Master of Brawling
Master of Brawling
Richard Auris Hilsinger.
The Duke of Hilsinger's account of his son was not a complicated tale.
It was a tragedy.
But it was not a grievous tragedy.
In Geladrion, it was one of the happier tragedies one could count on one hand.
Yet a wound is still a wound. The fact that it was common, that it was relatively happy—these things did not lighten its weight.
The heart's wounds are personal, and Aslan did not press the matter.
Richard Auris Hilsinger, the runaway youth Aslan absolutely had to bring back, had his maternal roots in the Mountain Kingdom.
A land of towering peaks, rugged people, and techniques widespread since the days of the ancient empire.
Men and women born to a culture that preferred duels to intrigue and war to politics.
The Duke of Hilsinger had taken a woman of that culture as his wife.
Of the marriage that followed, the Duke did not speak. Whether he did not wish to recall it or simply thought it unnecessary, Aslan could not tell.
One thing was certain: the Duke had not hated that marriage.
His expression carried a faint, veiled longing as he spoke.
He said he had lost his wife because he had been momentarily outmaneuvered in a feud with a house now extinct.
Beside his assassinated wife's body, he said, had been their son.
After that, Richard had kept his distance from the Duke.
He kept his distance from power, from the Kingdom of Bida, from his father.
Instead, he drew closer to Baramunz.
He inscribed mana tattoos on his body, learned to wield axes and other weapons common in Baramunz, and taught himself how to survive in the wild.
He revered the great mountain, preferred duels and war to intrigue and politics.
At that point in the telling, the Duke let out a coarse laugh.
He said his son resembled him only in face and height, that even set side by side they did not look like father and son.
That the boy had spurned the heir's seat, wandered, and become a disciple of Itar.
Five years had passed since. The Duke now sought to call back the son he had kept at arm's length.
His reasoning was not difficult to grasp.
'It may strike you as strange, but... watching that priest you brought down, I found myself thinking. That such things can happen at any time. That my blue blood does not guarantee my safety.'
Aslan seemed unsure how to respond to that, and the Duke shook his head with a twisted, bitter smile.
A gesture that said he needed neither comfort nor reassurance.
He simply spoke.
That he feared his house vanishing, its accumulated history fading into the forgotten wayside.
That was the context, he said, for bringing Richard back.
If Aslan brought him back, he would do anything. He would even give up his ties to the Kingdom of Bida. Something no ally could ever do.
Aslan found the Duke's demeanor strange.
In the game, the Duke of Hilsinger had always been a master of intelligence, sly and ruthlessly thorough. Now here he was, showing such vulnerability.
Strange as it was, Aslan could not refuse the request.
Drawing the Kingdom of Bida in without Hilsinger truly was an impossibility, and Aslan was not so callous as to say no to a man like this.
With a firm promise to do so, the conversation had ended. Two days had passed since.
Now, Aslan stood in Seyni Village.
The village presented a scene of prosperity, tucked between lake and forest.
And the more he looked around, the clearer it became that Seyni was not merely prosperous—it was steeped in history.
Ruins that had to be several hundred years old sat on its outskirts, and walls like those seen in the ancient fortresses bearing the name Belus wrapped around the village.
As it appeared, Seyni Village had a long past.
It had been settled even before the legend of driving out the hill giant with song, the legend that marked the founding of House Hilsinger.
Itar was not originally from Seyni Village, but he had spent fifty years here.
And even in Geladrion, a land overflowing with priests and monsters, where elves and beastmen lived longer than humans, fifty years was a long time.
Itar had long since become part of the village.
The villagers would not reveal his location.
"To show such disrespect to a handsome dragon-kin elder like myself—this village must be thick with dragon-kin hate."
Tiyamal was the first back, and his nonsense was easy enough to dismiss.
"Scales isn't exactly wrong. Even when an adorable elf like Fay asked, nobody would tell us anything."
"...Scales? This elder is Tiyamal—"
"Shh. Fay's talking."
Fay's case was exceptional.
With her appearance being that of a young girl, gathering information should have been easy. Yet not a single scrap came back.
