The Self-Proclaimed Wandering Knight, Don Quixote
The self-proclaimed "Wandering Knight" Don Quixote. A wandering knight is one who leaves their home to roam the world, reciting chivalric codes. They were honorable, exalted knights like the Knights of the Round Table from ancient times—names that live and breathe only in legends. Symbols of justice, honor, loyalty, and sacrifice... but the man standing before me now fell woefully short by comparison.
First off, his armament... He wore armor crudely pieced together from scrap metal plates. The shine had long faded, and rust had blackened patches here and there. His cloak bore visible stitch marks from countless repairs, its frayed threads fluttering lightly in the breeze. His helmet sat crooked, ill-fitting, and the spear tip was uneven from repeated sharpenings. Honestly, when he charged with that spear in hand, I thought the bandits might actually kill him.
Three bandits, reeking of booze and blood. Their grips on their swords showed no hesitation. They knew exactly where to aim for lethal blows—movements honed not by knightly training, but by brutal familiarity with violence.
By contrast, Don Quixote's stance was a touch exaggerated. Shoulders thrust back too far, feet planted wider than necessary, spear held unnecessarily high. Poses meant to look knightly. And that exaggeration only made him seem more unsteady.
Yet he didn't stop.
"You vile wretches!" His voice rang out across the square. It cracked slightly, but rang clear. "Is tormenting the weak your idea of justice?!"
Justice. He uttered the word without a second thought.
Ha. A devil contractor preaching justice. How ironic.
One bandit sneered and spat. "Here we go again."
"Quit playing knight, old man!"
"Should we finish him for real this time?"
The three scattered in unison—two from the flanks, one head-on. Don Quixote thrust his spear. Shk. The tip gouged deep into one bandit's shoulder. Blood sprayed. A scream and curses erupted simultaneously.
He spun the shaft immediately, knocking aside the wrist of the one lunging from the side. Clang! Metal rang out. The sword flew from the bandit's grasp.
In that moment, I realized it. This man had fought before. More than once or twice. His body reacted on instinct. He read their weight shifts, their foot placements, without thinking.
One bandit swung a club at him. It smashed into his shoulder with a thud. A short groan escaped him. His knee buckled.
...He held. I judged unconsciously. His shoulder blade endured, but the impact was heavy. The bandit sneered. "This your chivalry?!"
Before the words finished, Don Quixote gritted his teeth. The bravado vanished. His eyes sharpened. He lowered his spear and charged. His foot dug into the dirt, propelling him forward. The tip pierced the bandit's gut deep. Blood fountained. The man screamed and collapsed.
The remaining two rushed him together. Swords flashed. Don Quixote twisted to dodge one, battering the other's elbow with his spear shaft. A dull crack of bone on wood. His breaths came ragged, echoing loud across the square.
...He's definitely not using the contract's power. No wonder the village treats him kindly.
I glanced at his back. He never once turned it. Never retreated toward the village. Always forward.
One bandit began backing away, eyes wide with fear. That's when Don Quixote, panting, turned to me. He grinned, lifting the corner of his mouth. His face was smeared with sweat and blood. Yet somehow, he looked proud.
"Did you see that, Executioner?!"
His expression was childlike, exhilarated. The face of a boy insisting, I'm the real deal.
"Ah... yes... Not bad at all."
"Hahaha! Acknowledged by the Empire's mightiest, the Executioner herself! As expected of this Don Quixote..."
Shut up. I narrowed my eyes slightly and fixed on the last bandit. My stress relief.
"I'll handle the finale. You look tired."
The lone bandit stood in the square's center, amid blood-soaked dirt. He'd already lost the will to fight. His face calculated odds, searching for survival chances. I'd seen those eyes countless times. Run? Kneel? Last desperate lunge?
I exhaled once. The blood reek thickened. Don Quixote still puffed out his chest. Sweat-matted hair clung to his forehead; his shoulder was clearly injured. Yet he forced a smile.
"N-no need for that..."
"Quiet."
"W-wait just—"
The bandit took a step back. Shlk!
"Ugh, fuck..." His foot slipped on his comrade's blood. Balance shattered. He stood there awkwardly, undecided—kneel, charge, or flee?
"You... fucking...!" He bared his teeth and lunged at me. Despair-fueled charge. An attack even he didn't believe in. His blade rose toward my throat.
If you bring a blade...
