Executioner
Executioner
The cup in his hands held a carefully brewed mixture—distilled herbs laced with select poisons, steeped and pressed into liquid.
It looked nothing like medicine, but the draught was meant to cloud the mind just enough to endure agony and dull the worst of the pain.
To the eye it might have passed for poison, but Itar harbored no real suspicion.
Partly because Aslan had no conceivable reason to poison him now, but mostly because Itar trusted Aslan.
More precisely, he trusted the story Aslan had told him.
Itar let the dense, cloudy violet liquid swirl inside the cup and recalled Aslan's expression.
The exact look he had worn when Itar asked how in the world he knew the recipe for such a draught.
Aslan had rubbed the back of his neck, deeply uncomfortable, and deflected the question without answering.
Knowing what lay beneath that—a past in which his wife had made this for him and fed it to him by mouth whenever he was in agony—the reaction was only natural.
Even unspoken, the expression told the story.
A fleeting glimpse of pain and discomfort.
Seeing that face, Itar could not bring himself to believe this was some trick to poison him.
Not that he was the sort to entertain such thoughts to begin with.
So Itar drank without hesitation. The violet liquid, faintly viscous, slid down his throat.
A spreading warmth bloomed from his stomach, and soon the sensation across all four limbs noticeably ebbed.
Fast-acting... It really does work. The pain like my heart being wrung out is fading.
The dulling of the pain came with a corresponding deadening of his body's senses, but that meant nothing to Itar.
He was going to die today.
He could feel death approaching, and he had no intention of fighting it.
He would simply die quietly. Accepting the order of things, yielding to the natural course, Itar turned his head from where he sat on the bed.
"Why are you wearing that look?"
Richard stood there.
The young man who had chosen to watch over his master's death and stand guard rather than fight alongside Aslan's group.
A young man who believed himself so hopelessly weak that he could not stand in the same line of battle as Aslan and his companions.
At Itar's question, Richard dropped his head, his face heavy with grief.
"Master... you are dying. How could I wear any other expression?"
At the bitter reply, Itar slowly laid himself back on the bed. Even the hard texture of the mattress had become imperceptible now.
"Is it your mother you're thinking of?"
Richard affirmed with silence and pain. Itar gazed at his disciple and buried his head into the pillow.
"Are you blaming yourself again? That you are losing another?"
"...No."
Richard answered with a tormented face, and Itar watched the young man. Master and disciple met each other's eyes, and Itar's expression twisted with pity and regret.
"It is not your fault. Neither my death nor what happened to your mother. Though... I know you will not listen even if I say so."
Itar was lying.
He had told Aslan he had no regrets, but the truth was he did.
Itar regretted that he had not guided Richard properly.
Had not taught him to forgive his father, to forgive himself, to return to the side of his family.
Had not taught him how to endure and survive in this harsh world.
How to stand firm even when horrific evil stirred in every corner of the world and tragedy was commonplace.
He regretted that he had not taught these things.
He regretted that he had never even tried, telling himself that mere words would not change a person.
He rebuked himself for procrastinating, always believing there would be time.
But nothing would change now. Itar was going to die today. He closed his eyes, carrying the regret and the pity with him.
By the time he opened them again, Richard had barely managed to lift his head and was looking at him.
"I am sorry."
Looking at that face, Itar held only one feeling.
Sorry that he could not teach him more of his techniques, sorry that he could not guide Richard, sorry that he could not show him how to face this world.
Only that single, all-encompassing sorrow.
Richard shook his head. He spoke with a desperate expression, as if he knew this was his only chance to break through his master's resolve, as if he knew exactly why Itar had apologized.
"No, no. Master. You have already more than—"
"Do not speak falsehoods."
He would be dead soon anyway. As if he knew what Itar had swallowed back, Richard dropped his head.
"I know you have been watching that child, Angie, with fear in your eyes. Were you not angry that you could not block that child's attack, and terrified besides?"
Richard hunched his shoulders.
Because his master was right.
"That child... though far smaller than I... her attack was one I could not receive. It was strength like a giant's. I knew in that moment, I knew I cannot withstand an attack like that. That I am unpolished. That I... cannot become like you, Master."
