Altaia’s Unwelcome Intrusion and Vesta’s Desperate Stand
Altaia flung open the door to the tent and strode inside without hesitation.
By the time she entered, Asmur was already standing at the entrance with a bow in her hand.
The thought of her rude intrusion had crossed Altaia’s mind, but her mind was already whirling with the anxiety that had begun to spread like wildfire.
Her eyes were wide as she flung the door open, and a harpy burst through it, its dirty feathers scattering dust everywhere.
The khan paid it no mind.
It was the harpy that belonged beside Vesta.
In the razor-sharp silence that hung like broken glass, Altaia spoke in a trembling voice.
“Orcs… they are raiding. A human has been hit by an arrow.”
Asmur’s face went pale.
She turned to the khan.
The khan’s beautiful golden eyes were wide open.
“...What?”
*
The situation was dire.
Vesta was fighting alone against an enemy that numbered far more than any single warrior could handle.
They were practically professional mercenaries.
His horsemanship was not something one would even rate highly, and his archery skills were equally poor.
If a group of orc riders opened up a gap and unleashed a volley of arrows, Vesta would have been helpless.
That was why he had gathered every orc’s attention and stepped forward.
He spurred his horse on.
The steed, known for its cautious nature, seemed to hesitate slightly.
Vesta covered its eyes with one hand.
“No matter where we go, they are enemies.”
He only needed to run.
Choosing a direction was meaningless.
-We have to stay close to the enemy.
The black horse began to run.
The orcs seemed to misunderstand his actions, as if they were watching a child dashing after a pack of wolves.
They did not know.
How many monsters and warbeasts from the Empire had already been slain by this boy’s hand.
The first orc to recover its senses hurled a javelin at Vesta, aiming for the horse’s body.
Vesta wrapped his leg around the horse’s neck and, without hesitation, flung himself toward the ground.
From the reversed position hanging by his leg, Vesta snatched the javelin out of the orc’s hand.
The orc watched with calm eyes even as the boy hung upside down.
Shick.
Vesta’s javelin pierced the orc’s thigh.
The startled orc grabbed the horse’s neck to steady himself, and the frightened horse reared up.
The orc, whose leg muscle had been contracted, rolled away, and Vesta swung his blade from his reversed stance, severing the orc’s head.
Vesta caught the long rein and regained his footing.
He dropped his body low over the horse.
An arrow flew past him, carrying unmistakable murderous intent.
‘If I’m hit by an arrow, it’s over.’
He needed cover that could stop an arrow, and on the open prairie such cover was scarce.
If any existed at all, it would be nothing more than bone and flesh.
Vesta decided the orc would make the best shield.
He galloped his horse straight toward the center of the orc horde.
The black horse rammed into an orc’s mount head-on.
A sensation of weightlessness washed over him.
Yet he could not let his body surrender to the flow.
A fist struck.
He grabbed the fist and pushed it away.
His hand rang like a bell.
It felt like a memory from his distant past awakening.
There had been a time when every sword and every weapon felt impossibly heavy.
Vesta could not relax his grip on the weapon because the fear of dropping it was all-consuming.
He thrust his blade into the orc’s thigh, the edge sinking deep.
When he twisted it out, a chunk of flesh burst forth with a wet sound.
He immediately stabbed the horse’s neck.
The orc, teeth clenched and fist raised to swing, failed to strike because of the horse’s frenzy.
Vesta knew this was his last chance.
He was going to die soon.
His thigh had been stabbed too deeply.
“Urrraaa!”
A thick greatsword came flying from the side.
Vesta did not block it.
He sensed that the greatsword was barely too far away to kill him.
He did not need to worry about it.
Instead, he drove his own blade straight into the orc’s armpit.
The blade was astonishingly sharp.
It pierced flesh, sliced through ribs, and reached the lungs.
The lungs felt like a wet sponge.
He dug in easily and yanked them out roughly.
The orc’s eyes flickered.
When their gazes met, there was no joy in victory.
He was simply too busy killing to savor anything.
“Urrraaarraaa!”
An orc, roaring with unnatural savagery, charged at Vesta on horseback.
The hand gripping the weapon hung loosely at his side.