I'll match it. I raised my hand like a blade toward his neck. And swung.
Ziiing— The sensation of slicing flesh came first. Soft. Then bone cracked, flesh parted again. My hand traced a perfect arc without resistance.
Splatter!!! Blood from his neck arced like a crescent moon across the ground.
"..."
Only then did Don Quixote's smile fade. The forced grin drooped like limp thread.
I lowered my hand. Blood on my palm congealed, cooling. Thud. The bandit's body pitched forward into the dirt. A dull sound. Only then did the villagers' held breaths follow.
"Urp... blegh..."
"Crazy... mon... monster..."
"Kyaaah!"
Some gasped. Some covered children's eyes. No one covered Don Quixote's.
Something trembled deep in his eyes. Fear. He already knew my power. The Empire's strongest. The Executioner. By rumor, tale, legend. But knowing and seeing were different. Watching an enemy he'd fought full-tilt get ended in an instant, by someone they couldn't even touch.
That temperature gap. That chasm. He felt it now, viscerally.
Is this quick? The mad swordmaster only realized at the end, last time.
I flicked my wrist lightly. Red droplets fell. Plip. Plip. Don Quixote's gaze followed them.
"...You're no human."
"Not something a contractor should say."
And he's the one I came to fight. Worthy of the Execution Sword, meant only for the Emperor's foes. Though I didn't need it here.
I held out the document to the dazed Don Quixote.
"Custom gives three days to settle human affairs, assets, property, and wills."
"...Ha. I have none of that."
...As expected.
"Then wait out your end within my detection range."
Anywhere on this continent, I'll find you. I never forget a blood scent once caught.
Don Quixote pondered briefly. No one rushed their final affairs. Mercy reserved for the friendly.
"...Before I go, I'd like to wipe out the rest of the bandits."
"Understood."
"And say goodbye to the village children..."
His voice was low. No bombast filling the square. No exaggeration, no laughter. Just a cautious request.
"Confident I'll catch you if you run?" He gave a wry smile as he asked.
I tilted my head. "Confident you can escape?"
"No... Forget I asked."
Don Quixote chuckled awkwardly a few times, then turned toward the village. I didn't reply. I watched his receding back.
The back that had crossed the square moments ago. The back that charged the bandits. Now it looked strangely small. The bandage on his shoulder still seeped red; his cloak was filthy with blood and dirt. Yet he straightened deliberately. As if unhurt. As if this were normal.
"Hey, everyone! Victory again!"
Don Quixote's voice echoed through the village alleys. The trembling breath from before me, the fading smile—gone. He'd refastened the knight's mask firmly.
Back straighter, steps deliberately large. Despite the blood-soaked bandage, no sign of pain.
Doors creaked open. Clack, thud— one after another, as if in rehearsed order. Villagers emerged, those who'd peeked anxiously through cracks now stepping toward their "knight."
Fear and relief mingled on their faces, but pointed the same way. Glances at me were fleeting. They brushed over my silver hair and uniform, then locked on Don Quixote.
That was the village's choice.
"Aigoo, hurt again!"
A middle-aged woman rushed first, grabbing his arm. Rough hands, etched with labor. Seeing the bandage end, Don Quixote opened his mouth as if to shout "I'm fine!"—but met her eyes and closed it meekly.
"Haha... Just a scratch."
"Scratch? You say that every time."
She tsked. The sound held anger, but not hate. Worry that she couldn't hold onto a living soul.
"Come in. Water's hot."
"Ah, no, this body—"
"In, now."
The house he was led into was among the larger in the village. Larger, but still far smaller and lower than an Imperial Palace storeroom. Smoke rose from the chimney; warm light leaked through window cracks.
"Sit there. Sit!"
"Aigoo, that blood smell... Clothes off first. No, keep the cloak on! Rip it again and what'll we do?!"
"Haha! A knight's cloak—"
"Knight this, knight that—herbs first!"
The scent of herbs wafted on the wind. Fresh and bitter.
...Chivalry.
There must be reasons, a backstory for contracting with a devil. But I swing the blade at contractors. I don't want to hear their stories. Understanding changes things.
I peeled myself from the wall and peered through the window. Laughter and chatter, bright faces. A scene I'd shatter in three days.
Kill the man they called justice's guardian.
...What is justice?
Just another day on the job, yet strangely... a faint pang echoed in my quiet heart.