That pointed to one of three things. Either such visitors were already common, the locals' wariness was unexpectedly high—
Or both.
The moment Ereta began to speak, Aslan knew it was both.
"Same for me. They just stared with wide eyes, so I had to leave. And I'm a guest, you know!"
"My situation was similar. They actually followed me around warning people to be careful around me."
"I only asked three times and they tried to hit me, so I hit them first."
Aslan listened to his companions relay their similar experiences and thought it was exactly as he had expected.
He had sent them to gather intelligence on the off chance, but the context didn't seem to have deviated much from the in-game event.
'They didn't tell you in the game, either. Even though he'd lived there about forty years by then... now that it's been fifty, if anything it'd be worse, not better.'
Aslan concluded the thought and rose to his feet.
It hardly mattered if he couldn't hear it directly. He already had a good guess where Itar was.
Under the gazes of his companions as they gathered around him, Aslan spoke lightly.
"Then we've got no choice. Let's go find him ourselves."
At that, the group looked puzzled. The sense was, hadn't they started asking around precisely to find his location?
Rather than explain, Aslan offered an easy smile. Having seen him make inexplicable calls like this many times before, the party each reacted in their own way and quietly followed.
The reason he hadn't gone straight for the search was simple. To avoid arousing Itar's suspicion.
To make sure Itar noticed he was being sought out.
So the effort had not been fruitless. At least, so Aslan believed as he led the group onward.
Their destination was Seyni Forest.
*
Seyni Forest lay directly adjacent to Seyni Village.
A lush wood embracing a lake in its abundant growth, pastoral in atmosphere.
Yet it was not a demon-haunted forest. That was Seyni.
When the party entered and made a straight line toward Itar's dwelling, the only sounds were the occasional scurry of wild animals fleeing at their approach. A peaceful forest.
In such a forest, nothing posed a threat.
Ordinarily.
"Youngster."
Fay tugged at his hand. Tiyamal murmured low. Aslan glanced at the two, who had detected the tail before him, and gave a small nod—act like you haven't noticed.
It didn't last long.
Crack!
A twig snapping underfoot. Then a flustered scramble to hide.
Aslan frowned at the noise. Ereta and Rumel glanced back once before facing forward again, visibly struggling not to laugh.
"Aslan... um... I think someone's following us..."
When even Angie, the least perceptive of them, had caught on, Aslan knew that whoever was behind them had never shadowed anyone in their life.
'Can't be Itar.'
Itar was an old monster who had lived over fifty years as a master of unarmed combat in his own right.
No way a man like that would tail someone so clumsily. The identity of their pursuer was easy enough to deduce.
'It's Richard.'
Better this way, Aslan decided, and kept walking as if he hadn't noticed a thing. Even with his companions occasionally glancing back, Richard stubbornly kept following.
At last, as the party neared the center of Seyni Forest, the presence that had been trailing them stepped into the open.
"Hold it. Stop right there!"
The figure who revealed himself with that shout was a young man in Baramunz-style garments.
'Baramunz-style garb and hair, Baramunz-style mana tattoos.'
Long brown hair tied in a high knot. A broad expanse of reddish mana tattoos decorating the skin from around the eyes, across the cheeks, to the forehead.
He looked as if he were declaring himself a son of Baramunz.
Draped in furs and what looked like monster scales, he could not have passed for anything else.
The moment Aslan saw him, he was certain this was the Duke's son, Richard Auris Hilsinger.
Everything up to that point had been as expected.
The Baramunz clothing, the mana tattoos.
Even that he would come once they started asking around the village.
What Aslan had not anticipated was Richard's level of skill.
"Aslan."
"I know."
Aslan affirmed Tiyamal's quiet call.
They were not the only ones who had noticed.
Aside from Angie, who couldn't size up a stranger's ability, the rest of the party had taken Richard's measure and were belatedly sharpening their guard.
Because unlike his tailing skills, which were worse than a rank amateur's, Richard's combat ability was genuine.
