The Troublesome Captive
Adamanthon's waist bent like a bow. No, it snapped 90 degrees like a boomerang. A strike so vicious I wondered if his spine hadn't come right off.
"And this one—oh, you're healing fast. Pretty sturdy, huh?"
Even after taking a punch like that, Adamanthon swung his sword with foam flecking his lips, a chilling gleam in his eyes. Esen had to pull back her follow-up. Her expression stayed relaxed, though.
That was Esen's fist—the one that had pulverized a troll's rock-hard skull. For a guy to tank that with raw durability... was he really human?
Of course he was. Just more than standard-issue. The world calls them heroes.
Their physical prowess was the ultimate upgrade over every combat aptitude out there. Transcendent forces on the battlefield, turning everyone else into side characters. Adamanthon's recent track record might suck, but he was still a hero—one rigorously trained for battle by his clan.
But just as sunlight can't reach every shadow, some martial arts exist beyond what talent alone can counter. Take that kick, for instance.
Esen's knee rocketed upward toward the sky—then halted abruptly in midair. A suspiciously merciful pause. Adamanthon, granted a split-second to react, desperately thrust out his longsword to shield his torso.
His gut, already battered enough to rupture organs. His head, the critical vital spot. But he never had a real choice to begin with.
Esen's question hadn't been multiple-choice. It was short-answer: where do you want to get hit?
Her instep slammed into the empty expanse of the hero's shin. The plate armor crumpled with a crack, unleashing raw kinetic force. A master Tigress warrior's superhuman leg strength. Even a hero's physique couldn't avoid a fracture.
"Nngaaaaah—!"
"This one's... well, you know."
Esen glanced my way. I wished she hadn't.
"Anyway, it's for a friend of mine. Says she's got a bone to pick with you."
...I had no idea if he'd figured out my identity swap. But listening to him spew that endless filth without a word? Yeah, I definitely wanted to grind both him and that "friend" into paste with Esen.
Was he drawing energy from the sheer vulgarity? Adamanthon, who'd spun half a turn before face-planting, staggered up with blood streaming from his lips, yapping nonstop.
"Sit down."
"You beastly bitch, I'll lay you out till you're sobbing and begging, then fuck every hole—"
"What're you gonna do with broken legs?"
And Adamanthon sat back down. His legs gave out on him. They'd bent in a direction legs aren't supposed to bend.
"Gaaahhh! Uwaaaah! Mooooommmmyyy!"
Mommy? For real? He actually said mommy? Veins bulging on his forehead and all?
"Oh, fuck me."
"Tan, no bad words."
"...Sorry, Sister. But after years of putting up with him, this feels damn good."
"Tell me about it."
As Adamanthon's screams sharpened, I instinctively looked up at the sky. We'd drifted far enough from the storm's range. The rain and wind were dying down, the thunder fading from my ears.
With Esen and Adamanthon's clash ending one-sidedly, the deck brawl had reached a lull. Crews from both sides huddled to port and starboard. But whose mood was brighter was obvious.
The attackers—minus a few whose vision was clearing—were on the defensive. Our side laughed with eyes wide open.
...We'd crossed the hump. For sure.
"I'll summon Meteor right here."
...Did the deck just shake? What did I just hear? Meteor?
A familiar face stepped up, sweat pouring down, blocking Adamanthon. Mindina. The boastful mage from his party—the one we'd parted on bad terms with after that awkward blush-fest not long ago. Recognition melted my unease away.
"I told you, you stinking peasant scum! The great mage before you is about to rain down a star on your ship! You wanna get crushed by a meteor? Drop your swords now!"
A one-sided demand for surrender. Her voice wavered with shaky, unconvincing confidence. The Handgun Party crew grumbled in disbelief but clearly hesitated. Whispers of "witch" rippled through, laced with fear.
Mages weren't as rare as heroes, but still elite. Laymen flinched at "meteor" alone. Superstitious sailors especially dreaded the supernatural.
But come on.
"Mindina, you're an enchanter, right?"
Even among fellow Mage aptitude holders, specialties split into dozens based on talent and taste. Battle mages who froze or incinerated fields. Magitech engineers chasing grand inventions. And... the less glamorous enchanters.
