Hunting Dog Najin (2)
In the underground city of Atman, even morning wore the colors of sunset.
What lit Atman's sunless mornings was not sunlight but lamps fueled by ore, and the light those ores cast was the light of dusk. And so Atman was forever steeped in sunset glow.
Those who had forgotten the sun would remember it by the artificial twilight of the ore lamps.
Of course, none of that applied to the boy walking the streets now. Born in the underground city, never having known the outside, he had never once laid eyes on the sun.
"Letter delivery."
Early morning. Streets dyed in sunset light.
The boy in a postman's uniform, Najin, was pounding on the door of a tavern. A postman's virtue would have been to tuck the letter away and leave if no one answered—but the boy kept hammering without pause.
"Who the hell is it?!"
A man who could finally take no more flung the door open. He seized the postman by the collar and hauled him up.
"You little shit, you could've just stuck it in the door and left, but no, you gotta make a—"
The man's words died unfinished.
The boy whose collar he held lifted the postman's cap he had jammed down low, revealing his face. The moment his eyes met Najin's, the man's expression went rigid.
"Carbin."
Najin spoke the man's name. Looking at him, the boy smiled.
"Trixie's inside, right?"
"…What about Boss Trixie?"
"I've got a letter from Ivan. Addressed to Trixie."
"…"
Carbin shifted his gaze into the tavern without a word. After a brief exchange of looks with his boss seated inside, he let out a long sigh and released Najin's collar.
"Boss says come in."
"Oh. Got anything to drink? I'm a little thirsty."
"…Tsk."
Clicking his tongue, Carbin still headed for the kitchen. While he went to fetch water, Najin strolled into the tavern with an easy gait. The place was packed with men who each carried at least one blade at their hip.
Seven or eight, by a rough count.
Under the weight of their sharp stares, Najin made his unhurried way to the center of the room and dropped onto the guest sofa there.
"Nice sofa, Trixie."
"High-end piece. Cost a fortune."
The reply came from the middle-aged man seated across from him. Trixie, as he was called, swirled his glass and narrowed his eyes.
"So what's this about, Najin?"
"I already told you, Trixie."
Najin slipped a hand into his coat. The men watching him flinched, their hands drifting toward the blades at their hips. Najin glanced at the movement and let out a short laugh.
"I said I've got a letter from Ivan."
What he drew out was only a letter. He waved it in front of them as if to say, relax. The tension did not ease. Everyone present knew the truth: the boy wore a postman's disguise, but he was no postman.
The underground city of Atman.
This place, little more than a lawless zone held together by the barest minimum of rules, was ruled by three strongmen. One of them was the man known as One-eyed Ivan. And the boy sitting before them was someone no one in Ivan's family could fail to recognize.
"Trixie."
Trixie himself belonged to Ivan's organization, so he knew exactly what kind of person this boy was—the kind who could speak Ivan's name so freely.
"I told you to keep it quiet. Just a little."
Ivan's right hand.
"This time you went too far."
The organization's collector.
"Snatching kids, gutting them, and selling the parts? Come on. You know what Ivan hates most. You crossed the line."
The executioner in a postman's skin.
Ivan's hunting dog.
The boy they called that—Najin—sighed and tapped the table with his fingers. Watching him, Trixie clicked his tongue.
Arrogant little brat…
He was not Ivan's equal, but he was a merchant whose name carried weight in these parts, and he held a high seat in the organization. He could not exactly warm to a boy who treated him with such insolence.
But he could not say so out loud.
The boy sat before him as Ivan's proxy, and he had the skill to back it up. Trixie wet his throat with liquor and spoke.
"So what is it you want to say?"
"I just wanted to ask. Why'd you do it?"
"A merchant only ever has one reason for anything. I thought that way would put more money in my hands."
"That's the only reason?"
"Do I need another?"
Trixie shrugged.
"You'll understand when you've lived a little longer, kid. When an easy path shows itself, people take it. Gut a few brats and gold coins come pouring out—why the hell wouldn't you?"
"You know what happens when you shove your foot into something just because it looks easy. Ankle comes right off."
"Never can let anyone have the last word, can you."
"Ivan taught me that way."
Thock.
Trixie set his glass down on the table. The ice inside it clinked. He was tired of circling. Time for the point.
"So what did Boss Ivan say?"
"Want me to read it?"
"That'd be fine."
