Master of Brawling
Master of Brawling
Itar watched the girl's back for a long moment before speaking.
"She is a good child. She tries to seem rough, but... her nature is kind."
The words came unprompted, but Aslan didn't dismiss them. He nodded in agreement and asked,
"Did her lack of talent make her difficult to teach?"
"Talent is not what matters. Can it possibly matter more than the heart?"
The old man wore a gentle smile as he answered. Aslan nodded slowly, watching those black lips curve.
"Her stout frame and brute strength don't lend themselves to my barehanded style well enough for me to teach her everything... but I can teach the fundamentals. And for that, talent counts for little."
Itar turned his eyes toward Aslan as he spoke, and Aslan met that gaze—the old man's black, sunken eyes, a strange and eerie light flickering within them. When their eyes met, Itar smiled.
"The hardships I face are nothing next to the noble purpose you carry. So please, do not trouble yourself over my small difficulties."
That kindly smile again. Aslan was managing a rueful smile of his own when he sensed someone approaching.
Two figures emerged from deeper in the woods—Itar's disciples: Richard and Tiyamal.
"Youngster, sleep well?"
"Everyone's asked me that today. But yes, I slept fine."
Aslan returned Tiyamal's greeting, and the dragon-kin let out a quiet chuckle.
"You've been in rough shape lately, admit it. This old-timer figured you'd shake it off on your own... but the others don't know you like I do. So they worry."
Rough shape. Aslan knew it was because Rowena had rattled him, and the realization brought an awkward smile to his lips.
"I'm fine now. Thanks."
"This old-timer wasn't worried, you know."
"I said thanks."
"Even if I wasn't?"
Tiyamal approached, chuckling under his breath. Aslan watched him steadily and asked,
"So. What did you find?"
The question was vague, but Tiyamal's expression sharpened at once.
"The tattoo-whelp was right. Twenty, easily. Could be more or less depending on what we're dealing with, but..."
Assume twenty as the baseline. And there were exactly twenty arrows left in Tiyamal's quiver. That was his way of saying he was certain.
"Distribution?"
"The tracks are too chaotic to be sure, but it's an encirclement. They're combing every corner of the forest."
"I see. Good work. Go get some rest."
Tiyamal snorted as if the whole thing were beneath his notice. Richard, meanwhile, shot Aslan a sour look.
Itar showed no particular reaction—perhaps he considered this his last kindness before departure—but Richard was clearly dissatisfied.
Aslan saw this as his only chance to speak with Richard privately, and turned to Itar.
"Itar, I apologize, but would you show Tiyamal where he can wash up?"
When Itar gave him a puzzled look, Aslan elaborated.
"Tiyamal is dragon-kin. Cold water can make him pass out or fall asleep. He needs heated water, so... if you could prepare some for him, I'd be grateful."
Tiyamal must have caught the intent from the tone alone, because he let out a rumbling laugh.
"This old-timer does require a bit of tending. Well, I am a Claw, after all."
Itar found the dragon-kin's attitude amusing and smiled.
"Very well. I'll heat some water. Follow me—there's a bathhouse behind the house. Rather small, I'm afraid, and made of wood..."
"A bathhouse! Excellent. Let's go."
"Heh heh, as you wish."
Tiyamal nudged Itar along and threw Aslan a quick glance. Aslan tipped his head slightly, and Tiyamal led Itar away toward the log house in the distance.
When they were far enough gone, and only the bewildered Richard remained with Aslan—
"Lord Richard. What do you intend to do about your master, Itar?"
Aslan asked the question without even looking at him.
"...What?"
The response came a beat late. Aslan turned to face Richard, who was scowling, and repeated himself.
"Itar is dying, and the Warrior Monks are closing in. I'm asking what your plan is."
"...Ah. Well, in that case... we'll use Baramunz-style guerrilla tactics in the forest—"
"That isn't what I'm asking."
Richard's scowl deepened, and Aslan deliberately flattened his own expression into something unreadable.
"How to fight is trivial compared to the problem staring you in the face. A way to fight can always be found."
"...I don't follow."