Enchanters could sharpen blades, warm air, spice up bland chicken. But Meteor?
What attribute do you enchant the sky with to drop meteors? Someone out there might have an answer, but not this girl. How did she bluff so shamelessly? At best, she could light Adamanthon's sword on fire.
I couldn't call her out loud. What if she spotted the crossdressing porter and screamed?
Of course, I couldn't stay silent forever. If her lie flipped the battle, it'd be worse than losing face or my job.
But before I could wrestle down my inner conflict and expose the bluff—
"How many cohorts?"
Rubbing her eyes irritably, Elf Nenya strode forward. Mindina froze at the long pointed ears.
"W-what?"
"What my ass. Talking back to a senior like that. Which mage tower, cohort number?"
Mindina just gaped, sweat streaming. Nenya dug in her long ear with a pinky, rolling her eyes.
"Never mind. Don't say it. Wherever you're from, whatever bitch spawned you, I'm senior to your dean. Meteor? Gravity magic at your age? You serious? What, you some prodigy rivaling Dreams of a Thousand Nights: Eneola?"
"Th-that's..."
"I get it. Obvious at a glance. Gotta cling to that hero connection. Poor girl with no options but bootstrapping it, burning through research funds as a mage to boot. But he's junk debt."
"Junk debt?"
"Oh boy, you don't even know bonds? IOUs from deadbeats who won't pay. Fine, rookie mercy—drop the staff and surrender. I'll pull strings to spare you the punishments that hero's near-massacre earned. Just you."
"...Fine, Meteor was a lie. But this staff's got a wide-area silence cast on it. I can choke you all out, clutching your throats! Don't underestimate an enchanter!"
"You won't regret saying that?"
"We're in the middle of the ocean, pointy-ears bitch! You half-assed pacifist who can only do racial tree magic—"
Shadow fell over Nenya's face. She snapped her fingers. Mindina's threatening staff snapped in two.
"Tree magic 'only'?"
The gem-studded head rolled to Nenya's feet. Mindina went blank, rigid.
"Wasn't that staff wood?"
Anyone not blind or deaf would've lost the will to fight. A few enemy sailors tossed their swords in defeat. But most gripped tighter, cornered desperation in their eyes.
Morgan stepped up to persuade them.
"Wouldn't surrendering nicely be smarter? Don't wanna live?"
"Bullshit. Someone like Tomco show mercy to challengers at sea?"
"Dad's not like that. He's officially a national hero now, sorta. How's this? First half who surrender, we drop at a decent uninhabited isle on shipping lanes. Rest go to our kingdom's jails. First come, first served."
"Fuck that, you bastard! Even if we surrender—"
"Even if?"
Morgan, zero fucks given, brushed off the insult. Her eyes lit up at the next bit instead.
But the enemies clammed up. Faces twisted in regret, like they'd slipped.
Bang.
Sudden gunshot from behind the foes, like a bolt from the blue. The attackers whipped around, startled. Hands shaking, they parted sideways.
"Even if we surrender, we won't survive. That's what they were gonna say. Bet you heard you'd get killed if you went back alive."
Clack. Clack.
Chilling click of shoe heels on deck. Blood-red pumps, green longcoat. Massive-brimmed hat, hooked nose. In those gnarled hands: one gripped the blonde healer nun's nape. The other...
Adamanthon's scalp—legs gone, foaming, passed out?
"Your commander's trying to sneak off. Healed his legs with the priestess's help, then used you as meat shields. After daring to raid my ship like this."
Captain Tomco scanned the crowd. He dropped the nun and Adamanthon like trash.
"Won't take the surrender offer? Fine. Drop swords now, or I'll rip your limbs off myself and string 'em from the mast. The sun'll roast you slow. Unless whoever hired you promises worse—keep holding those blades."
The enemies hurled their swords without hesitation. About damn time.
Meanwhile, the freed nun scrambled to Adamanthon, sniffling. But no regrowing those gunshot-severed legs. All she could do was staunch the long blood trail on deck.
I knew her. Sister Moriba. Adamanthon's party healer—the one who'd led the smear campaign against me.
