Pursuit (3)
Marion sat inside the rattling carriage, facing a spy who glared at her as if keeping her under constant watch. The spy twisted his face into the most terrifying scowl he could manage and stared her down.
Marion didn't answer. Her mind was busy trying to figure out where these people had come from. Her fragile heart pounded with tension inside her chest. What kind of force would even bother to kidnap her? What value did she have?
"I can hear the gears turning in that head of yours all the way over here, missy. If it weren't for the boss's orders, I would've had some real fun with you."
Even at the insulting words, Marion didn't so much as blink. At some point, she had begun to catch glimpses of people's lies and sincerity. Had it started when she saw the look in her father's eyes as he cast her aside for being useless? Or perhaps when she had watched the servants around her always wearing masks of deception? Was it because of the world she had reflected on for over a decade in her isolated existence? Or had it begun the moment she first looked into Maxim's eyes, filled with clumsy sincerity and empathy?
Because of that, the adventurer's words—nothing but bluster to hide his own anxiety—didn't even register in her ears. Even as he spoke, the adventurer maintained an uneasy demeanor. Those eyes kept darting outside, avoiding her gaze, and whenever he tried to threaten her, he kept glancing toward the coachman's seat.
Marion narrowed her eyes. She must not break. Since Maxim had shattered the massive wall that had sealed off her world and reached out a hand of salvation in the endless darkness of her fall, she could not allow herself to be trapped behind that wall again. Marion repeated it to herself like a mantra. She would not let despair and fear slowly devour her heart. She would not allow the darkness that was beginning to creep back in to return over something so trivial.
What the hell is with those eyes?
The spy continued to spew threats and insults, intending to crush the spirit of this frail-looking young lady and scare her half to death. But despite her delicate appearance, the girl's resolve seemed surprisingly firm. Those blue eyes staring straight at him felt like they were peering into a deep abyss.
Shit. They said she was a weak little thing raised in isolation inside the family mansion, but this isn't it at all.
Weak? If anyone could look into those eyes and still call her that, let them step forward. Far from fear, those eyes revealed nothing of what she was thinking, and the spy didn't like it one bit.
The mouth that had remained tightly shut finally opened.
Look at this bitch.
The spy narrowed his brows. His lips twisted, revealing his discomfort. The first question she asked wasn't about what they planned to do with her. Instead, she was asking about the carriage's destination. As if she already knew. As if she could see right through his shallow little mind.
A low growl slipped through his teeth. Those eyes reminded him of Count Benning, staring down at him with that overbearing aura and commanding tone.
Thud!
A rough hand slammed down on Marion's forehead. Her head crashed violently against the carriage wall. The mask covering the right side of her face shook and nearly fell off. Marion's eyes trembled. Seeing her shaken gaze, the spy smiled viciously.
Crack. The mask crumpled. Marion's pupils shook even more violently. Beneath it, the twisted scar she had hidden her entire life began to reveal itself little by little. The spy's eyes twisted with unconcealable disgust at the sight of the scar, then quickly shifted into a sadistic grin.
Marion's lips trembled before clenching tightly, twisting in pain.
Thump.
The spy, now with eyes that looked completely unhinged, slammed her head against the carriage partition again.
Thump.
Thump.
Bang.
Marion was thrown into the corner of the carriage. The spy laughed like a madman as he watched.
The sound of joints cracking. Marion closed her eyes, bracing for the coming blows.
Piiiieeeek—!!
The sharp sound of a whistle cut through the air at that moment. The spy, who had raised his fist high, froze. The partition between the coachman's seat and the carriage interior opened, and a new voice spoke.
"...Tsk."
The partition closed again. The spy looked down at Marion with cold eyes. The sadistic gleam in them made Marion's face twist in fear.
With a vicious smile, the spy disappeared.
The carriage continued to jolt forward. Marion staggered to her feet and searched for the mask that had fallen to the floor. The wall that had not yet completely crumbled was there. The side of herself she had tried so hard to hide despite pretending to be strong had been exposed, and the mask that had concealed that ugly part of her lay there on the ground.
Marion's hand grasped the mask. It had been crushed beyond recognition by the spy's grip. Holding the now-unusable mask, Marion's shoulders began to tremble. Voices swirled in her head.
You're useless.
The collapsed wall seemed to rebuild itself. No one is going to save you. Who would come to save someone like you? You're worthless. You can't do anything. Just sit there and try to flatter your father like you used to.
The hateful words her brothers had once thrown at her. Just as she had fled from them back then, Marion clung desperately to the mask.
The carriage jolted again. It felt as if it had suddenly accelerated. The flow of movement had changed. Then—
Boom!
The sound of a horse screaming rang out, and the carriage lurched violently. Marion barely managed to steady herself before curling up on the seat. The carriage had stopped moving entirely. A breeze brushed against her face. She kept her head bowed low.
And then, in her ear, came the voice she had longed for more than anything. Marion denied it. She told herself there was no way that voice could be here right now, but the voice remained, echoing clearly in her ears.