His judgment had faltered.
He would strike horizontally.
-If I had ridden better, I would have turned the horse the opposite way from the weapon hand.
Vesta could not convey his intent to the horse.
So he spurred it forward anyway.
The horse did not move.
Was it afraid?
‘The careful one, always like this.’
Maybe.
He might have felt that the arrow lodged in his shoulder was digging deeper and tearing at his artery.
Vesta did not scold the horse.
He only begged.
“I’m staking my life too. Please help me just a little longer.”
The horse staggered forward.
The orc did not hide his intention.
He swung the horizontal cut with all his strength.
It would not matter if he cut Vesta’s body or the horse’s neck.
The beast was crude.
Even though he could have steered the horse past, he had charged straight in.
“Take this.”
Kung. The sound of bone meeting bone.
Vesta felt the horse’s heart jolt deep in his thigh.
Whoosh.
The orc swung his sword.
Vesta waited for the attack.
It came in a horizontal arc.
It was not perfectly horizontal, but it held the power to halve life and death.
Vesta’s shield moved toward the tip of the orc’s sword.
The orc’s sword tip was farther behind Vesta’s line of sight.
Whether he would block it successfully or fail could only be judged by the result.
The air cracked with a whoosh, and sparks flew.
Ching!
He blocked it.
The orc drew his upper body back.
Vesta half-rose on the saddle.
Half a step, then another half step.
With one hand on the horse’s head, he swung the blade.
No sparks flew.
Only the orc’s blood splattered upward like sparks.
The orc clutched his throat, mouth gaping wide.
When Vesta turned the horse sideways, an arrow slammed into its head and burst.
One of their own.
‘Are we losing numbers?’
It did not feel that way.
They were still the majority.
An overwhelming majority.
Ku-woong.
Vesta’s horse was rammed from the side.
Vesta’s body shook violently.
In that moment he sensed it: the initiative had been completely taken away.
It was an extremely unsettling premonition.
Vesta could not tell where the enemy’s attack would come from.
From the side, the neck, or the thigh.
That was why he had let go of the reins and rolled on the ground.
When Vesta rose to his feet, he felt something strongly.
Familiarity.
And a similar longing.
“Ah.”
He had been thrown naked into the den of beasts.
A few orcs had arrows aimed at him.
No cover.
Could he dodge?
It would be hard.
If luck did not favor him, Vesta would die.
‘As long as I don’t die.’
If he did not die, he could keep fighting.
Vesta approached the archers.
Puak.
One archer’s head burst apart.
Vesta knew he should not turn his head, yet he did.
The centaur, pulling a bow with obvious strain.
“Arin.”
She was shooting the orc archers down.
Vesta felt Arin’s gaze linger on him for a moment.
‘That’s right.’
The battle would not end until he died.
Orc riders charged at Vesta on horseback.
They were powerful, heavy beasts that one could not face with a human body.
But Vesta had spent his entire life fighting such things.
Humans or giant monsters, he knew that a single blade piercing the artery meant death.
Vesta (BESTA).
Bestiarii (BESTiArii).
A boy who could only introduce himself in that way now aimed a blade at the pack of wolves.
*
[You’re quite talented, little one.]
To the boy listening to the man’s voice, he still had no name.
[It means you fight well.]
The boy listened to the man’s words.
He believed they held value.
The man who was called a freak even in the arena.
After winning and losing bouts, he had gained his freedom.
Yet he had returned to the arena.
[Fight well. But more than that, you have the talent to draw people in. That sword of yours.]
[Is that talent?]
[It is. In the end, we are slaves of battle. The slave’s duty is to make his master happy. Fighting is merely the means.]
The man’s words were not entirely wrong.
In the arena, fighting well was important, but fighting without boredom was essential.
After all, their lives were not in the hands of their opponents but in the hands of the audience and the emperor.
[You have real talent, but I wonder if it is truly a blessing.]
[As long as I can live long, that’s fine.]
[Flies gather around fresh blood. Your sword is no different. To my eyes, it looks cursed.]
Your sword reeks of blood.
Sweet blood.
*
Be wary of those drunk with battle.
You will soon become their mission.
*
Narinhoon watched the boy.
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