Chapter 32
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Running Weasel
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The Running Weasel
*Swoosh—.*
The downpour intensified, narrowing his vision, but Aron still projected an immense, mountain-like presence.
Beside him, two men were embedded in a shabby wall, only their lower bodies visible, completely motionless.
“...What is this.”
Someone’s low, astonished whisper was swallowed and scattered by the sound of the rain.
Aron leisurely held out a hand, catching the rainwater to wash his face. He swept his wet bangs back, revealing a face full of scars.
*Rumble—.*
A faint flash of lightning cast a blueish glow on him, and the sight was...
*Gulp.*
Those watching him swallowed in unison.
“He’s... he’s got some moves. Get him all at once!”
The man who had bragged about holding a noblewoman brandished a sharp skewer and shouted.
‘Tsk.’
Levi clicked his tongue as he watched him from behind, but he was no different from the rest of them.
In the end, he too was just another deer before Aron.
*Fweeeet—.*
A whistle blew from somewhere nearby.
As if spurred on by the sound, the men charged again.
This time, unlike before, one kicked off the wall and leaped upward while two others pressed themselves against the walls on either side, closing in on Aron simultaneously.
The last man followed slightly behind.
Their earlier boasting wasn't entirely hot air, it seemed. Levi was startled by their coordinated attack, signaled by mere glances.
‘This... even for Aron...’
Levi forgot to breathe, his focus absolute.
Soon, the men were upon Aron.
“Die—!”
The pointy-nosed man who had leaped up thrust his skewer down toward the crown of Aron’s head.
Faced with the men filling the alley, Aron took a step forward.
The skewer missed its mark. Aron slammed his head into the man’s stomach. *Thwack.* A sound like something breaking echoed through the rain, and the man was sent flying.
Immediately after, Aron swung both fists outward at the two men rushing him from the sides.
Startled, the men swung their own hooked weapons, but they were blocked by the vambraces on Aron’s forearms.
*CRASH!* The combined impact of the two blows drowned out the rain, filling the alley with a deafening roar.
The last man, who had been hiding behind the others, seized the opportunity and lunged into Aron’s guard.
*Shunk.* A dagger, held in the man’s hand, plunged deep into the seam of Aron’s breastplate just below his left chest, leaving only the hilt visible.
“Heh heh... you big, dumb ba—.”
*CRACK!* The number of ornaments stuck to the wall now totaled five.
Just then, the man who had been headbutted first finally hit the ground, splashing muddy water all over Levi.
Watching Aron grumble, “Ah, that stings, you son of a bitch,” as he pulled out the deeply embedded dagger, Levi hastily raised his arms and pressed them tightly to his ears.
“Ah, that smarts.”
Aron winced, pressing his fingers into the wound.
His complaint was as casual as if he’d been bitten by a mosquito, but with each press of his fingers, red blood poured out like wine from a freshly opened cask.
“Heal, Cure, Recovery... Ah, shit, it’s not working. And they call me an honorary monk.”
Aron muttered something at his own wound before spitting on the ground.
After punching the men on the wall one more time each, driving them deeper into the plaster, Aron seemed to notice Levi. He started walking slowly toward him.
Fear. No, the word ‘fear’ wasn’t enough.
With every step Aron took, it felt as if someone was squeezing his heart, making it difficult to breathe.
All Levi could do was raise his trembling arms higher.
“Oh, Levi. Long time no see.”
“I... I... th-th-th...”
For the first time, Levi realized that extreme tension could freeze his mouth shut, preventing him from speaking.
Aron’s piercing gaze bore down on him, freezing his lips and constricting his breath.
‘I have to apologize for what happened... I have to beg him to spare me, somehow...’
His body simply wouldn’t obey.
Was this what it felt like for a human to stand before a demon?
“Hmm.”
Aron swept his hair back again, and the blood on his hand painted the long scar on his face red.
Blinking for a moment, Aron reached a hand inside his breastplate.
The thought that Aron, the man who had turned others into wall ornaments with his bare fists, was about to pull something out brought tears to Levi’s eyes.
‘...What did I do to deserve this, you bastard!’
That terror acted as a lubricant, allowing Levi’s frozen body to move just a little.
Levi scrambled forward and fell, grabbing onto Aron’s feet. He pleaded like a starving beggar clinging to someone holding bread. He spewed out every word that came to mind, not even knowing what he was saying.
*Thud.* Aron pushed him away, and Levi fell backward. A puddle soaked his back, and lying spread-eagled, he stared at Aron with a look of utter despair.