Maxim walked forward. The Benning family knight, who had been watching him warily with a hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist, froze in place with an expression as if he'd been struck in the back of the head when Maxim simply walked past him.
"This bastard..."
The knight growled, but such noise didn't reach Maxim's ears. All Maxim could see was the carriage. His ears had blocked out every other sound in order to catch even the faintest trace of her voice.
Marion.
At the name he repeated to himself, Maxim's chest grew terrifyingly cold. His heart, however, beat so rapidly beneath his hood that it was impossible to miss, completely at odds with that icy resolve.
Each step felt unbearably far. His heart had already reached the carriage door, yet his feet still hadn't closed the distance. He grabbed the carriage door without hesitation and opened it.
Marion.
She was there. Curled up tightly. Her jet-black hair was disheveled as if someone had deliberately grabbed and ruined it. Her clothes were wrinkled everywhere, stained with dirt in several places. But what told the whole story was the crumpled mask hanging limply from her hand.
His heart seemed to stop for a moment. The first emotion that rose was relief. Then, in the place where that brief relief had swept through his chest, a deep, dark hole opened up, pouring out countless negative emotions.
His chest boiled with a storm of feelings. And what ultimately remained was an endlessly deep guilt, regret, and tender longing.
I'm sorry for being late. I missed you. It must have been so hard.
He wanted to approach her. He wanted to tell her that everything was okay now. But he couldn't do that right now. So all Maxim could do was speak a single, short phrase that carried everything he felt—a phrase that trembled faintly in time with his heartbeat.
It was not the voice of the black-haired knight Arsen Bern, but Maxim Apparte's own voice that slipped from between his lips. The natural tone he hadn't used in so long felt strangely unfamiliar to him. Maxim closed the carriage door again and stepped out.
The carriage interior would be the safest place for her right now.
What greeted Maxim was the knight, sword drawn from its sheath, glaring at him. An extraordinary aura radiated from the knight's entire body. As if showing that he was on a completely different level from the ones Maxim had cut down so far, mana swirled around him in the form of ferocious killing intent.
The knight began with those words. His grip on the hilt was excessively tight, but every other part of his stance was flawless. Maxim's posture was the complete opposite. He held his longsword loosely in one hand. And from that blade rose a thick, almost nauseatingly blatant stench of blood.
The knight's furious voice whipped through the air like a storm. Maxim's hood fluttered. Beneath it, pitch-black eyes met the knight's gaze. The knight raised his sword. The basic stance of the Benning family swordsmanship was recreated in his hands. The tip of the blade pointed at the enemy. His legs were rooted like a mountain, his upper body flexible like bamboo—swaying yet upright. The knight's eyes, dark as death, recognized the stance and shone with even deeper intensity.
"I see."
Now he understood what kind of bastard was behind this. How pathetic. They must have kidnapped Marion to lure him out of wherever he was hiding. If they could only take one person, Marion would have been the easiest and most effective choice.
Maxim inwardly mocked the knight's droning praise of the Count's greatness. An enemy. An enemy he could not share the same sky with. In the end, the Count had become exactly that to Maxim.
The knight's muttering turned into pure murderous intent. Maxim casually shook off the sticky killing aura pressing down on him. His own rage was far deeper than the knight's—if anything, it could never be shallower.
Killing intent poured from Maxim's sword as well. For a moment, the knight's murderous aura was completely overwhelmed by what Maxim emitted. The knight took half a step back. At that moment, no more words were needed.
The two knights vanished from sight. Sparks flew in the air.
Bang—!
Though the sound rang out only once, three separate sword strikes had been exchanged in that instant. The sharp energy from the clashing blades carved long scars across the ground.
That bastard. That bastard.
The knight's reason had already gone dark. All he could do was follow the trajectory guided by the sword in his hand and try to take the scoundrel's head. After the first strike, when his opponent showed signs of faltering, the knight switched to a one-sided offensive. Simple, straightforward attacks using only sword strikes began flying in from every direction.
Maxim began blocking the incoming strikes with the bare minimum of movement. He didn't meet the heavy downward blow with brute force. A smooth, almost oiled deflection slid the splitting strike aside. Normally, when a heavy attack was blocked or deflected, the attacker's breathing would fall apart—but the Benning swordsmanship did not crumble so easily. Even if one attack was stopped, the next slash and thrust followed naturally, as if every step had been intended from the beginning.
Foolish.
The knight inwardly sneered at Maxim, who seemed only capable of defending. The Benning sword could not be broken that way. Each and every sword form was a lethal strike capable of ending a life, a sharp cut that could sever limbs.
The attacks continued. Finally, an upward rising strike left a long cut across the opponent's hood. Though the black eyes revealed beneath it remained unshaken, the knight was certain he would soon pluck out those arrogant eyeballs with his own hands.
The black eyes looked at the knight with pity.
Strength returned to the knight's hands. His heart continued to pump mana. He hadn't even drawn out his full power yet. There were thousands, tens of thousands of ways left to finish this bastard off.
The blade sharply pierced through a gap in the opponent's defense. It was blocked. The knight pushed forward with the blocked sword. An attacking stance held the advantage in a contest of strength over a defensive one. The knight concentrated mana into his arms. Muscles swelled. The force pressing against the flat of the blade increased to a terrifying degree.