Even hidden beneath his loose, bulky clothes and the air he gave off, the fleeting glimpses of his physique proved it.
Aslan glanced sidelong at his companions and stepped forward.
"Are you Richard Auris Hilsinger?"
He asked.
At the question, Richard's eyebrows rose as if caught off guard.
"So it's me you came for? Not my master? Well, that's a mercy. Since you're not those monster bastards, I won't have to bloody my hands."
At the word monster, Aslan's expression settled, and Richard cracked his neck to either side.
"Like I've said time and again, I'm not going back. I'm going to succeed my master. If you really mean to drag me back, you've got no choice but to beat me and take me."
After loosening his stiff neck, Richard approached. Dry leaves crunched beneath his every step. As he drew near, he pointed at Tiyamal.
"Which one of you looks like he can throw a punch? The big one there?"
Tiyamal, who had no business shooting a bow and no intention of stepping up anyway, snorted at being singled out.
In truth, he was the least capable in close-quarters combat here.
Tiyamal snorted and tapped the dirt with his tail.
"This elder doesn't do barbaric things like throwing punches. I simply shoot a bow, like a civilized man."
Civilized—an odd word coming from the half-naked Tiyamal, who had already stripped off his top.
Richard seemed to think so too, tilting his head. Aslan watched the young man for a quiet moment, then stepped forward.
"That would be me. I'll face you."
"Ah, you? Hm, you've got the build for it... but aren't you a sword user?"
Richard's eyes had gone to the seobsaeng at Aslan's waist and Storm Sword across his back. After studying those two blades, he let out a dry chuckle and added:
"Well, whether you use them or not... doesn't matter. I'm going to win anyway."
The words came with a taunting curl at the corner of his mouth, steeped in the arrogance of the strong.
Then Richard took his stance. Legs apart, body low, fists raised.
"Just so you know, I won't be holding back."
Having set himself, he waited for Aslan to come to him. Aslan looked at that arrogance and smiled faintly.
It had been a long time since anyone had looked at his skill and placed him beneath themselves.
Most people recognized him as the Master of Combat and scrambled to raise their guard to its utmost.
Of course, familiarity with the attitude did not mean carelessness.
Aslan always fought in earnest.
"Don't worry. There won't be time for you to."
So Aslan answered, and closed his eyes.
'Jeojang.'
At the word repeated in his mind, the world stopped. In the world bleeding into monochrome, only Aslan's sixth sense moved through the frozen tableau in frantic clarity.
What Aslan aimed for was a decisive victory.
Subdue him decisively, demonstrate the gap in strength, and gain an advantage for when he later tried to recruit Itar. That was the purpose of this precognition.
Overusing it left harmful marks, but brief use he could endure.
So Aslan closed his fist, exhaled, and opened his eyes within the unfolding premonition.
This was not the master of fisticuffs—only his disciple.
By contrast, Aslan was a fighter who had reached the highest levels in both combat arts and martial arts.
This should be simple.
He closed the distance as if strolling. With every step, the crunch of dead leaves filled the silent forest, and the wind brushing past him set the Wings of Stymphalos whispering against his back.
His aim was a counter. Seize the incoming attack, stun him with a short, sharp blow, then grab him and slam him to the ground.
And the plan was sound.
Against an ordinary opponent, it would have gone off flawlessly. Even if the opponent were armed, Aslan could have subdued him.
The problem was not Aslan—it was Richard.
Richard's skill exceeded Aslan's projection.
He realized it the moment they clashed.
The instant he caught Richard's opening strike, Richard erased the gap with two consecutive kicks.
When Aslan blocked both kicks and closed in to rain down short blows, Richard parried them naturally and fired back a counter of his own.
When Aslan slipped between the returning strikes and seized him for the throw, Richard instantly closed the distance, nullified the slam, and reversed it, trying to drive Aslan into the ground instead.
In the end, Aslan had to wrench his arm free and break away.
Distance restored, his plan unraveled, Aslan's brow furrowed in consternation even within the precognition.
'This isn't master-level?'
Richard's unarmed combat was above any opponent Aslan had ever faced.