Blood wouldn't stop. Desperate, Moriba scanned around for help. Spotting the nun habit, she shot pleading eyes at Sister Monica.
First time I'd seen that look from her. But Sister just shook her head.
"He's alive."
"Yup."
"Indeed."
In front of our incredulous stares, the upside-down Adamanthon bellowed heartily.
"I was wrong! Spare me!"
After claiming the spoils, the Handgun Party exercised victor's rights and scuttled both enemy ships. Now they were all in Tomco's clutches.
But like they'd made a pact with underworld gods, no matter how gruesomely Tomco threatened, they wouldn't crack. They whimpered at words like "shark" or "sawn," clearly attached to life.
Captain and Morgan concluded something was off. They decided to interrogate the chattiest one.
Adamanthon.
"First off, I'm from the Sunsstorm clan. Let me write one letter to Father. He'll pay good ransom!"
"Do I look like some penny-pinching pirate to you?"
"Of course not, Captain Tomco! You're noble, honorable—"
"Wrong. I don't keep honor or take ransoms. Right now, I'm just wondering how many pieces to tear you into before tossing you overboard so you never surface. Middle of the ocean here. No harbor drop-off, no evidence."
Adamanthon's face went ashen.
"Now give me a reason to let you live."
His face lit up ghostly white. Then he shouted proudly.
"My backers are the Solar Church!"
Tomco actually looked baffled, glancing at our party. Nidroga, weak on human logic, and Esen, no idiot despite the teasing, both looked troubled.
Only three nodded calmly. Me. And the wrist-bound Moriba and Mindina—instead of hanging.
Adamanthon veterans. He smirked like his confession solved everything, eyes begging "when do I go home?"
Tomco sighed, tilting toward me.
"He always this much of a tool?"
"Pretty much. Not low IQ."
"Sure?"
"...A bit dim, but less intellect, more twisting situations to suit himself."
"Not dumb, just ignorant?"
"Basically believes hero fate bends to him."
"Fucking hell. Sunsstorms spawning retards."
"But where were you the whole fight, old man?"
Esen slyly poked her head in. Days ago, he'd have eyed the newbie warily. Now, just flat response. Guess he'd treat our party with straight respect for a while.
"Heroes sense heroes. Usually no one but heroes can handle 'em anyway. Felt him boarding straightaway. Decided to target the chess king."
"Hiding your ace. To snag the enemy leader."
Even the healers blinded by that freakish flash—only Moriba and Mindina had covered up, expecting Adamanthon's bullshit. Amid the storm's worst, Tomco had gambled big, ready for wipeout.
But tides didn't turn his way. Thanks to our party's heroics. And...
"How'd you think this half-assed prep could take us? Casualties sure, but you beating Dad? Never crossed my mind. Blinding everyone—how'd you plan to sail home?"
Adamanthon's absurd arrogance. Morgan prodded him, shaking her head. The hero swung like a pendulum from the pantry hook.
"So, Solar Church? Mitra's goons sent you? Why?"
"I volunteered. Our goals aligned."
"What goals?"
Adamanthon launched into rambling nonsense. Everyone else lost words again. Endless repetition of his one-man secrets. Summarizing the salvageable bits...
"Snake bite?"
"Lost my potency?"
"Pissed you off that bad?"
"Exactly! Finally you get—"
Tomco whipped out his three-barrel handgun and fired without pause. Another leg gone. Adamanthon shrieked, voice cracking true.
We shielded Sister's eyes and ears in time amid her startled yelp. But I couldn't cover my own.
Fuck my life. Twice now with this nightmare fuel.
Still, a petty corner of my mind thought: at least it's Adamanthon. Even in dreams, not full nightmare.
Tomco growled, barely holding back a headshot.
"Nobody. Nobody cares about your crotch drama. Just why you targeted our ship—"
"Succubus Queen—! The Queen! Secure her seal! Mitra cult fanatics crave it bad—!"
Confession quick as ever. Legless Adamanthon bellowed earnestly. But tacked on useless crap.
Did he miss the point through blood loss, or that much resentment?
"They said it'd revive my snakebite-dead dick too—!"