Master of Brawling
Master of Brawling
A groan tore from Richard before he could stop it. He wrenched himself awake into a crushing agony that made his whole body feel shattered, vaguely ashamed he'd blacked out even for a heartbeat.
'What... what the hell kind of punch was that?'
The pain ripped sounds out of him without permission. His back hurt just as savagely, but the worst of it was centered on his forearm, where her fist had landed.
Agonizing—but not broken. He could still move. The instant the blow connected, Richard had used a technique to bleed off as much force as he could and turned the rest into a breakfall.
Only one person among the onlookers caught it: Aslan.
Aslan studied the gasping young man with a quiet, measuring gaze.
'Not just a disciple. If Itar weren't here, this one might be the master.'
To be fair, Richard had badly misjudged Angie's capabilities. But to deploy a technique on impact and follow it with a proper breakfall—that spoke to excellent instincts.
He had rough edges. Maybe he trusted his eyes more than his senses. But strip away the mislaid overconfidence and his combat sense was far from poor.
'Still... why did you only figure it out at the very end?'
Aslan looked on, perplexed. Angie closed the distance until she was right in front of Richard, who was grinding his face into the dirt with a stifled groan. Then—
"Grrragh!"
—he forced himself onto both legs with a yell. Angie's eyes went wide. She'd swung in earnest, yet Richard was mostly intact.
Richard met the startled girl's stare, his face tight with wariness.
"You. You're a priest."
He'd barely gotten to his feet and was already massaging his numb arm. His tone said he'd seen through everything and wasn't about to let her deny it. The girl's expression flickered with confusion, but Richard didn't seem to notice.
The young man shook out his still-aching arms and dropped into a stance.
"If you're a priest, that changes things. Right here and now, I'll—"
"The hell would I be a priest? Moron."
Richard flinched at the verbal lashing. Angie lowered her center of gravity and bared her teeth.
"Still got enough brains left to run your mouth, huh? Let's see."
A savage smile glazed with undisguised hostility. Not killing intent—but more than enough menace to bridge the gap. Richard's jaw tightened. Understandably.
"Lord Aslan, you must stop—"
Rumel spoke belatedly, watching the tense young man as Angie coiled to spring. But before Aslan could intervene—before anyone could—a figure materialized between Angie and Richard.
A middle-aged man, his dark skin uncommon on the northern continent, leaning on a staff.
He stepped between them and extended an arm toward Angie's incoming punch.
Her fist tore through the air with a crack. It collided with that thin, disciplined arm—
And no one's expectation came true. The arm didn't split. No blood sprayed.
The force rode up the limb and flowed away, redirected so smoothly that Angie's fist merely churned the leaf-littered earth beneath it.
Dirt and dead leaves scattered. Angie's face warped with bewilderment. Richard's, meanwhile, lit up with something close to rapture.
"Master...!"
Richard's teacher.
The Master of Martial Arts, Itar.
A character created by one of the game's top financial backers—and the game's premier tank.
His sudden appearance was startling enough, but Aslan recognized the technique the man had just demonstrated. In-game, that skill carried the property of complete damage nullification.
A master's art, deflecting even a full-force strike from Angie. Her wariness sharpened as she pulled back.
Angie's expression was fierce, layered with heavy caution, and the dark-skinned man seemed to read it clearly. He offered a gentle smile, clearly meant to reassure.
The genuine praise came almost as an afterthought.
"Remarkable. Truly remarkable. To think a mere human body could reach such strength..."
His hand still held a faint tremor as he looked down at the arm that had absorbed her punch. A strange intensity lingered in his deep-set black eyes.
The old man regarded Angie—who had already re-established her stance—for a long moment, then turned his head toward his disciple. The young man's face was crumpled with shame, his head bowed as if he wanted nothing more than to apologize. The old man gave him a forgiving smile, then shifted his attention to Aslan.
The instant their eyes met, Aslan knew.
The old man had recognized him.
"Magnificent fighting spirit. Master of Combat."
He'd placed him with a single glance. Aslan, inwardly startled, answered a beat late.
"How did you know?"
The Master of Martial Arts, Itar, smiled kindly and continued with deliberate courtesy.
"How many beings in this world have accumulated such profound martial attainment? To my knowledge, only one. I simply guessed from what my eyes told me. And judging by your reaction... I seem to have guessed correctly."
Aslan hadn't been trying to hide his identity, but being seen through that easily still left him faintly embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his neck.
The old man sent him another gentle look and added, "Though this is a remote corner of the world, word of your deeds travels everywhere."
That much was fair. Aslan's actions were anything but ordinary, and extraordinary deeds bred rumors. He didn't find the old man's remark strange.
What surprised him came next—in the words the old man murmured.
"That said... why has this old man been sought out?"
A statement that had pinpointed Aslan's objective. Aslan frowned, caught off-guard that his purpose had already been uncovered.
The Duke of Hilsinger had told him many had come looking for Richard. All of them had clashed with Richard, lost, and returned to their masters.
Aslan had naturally assumed no one would deduce his real reason for visiting. At best, they'd assume he was here to send the young man home.
But Itar had grasped immediately that Aslan had come not for Richard, but for Itar himself.
'How?'
The problem was there was no logical way to infer that. Aslan fell silent, trying to work through it. Itar smiled wryly.