It was the attitude of a man who understood perfectly well and was choosing denial. Aslan had seen through it entirely, and he regarded Richard's evasion with disapproval before sighing.
He'd just turned twenty, hadn't he?
Age was no excuse, but Aslan understood the impulse to flee.
It simply wasn't useful right now.
What was needed was the truth.
So Aslan dragged that truth out into the open, raw and immediate, and shoved it in Richard's face.
"Your master, Itar, is dying. Even in the best case... he has a few weeks. I'm asking if you have a plan for that."
Richard's expression had already hardened, and now he opened and closed his mouth several times before his face crumpled with anguish.
The truth he hadn't wanted to acknowledge had arrived.
It was the face of a man who had prepared no contingency.
The despair of a man who lacked the ability to prepare one.
His entire plan, such as it was, had been to fight and win, and then start looking for an antidote.
That was the kind of thinking permitted only to a young man who couldn't yet face a foreordained farewell.
"Itar is going to die."
Richard fell silent. In that agonized silence, he fumbled for words.
"Is there truly... no way to cure him?"
"Curing the poison wouldn't solve everything. Negating the poison doesn't undo the damage it's already done to his body."
Richard's eyes grew heavy with grief, and Aslan added,
"Itar was never physically robust. Not like you. Even if we did cure him, he'd still pass in the end. A few more months, at most."
"Then..."
"And even that assumes we find a way to neutralize a poison of that potency."
"Couldn't we employ a mage of the Restoration School, or find a gifted alchemist?"
The naivety of the suggestion left Aslan no choice but to shake his head.
The idea that the Master of Combat standing before him would lack such knowledge—it was a naive thought, plain and simple.
"I have expertise in both magic and alchemy. And from what I can see, the poison destroying Itar's body has no cure. It was, after all... developed by Warrior Monks who spent most of their lives learning how to kill humans."
No easy cure existed.
At the words left unspoken, Richard closed his eyes.
He dragged a hand over his face, expression grim. Aslan watched the young man in silence.
"Accept it. Itar is going to die. And once you accept that..."
I can tell you my plan.
At the trailing words, Richard paused a long moment, then lowered the hand that had been shielding his eyes.
"You have... a plan?"
Aslan nodded.
"What sort of... what is it?"
Richard's eyes kindled with hope. They were the eyes of a naive young man, and Aslan smiled bitterly.
His plan was nothing like the hopeful thing Richard was imagining.
So instead of answering at once, Aslan let the silence stretch a moment before he spoke.
"There is one thing we can do for Itar. Nothing more than that. It won't be hopeful. It won't dramatically change what's coming. So..."
If you want to refuse, you're free to do so.
Aslan was about to say it, but the sound of a man sinking to his knees stopped his mouth and turned his head toward the noise.
There was Richard, kneeling. As if bowing his head in supplication. As if begging for mercy.
"What must I do?"
Even his tone had grown deferential. Aslan felt a flicker of discomposure and closed his mouth.
Richard must have taken the silence for refusal. He pressed his lips tight and lowered his head even further.
"I will do anything. Please."
"...I wasn't asking you to bow. Get up."
Richard's head remained deeply bowed, showing no sign of rising. Aslan looked at him with a pained expression.
"I'll tell you. So stand up. You're only making this awkward for me."
Richard straightened at once. Aslan watched the young man with eyes heavy with pity, then exhaled.
Fortunately, the plan that followed that sigh was beyond anything Richard had conceived.
On its surface, at least, it was this:
"We can see to it that Itar's death is not defiled. That he dies as himself—as the man called Itar."
Aslan met Richard's eyes and added,
"At the very least, we can see him off. Keep him from falling into the hands of the War God. Escort him to the side of the Sorrow he serves."
Itar, who served Sorrow and Death. Itar, the Master of Hand-to-Hand Combat, the strongest tank in the game. He would die. That fact was immutable.
Which meant Aslan couldn't waste his energy chasing an impossible outcome. He had to choose the next-best path toward a better end.
That next-best path was—
We guard Itar until he returns to the side of Sorrow and Death.
In other words, a funeral rite.