How would he kill me?
Would he smash my head in?
Or tear me apart with his bare hands?
His boundless imagination painted one gruesome picture after another.
‘I should just bite my tongue. Better than being dragged to hell by a demon...’
Having made his decision, Levi trembled as he opened his mouth wide.
“Here, take it.”
Aron held out something he had pulled from his tunic.
Having just nicked his tongue, Levi’s eyes went wide as he looked up. What Aron offered was a stack of ten silver coins, shimmering elegantly in the moonlight.
“I drank too much back then. Got a little handsy in my drunken stupor.”
Whether it was because of the rain, Levi couldn’t quite comprehend the words coming out of Aron’s mouth, but he instinctively reached out a trembling hand and hastily took the coins.
But his body was devoid of strength, and he pitched forward, scattering the coins on the ground. The blood had rushed to his head so much that his awareness of the situation was delayed.
“...You got the shakes? I’m tired as it is.”
Watching Aron’s large fingers fumble to pick up the fallen coins, repeatedly slipping and cursing, Levi’s mind snapped back to reality.
This ruffian was apologizing for what happened.
He had no intention of killing him.
Did that mean he had saved him?
“I... I’ll get it.”
Levi hastily crawled on the ground, gathering the coins. Only after stuffing nine of them into his pocket did he finally breathe easily.
‘Come to think of it... he’s a rough, foul-mouthed, violent son of a bitch, but...’
Maybe he had misjudged Aron based on his appearance and past actions.
Levi looked up at Aron with a newfound perspective.
Aron’s massive frame seemed even larger now.
Large enough to shield him from the rain that was pouring down as if from a hole in the sky...
‘Wait, isn’t that just a rose umbrella?’
Why on earth was he carrying a rose umbrella that could barely cover his own body...?
Levi let out a hollow laugh and stood up.
His legs were still weak, but he could move well enough.
“Aron, I may have misundersto—.”
*WHACK!*
A powerful impact on the back of his head sent Levi sprawling forward.
His face slammed squarely into a puddle, and water shot up his nose.
What was happening now? What other misunderstanding had occurred? Levi, still in the puddle, turned only his head to look up at Aron.
“A filthy, dog-like ruffian? You think I’m dirty? Who’s the primitive medieval bastard shitting in the streets talking to...?”
As Aron muttered, Levi frowned for a moment before realizing that those were, word for word, the same insults he had hurled six months ago. He burst out laughing.
“What are you laughing at? Get up. I’m busy.”
Aron grabbed the back of Levi’s tunic with one hand and lifted him.
Feeling like a kitten being picked up by the scruff, Levi nodded.
***
“Which way did he go?”
“I heard he’s hiding in District 7.”
*Hoo- hoo-.* Dylan, no, the weasel, had been trying to control his breathing to calm his pounding heart.
‘That fucking weakling is a fixer? No—if you’re a fixer, at least put up a sign or something. Don’t make a man anxious.’
Unable to overcome his nervousness, the weasel bit at his fingertips. The damp taste from his grimy nails made him spit.
“Hey, Dylan, what’s wrong?”
Pul tapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s nothing, boss.”
Strangely, while he had called that bastard Aron ‘boss’ out of fear, the title felt like it came from the very bottom of his heart for Pul.
He had even seriously wondered if they might be real half-brothers, just as Aron had said.
A bear of a man, Pul, and one dopey-looking guy. This was the safest group apart from Aron’s. That’s why the weasel had broken the three-man cell rule and attached himself to them.
“How dare these criminals roam Karzan Castle without my permission.”
The bear-like man muttered, pulling a massive hammer from his coat. The hammer suited his frame, and the weasel gave a small nod.
Among mercenaries, the ones who used hammers were always the most vicious. They wouldn't stop until their opponent was a pile of mush.
“They’re on the move again. We need to go further.”
“Don’t order me around. I am Ska, the shadow of Karzan.”
“The Jojang said to tell you if you didn’t listen.”
“Ahem... But since this is an emergency, I will heed your counsel. Hey—you hear that? Tell the others to move.”
“Yes, boss!”
As Ska shouted, the dopey-looking guy ran off somewhere.
The thick raindrops kept obscuring his vision, so the weasel wiped at his eyes with his hand.
*Fweeeet— Fweeeet—.*
The weasel blew desperately into the whistle in his mouth.
He blew with all his might, hoping the sound would scare the targets and make them run straight to that mindless brute.
