Master of Brawling
Master of Brawling
Warrior Monks.
Heteromorphic priests who served the War God, granted martial techniques and weapons in bodies that took the forms of insects.
Among them, the Executioner was a name spoken with particular renown.
And as a rule, a named priest was either exceptionally powerful or exceptionally peculiar.
The Executioner fell squarely into the first category.
'The strength of Warrior Monks varies wildly... but this one is extreme even by those standards.'
A Warrior Monk's strength depended on how well their granted body harmonized with their weapon, and how deeply they understood it. This inconsistency was what had birthed the common perception that Warrior Monks were not especially formidable.
The Executioner, however, was a being whose body and weapon aligned with uncommon perfection—and a formidable one at that.
After all, she now wielded the very weapons she had once mastered, with a body vastly more powerful than any human's.
The Executioner: a Warrior Monk famous for feinting with the residual momentum of her twin executioner swords to bewilder her enemies before taking their heads.
The armaments and martial skill she now used were the ones she had acquired during her own tenure as Master of the Sword.
Five generations ago, she had defeated the previous Warrior Monk who bore the title of Executioner and willingly pledged herself to the War God.
Through that deed, Executioner became her title, and the defeated monk was left with a humiliating new name: the Collector.
He had brooded over his loss, obsessively collecting heads. Hoarding skulls in the desperate hope of someday winning back the War God's favor.
Regardless, a woman who could subdue a named Warrior Monk with a human body was now in possession of a monstrous insect form and the War God's blessing. She would be incomparably stronger than before.
That was why Aslan watched Itar's impending death without great alarm.
Itar's defeat, his slow poisoning, his wait for death—it all seemed like an inevitability.
Before his own recent level gains, even Aslan would have avoided a fight with the Executioner.
But rational understanding did not always keep emotion at bay.
Aslan pressed his lips together, his expression troubled, watching as Itar pulled his clothing back over the wound.
Once the puncture left by the hornet's sting was hidden, Aslan found more facts about the Executioner surfacing in his mind.
The Executioner possessed the body of a giant insect called the great banded hornet. Those deceived by the name "executioner" would find themselves poisoned and skewered by her sting.
Itar's shoulder had likely been pierced in just such a fashion.
Deception was a valid tactic, even among masters.
"As you have seen, I was bested by the Executioner. How much longer this old body lasts... only the God of Sorrow truly knows."
Itar invoked a dead ancient god. Aslan recalled the lore a high-spending patron had once posted on the player forums, effusively grateful and declaring their love for Itar.
Something about a saintly character with the same skin tone as himself, a devotee of the God of Sorrow and Death.
Aslan turned over the half-forgotten detail, toying with his teacup.
"So, regrettably, I cannot accompany you on your noble undertaking. I might share the road with you a while, but this old frame would soon become a burden."
"Master...!"
"It's all right, Richard."
Richard glanced anxiously between his master and Aslan, worry and vigilance warring in his eyes. Itar offered him a gentle smile.
"If Sir Aslan meant us harm... we would have met our end already. There is nothing to guard against."
"But..."
"Painful as your defeat may be, you must not let it twist the truth. Richard, you know it as well as I do. If Sir Aslan had wished to kill you, your head would have left your shoulders in a single exchange."
Richard scowled down at the table as though the fact were a humiliation he could not stomach, but rather than reprimand his pupil further, Itar turned to Aslan and inclined his head.
"I ask your understanding. My disciple... Richard is talented and a good-hearted young man, but he can be rash and somewhat green."
He harbors no ill will toward you, I assure you. At those added words, Aslan smiled faintly—a smile that concealed a sympathy he did not care to display.
"It's no matter. Suspicion and wariness are qualities one needs to survive. Though you and I may differ in perspective, Sir Itar... I won't fault Sir Richard's mistrust."
But.
When Aslan added that short qualifier, both Itar and Richard looked puzzled.
"Why were you wary of me in the first place?"
Aslan's question was brief, but it contained its own answer.
Seyni Forest was lush and sparsely populated by monsters, a peaceful woodland with an enormous village rivaling a city right next to it. Two men living here had little reason to be so guarded against a chance stranger.
Aslan posed the question and let his thoughts settle.
Itar had not encountered the Executioner long ago.
Several clues had led him to that conclusion.
First: the bandits they had seen on the way.
Those men had not been in their right minds—as if poisoned into a stupor. They had mouthed the word hornet over and over, like a last thought on endless repeat. A clear sign of the Executioner's work.
Second: when Richard had first laid eyes on Aslan's party, he had said, "They're not monster spawn. No blood on my hands today, then."
An odd sentiment, considering monsters were practically nonexistent in Seyni Forest.
And finally, there was Itar's state.
