Hunter, or Prey (4)
Ranger.
What Najin knew about them was not much.
Only the barest fundamentals: that Rangers handled dirtier, darker work than knights. That they excelled at stealth, assassination of key targets, trapcraft, and ambush. That was the sum of it.
Rangers are troublesome.
And if he added a little more:
Yeah. Troublesome. Hard to put into words, but Rangers are just… troublesome. You know that famous saying?
Not every fight is decided by realm.
In most situations that’s pure bullshit. But when you’re up against Rangers? Suddenly it isn’t.
The information he had heard from Ivan and Oppen.
Those bastards are hunters.
A Ranger is a hunter.
When a hunter goes after a beast, does he face it head-on? Locking eyes with a boar and swinging a sword at it from the front? That’s just some crazy bastard, not a hunter.
A hunter hunts thoroughly.
He memorizes the target’s habits, traits, movements, routes, tics—every tiny weakness…
Ivan had pointed a finger at Najin’s temple.
Bang.
He mimed loosing a crossbow bolt and grinned.
Then he pulls the trigger.
Click.
At the sound of a crossbow being cocked behind him, Najin turned his head. There stood Kaufman, loading a bolt into the weapon. The crossbow was not aimed at him, yet Najin felt a strange, cold prickle of dread.
“What is it?”
“…The crossbow. It’s unusual.”
Najin deflected the conversation without thinking.
“I’ve never seen one that large before.”
“You wouldn’t. They’re normally mounted on castle walls.”
What Kaufman held was a heavy crossbow—comparable in size to the ballistae fixed on ramparts for interception—yet he carried it slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
Ordinary strength couldn’t manage that.
Najin could not quite picture anyone gripping a weapon of that bulk with both hands and loosing bolts without a support frame. The recoil alone should have sent the shooter stumbling backward or flat on the ground.
Impossible for a normal human.
Those who did such things casually were superhumans, and Sword Seekers stood on the threshold of that realm. Anyone regarded as their equal would find it no great difficulty.
Najin and Kaufman walked the waterway in silence. First they needed to descend into the deeper reaches of the underground channels.
Whooosh…
The sound of flowing water filled the tunnels, yet neither man’s footsteps made a sound. Both were masters at erasing their presence. Because Najin walked ahead, he never noticed Kaufman’s gaze fixed intently on the way he moved.
“Were you with the Shadow Bureau?”
Kaufman, who had been watching him carefully, asked the question out of nowhere. Najin stopped mid-stride at the sudden probe.
“Keep walking. We can talk while we move.”
“…”
“I asked if you used to belong to the Shadow Bureau. Your footwork looks a lot like the Church’s shadow operatives. Similar… no. Better than those bastards, actually.”
Kaufman muttered the observation with lazy indifference.
“You’ve got quite the story written all over you.”
“Why bring that up all of a sudden…?”
“Identity unknown. Not a single record. Age, name, even realm—all unclear. Lucky for you a noble high enough to run the Cambria Foundation vouched for you…”
Kaufman let out a short snort of laughter.
“Otherwise you’d have had a rough time. Speaking from experience. I came in under a false identity myself and got put through the wringer.”
And in the end it all came out anyway.
You already know who I am, don’t you? Kaufman seemed to say as much while he exhaled a long, drawn-out breath.
“I’m not looking for an answer, so don’t bother spinning your head for one. Just think of it as an old man rambling.”
“Is that so.”
“That’s how it is. Wait till you’re my age. You start talking more. You end up chatting about nothing when there’s no real need.”
The underground waterway stretched endlessly downward.
“Maybe it’s the loneliness, or maybe a man just gets more sentimental… Sometimes I even end up talking to the target of a commission, you know?”
They still had a fair distance to the deepest parts, so Kaufman kept going. It was less a conversation seeking exchange than a monologue spoken half to himself.
“You get curious. How did this one live? What kind of life did he lead to end up in this mess? You listen to the story.”
Click.
Kaufman leveled the crossbow at Najin.
“Like this—while aiming a crossbow at them.”
“That’s a nasty hobby.”
“Nasty, sure. But if a man has something left to say before he dies, you should hear it out, right? Even if he lived like garbage, a person ought to be allowed a last will.”
