The Wolf King (5)
As expected, only you can kill me.
“Yes.”
And only I can kill you.
There was conviction in his words.
Vesta's thoughts ran somewhat differently.
Was it true that only Vesta himself could kill Narinhoon?
That much, yes. On this battlefield without Ashtien, only Vesta stood a real chance of defeating him. But that had nothing to do with skill.
It was because Vesta's flames suppressed Narinhoon's regeneration.
The reverse, however — the claim that Narinhoon alone could kill him — that he could not agree with at all.
That statement denied everything Vesta's life stood for.
Don't flatter yourself.
-I'm not that strong. Anyone could kill me.
And it was precisely because of that that he could grow stronger.
“Spending so much time around people, you've gotten talkative.”
Vesta gave a light hop in place. Whichever foot left the ground first, he wanted the advantage of striking and retreating.
-While Attila was buying us time, I didn't sit idle either.
He had gauged Narinhoon's physical capabilities. He had studied how to counter them — all the while deliberately ignoring a chance of victory too slim to fill a single finger's width.
Like a madman hurling his body at the impossible.
Having completed his bestial transformation, Narinhoon looked like a giant. His arms especially were huge and long — well beyond any human measure.
If Narinhoon attacked with those arms, could the blow truly be evaded? If not, the fight could never even take shape.
-It's possible.
That was the judgment of Vesta, a seasoned gladiator.
Stabs and slashes are the same. The power concentrates at the tip of the blade. That's why you fight by driving the point at your opponent's vitals. Even against a monster of that size, the principle doesn't change.
Narinhoon's attacks, too, would come through the edge of his blade, and all Vesta had to do was move the way he always had against other orc warriors.
If I control the distance, a single step back is enough to slip the attack.
Of course, that meant keeping Narinhoon's body at the full length of his arms — which made closing in that much harder.
It means sticking my neck into territory Narinhoon owns.
Even so, it had to be done. Vesta watched Narinhoon's movements closely. His specialty had always been the counterattack, and this time too he would lean on it, waiting for his opponent to strike.
I'm looking forward to it.
Weight began to settle onto ankles bent like a wolf's — a massive load, several hundred kilograms, perhaps more.
That weight would drive against the earth. And once it did, the mass would convert almost entirely into pure force.
Watching Narinhoon's ankles, Vesta thought of a drawn bow.
-Like a bow bending deep and then snapping upward.
In an instant, Narinhoon grew several times larger.
“...!”
He had closed the distance in the blink of an eye. A blade came crashing in, surging toward his face.
The angle was diagonal. Blocking was impossible.
Vesta's foot slammed into the ground, his body hurtling backward in a huge retreat. Narinhoon's blade carved empty air, and the heavy pressure of the swing hammered against Vesta's body.
-Like taking a punch.
To feel this much shock from mere wind pressure alone — he wondered if wearing armor even meant anything.
Should've taken it off before coming up here.
Of course, steel could not cut steel. Narinhoon wasn't swinging some enchanted sword, so there was no danger of the armor being sliced away.
But the moment he allowed a hit, the bones hidden beneath the armor would snap. The far more fragile organs within might burst outright.
No one could fight long with ruined innards. The outcome would be defeat, plain and simple.
So he could not trust the armor. He had to keep moving, relentlessly.
Still, evasion isn't impossible.
The conditions were punishing. It demanded perfect control of distance, and a single misdirection would be the end of him.
And that wasn't all. The instant Vesta's tension crossed its threshold and froze his body solid, Narinhoon's blade would burst him open.
Narinhoon withdrew. He circled around and around Vesta, like a wolf probing in a war of attrition.
Your eyes are as sharp as ever.
With that acknowledgment, Narinhoon moved again — wolf's paws gripping the ground, shoving the gravel aside.
Thump. A single stride carried him across more than ten meters. His attack came on like something fired from a bowstring.
Vesta jerked his head back. A blade flashed before his eyes. The updraft of the swing rushed past, and the back of his neck went cold.
Dodging by a hair's breadth is an art in itself, I suppose, but you shouldn't repeat it. Move differently next time.
Narinhoon spoke as if offering advice. Was he needling him? No — that hadn't been the intent.
