The Warmth of Summer's End
Vesta had met Muran at the crack of dawn.
She was already there, awake and perfectly alert despite the lack of sleep, standing in the morning breeze with the same calm composure she always wore.
"You came."
She smiled at him, eyes bright.
*'How old is she, really?'*
Her face looked like that of a young girl who loved nature, innocent and unburdened by years. *'I still can't guess her age.'*
He had grown used to her elven features, yet the sheer vitality of her kind remained impossible to adapt to.
"Ready to draw your blade?"
Vesta reached for his sword hilt, but Muran reached out and stopped him.
"A sword is no toy."
She was treating him like a child who still didn't understand, and tucked the blade away again.
"I thought you already knew that. The real sword is not a substitute."
Was she about to start teaching him? He listened without answering.
"First, it must not be too thick. Compared to the edge of a true blade, it is too bulky."
*She was right, of course.*
Her words made perfect sense. A sword's core was wood, and wood inherently lacked elasticity.
Since it could not bend, there was no way to disperse the shock.
To avoid breaking or snapping, the body itself had to be thick.
"And the distinction between blade and back is sloppy."
Muran continued her critique after setting the practice sword aside.
"Compare it to a true blade. A swordmaster who has become too familiar with a wooden sword will feel unease or even a sense of alienation when he finally holds a real one."
She had already told him to use a properly sharpened steel blade. He did not take her advice lightly.
"I will heed every word."
"If you have a trustworthy partner, using a sharp true blade is not a bad idea. Just don't make mistakes. A sword is ultimately something that can only cut grass if you never touch it."
She seemed to value practicality above all.
"Are you planning to fight with steel today?"
"Yes. If you didn't bring your own, I'll lend you one of mine."
Instead of the blade bearing the Great Khan's mark, Muran pulled out spare weapons she always carried.
"Because the edge was ruined, it was not even a sword worth killing anyone with."
She spoke as if the blades she had gathered in Ainuwail were nothing special.
"Orcs' swords, she said. Some had their edges smashed into useless lumps."
"You really can use a proper sword."
A true sword. A blade with an edge.
It was not a casual remark. It came from certainty.
It was not belittling him.
She had never said it directly.
*[If you have a trustworthy partner, using a sharp true blade is not a bad idea.]*
Muran telling Vesta it was all right to draw a real blade meant she already considered him a trusted partner.
The Sword Saint's recognition. It should have been an honor.
It meant she believed he was skilled enough not to cause accidents, that his blade would not tremble, and that he would master the space around him.
A partner worthy of trusting for real-blade sparring was exactly that kind of person. That was Muran's evaluation of him.
"Then let's begin slowly. Since this is the first time, we'll keep it light. I need to understand your 'swordplay' anyway."
*Swordplay.*
He was certain Muran's assessment was accurate. To Vesta, the technique he wielded was not swordsmanship but rather the art of swordplay or sword practice.
There was no artistic purpose or noble intent in the swings of his blade.
"Please. Muran-nim."
"A favor? I was the one offering to help you."
"Still, this is a rare opportunity."
"Well, true enough. Just don't get too worked up. People who finally see a proper flame like to add wood to it."
—And.
"Muran-nim is too rigid. You can just call me Noona."
*'That's a bit...'*
Honestly, he had never called Uushun by that name.
Aruk or Ashtien might accept it, but it did not suit Muran.
"Oh, did I overstep?"
Noona never used the word "overstep." Well, she probably did, but never so naturally.
"Then let's make a deal. If I win today, you call me Noona."
"...Do you really want to hear that?"
"I don't just want to hear it. I want everyone to see me called Noona. Especially Ashtien. Her reaction is curious."
It was a perverted taste.
Vesta felt a slight chill. Not long ago Aruk had said her mother was extremely eccentric, and the words were proving true.
"Hmm. Then you're a bit wronged, aren't you? Fine. Since I was generous, if I lose I'll call you Oppa."
—Manage your expression.
"...I'd rather not."
"Why? It's a fair condition, isn't it?"
Muran showed no sign of backing down.
"Then it's a deal."
Vesta swallowed his sigh and accepted the wager.
"Good. I like kids who enjoy themselves. I'm glad you're that kind of child."
Muran rested her sword on her shoulder.
It was not clearly elven swordsmanship nor imperial. Rather, it resembled the styles of several kingdoms that had fallen under the Empire.
"I once wanted to spar with the Empire's greatest gladiators, but look at my luck."
Vesta did not deny her words.
He was no greatest gladiator. But he was one of the greatest.
If the rebellion had never happened, he would have taken one more step toward the freedom he had always longed for.
*'Of course, the chance of falling before that moment was much higher.'*
Lycaon. Orthros. Orion. Theo. Every top gladiator had been an insurmountable opponent.
They were stronger than him. Stronger in power. Stronger in stamina. They possessed special talents.
He still believed in his own blade.
—And.
"Come at me, gladiator."
—Even if the Sword Saint were his opponent, he would not be lacking. He believed that.
*
" So you decided to call me Noona?"
"Yes..."
Vesta answered weakly. His usual strength was nowhere to be seen; exhaustion was clear in every line.
Bia let out a long sigh as if she had heard everything.
"Muran-nim really is something."
—Someone who has lived long enough to be called Master, yet she still pulls these antics.
"Don't be discouraged. Your opponent is still your opponent."
"From the start I thought I would lose, but the woman they call Sword Saint is clearly different."
" 'Greatest' means 'greatest.' "
Vesta nodded wearily, and Bia worked hard to lift his spirits.
"Still, when you consider Muran-nim's eccentric personality, there's no reason to be envious."
*'Eccentric is putting it mildly.'*
He thought her words to her Master were rather heartless.
After all, Vesta had only just begun learning. Bia had suffered years under Muran.
"Bia must have had it rough."
"Who can say?"
The biggest victim was Aruk, of course.
"She said she would have turned out twisted without childhood friends."
Bia laughed loudly at Vesta's remark, the dignified warrior suddenly gone. She cleared her throat.
The mood was beginning to lighten when Vesta asked quietly.
"The matter is resolved, right?"
Of course it was about Arin. It had become a larger incident than expected, but the original purpose remained: preventing the Altangerel from taking Arin away in a duel.
"Yes. It's settled."
Bia looked pleased, satisfied that the honor was satisfied.
"If there's no blushing between you two, then it's done. Everything worked out."
Vesta stretched with satisfaction, and Bia glanced at him cautiously before speaking.
"Vesta."
"Speak freely."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
Bia's huge eyes widened at his casual answer.
Since she was a centaur, her eyes were enormous.
"You can take the credit. You did something truly great."
"Credit..."
Vesta smiled and rose from his seat.
"Then keep going to the end. The next opponent is no ordinary one, and I need Bia's help."
"Of course I'll help. Is there anything else?"
"Anything else? Hmm..."
"You don't have enough greed?"
Vesta grinned at her pout.
"There are too many things I've received from the steppe. This is barely even a loss."
"What did you receive from the steppe?"
"Hmm, there are too many to name one by one."
Ashtien's kindness. Ganshinbae, the trustworthy warhorse. Friends like Uushun and Rahan. The world of centaurs he had always wondered about. Wind. Wide land. Salt and sand.
If he had to summarize all of it in one word...
"I can't quite find the words yet. Not yet."
Yes, not yet. It was still summer.