“Just a little further now...”
“Shh.”
As Ska muttered, Pul raised a hand, his eyes narrowing as he stared at something.
It was an alley in the direction they were herding their prey.
*Clang! Clang! Aaargh!*
Unfortunately, the clash of metal and a scream were not completely drowned out by the rain; they could be heard faintly.
*Gulp.*
“B-Boss! It sounds like a couple fighting! It’s a domestic dispute, we shouldn’t get involved...”
Sensing a primal sense of foreboding, the weasel quickly spoke up.
“I’m going. It could be the Jojang.”
Pul pocketed his whistle and drew the sword from his hip.
The narrow, sharp-tipped blade glimmered faintly in the moonlight.
“Ahem... If Aron is in trouble, he’ll need me.”
Ska swung his hammer in the air, as if showing off his strength.
The shattered raindrops splattered across the weasel’s face.
The weasel followed reluctantly, walking on the balls of his feet, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
*Grrrk—.*
A suppressed groan echoed from the dark alley, and Pul raised his right hand.
They all stopped, staring into the alley.
*Plip- plop-.*
Only the sound of thick raindrops hitting the ground echoed. Enough time passed for their tension to feel ridiculous.
Just as the weasel was about to speak.
A lanky man walked out of the alley.
The cool moonlight slowly crept up from the man’s feet, eventually revealing his face. The weasel desperately suppressed a scream.
A towering height.
A face as pale as a painted courtesan’s, with a stiff, mask-like lack of expression.
He recognized him.
The fixer he had sucker-punched stood there, holding a blood-soaked longsword.
‘Why is this bastard here?’
The weasel quickly contorted his face, hoping not to be recognized. He squinted his eyes and twisted his mouth to the side.
“Hey—you’re not from around here, are you?”
Ska, with the hammer slung over his shoulder, stepped forward with a cocky posture.
“His description matches the escaped fixer. He’s dangerous. We attack together.”
Pul whispered from behind the big lug.
“That’s a blow to my pride...”
“If you don’t listen, the Jojang said he’d cut off those useless ears of yours and feed them to you.”
“Ugh, fine. There are times when a joint attack is strategically necessary.”
“Dylan, when we block the front... what’s with your face?”
Pul, stuck close to Ska’s back, turned his head to look at the weasel.
“Huh? Oh, it’s just cold. My face is frozen.”
“What? ...Anyway, Ska and I will take the front. If you see an opening, stab him.”
The weasel wanted to curse at them for wanting to fight someone who was so obviously powerful, but he swallowed his words and nodded.
“Karzan Castle is my territory. You can’t just swing a sword around without the owner’s permission.”
Ska strode confidently toward the man.
*Plop.*
As a particularly large raindrop hit the ground and scattered, the man moved like lightning.
There was no sound. The man simply leaned forward at an angle, and the big lug swung his hammer.
But the man, as if possessed, smoothly dodged the hammer.
*CRASH!* Ska’s massive hammer demolished the wall.
However, its intended target was already past him.
Ska staggered for a moment, dropped his hammer, and clutched his face. A red line appeared between his fingers, and he collapsed forward with a loud thud.
The man flicked his sword clean, and blood mixed with the raindrops, coloring the puddle below.
It had all happened in the instant before Pul, who was right behind Ska, could thrust his sword.
“Dylan!! Run!”
Pul shouted, lunging forward with his sword, but the man easily sidestepped him and plunged his blade into Pul’s shoulder.
The puddle turned a deeper shade of red. *Aaaargh—* a scream filled with agony tore through the heavy rain.
This was bad. There was no chance. The weasel made his decision and quickly started backing away.
Just then, the man grabbed Pul by the scruff of his neck and pulled the sword from his shoulder. Blood spurted like a fountain.
*Aaaargh—.*
Pul’s scream caught at the weasel’s feet.
Seeing Pul’s face contorted in pain, the weasel squeezed his eyes shut.
Good memories with Pul flashed through his mind.
‘Jojang Aron, you say? He’s a total bastard.’
The sweet memory of drinking together, badmouthing Aron.
‘Ahaha! Dylan, you lonely? Come with me! I’ll pay for yours too! Didn’t you call me boss!’
The fleshy memory of putting an arm around his true brother, who had even paid for his whores.
‘When you’re collecting money from a coachman, the most important thing is knowing the limit. For example, with a coachman like that one...’
The memory of him generously sharing the precious secrets he had accumulated.
They were all warm memories, worthy of being called cherished.