I have not properly inherited your techniques. I am still lacking in so much. As the words spilled out like a confession, Itar watched him in silence.
"It is my own deficiency. My talent is lacking, and I have been indolent... I am afraid that I will bring disgrace upon your techniques."
I am not strong like you. As Richard murmured the words, Itar reached out and took his hand, as if to catch them.
"I cannot withstand the storm that blows in. I am nothing but a branch that will snap helplessly. When the wind comes, I cannot help but sway."
"Richard."
"I am anxious, Master. Though I have no right to say so while I am the one being protected... I feel as though something is about to happen. As if someone is coming even now. And when that moment comes, I do not think I will be of any use."
Itar shook his head, his face gentle.
"Is that not simply because you are trying to resist?"
"Are you telling me to submit without resisting?"
"That is not what I mean. You know that well."
Itar gripped Richard's hand firmly, and Richard stared at his dying master with a somber expression.
At his master, whose face was turning pale even through his dark skin.
Despite the death approaching him, his master spoke.
"If you resist, you will break. But if you submit, you will be defeated. In the end, the only path to victory is to adapt. When the wind blows, become the wind."
Adapt.
When the wind blows, become the wind.
Richard heard the familiar words, and nothing came to mind.
Because those were words he had been hearing ever since he first began learning from Itar. Words the young man already knew.
So Richard simply stood there, blank and unresponsive.
Because he could not understand them.
Just as it had grown too late to ask again, footsteps suddenly sounded. Itar heard the approaching steps and smiled faintly.
"Ah, it seems it is all over. Lord Aslan must be returning..."
"...No."
Itar's senses had dulled too much to discern it, but Richard, still a young man, could tell.
Those were not the footsteps of Aslan's party.
Between the heavy, deliberate footfalls, he could hear life and earth dying on contact.
The sound of roots being crushed under a careless step followed behind them. Richard's expression slowly hardened, and then he shouted.
"Master, get up! Quickly!"
—Crash!
And in the moment he shouted, the wall of the cabin collapsed.
For a fleeting instant, through the scattering sawdust, what revealed itself was an arm.
A mass of muscle, a pincer sheathed in carapace.
A pincer that glowed red and reeked of scorched air, visible for only a fraction of a breath.
The creature bearing that pincer was a Warrior Monk.
A Warrior Monk standing three meters tall with a colossal frame and a bizarre form that resembled a marine creature more than any insect.
A Warrior Monk that Aslan, if he saw it, would have said resembled a mantis shrimp.
That Warrior Monk stepped into the cabin alongside another creature, similar in appearance but bearing an even larger pincer.
"Hm."
A voice of idle interest. The instant Richard heard it, he lurched to his feet and shouted.
"Master! Run! I will buy time—"
Before he could finish the sentence, Richard saw something closing in so fast that even his naked eyes could barely track it.
A pincer surging forward wreathed in the stench of burning. Flung with an expressionless face, with absolute indifference—it was a fist.
In that instant, Richard saw death.
And the moment he felt death, Richard thrust out his arms.
The instant the fist connected, he bent his arm and turned his entire body into a conduit to deflect the force.
The technique that had made Itar a master, that had earned him the title of Weakest Master.
Itar's Adaptation.
A technique crafted to let even the colossal strength of beings far larger than oneself flow away. It manifested within Richard's body—
—and with a sickening crack, was snapped away by an even greater force.
Richard's body was hurled backward.
Boom. Crash. Bam-bam-ba-ba-bang!
A human body sent flying as if through the air. It smashed through the cabin's solid log wall, slammed into the ground, and tumbled end over end, unable to shed the momentum.
Three times, four times, consciousness blinked out and jarred back awake with each impact. By the time Richard's body came to rest on the ground, he had lost awareness and clawed it back so many times that his memory had gone hazy.
"Ah... ngh...?"
Why he was lying here, why his arm was broken with shards of bone jutting through the skin.
Unable to summon a single thought, Richard vomited a mouthful of blood.
The force easily outstripped Angie's full-power punch.
A fist that could never, ever be deflected. Richard realized that truth far too late, and as he tried to push himself upright, he noticed no strength would enter his legs and let out a hollow laugh.
