Catastrophe (2)
A sharp pain flared in my side—the parting gift of an enemy blade from moments ago. Every time my muscles contracted or relaxed, the wound asserted its presence, feeling as though a red-hot iron plate had been pressed against my flesh. My body screamed in agony, but in return, it moved with greater agility. That was why I welcomed the pain. I used it to whip myself further. Faster. Sharper. I forced my limbs to move, utterly disregarding the torment. Scalding blood seeped from the gaping laceration. Yet, as my body heated up, my senses sharpened. Every single movement of my enemies became crystal clear: the way they shifted their weight, pulling a foot back; the contraction of arm muscles before a thrust; the split-second glance toward their next target. Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion.
Rudbeck’s next attack is a thrust. Evade to the side. Is that nameless bastard going for a horizontal slash? The trajectory is obvious; it’ll be easy to block. I didn’t stop thinking for even a single second. Anger is a powerful fuel, but it is cold reason that must steer it. I calculated which movements would kill my opponents most efficiently. Seizing upon a microscopic hesitation—a fraction of a second’s gap between their attacks—I launched a counteroffensive. Rudbeck hastily parried my blade. Had it not been for his interference, his lackey would have lost an eye. The man scrambled backward in a panic.
Fortunately, the sun hasn’t set yet. With a slight shift of my eyes, I could track their shadows. I aggressively lunged at Rudbeck, simultaneously widening the gap between myself and the lackey trying to flank me. Both opponents were larger than me, which meant they had a superior reach—the frustrating limitation of this underdeveloped body. To overcome this disadvantage, I had to force a messy dogfight. Dozens of clashes ensued. Whenever they tried to back away, I slipped into their broken stances; when they closed the distance, I tried to grapple them. Grappling is a complex martial art. No matter how young I was, there was no way a street-level mercenary could match someone who had received a systematic education from a prestigious noble family. Rudbeck was wary of my grip. I executed an upward slash from below. Blocked. I twisted the blade to attempt a thrust. Good. Rudbeck twisted his body to dodge, leaving his legs poorly defended. I kicked his shin and slammed my pommel onto the back of his hand. If I had gone a bit deeper, I could have drawn some blood. Without lingering regret, I rolled to the side. A second later, and a blade would have pierced my stomach. I had briefly considered taking the hit since it didn’t look fatal, but I wasn’t sure how much more abuse this body could take.
“Tch. Nobody told me you were this good,” Rudbeck spat.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Your mouth smells like a sewer.”
“Arrogant little shit. Let’s see how long you can keep that tongue of yours wagging.”
“With your skills? You won’t live to see it.”
The sound of clashing swords rang out in irregular, frantic rhythms. Steel ground against steel with murderous intent, growling with raw Killing Intent. Yet, neither side managed to draw blood. My attacks were constantly interrupted, and their strikes lacked the necessary sharpness. An opportunity to land a fatal blow was nowhere to be seen. It was a stalemate. I made a cold assessment. This was bad. The longer this dragged on, the more disadvantageous it became for me. It would be different if Therion killed the two enemies at the cabin and came to support me, but realistically, the chances of that were slim. Sirien and Hena were in that cabin. A fight where you have something to protect is always a losing battle. If Sirien were to be taken hostage, it would be all over. If anything, I was the one who needed to wrap this up and hurry to them.
There is... a potential solution. Scanning my surroundings, a gamble came to mind. Even as I parried Rudbeck’s sword and deflected the lackey’s kick, I calculated the odds. It was a risk worth taking. Once decided, there was no reason to hesitate. My target should be the lackey rather than Rudbeck; his defense was relatively sloppy. If I could incapacitate just one of them, I could turn the tide. First, I swung my sword in a wide arc, forcing Rudbeck to back off. A heavy strike always came with a price—it was a fundamental law of swordsmanship that a larger movement left a larger opening. Rudbeck’s lackey lunged, taking the bait. The strike wasn’t particularly fierce. If I shifted my body slightly, it would only result in a shallow stab to my left forearm. I’ll give it to him. I was right-handed. As long as I could still swing my sword, I could afford to sacrifice my left arm. A swordsman is most vulnerable right after an attack. The fact that he stabbed my arm meant his blade was temporarily bound. A sharp pain flared in my forearm from the sudden movement; the wound was tearing open. My counterattack was blocked with a clear metallic ring. The bastard wasn’t an idiot; he immediately withdrew his sword to focus on defense. But the position where it was blocked was perfect. Next was a thrust. If I pushed forward like this, I could pierce his throat. Because of my small body, my reach was slightly lacking. It didn’t matter. This was what I had aimed for from the start. I thrust my sword forward with all my might, as if throwing a spear, and let go of the hilt at the perfect moment.
