The Warrior's Sharp Retort
Vesta had drawn his blade halfway from its sheath.
"Hollow words. If I kill you right here."
Ashtien would surely intervene. And that was precisely Attila's power.
The air shifted. His body reacted on instinct, sensing the threat. He had to wound Attila fatally before the giant could strike.
It was the only way to survive.
*Thud. Thud.* His heart pounded like the circuits in his skull had ignited.
To Vesta, Attila was a line he had already stepped over. One more step and the line would be crossed. Only then would he act.
He had to topple this man and survive.
Attila watched him.
A boundless warrior standing before one tiny fighter. The fighter's eyes. Attila did not dismiss them.
"Even at such a young age, you are complete."
A quiet sigh escaped Attila's lips, and his hand moved.
—!
Vesta responded to the motion. The blade scraped the scabbard and flew out.
*Clink.*
Yet Vesta's strike fell short. Attila's massive hand had clamped gently onto his wrist.
"Kh."
Vesta's wrist trembled violently under the pressure, but it did not move. The force was enormous.
—He is not even applying real strength.
If Attila tightened his grip, Vesta's arm might have crushed.
—Dangerous situation. I need a plan.
Vesta's mind spun. He was a seasoned warrior who had survived countless crises.
—Drop the blade.
He did not stop thinking.
—Grab the falling blade with the opposite hand, thrust it into Attila's armpit.
—Slide sideways, pull the blade free, then drive it forward. Between the ribs—fatal damage to the vitals.
The decision was made in an instant. Vesta now knew exactly what to do. Only action remained.
Attila chuckled.
"You should calm yourself, Baatar."
"... "
"I was not truly intending to kill you."
To Attila, Vesta looked frantic. The young man was desperately trying to dismiss anything that could threaten him. Like a child waving a sword at a terrifying world.
—A child shoved into the battlefield.
"... Indeed."
Vesta answered with a dazed expression. He sheathed his blade once more.
"I apologize for my rudeness."
"No, it was rather enjoyable."
Attila laughed heartily. Someone who had nearly faced a blade fight so close must have been rare.
"The point, Baatar, is that you are receiving attention on par with mine."
"That talk is finished."
Vesta answered without hiding his weariness.
"Do all centaurs live like this?"
"What do you mean?"
"You act as if there is nothing to fear. All of you."
Not lowering his head before the Emperor, casually chatting with the one who had swung a blade at him. Such ease was difficult for a human.
"That is our nature. We were born with strong legs and run as far as they can carry us."
His eyes seemed to gaze toward some distant horizon.
Beyond mountains, beyond seas—somewhere there.
"If you have recognized that fate, you should not fear trifles."
*
"Now, I should be going."
"Baatar. How long do you plan to stay here?"
"Probably about two weeks of camping in the highland."
"Then there is ample time. If you have leisure, why not join the festival?"
"A festival?"
"It is not exactly a festival, but more like a fighting arena."
Whether humans would find it fun was unknown.
Attila continued explaining the festival.
"Because centaurs rarely gather, there is no place to show off strength except this. Strong young men compete, and the people watch."
Archery, tug-of-war, fighting—displaying skills in every way.
Those with good results would gain recognition from the centaur society.
"If you have the thought, you should participate."
"Even fighting or archery, how do I win at tug-of-war?"
Honestly, it was ridiculous.
If human strength was human power, centaur strength was horse power. The units were different. A contest made no sense.
As long as the opponent did not fly toward him the moment he grabbed the rope, it would be fine.
Archery did not appeal either. Living among elves had dulled his confidence in the bow.
"Having spent time mostly with centaurs, my consideration for other races is lacking."
Attila nodded as if realizing the absurdity.
"We must change it so other races can participate too. It is not as if we should live only among centaurs forever."
—Not as if we should live only among centaurs.
He sometimes spoke that way, gazing far ahead.
Accepting centaur limits or acknowledging human strength. Stripping away his blunt personality, Vesta found him surprisingly rational among known people.
*How can someone who thinks like that obsess over the impossible in the Empire?*
He did not ask. Vesta and Attila did not exchange personal thoughts.
Still, the thought arose.
*If there had been no sticky problem, we could have talked more freely.*
In that case, they might have become friends.
*
After finishing his talk with Attila, he returned to the encampment.
"Bia and Ahor."
The two were talking to each other.
Bia looked uneasy, unlike her usual composure. At this point, Vesta could guess the situation confronting her.
—Things were not going well.
"Everyone is here."
"You have arrived."
"Perfect timing."
The meaning behind Bia's words perked up. Had she been looking for Vesta?
"What were you talking about?"
"Ahor, it would be faster if you heard it from Bia."