Kaufman glanced at Najin’s hand.
Even though the crossbow had been aimed in jest, Najin’s hand rested on the hilt at his waist, the blade already half-drawn. If the trigger were pulled here? He would respond instantly.
Quick reactions.
Kaufman smiled and lowered the weapon.
“Black mages are the exception, of course. Don’t worry.”
“Why are black mages the exception?”
“You’re asking the obvious. I already said it. If they’re people, they get to leave a will.”
Najin blinked. Kaufman answered.
“Black mages aren’t people. They’re beasts. Ungrateful, shit-eating beasts.”
He spat the words as if chewing them.
The voice dripped with venom; a deep grudge colored every syllable. Something ugly must have happened involving black mages. Najin thought as much.
“It’s coming into view.”
“That iron grate looks like the entrance.”
“Take the lead. I’ll cover the rear.”
Talking as they walked, they reached the deepest chamber of the waterway before they realized it. Passing through the twisted-open grate, Najin thought to himself:
Disgustingly vast.
Perhaps because it ran beneath the entire city, the scale was monstrous. And that was not all. These channels had been constructed when the city was once occupied by the black mage of the Seven Rings, Cephalon.
From the start the waterways had been designed to hide black-magic research facilities and foundations, and to let Cephalon and his disciples dig in and hold out.
That was why the layout resembled a spiderweb or an ant nest—a labyrinth. How long would it take to find black mages in a maze like this? Flowing water and damp air erased every trail, rendering the tracking arts he normally used useless in this place.
Where do we even begin…
Najin fretted over it, but the worry did not last long. There was no need to hunt for tracks.
Ssscrape… ssscrape…
Beyond the sound of running water came the drag of feet. Najin looked toward the noise. A guardsman stood there. The uniform belonged to the city watch, yet the flesh was mottled blue and ruptured, the face deathly pale.
Not a living soldier.
A corpse whose breath had long since stopped was moving.
Magic that animated the dead. Forbidden throughout the Empire, and the only ones who broke that taboo as a matter of course were black mages. Sure enough, beyond the corpse two black-robed figures pressed their hoods low.
Kang—the instant Najin drew his sword.
The black mages swept their staves.
The water flowing through the channels began to bubble, and corpses burst up from beneath the surface. The meaning of the movement was simple.
They had no intention of hiding or fleeing.
As if declaring themselves the masters of these waterways, they chose to intercept the intruders. Whatever their reason for that choice, the same thought flashed through both Najin’s and Kaufman’s minds as they eyed the throng of corpses.
This just got easier.
At least they no longer had to waste effort searching.
The only magic Najin had ever experienced was the blood-mediated craft used by Hakan the alchemist of the underground city—and even that was closer to alchemy, so calling it true magic was a stretch.
So, strictly speaking,
this was the first time he was witnessing proper magic. Najin looked past the moving corpses. The undead raised by necromancy were only the vanguard. Behind them the black mages prepared their spells.
Black mana swelled and undulated.
The surging mana gathered in the air.
As it condensed, two rings took shape—what mages called Circles, or Rings. The moment the strange characters etched into the rings flared, Najin’s body moved on pure reflex.
Whhhk!
What tore through the air was a stake of bone. A stake shaped like a human spine slammed into the spot where Najin had been standing an instant before.
Classic Necromantic School.
A voice rang in Najin’s ear.
They command corpses and sacrifice the bodies for their spells. Textbook necromancers.
Letting the voice wash over him, Najin settled into stance. He still did not fully understand how magic was launched, but he could see the flow of mana that made the air tremble.
Their basic attack is the bone stake. See them yanking bones free? Those corpses blocking your path are both the front line and the medium for their black magic.
Sword aura gathered along Najin’s blade.
The next spell will be—ah.
He bent his knees and lowered his center.
Drawing the sword back behind him, Najin narrowed his eyes.
Bone Swamp. Jump.
The instant Najin kicked off the ground, bone stakes erupted from the floor. A spell designed to deny a swordsman’s approach—turning the terrain into a trap to pin the feet while striking from range. A perfectly orthodox tactic.