He had admitted he did not know when death would claim him.
Judging by the color of the blood he had coughed up, it was no lie.
Yet Itar had appeared not from his own dwelling, but from somewhere deeper in the forest, arriving just in time to protect Richard.
As if he had been searching for something.
All the pieces fit together, and Aslan could draw only one conclusion.
"Is the Executioner leading her Warrior Monks through this forest?"
Richard let out a loud hiccup, and Itar glanced at him with a flicker of pity.
"Is she still hunting you? Your martial art? Isn't that why Sir Richard was wary of me? In case I might be a mercenary hired by the Warrior Monks..."
A deep silence settled, but Richard's anxious expression was proof enough on its own.
The signs had been so blatant that Aslan had briefly suspected a ruse meant to guide his thinking. But that was impossible. If this were a trick, then all the surrounding facts and circumstances would fall apart.
At last, a sigh from Itar broke the uncomfortable quiet.
"...It's true. The Executioner and her subordinates are roaming this forest, seeking my dwelling."
"Master...!"
"I am dying from the wound I took in my last fight with her, and my disciple Richard cannot defeat them. He would be killed."
When Richard moved to protest, his master shook his head gently to silence him.
"You aren't going to ask for help?"
Aslan looked between the two men and their troubled expressions, broaching the question carefully.
"How could I?" Itar's reply was unyielding. "I cannot drag those with long lives ahead of them into death merely to shield one old man on his way out."
It wasn't an argument Aslan could easily dismiss.
Didn't Aslan himself treat his own body as a disposable resource because he despised seeing his companions die, despised seeing anyone die in his name?
In that regard, Aslan was in no position to advise anyone otherwise. He would have done much the same himself.
"That is why I ask this of you. Please... could you escort Richard to safety?"
Aslan had known the request was coming.
Itar meant to fight alone.
The way Aslan had faced the Dragon-king alone, unwilling to watch Ereta die.
And that kind of decision rarely won anyone's sympathy.
"I'm not leaving! I won't abandon you to face those bastards alone, Master!"
"If, if you're going to fight, then let's ask them to fight with us! You called him Master of Combat, so surely—"
"Richard."
"O-or the poison! Yes, ask them to find an antidote! If you recover from the poison, some mere Warrior Monks—"
"Richard."
Richard had been rattling off possibilities, desperate to deny the obvious, but when his master spoke his name low and firm, he fell silent and turned a grieving gaze upon him.
Reading the emotion in his eyes, Itar smiled with gentle kindness.
"We have no right to gamble these people's lives, either. The Executioner and her minions are after me alone. I won't deliver rash death to them."
It sounded at first like a man resigned to defeat, but Aslan knew better.
Itar was bracing for the worst.
He simply did not wish to see others wounded or killed in the process of defending him.
He judged it wrong that anyone should bleed and die to protect a life already guttering out.
Aslan understood. He was no different.
Perhaps he had simply grown too weary to accept the weight of another's death on his shoulders.
Itar was around seventy now. An old man who had seen, endured, and heard of so many deaths across his years.
All the more so, considering this land was Geladrion.
In a world where hope and heartwarming tales rarely bloomed, Aslan could understand the heart of an old man who had chosen seclusion in this forest.
Aslan closed his eyes. Watching the emotions flicker across his face, Itar smiled softly.
Understanding and realization.
Though the realization would not lead where Itar hoped.
When Aslan opened his eyes, he composed his features into a look of acceptance.
"I will do as you ask."
"Thank you."
Itar smiled with palpable relief, while Richard glared at Aslan, his face thick with betrayal.
Aslan shot the young man a meaningful sidelong glance, but Richard seemed to miss it entirely.
'...He's greener than I thought.'
A young man who fit the word "scatterbrain" perfectly. Deciding he would explain everything in person later, Aslan turned his gaze back to Itar.
Fortunately, Itar appeared to have missed the glance. His expression had softened further into serene relief.
"Might we rest here a while before departing?"
As both Richard and Itar looked at him, Aslan offered an easy smile.
Designed not to rouse Itar's suspicion, but to deepen Richard's sense of betrayal.
"Searching for you through the forest has exhausted my companions. Once we've rested a little, I'll take Sir Richard and go."
Itar's dark, sunken eyes crinkled into a smile. He hauled his poison-wracked body upright with practiced effort, accepting the support of Richard, who had been sitting beside him all the while.
"Of course. But with so many, the bedding will be insufficient... I shall bring out more."
Unlike Itar, whose face was softened with kindness, warmth, and relief, Richard was now looking at Aslan as though at a mortal enemy.
Everything was going to plan.
Aslan watched the Master of Combat's retreating form and allowed himself a weary, bitter smile.