The man toyed with Pul, stabbing him again, but Pul, even while screaming, waved his right hand.
As if telling him to get away, quickly.
At that, something surged up from deep within the weasel’s chest.
Worn down by a miserable life as a bottom-feeding mercenary, always on edge, never knowing when the guy next to you might stick a knife in your back, he had forgotten something. Something was now poking at his heart.
And when Pul’s right hand fell limp, that something exploded.
“Hey—you fucking pipsqueak!!!”
Dylan let go of the face he had been forcing into a grimace.
Instead, he wore his signature vile grin, the same one he had when he’d slammed the back of the man’s head.
The man’s head turned slowly, and the moment their emotionless eyes met, Dylan’s feet twitched, but he forced himself to stand his ground.
“You—you idiot. I kicked your ass, remember?”
Dylan forced the most despicable smile he could muster and swung the sword in his hand like a club.
Finally recognizing him, the man’s mask-like expression cracked for the first time.
“You fucking pipsqueak, knocked out by one hit to the back of the head! Those guys you called your brothers? They became skewers! Salted skewers, you bastard!!”
Dylan spat out the taunt he had dredged up from his gut.
The man kicked off the ground, and Dylan turned and fled without a second thought.
*Thump! Thump!* His feet felt heavy as they pounded the ground, but Dylan ran with every ounce of strength he had.
He came to a fork in the path and chose left. As he rounded the corner, he slipped in a puddle.
His body tumbled to the ground, but Dylan was up in an instant, running again.
It wasn't a metaphor; a man with a sword was really chasing him. A scraped foot was the least of his worries.
*CRACK!* The man’s sword impaled a wooden crate right where he had just fallen.
Dylan swallowed hard and forced his water-logged, heavy legs to move.
Only one person came to mind.
A face so terrifying he was afraid to see it even in his dreams.
A goddamn son of a bitch, but a son of a bitch who was damn good at one thing: beating people to a pulp!
Just then, he felt a chill on his back and dove forward. A searing heat flared on the back of his neck. When he touched it, his hand came away wet with red blood.
“Hey—you fucking weakling! You swing a sword at someone’s back?! You cowardly bastard!”
Dylan cursed as he kicked over a stack of wooden crates. They tumbled down, blocking the path between them. Knowing they wouldn't hold for long, Dylan started running again.
‘Where the hell is that bastard.’
Dylan kept running, not even wiping away the tears of fear that streamed down his face.
His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his throat raw. With every step, he bitterly regretted his uncharacteristic act of idiocy.
Just then, a searing pain erupted in his back. Dylan shrieked and rolled forward.
‘Cowardly son of a bitch, swinging a sword at a man’s back!’
Dylan wanted to curse the man’s treachery, but he had rolled through a puddle and his mouth was full of water, so all that came out was a sputtering noise.
His mind grew hazy from the blood flowing from his back. He crashed into a wall, and the world turned upside down.
The man, now inverted, approached with the light steps of someone out for a stroll. Precious red blood dripped from the sword in his hand.
He wanted to run, but his body wouldn't move.
As death approached with stark clarity, Dylan was filled with a sense of injustice.
Usually, that bastard would show up at all hours to torment him, but when he was actually needed, he was nowhere to be found.
The unfairness of it all was so overwhelming that he opened his mouth.
“Aron—you—fucking—son—of a—bitch!!!”
The pent-up frustration in his chest erupted like he was vomiting blood. No, on closer inspection, it was actual blood.
‘Such a shitty, miserable life. I thought if I could just survive to the end, it might mean something.’
Seeing the man, who was now right in front of him, raise his sword, Dylan forced his eyes wide open.
The man looked like he wouldn't feel a shred of guilt even after killing someone. Dylan glared into his eyes, planning to haunt him even in death.
The man looked down at Dylan, a smirk twisting his lips as he prepared to swing.
*BOOM—.*
The wall to the man’s right exploded.
A colorful blur burst through the wall and slammed into the man, sending him flying into the opposite wall, shattering it.
“What did you just say?”
Staring into the black eyes that shone proudly amidst the vibrant colors, the weasel squeezed his own eyes shut.
With blood pouring from his back, this seemed like a perfectly good time to pass out.
‘That good-for-nothing bastard with sharp ears only shows up when you curse his name!’
But even with his eyes closed, the piercing gaze lingered in his mind, and consciousness refused to fade.
***
‘This bastard is faking it.’
I clicked my tongue, watching the weasel, crumpled upside down against the wall, his eyes twitching every time a raindrop hit him.