"You look suspicious. But... is it not obvious, if you think about it?"
"Obvious how...?"
"I have heard the rumors. That you travel with masters, standing against priests and monsters. The companions before my eyes carry no small measure of fighting spirit themselves... I took them for masters."
Was he wrong? Itar tilted the question back at him. Aslan nodded, and the old man went on, watching Angie as she warily retreated step by step.
"If you are gathering masters, I concluded you must intend to bring this old body along on your journey as well. Is my assessment correct?"
Aslan couldn't be certain a conclusion like that was truly deducible from rumors alone, but he didn't waste time asking pointless questions about what the old man had or hadn't heard. If the man meant to lie, there was no way to separate truth from falsehood anyway.
Instead, Aslan simply conceded the point. The details could be sorted out through conversation.
So he opened his mouth.
"You're right. I came here because of you. Master of Martial Arts, Itar. I am—"
The old man, leaning on his staff, raised a hand to wave him off. Aslan fell silent.
"I am genuinely curious what you intend to do with this old body... but this is hardly the place for that conversation. If it is no imposition, would you accompany me to my home?"
Aslan could not refuse.
*
The log house, concealed by the lush vegetation of Seyni Forest, was unbelievably shabby for a dwelling supposedly occupied by someone of Itar's stature—barely more than a hovel.
Needless to say, eight people weren't about to fit inside it. Aslan left his companions to rest outside and entered alone.
He gazed absently through the half-closed wooden shutters at his party trading idle talk, then collected himself at the sound of a voice directed his way.
"An ambitious goal."
Itar spoke while toying with a lukewarm teacup. Aslan drained the bland tea the old man had offered and nodded.
"A goal worth pursuing."
Itar didn't disagree. He quietly turned his teacup between his hands. Only Richard, seated beside him, wore an uncomfortable expression.
What Aslan had told them was simple. That he would change the world. That he would kill every Evil God. That he needed every master and every able human being for that purpose. That the old man, Itar, was exactly the kind of talent that goal required.
Hearing this, Itar smiled wryly and turned the cup in his hands.
"A splendid proposal... and a noble cause. There are not many like you in this land. Though... whether this old body's meager strength could be of any help... I do not know."
Itar spoke with a humble smile. Aslan shook his head.
"Meager? I know what you are capable of, Master Itar. You are... someone this party absolutely needs."
Itar laughed feebly, as if embarrassed. As though Aslan's words were mere flattery.
And to be fair, at a glance, Itar didn't look particularly useful. His stats were exceptionally low. Scores that barely reached 1 or 2 in nearly every category made him look, on the surface, like a trap companion—someone who seemed valuable but would only drag the party down.
A trap companion with nothing but a single unique skill. That was the consensus among players who encountered Itar without understanding his concept.
But that was the assessment of players who had only scratched the surface of the game. Among those who'd actually played deeply, Itar was treated as an essential party member. The reason was none other than his unique skill: Itar's Adaptation.
Itar's Adaptation reduced incoming damage in proportion to the levels of his Martial Arts, Combat Art, and Evasion skills. No other companion NPC possessed it.
With his balanced Evasion, Combat Art, and Martial Arts, Itar's Adaptation was powerful enough to withstand attacks from high priests. Properly developed, he became the strongest tank in the game—one man doing the work of several. He could even tank area-of-effect attacks. Aslan was convinced that Itar was a companion this party could not do without.
The group currently lacked both a dedicated tank and reliable area damage, and Itar could fill one of those roles. Aslan needed to recruit him, even if it meant pressing harder than he normally would.
With that thought, Aslan gazed steadily at Itar, ready to persist until the old man was persuaded.
"I am sorry. This old body cannot accompany you on your undertaking."
Just as Aslan was about to answer, Itar smiled a bitter smile.
"Whatever you say, this old body cannot join you. Or rather... I should say, I am unable to."
"...Pardon?"
Unable to?
As Aslan stared in confusion, Itar's eyes suddenly bulged. He clutched at his chest. His face twisted with pain, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, coughing. Between the tightly clenched fist of a martial artist, blood seeped through.
Hemoptysis. But unlike ordinary hemoptysis, the blood was stained black. Aslan's eyes widened. Itar coughed up blood for a long moment, then smiled bitterly, his face pallid.
Aslan looked at the blackened blood, then at Itar. The old man nodded.
"...Poison."
"Correct. As you have seen... it is a lethal poison."
True to the word lethal, the black-tinged blood belonged to a man who was already dying.
Pity crept into Aslan's gaze as he looked at Itar, but the old man only smiled gently.
"The days left to me are few."
The marks of death were unmistakable to anyone. When Aslan looked again, the shadow of the grave lay thick across the old man's face, for all that he looked youthful for someone past seventy.
But how? Who?
As Aslan thought and stared, Itar quietly loosened his collar to bare a shoulder. A deep gouge marked the exposed skin.
The mark of a stinger.
"...Hornet."
A wound like a giant hornet's sting.
Only then did Aslan recall the bandits they'd encountered on the way. Those deranged men, muttering about hornets.
It signified one thing.
"The Executioner."
A Named Warrior Monk—one who had stolen the title of Executioner from the former Warrior Monk who wielded the Executioner Swords. A Warrior Monk who took the form of a hornet.
As Itar smiled in confirmation, Aslan pressed a hand to his forehead with a grim expression.