Creak.
Metal ground against metal like the teeth of a beast. Maxim's body was pushed back violently. The knight didn't miss the opportunity and continued his assault. The next attack—blocked. He had thought it was quite a sharp strike, but the opponent moved his sword with surprising agility. Another thrust. The blade that had been flying in an obvious trajectory suddenly twisted like a viper's head, aiming for the opponent's side. To those eyes, the blade must have looked like a whip bending in midair. Yet the opponent blocked it with skilled movements, as if he had known the sword would change course to target him.
A momentary tremor of bewilderment ran through the knight's arm. Two strokes of luck. There wouldn't be a third. The knight struck again.
Blocked. Blocked again. By now the defensive posture should have begun to crumble, yet the opponent's stance remained unbroken. The knight denied that fact and continued swinging his sword.
Blocked. Blocked again. This time, it was deflected. The knight's face twisted like a demon. His arm moved so fast it seemed to disappear. The attacks grew faster and more concise. The more he was pushed, the more the knight's skill rose, approaching his true limit. The attacks meant to inflict pain no longer focused on torment. They had become clear, sharp strikes meant to sever breath itself.
The flow of a knight's entire life poured into the sword. From the moment he first began training in the Benning sword style, to the moment he received a sword directly from Leon Benning and was recognized as a true sword of the family, to the moment he received personal instruction from the Count—everything was contained in the blade.
Blocked. Deflected. Blocked again. Rising. Drawing out every ounce of skill.
The knight's eyes began to look beyond. Something was wrong. He hadn't drawn out his aura, yet his sword had clearly been at full strength. His mind grew impatient. No. He had to focus on the sword strikes again.
Deflected. Deflected again. Now the attacks weren't even connecting at all. When the knight came back to his senses, he realized he was simply swinging his hand through empty air. From far away, pitch-black abyssal eyes looked at him with contempt.
"Ah..."
The knight let out a breath. The sword he gripped tightly smelled of iron and dust. This couldn't be. It couldn't.
The knight's heart pounded violently. Mana took form and manifested in the world. With a sound like a raging storm, the ring of mana spinning at the knight's heart rotated fiercely. He raised his sword. The knight's aura was red. Just the aftermath of drawing it out began to shatter and break the ground into pieces. With a face twisted like a vengeful demon, the knight pointed the crimson aura blade at Maxim.
It cannot be blocked. If he tried, the sword itself would be cut in two. So he deflected it.
The knight's aura-clad sword swept forward with enough force to devastate the surroundings, but it didn't connect. No matter how obvious the attack that could only be blocked, it never truly landed. Maxim's hood fluttered and fell back. The now-clearer black eyes seemed to speak to him.
It's pointless.
The knight's aura began to waver. The most terrifying moment for any knight was approaching. The denial of the sword. The denial of a lifetime. Maxim bestowed upon the knight the most horrible end a swordsman could experience. The knight walked willingly into the abyss of despair.
And when the knight realized everything and burned even the last remnants of his soul to create a brilliant aura, Maxim moved.
His mouth recited the form of the sword technique. The sword trajectory his master had first taught him, the flow of mana, coursed through his body. He didn't need aura. After all, elves were a race that could not create aura. The sword of the forest drew forth fresh green leaves. The storm summoned by the ferocious red aura vanished without a trace. It was as if he could smell the wind blowing through the branches of a willow tree.
Clang.
A short metallic ring. That was the result of the first exchange. Maxim, who had devoured the aura and severed the knight's sword, was sheathing his blade.
The words could not continue. Countless red lines appeared across the knight's body. The spray of blood looked like a willow tree scattering in the wind.
It was dark. Marion closed her eyes and covered her ears, locking herself inside the approaching darkness. Outside was noisy with chaotic sounds, but the darkness that had begun to consume her again was far too deep. The world was shaking. The wall that had already collapsed was being rebuilt, thicker than before.
No.
The faint remnant of her ego screamed. But the fleeting cry could not reach Marion. The words "no" were swallowed by the approaching darkness before they could even echo. She was weak. Right now, she was far too weak. She simply wanted to see one person she missed more than anything.
"Max...im..."
"Yes."
A voice answered. Was she hearing things? Was the darkness that had nearly swallowed her showing her mercy? With a voice wet with tears, Marion kept calling the name. If she stopped, it felt like the voice would vanish at any moment, that she would never hear it again.
"Maxim...!"
"Marion."
The answering voice was close. She wanted to deny it, yet she also wanted to believe. Marion reached out with trembling hands. She could touch him. He was there. Wearing a tattered hood, looking at her with those golden eyes that reminded her of warm sunset light.
Marion's eyes widened. Focus returned to the unfocused gaze that had nearly been devoured by darkness. The blue eyes, brimming with tears, told her that the reality before her was real. Her eyes, the sensation in her hands—they were telling her.
I'm sorry for being late. At Maxim's last words, the tears that had pooled in Marion's eyes finally spilled over.