But knowing it made the counter simple.
At the same moment he launched, Najin began running along the wall of the waterway. Physical ability nearing the Sword Seeker realm, combined with his natural sense of balance, let him race across the vertical surface at nearly the same speed as sprinting on flat ground.
Papapapapapak!
Bone stakes rose belatedly along the walls as well, but they were too late. By the time they surged up, Najin had already plunged into the midst of the corpses. A black mage hurriedly swept his staff.
The corpses swelled—and then burst.
Bone shards sprayed in every direction. Necromantic black mages grew more troublesome the more corpses they had to use as mediums. With this many bodies, tearing one warrior apart was nothing.
That was what the black mage thought as he detonated the dead.
Until he saw Najin hanging upside down from the ceiling, sword driven into the stone.
When…?
The black mage’s dynamic vision could not track Najin’s movements; by the time the spell manifested, Najin was already gone—as if he had known exactly what would happen.
It’s over.
The voice in Najin’s ear now belonged to Merlin. What those eyes saw was the flow of mana itself.
He knew when the magic would be loosed.
And Merlin whispered the form that magic would take.
In other words, it was no different from knowing the exact direction, trajectory, and timing of every sword stroke the opponent would swing. Knowing that, there was no reason he could not answer.
So this is what it means to never lose to a black mage.
Hanging inverted from the ceiling, Najin bent his knees.
This is what you meant?
I told you you wouldn’t lose to a low-tier mage out of ignorance. Well… you probably could have managed without my help.
Then—boom.
Najin kicked off the ceiling. Shot diagonally toward the black mage like a single arrow. The mage swept his staff, loosing bone stakes, dragging corpses into the path—but…
Najin twisted his body midair and swung.
The moment the aura-wreathed blade touched them, the bone stakes crumbled to powder. The rotating edge carved through every corpse in the way. Aura that could split stone walls and even steel would never be stopped by mere dead flesh.
Shhk!
In an instant the view opened.
The moment Najin’s foot touched down right in front of the black mage, the man’s eyes flew wide. The instant a mage allowed a swordsman to close, the battlefield turned against him. And this black mage had no means of overturning that disadvantage.
Najin’s blade severed the mage’s wrist. As he sent the staff-hand flying, Najin reached out. Merlin had said a mage needed fingers, a staff, or a mouth to work magic.
Unless you’re a Great Mage, you’re bound by syllables and circuits. Block all of those and they can’t cast a thing.
Hand and staff were gone.
What remained was the mouth. Najin slammed his palm into the black mage’s jaw, silencing it, then seized the man’s face in one hand.
The eyes of the mage, subdued in a single breath, trembled wildly.
Najin paid it no mind and glanced sideways. There had been two black mages waiting to greet them. One was now in his grip—what of the other? The answer lay a short distance away.
“Ghk… gahh…”
A black mage was pinned to the wall.
A massive bolt jutted from his abdomen, having punched clean through and buried itself deep in the stone. Impaled like a mounted insect.
Following the bolt’s trajectory with his eyes revealed a carpet of corpses whose upper and lower halves had been separated—looking for all the world as if their bodies had simply exploded. Closer inspection showed the puncture marks of a single arrow.
A landscape too ghastly to have been made by one shot.
At the end of the bolt’s path stood Kaufman, expressionless. The moment he loaded another bolt and stepped forward—
Click. Click.
The sound of hard heels echoed through the waterway.
Najin’s head snapped around. The sound came from a right-angled turn. The bend hid the figure itself, but the shadow cast on the wall was visible.
A shadow meant light.
Whoever it was carried a lantern; the shadow wavered. Najin tossed aside the subdued black mage and was about to step toward the shadow when—
Whoosh.
An arm stretched out from around the corner.
Still hidden, the owner of the shadow thrust only an arm forward. In that hand burned a lantern. A lantern of blue flame.
The blue fire flickered.
The wavering light burned itself onto Najin’s retinas.
A blazing flame. A swaying lantern. And the enormous shadow it cast. The shadow thrown across the walls of the waterway took the shape of fire. A shadow of flame swallowed the channel.
Then—flare.
The fire-shadow engulfed Najin.