Trixie jerked his chin. Najin snapped the letter open and cleared his throat.
Trixie.
Your three chances are over.
An ultimatum.
"…"
What came next needed no hearing. Trixie gave a look. In that instant the men ringing Najin drew their blades from their hips. Carbin, who had gone off under the pretext of fetching water, threw open the tavern's back door.
Creeeak.
Five more men stepped in from beyond the open door, large blades in their hands. Glancing at them, Najin went on.
"'Spit out every coin you made. In light of past goodwill, I will spare your life'… is what it says. So what will you do, Trixie?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Trixie gestured. With a heavy clack, both the front and back doors of the tavern locked tight. The intent was plain: he had sealed Najin's escape routes in advance.
"Oof."
Najin clucked his tongue.
Thirteen of Trixie's men surrounded him now. He let their murderous stares wash over him and gave a hollow laugh.
"Trixie, you got someone backing you? Pointing a blade at me is the same as pointing it at Ivan."
"I found a better boss than Ivan—one who doesn't waste time on useless rules."
"Trap-spider Horce? Druggy Hakan?"
The other two strongmen who ruled the underground city.
Trixie did not bother answering whose wing he had taken. Instead he only smiled, as if in pity.
"What a waste, Najin."
"Yeah. Really…"
The moment Najin set the letter down, all thirteen men charged him at once. Watching the cheap tavern light gleam off their blades, Najin let out a long breath.
"Sorry about this, Trixie."
Najin's foot moved.
Bang!
He kicked the table between himself and Trixie straight up into the air. The glass on it shattered, water spraying in every direction.
A table hanging in midair.
Droplets scattering the lamplight.
For a single instant, Trixie's eyes were stolen by them—and in that instant he heard it. A sickening slice. Something heavy hitting the floor along with the table. The scream came late.
"H-hyaaaaaaah!"
What fell with the table that had risen and crashed down was someone's arm. The man whose arm had been severed howled.
The scream did not last long.
Crack—Najin's kick caved in the screaming man's face. Head snapping back, one of the subordinates crashed down. In an instant, one was down. Twelve left.
"S-swamp him!"
"Fuck, this brat—!"
"Get in there!"
The men who had recoiled from the airborne table charged Najin again. His eyes stayed fixed on Trixie, who was slowly backing away.
"Trixie."
Najin smiled.
"If you run, it won't end with just you."
Ivan's hunting dog bared its teeth.
The lamp hanging from the tavern ceiling swayed precariously. With every flicker of its shadow, a scream rang out. Screams. Frantic footfalls. The crash and shatter of things breaking.
"Gyaaaaaaah!"
"Crazy bastard…!"
Blood sprayed in long arcs.
The spray painted the tables, the bottles, the window glass a dark red. Amid the reek of blood and the screaming, Trixie's eyes trembled.
Every time he blinked, another man went down.
Severed arms and legs lay strewn about in a filthy scatter. Men who still charged after losing an arm took Najin's knee to the face and jaw. The way Najin moved through the falling bodies was beyond strange—it was unnerving.
He slipped between the blades swinging at him as if sliding on ice. With a light step, he brought his raised foot down on a man's knee.
Crrrack!
With a sickening sound the knee bent the wrong way. As the man collapsed screaming, Najin's knee drove into his face. Before the fallen man's head, eyes rolled back, had even finished hitting the floor—
Slash.
The arm of a man who had lunged for an opening went spinning through the air. Through the spray of blood, Najin could be seen already swinging his sword. An instant later he slammed off the floor and charged.
Every motion of it was wrong.
Fast. Far too fast.
Trixie had thought the rumors exaggerated. The opposite was true. Once more than half his men were down, cold sweat ran the length of his spine.
Insane.
Trixie backed away.
Thirteen. Fully thirteen men. He had heard the stories about this Najin kid being a monster, but he had still believed numbers like this would be more than enough.
Thirteen—and half of them were organization men Trap-spider had sent. Seasoned blades who had eaten steel for years at Horce's side were going down in one or two exchanges.
I miscalculated.
He had to admit it now.
His calculations had been wrong. The brat was more of a monster than he had thought. Backing away was no longer enough—Trixie spun and ran for the door.
But—clack.
He grabbed the handle and twisted. The door would not open. The door he had locked only moments ago so the intruder could not flee now held the tavern's own master fast.
"Shit…!"