“Keugh!”
The sword, which briefly sailed through the air, embedded itself deep into the man’s throat. A fatal wound. Forget fighting; he would draw his last breath in moments. There was no need to double-check his status. I didn’t forget that there were still two enemies. I saw Rudbeck’s shadow stretching toward my feet. Since I had thrown my sword, I had no means to counter his attack. I sprinted a few paces and rolled along the ground. My target was the corpse of the first man I had killed. I drew the sword from the dead man’s waist and spun around, swinging it based purely on instinct.
Clang!
The tip of my blade met his. A successful defense. Rudbeck’s face contorted in fury.
“Now it’s one-on-one, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Haa... Haa...”
My heart felt like it was about to burst. I had lost a significant amount of blood, and my stamina was severely depleted. The edges of my vision blurred, and my hands refused to cooperate. In the frantic scramble to recover my broken stances, I had sustained numerous minor injuries. Although I had avoided fatal wounds, the bleeding from various parts of my body wouldn’t stop. It would be dangerous if I didn’t treat them soon, but I didn’t have the luxury of time. My legs threatened to buckle, forcing me to use my sword as a cane. I took a brief breath and dragged myself forward. My legs felt exceptionally heavy.
Thud. Thud.
How many times did those heavy footsteps echo before a groveling voice reached my ears?
“P-please... spare me.”
It was Rudbeck. The bastard, whose ankle had been severed, was sprawled at my feet. He was a wretched sight. Just as my body was covered in wounds, his situation was no different. Both of us were drenched in blood. The only difference was that I could still fight. Rudbeck seemed to have tried to crawl away; a long, smeared trail of crimson stretched out behind him. Thinking about how he must have squirmed on the ground like a bug, I felt a pang of regret. I should have witnessed that sight. I brought my foot down, stomping heavily on his back.
My original plan was to kill Rudbeck as painfully as possible. First, I would tear his mouth open, and then I would slowly figure out the rest. That desire hadn’t vanished. If I could, I wanted to torture him right here and now. But I didn’t have the time.
“Stay still. You’re making me miss,” I muttered.
“Please, please spare me! Don’t you want to know something from me? I’ll tell you everything! Anything!”
“Information?”
“Yes! I’ll tell you everything, so just spare my life. I was wrong, I’m sorry!”
No. I didn’t need it. I was briefly tempted, as keeping him alive to extract information didn’t sound like a bad idea. But I doubted Count Roxen would have leaked any critical information to a mercenary like this. Even if this bastard had succeeded in killing us all, wouldn’t he have been disposed of by the Count soon after anyway? There was no reason to keep a spent tool alive. At least, that’s what I would have done. In any case, I already knew the Count had betrayed us. There was nothing more to find out.
“I’m not interested. I have a lot to do. Let’s just keep our promise and end this.”
I grabbed Rudbeck’s hair and yanked his head back. He gave me a desperate, pleading look. His mouth moved, shouting something—it might have been begging, or perhaps curses, but I couldn’t hear it clearly. My head was ringing too loudly to make out any words. More than anything, I didn’t care what he had to say. What did he expect? If he wanted to live so badly, he should have watched his mouth.
I forced his mouth open and slowly drove the blade inside. Into the mouth. From the mouth to the throat. From the throat to the esophagus. From the esophagus to the heart.
As the blade sank deep, blood welled up and overflowed from his lips. When the sword finally pierced his heart, his body went limp, and his breathing stopped. I waited, watching until the focus in his eyes completely vanished, before pulling the sword out. I wiped the blood off on his cloak.
Now I have to go help Therion.
The sword felt incredibly heavy, dragging along the dirt. It felt as if all the strength had drained from my body. Still, walking in a daze, I managed to reach the vicinity of the cabin.
“Kyaaaaaaaah!”
Would it have been better if I had come just a bit faster? It was Hena’s scream.