The way he gripped his weapon had changed. So had the placement of his feet, his stride grown wider.
When attacking something far away, a fighter instinctively widens his stance.
A stinging neck. To Vesta, it felt like an omen of death.
He cast thought aside and sank low, as if settling into a crouch.
Shwooong.
A wind so fast it felt cold swept over his head.
A crude attack — no precision to it, but devastatingly effective.
A wide, sweeping cut that didn't bother with the blade's point. Simply backing away could never evade it. So he had dropped low instead.
So he didn't even need to use the edge to kill me. He could do it however he pleased.
Countless judgments cascaded after one another. He had to find an answer, and fast.
Whump—
In his lowered field of vision, a blue leg. The hind leg was pressed hard into the ground; the forelegs hung slightly above it.
Vesta's eyes snapped wide open.
Narinhoon's kick was coming. Vesta threw everything he had into the earth.
His body rose into the air — up to the height of Narinhoon's knee—
BOOM!
A sensation like the blood in his body lurching backward toward his spine.
I'm dizzy.
Was he actually getting motion sickness? Tucking his body into a ball, he spun through empty air.
He clenched his teeth. If he could have, he would have bitten through his own tongue.
He could not lose consciousness. Fainting before a savage beast — wasn't that as good as suicide?
-All the more so before a wolf. They're utterly relentless.
Vesta skidded across the stone floor.
“Ugh.”
His ankle throbbed. The ground was uneven; it was an injury he'd had no way to avoid.
He couldn't exactly trade his ankle for a slammed back or skull, after all.
Do that, and his spine would shatter — or gravel would bury itself in his flesh.
And Narinhoon?
Thud.
A heavy vibration. Narinhoon's foot had surely struck the ground.
He kicked off and leapt high.
His body moved faster than thought. He hurled himself.
BOOM—!
Narinhoon's foot came down and crushed the earth.
Dust bloomed up through the overturned gravel. Had he not rolled across the ground, he would have been trampled flat.
The moment Vesta scrambled to his feet, the hazy dust split in two.
A blade came flying through the haze.
-No dodging this.
He needed to act faster than that.
He swung his sword as if to meet the blow head-on.
A slash slower and weaker than Narinhoon's own.
-I knew perfectly well I couldn't block it.
Then why had he swung at all?
The instant before the blades met — a fraction of a moment no eye could follow and no calculation could capture.
A gamble staked on instinct alone—
The flames riding Vesta's blade rippled.
Hwa-reuk—
The fire devoured oxygen and swelled in size. Vesta commanded it fiercely. Explode.
---!
The moment the blades touched, the explosion went off.
Had he landed a crippling wound?
-If he were human.
Vesta stared straight ahead through stinging eyes.
-If he were human, I could have brought him down.
Your flames are lacking.
He was still standing on both feet, planted on the earth.
Far from a mortal injury, the explosion had done little more than singe him. Even the scorched skin was already regenerating anew.
You knew you couldn't kill me with that much. Didn't you?
Narinhoon was right. The firepower had been insufficient — absurdly so.
Should I have rationed my strength?
It had never been a well he could draw from without limit. Even in his first fight against Narinhoon, the flames hadn't lasted long before he found himself surrounded by a horde of orcs.
And I poured dozens of times the power I used then onto the dragon.
His strength was spent. It would only keep waning from here, until it guttered out entirely.
If only the wind would blow...
To revive a dying ember, he needed wind. A strong wind — but not strong for its own sake. He needed a wind that could press at his back without snuffing the flame out.
-Ashtien.
The wind that had once pushed at his back, and carried him farther than anywhere — a wind whose help, this once, he could not have.
Have you reached your limit?
Narinhoon asked it so.
If he answered yes, what then?
You said you'd let me live, didn't you.
Narinhoon would end the fight without killing Vesta. He would release him, on the promise of a next time.
But every last centaur would die.
Then he would lead his army back to the Wasteland and take the throne there.
And so the Khan of the orcs — the Warlord — would be born.
You've hit your limit, haven't you.
“Like hell I have.”
Did he think Vesta would simply allow that?
Feeling the ember within him fade and wane—
“We're nowhere near the end.”
He raised his sword.