossed a coin purse onto the table.
“Now tell me what I want to know, Daiman.”
“Do you know how taxidermy works?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“First you must remove the stench. The key is drying the body until every trace of odor is gone. Animals are simple enough, but humans are far more troublesome—more difficult than monsters. That’s why a mage is essential.”
“So you worked with a mage?”
“I only handled one job myself. The rest were my father’s.”
“Forget that. Tell me something else.”
“The heart of it lies here. My father began receiving those grotesque commissions ten years ago. Quite a few, in fact. I saw the preparations several times. The clients were meticulous; they left no trace behind. But mages are still human, aren’t they? Once, a single slip revealed a clue about the client’s identity. Naturally, my father pretended not to hear it.”
“What was it?”
“They said ‘young.’”
“Young?”
“Yes. The word that slipped from the mage’s lips was ‘young.’ I imagine it referred to the client.”
“Too vague.”
“That’s all I know. I only accepted one commission myself before they stopped requesting me.”
“Why?”
“They claimed the piece was flawed. I thought it was a minor issue, but they insisted it ruined the work. Don’t misunderstand—‘piece’ is their word. I’m not so far gone that I’d call a person that.”
“I didn’t think you were. You’re still speaking clearly despite the smell of drink.”
Liscal spoke with a trace of pity in his eyes. He had once drowned himself in alcohol just as Daiman did now.
“Would you remove your robe?”
Daiman pointed at Muslan. Muslan slipped off his robe and revealed his face. Daiman nodded.
“Yes. The corpse they brought me carried the same aura as you. Not quite your caliber, but close. Now I understand why the client is so fixated on you. If what he does can be called art, you would be the crown jewel of his collection.”
“I have no intention of becoming that.”
“I hope not. It’s no longer my concern anyway.”
Daiman picked up the coin purse and continued.
“Since I’ve been paid, I’ll give you one more piece of advice.”
He looked at Liscal.
“Did they say anything when they placed the order?”
“What do you mean?”
“They must have specified the weapon and the manner of death.”
“They did.”
“That’s your way out. The client examines every detail and cannot tolerate the slightest deviation. Think carefully. Find a way to break the pattern.”
Daiman opened the purse, checked its contents, then silently held out his palm.
“?”
“That’s all the information I can give. It’s only a guess, but it’s the best I have.”
Liscal’s expression twisted.
“Damn it. He really is someone important.”
“What does that mean?”
“You wouldn’t… well, maybe you wouldn’t know.”
“The palm?”
“Not the palm—the number. The Five Great Houses. You’d best remember that much. If it’s them, digging deeper won’t help.”
“Are they really that dangerous?”
“Far more than you can imagine.”
“I see.”
“You’re taking this too calmly.”
“Not at all. We received a clear answer. A way to avoid the one who wants me. Winning this match should give us that chance.”
“Right. Let’s hope so. I don’t want to picture you mounted on a wall.”
“Let’s go. I’ll buy the kunce on the way this time.”
The day of the match arrived swiftly. Muslan remained composed, but the others wore grave expressions.
“Everyone looks far too serious.”
“The opponent is that strong. Who would have guessed they’d bring Maestro Rosad? Don’t be fooled by that constant smile. His swordsmanship is so refined that even knights fall short. He fights with two short swords.”
“I think I understand the feeling.”
Listening to Liscal’s information, Muslan headed for the arena. As always, he downed a bottle of liquor at the entrance.
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar.
Because the match was so significant, the arena buzzed with speculation. Yet the procedure remained the same. The duelists faced each other in the center, and that was it.
Amid the chatter, Muslan saw the weapon Rosad carried and smirked. His hypothesis had just become reality.
So he really wants to watch me beaten to death. Quite the twisted taste.
“This? A special request came in. Don’t think it’s too cruel. It’s just business.”
“Right. It’s just business.”
A brief exchange. In that moment, Muslan cast aside any remaining hesitation.
The match began. Unlike previous bouts, Muslan now wore gauntlets. His opponent held not a blade but a thick club.
Clang!
Muslan deflected Rosad’s strike with his gauntlet and closed the distance in a single leaping step. Rosad’s ever-smiling face hardened instantly.
What—?!
Even the veteran Rosad was shocked. He had never imagined his attack would be so casually brushed aside and that his opponent would close in so effortlessly. He swung the club desperately to regain space.
But Muslan had no intention of letting him retreat. He drove his fist into Rosad’s abdomen.
Thud!
A dull impact echoed, yet Rosad focused only on backing away. The real damage revealed itself moments later. A sudden, searing pain forced Rosad to drop to one knee.
Even ordinary knuckle dusters dramatically increased a fist’s destructive power. Gauntlets that protected the entire forearm were in another league entirely. The massive gauntlets Muslan wore were heavy, but that weight translated into devastating impact.
And those fists carried internal energy.
The fact that Rosad did not roll across the floor unconscious was already impressive.
Rosad looked up at Muslan with awe. Muslan waited calmly for him to rise.
Yet gladiatorial matches rarely allowed such courtesy.
“It’s business.”
Muslan spoke. Rosad forced a smile back onto his face and assumed his stance.
First, I defend. I must watch for that sudden step. How can he charge in like that? Does he have no fear?
In all his countless matches, Rosad had never seen anyone close distance that way. Leaping straight at an armed opponent was suicide—most weapons were lethal in a single strike.
Even if it’s a club… it’s still a metal rod.
Rosad swung the club in tight, cautious arcs, determined to prevent another reckless charge. Muslan observed for a moment, then simply walked forward as if taking a stroll.
Rosad’s eyes widened again. He had never imagined such an approach.
Yet Rosad was a fighter worthy of the title Maestro—his technique was exceptional. He was no brawler who relied on brute force. As Muslan advanced in that absurd manner, Rosad circled sideways to maintain distance and struck at Muslan’s head with a precise, controlled swing—not a heavy blow, but a light tap meant to keep him at bay.
Muslan dodged with only a tilt of his head and caught the club in his gauntlet.
Rosad did not panic. He was accustomed to fighting with two weapons. Such situations were routine. He had countless counters prepared for when one weapon was pinned.
But Muslan’s next move shattered every expectation.
“What—?!”
Muslan yanked the club toward himself. Rosad was pulled forward effortlessly, resistance meaningless. The match ended in that instant.
Off-balance and dragged in, Rosad took a straight punch to the face. He did not rise again.
One blow.
A single strike transformed Rosad’s face into a crumpled mass. The power of the gauntlets.
A thunderous cheer erupted, followed by a rain of coins.
“Well done.”
Liscal smiled. Muslan answered with a silent nod.