Trixie swore and fumbled at his belt. He had just managed to pull the key free and was reaching for the lock when—
Wham!
Something slammed into the wall right beside him. Motion frozen, Trixie slowly turned his head. There was the face of a subordinate he prized—not one of Trap-spider's men, but his own: Carbin.
Carbin's forehead was split open and bleeding. Their eyes met. Trixie slowly looked back.
Ivan's hunting dog stood there.
"I told you—if you run, it doesn't end with just you. Do I have to start saying your son's name? Your wife's?"
"You little…"
The one who had driven Carbin's head into the door—and who still held that head in one hand—looked at Trixie with tired eyes. Trixie's gaze went past Najin's shoulder.
"Uuuugh…"
"G-gh…"
No one was left standing.
But no one was dead, either.
The men sprawled and groaning might have been half-crippled, but they were all still alive. Trixie knew instinctively that he would not be afforded the same mercy.
The boy before him was Ivan's proxy. And Ivan never showed restraint with the one in charge.
The one in charge here was him. There would be no escaping the responsibility. Sensing death, Trixie let out a hollow laugh. Strength left his legs; he slumped against the door and sat.
"…"
Looking down at him, Najin yanked Carbin up by the hair he had driven into the door. Splinters of wood stuck in Carbin's face as he groaned; Najin patted his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Carbin."
Meeting the terrified man's eyes, Najin said shortly,
"I told you I was thirsty."
Carbin nodded hard.
When Najin let him go, Carbin limped off toward a corner of the tavern—this time actually to fetch water.
"Haa…"
Najin let out a long breath and pushed his hair back. Wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve, he crouched to meet Trixie's eye level.
"Why start something this pointless and make a mess for me? Trixie, you were never this bad at counting."
"Heh… heh heh…"
Trixie gave a dry laugh.
"Crazy bastard. Anyone normal would figure thirteen men was enough to put down one of you."
"Even if the one opposite them was Ivan?"
"That monster's the exception."
"Then you should've made me an exception too."
Trixie burst out laughing.
What kind of man was Ivan, the one who ruled this underground city? In the past, Ivan had been a knight who made a name for himself on the surface. Unlike the rabble, he was a power among powers, a man who could draw sword aura.
Looking at this green brat who put himself on the same level as a man like that, Trixie could only laugh.
And yet, at the same time—
he could not wholly deny what Najin had said.
The boy before him possessed a strange gift for the blade. Given a proper education, he would clearly climb high—a genius with a talent that shone.
But.
This was the underground city of Atman.
No matter how brilliant the gift, those abandoned here or born here could never leave this city.
And so, in this city, talent was nothing but a joke.
"Heh heh… Najin."
Sensing his death, Trixie chose mockery over pleading. With a sneer on his face he opened his mouth, working a jaw that shook as he loaded the words with scorn.
"You'll spend the rest of your life in this place—"
The sentence never finished.
Najin's sword point punched through Trixie's throat. Choking on blood, Trixie forced out a strangled sound and toppled sideways.
Blood welled and soaked the tavern floor.
Only when Trixie stopped moving did Najin draw the blade from the corpse's neck.
"I know, Trixie."
Muttering that, Najin slowly rose. When he turned, Carbin was holding out a cup of water with hands that would not stop shaking. Najin jerked his chin at him.
"Y-yes…?"
"Take a sip first."
Carbin hastily drank. He had been told one sip and emptied nearly half the cup; Najin frowned. No poison, then.
"Thanks, Carbin."
Najin took the cup before Carbin could drain the rest. Sipping what remained, he looked around the room.
"You'll want the cleanup done before the day's out. Ivan doesn't seem to want this place shut down, so… tidy it up clean and take it over yourself."
"M-me, sir?"
"That's why I left your arms attached."
Najin tapped Carbin's arm with the flat of his sword. Carbin's eyes went wide. In a room full of half-cripples, only Carbin still had all four limbs intact.
"And by 'cleanup' I mean the money you made from that filth—and your ties to Trap-spider Horce. Don't make me come do this twice, Carbin."
Trap-spider Horce.
Trixie had never said whose side he had taken, but Najin's look said he had known all along. Carbin swallowed hard and nodded.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Yeah. Please do."
Najin stood as if bone-tired.
Only after he opened the door and stepped outside did Carbin's legs give way; he collapsed where he stood. It felt as if a storm had torn through the place and moved on.