But he wasn't the important thing right now.
That had been a full-force body slam, yet the guy was getting up as if it were nothing. I drew my sword.
The blade gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
“So you’re the pipsqueak that got taken down by this guy.”
I said with a sneer, giving my sword a twirl.
“One after another...”
The man muttered, dusting off his shoulder.
“Hey, you missed a spot on the other side.”
I pointed a finger at his right side.
The moment the scowling man’s head turned.
I kicked off the ground and lunged.
*CLANG!*
“You insolent...”
The man’s eyes narrowed from across our locked blades.
His reaction was a fraction too late, and my blade had nicked his shoulder.
“You treacherous...”
“The one who falls for it is the idiot.”
I grinned brightly at his taunt.
I met his eyes and put more force into my grip on the sword. His blade was instantly pushed back, and blood spurted from his shoulder.
Realizing he was outmatched in strength, he immediately shifted his stance, my sword scraping across the area around his shoulder.
A strip of his red flesh peeled away like a fruit rind, revealing the white bone beneath.
He grimaced in pain but didn’t even let out a groan.
As my sword filleted his shoulder and moved past, he thrust his own blade.
He was aiming for the same spot where the dagger had stabbed me earlier.
‘Sly bastard.’
I clicked my tongue and ducked my right shoulder, deflecting his sword with my pauldron. His blade grazed my neck, and a searing pain flared up.
*Hoo—*
From a distance so close I could feel his hot breath, I drove my left fist into his stomach.
*Thwack.* Water sprayed from his abdomen as he was lifted slightly off his feet.
Even then, his eyes were fixed on me, and I stared right back.
I opened the left hand I had buried in his gut, grabbed a fistful of his clothes, and slammed him to the ground.
He skipped across the ground behind me like a stone on water. In the midst of it, he kicked off the ground, pushing himself further back.
He was trying to create distance and break my momentum.
He was no pushover. A true fixer, tough enough not to scream even when his flesh was being carved off.
‘How the hell did that weasel bastard even catch this guy?’
I caught my ragged breath and swept the hair out of my eyes.
“I heard our guys were captured. Now I see why.”
The man staggered to his feet and glanced down at his exposed shoulder bone, muttering under his breath.
“Why do you keep crawling into backwaters like this? Trying to retire to the countryside? No vacancies, asshole.”
I sneered back, pressing a finger into the dagger wound. Hot red blood trickled down my finger.
*Fweeeet— Fweeeet—*
The sound of a whistle echoed through the heavy rain.
The man glanced around for a moment before speaking.
“Ah, I’m looking for a girl. About this tall, with purple hair. Have you seen her?”
He spoke in a calm, even tone, but his pale face suggested he wasn’t in good shape.
‘A mini-fridge.’
His words painted a clear picture of the situation.
Still, I didn’t understand why they’d send a fixer just to find one little pipsqueak of a mage.
True mages were rare, but the pipsqueaks who hadn’t quite evolved into true mages could be found in any high-end bar or cafe in the city. Sending a fixer seemed like overkill.
‘Must be a frugal guy.’
I scratched my head as the situation grew more complicated than I’d expected.
“You seem to know something. Even if you kill me, my boss won’t give up, so if you’d just cooperate...”
Just then, a dark blade burst through his abdomen, and blood sprayed like a fountain.
“Ha!! This fucking pipsqueak dares to go after the purple one...”
The weasel, who looked to be on the verge of death, his eyes half-open, sneered.
“You... you...”
The man’s eyes widened, and he flailed his hands, but the weasel had already collapsed backward.
‘So he really did sucker-punch him.’
The mystery was solved in an instant. I laughed out loud and walked toward the staggering man, who now had a sword sticking out of his stomach.
“Our... boss... will not... forgive...”
The man forced out the words, blood gurgling from his mouth.
I grabbed him by the hair and yanked.
The man’s eyes, which had been calm even as I filleted his shoulder, widened in terror.
No matter how strong or composed they acted, everyone looked pretty much the same when death was breathing down their neck.
I looked him in the eye and readjusted my grip on my sword.
I thought about what last words to offer him, but then figured, what’s the point for a dead man? I swung.
The masterless body collapsed, and a red spray soaked my feet.
I tossed the head on top of it and opened the umbrella I had tucked behind my back.
*Fweeeet— Fweeeet—*
The whistling was fading. It seemed the day was finally coming to an end.
All I wanted was a hot bath and a cold beer.