He had failed to deflect it, but the very act of using the technique was why he was still alive.
"Huh. It's alive."
"What? That thing lived? Did you miss?"
"Impossible. It was a clean hit. The brat's the strange one."
Richard gasped for breath as he listened to the Warrior Monks converse. The monks, too, seemed to have registered that something was off, for they stood before the cabin watching him.
"Hm, now that I think on it, I have the impression the angle of the fist shifted slightly the moment it connected. Some manner of technique, I suspect."
"A technique, huh. That's interesting."
Technique.
The Warrior Monks were, at their root, hunters who gathered prey for the God of War. Beings who collected the martial arts humanity had built.
Realizing that the Warrior Monks coveted his technique, Richard dragged himself trembling to his feet.
Forcing his unresponsive legs to move, falling several times, barely managing it.
Just when he finally thought he had stood, his legs slid out from under him and he collapsed. The Warrior Monks approached.
"For now, none of us are certain. What say you we offer this one up as well?"
"That sounds fine. I look forward to seeing what the God of War will bestow upon us."
A conversation devoid of any tension whatsoever. Richard, understanding that he amounted to no more than that in their eyes, lay prostrate on the ground and trembled faintly.
He was going to die. Die helplessly. After ignoring an intuition that had never once been wrong, he was going to die powerless.
He nearly laughed, overwhelmed by terror, but then his expression froze as his master emerged from the collapsed cabin wall.
"Master...!"
At his cry, the Warrior Monks turned their heads, and Itar walked out from the ruined wall.
Blackened blood stained the corners of his mouth. He approached with slow, tottering steps.
The advancing Itar stumbled again and again, moving with a precariousness that seemed to flaunt his impending death.
A figure that looked as if it might topple over and die at any moment.
But he did not stop.
The advancing steps gradually slowed, and when at last he came to a halt before the Warrior Monks, they were looking down at him without the slightest trace of wariness.
"The Master of Combat, Itar."
His breathing was ragged, and the blood around his mouth had faded black as though it were the last blood his body possessed.
The skin around his eyes quivered faintly, and his eyes were shot through with red.
"I will be your opponent."
A state utterly unfit for battle.
Yet even with the look of death upon him, Itar took his stance and spoke.
At the seemingly meaningless standoff, the Warrior Monks glanced at each other and wore different expressions.
One, a bitter smile. The other, a sneer.
Even in the face of undisguised mockery and pity, Itar did not so much as flinch. He aimed both hands at the Warrior Monks.
The sneering monk cocked his head and spoke.
"Itar, are you truly going to do this? Wouldn't running away be the more 'effective use' of that disciple of yours?"
Even at the suggestion to abandon his disciple and flee, Itar did not withdraw. He merely lowered his eyes, barely extended both arms, and trembled faintly.
At the sight of the old man burning the last of his life, the other Warrior Monk—the one who had shown pity—now spoke.
"Itar, I respect your martial art. Those who can ascend to the rank of master in such a body have been few even across the long ages."
As if genuinely offering respect, the monk inclined his waist slightly before straightening. When Itar gave no response at all, the monk continued speaking and leveled his thick pincer at him.
"But... you are weak. You cannot defeat us. I do not wish to see your martial art shattered at the end of this, or to witness your final despair."
In the end, it was a demand to submit. To the humiliation they offered in turn, Itar only smiled a gentle smile.
Within that gentle smile, Itar turned his body.
He swept his extended arms around to the side, turning his hands over as he formed them into fists. The stance he assumed seemed almost like the pose of a dance.
In the midst of a sight incomprehensible to the Warrior Monks who wielded simple and overwhelming brute force, Itar spoke.
"No matter how weak one may be, there are times when one does not retreat. All the more so because I am that child's teacher. As his master, there is something I must show him."
His long sleeves brushed and whispered together, and when they finally came to rest, Itar stood with one hand aimed toward the heavens and the other toward the earth.
In that gentle posture, he smiled with infinite gentleness.
"Come. I will keep you company."
"...If that is what you wish."
The moment the pitying Warrior Monk finished speaking, an enormous fist flared red and surged forward.