Ahor handed the answer to Bia. Bia began to speak as if sighing.
"The worry I had has come to pass."
"The patriarch ordered me to remove Arin from the escort?"
Bia nodded with a frustrated expression.
"What reason did he give?"
"Well, it was obvious. Something about the escort nearly dying to an orc, or that even if the injury healed, it would not be the same."
"Orcs."
Not all orcs were the same. The orcs the Altangerel patriarch had slain countless times and Narinhoon Ibahtar were not the same.
*How many such orcs are there?*
He was a hunter terrifyingly precise. Before such a hunter, individual strength held no meaning.
Was a bear caught by a hunter because it was weaker than the hunter?
When caught in a trap, fate was sealed.
Rather, Arin deserved praise for having shattered that fate.
And most importantly, Arin had protected her charge until the end. She had never failed her mission from the start.
*Even Ashtien did not blame Arin. What did the patriarch say?*
"It seems too soon to discuss this while the injury is not fully healed."
"Centaur or not, they have quick tempers."
Bia openly insulted her own people. Considering her usual dignity, there must have been much pent-up frustration.
"Is there no way to ask Ashtien?"
"It is a bit ambiguous. Arin's treatment falls under the patriarch's jurisdiction. As for Bia, I have a direct contract with Her Highness, but Arin does not."
Because there was no direct contract, the boundary was somewhat unclear.
In short, Arin was Bia's vassal, not Ashtien's. Strictly speaking, she was not Ashtien's person.
"Still, Ashtien might make a move if she notices."
Ashtien would not want Arin to leave either.
"We want to persuade rather than force her to leave if possible, but it will be difficult."
"She seemed very principled."
"Exactly as you observed."
Bia sighed. They had discussed it together, but no plausible solution appeared.
That was when.
"Ah."
Vesta let out a single exclamation.
"I have just thought of a good method."
All eyes turned to Vesta with expectant gazes.
"Well, what is the method... "
Ahor, quietly listening, frowned.
"Are you in your right mind?"
Bia, who had thought the plan was fine, flinched.
---
Baatar's Spirit Flame
Vesta's eyes burned with an inner fire. His own blood and life force surged like dry wood into the blaze, forming a circular barrier that closed around Narinhoon Ibahtar like a cage of molten gold.
The werewolf king roared, his massive frame shaking the ground, but the flames only grew hotter, sealing him tighter.
Narinhoon laughed, a guttural sound of pure battle lust.
"You think you can trap me with this?"
Vesta's voice was steady, gritty, unyielding. "I don't need to trap you. I just need to burn you until there is nothing left."
The Spirit Princess watched from the edge of the barrier, her silver hair whipping in the wind, eyes filled with awe and something deeper—something that made her heart ache for the human who had just nearly given everything.
Vesta's vision blurred. The heart failure he had feared crept in, but he clenched his jaw and poured more strength into the flame.
"Die."
One word. The final one.
The circular wall of fire pulsed once, twice, then collapsed in a roar of flame that consumed the Blue Wolf from the inside out.
Narinhoon Ibahtar's severed lower half and burned body hit the ground with a wet thud, the spirit beast form dissolving into ash and black smoke.
In the sudden silence, Vesta collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, sweat mixing with blood on his face.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder—small, warm, familiar.
"You did it, Baatar."
The Spirit Princess's voice was soft, but her eyes shimmered with tears.
Vesta looked up at her, breathing hard. "Thank you... for saving me at the end."
She smiled faintly. "I could not let you burn yourself out alone."
Far above the battlefield, a female dragon's ancient voice echoed through the air, ancient Dragon Tongue carrying a message only Vesta could hear.
"Cease your fire, human champion. The truce holds."
Vesta straightened, the flames in his eyes dimming. He turned to the group of centaurs and elves who had gathered in awe.
"Let's head back to the khan's camp," he said, voice hoarse but resolute. "There is still much to do."
Ashtien stood at the forefront, her golden eyes locked on him with fierce pride and something softer—something that made Vesta's chest tighten.
She walked over, placed a hand on his arm, and whispered, "You were magnificent, my Baatar."
Vesta looked at her, the weight of the battlefield lifting for the first time in days. "And you, my Khan, were the reason I survived to tell the tale."
The steppe wind carried their words across the plain, carrying two souls bound by fire, blood, and an unbreakable bond that would change the future of the wilderness forever.
The khan's guard and centaur warriors cheered as the group began to move, the victory ringing in their hearts even as the wounds of the enemy remained fresh.
Vesta glanced back once at the smoking ruin of the Blue Wolf's body and allowed himself a small, grim smile.
"It is done."
But deep inside, he knew the real fight was only beginning—the one for peace, for trust, for a home that could finally be called his own.