Executioner
Executioner
Itar was dead. But he had not been defeated. Not in this moment.
The Warrior Monks knew it, and even Richard, who had not thrown himself into the thick of the fight, understood the truth.
They had lost. Decisively.
Despite their overwhelming attacks, despite the Mu granted by the War God, despite possessing bodies that wielded that Mu beyond perfection—they had failed to kill a single dying old man.
The two Warrior Monks processed this failure in their own ways.
Demis, the mantis shrimp monk, accepted the outcome with fascination, watching Itar with a gaze tinged with a sliver of respect—a look of longing, a silent question of whether his own lifelong pursuit of Mu could ever have reached such a height.
Loim, the pistol shrimp monk who had been the first to offer Itar reverence and respect, reacted differently.
He ground his teeth.
Venting his fury through what remained of his human mouth, he glared with eyes that were no longer human and slammed his fist into the ground where he crouched, as if voicing his indignation.
Kra-KOOOOM!
A geyser of dirt erupted and rained back down, hammering against his carapace—the dense chitin that no human fist could normally shatter. His fist, sheathed in the same chitin, pummeled the earth, glowing with a heat-haze from the repeated, frenzied impacts.
He possessed a formidable body and formidable techniques, yet he could not claim Victory.
If it were simply a failure to achieve Victory, it would be a meaningless distinction. One could simply challenge again and win. But that chance had slipped away. Itar was dead, and in death, he stood as the indisputable victor for all to see.
Loim could not tell if this was a defeat of technique or a defeat of will. He could only vent his pure, undiluted rage. The thin veneer of composure he had worn on his face fell away as he ground his teeth and roared.
"You win, you just win, and then you just die as you please, Itar? You miserable bastard!"
Boom! Boom! Boom! Each blow to the earth sent up a plume of soil, a testament to his unquenchable fury. Whether it stemmed from humiliation or simply a perverse drive to improve was impossible to say.
But he acted on it. He rose, his body completely unharmed, and launched himself at Itar.
The massive, hulking weight charged as if flying, kicking up fine dust. All that momentum gathered into his fist and exploded at the end of his charge.
Kra-KOOOOOOOM!
A sound no human body could produce. Itar's body flew. Richard watched this surreal sight, the encroaching reality of it, and swallowed a stifled scream.
Just moments ago, Itar's body had seemed immortal. Now, a single punch from Warrior Monk Loim had ruptured his waist and split him into three pieces.
As Itar's corpse tumbled across the ground, the other Warrior Monk belatedly grabbed Loim's shoulder.
"Calm yourself."
"Calm? Do I look calm to you?! This accursed bastard, he made a mockery of our Mu!"
"You make a mockery of our Mu by acting like this. What do you intend to accomplish by pouring your fist into a corpse? It's nothing but a pathetic tantrum. If his head had been shattered, the master of our fists might very well take them back from us."
Though it seemed that hadn't happened yet. At Demis's detached tone, Loim glared at Itar's body with utter contempt, his breath a ragged snarl.
"Besides, even if he'd had a little more time and fought longer, the result wouldn't have changed. Accept it. We lost in martial arts. His Mu was superior to ours. Of course... we're the ones standing in the end."
Loim suppressed his rage, his fist trembling slightly. Demis patted his comrade on the shoulder and then slid his gaze over to Richard. Having now faced Itar himself, he realized that the technique that had spared Richard's life was of the same lineage as Itar's own. A skill too precious to be erased. His sincere admiration for Itar permitted him this arbitrary decision.
"You there."
"...Master..."
"I'll only take Itar, your master. As for you... just stay alive."
Richard lifted his head at the gentle voice to find Demis already standing before Itar's remains. The corpse was split into three pieces, severed at the waist and one arm. Demis reached down to the dismembered body and simply detached the head.
A mix of blood and other fluids dripped from the cleanly severed neck. The severed head rested in his hand: a lolling tongue, eyelids that were closed but parted slightly with the lift, a face that no longer bore a benevolent smile, now colored only by death. The scalp peeled away as it was gripped by the club-like hammer claw. His legacy was immense, his skill touched the divine. Yet his remains were defiled with such ease.
A master split into four pieces.
Richard's face drained of color, then flooded with a storm of emotions. His mind began to fray faster than his body. His body moved on its own. A guttural cry tore from his throat, his fists clenched, and he charged without even a basic stance. His body could not keep pace with the burst of feeling.
"Tch. You should have left when I spared you."
Without a hint of sincerity, Demis pushed Richard away with his club-like fist—a light shove.
BANG!
That single impact was enough to send any human body skidding across the floor. Seeing Richard's body crash and tumble, Demis gave a nod to Loim, whose shrimp whiskers were quivering thinly as if he were finally calming down.
"Let's go. The Executioner awaits our support..."
"C-can't... go..."
Richard's voice cut them off just as they turned to leave. He staggered upright, his tattered body heaving out ragged, heated breaths.
"Leave him... and go."
Blood pattered from his lip. Demis looked at him as if he were a pitiful fool.
"You barely survived. Are you so eager to kick away the mercy I'm giving you? A life your master barely managed to save."
Richard, his mind cleared by the blow he'd received, raised both hands into a stance. Demis glanced at Loim. His companion's claws were opening and closing with a rasping hiss, as if on the verge of losing all restraint.
"Leave him... and go, I said..."
At Demis's nod, Loim's whiskers trembled and he advanced. He asked as he drew closer, "You. Are you that bastard's disciple?"
There was no trace of the earlier respect. Richard couldn't answer. Words failed him. Only primal, necessary words could form. "The master..."
"Perfect timing. I'll crush you, and prove my technique is superior to that bastard's."
It was a statement born of pure spite, devoid of reason or logic, but no one was in a position to point that out. In Geladrion, might made right, and no one could argue with a Warrior Monk, point by point. Especially not while staring down that massive fist.
Loim's massive fist clicked, the claws producing a friction-filled sound, and then it accelerated. Unlike a typical pistol shrimp, the jet it expelled backwards provided both incredible acceleration and simultaneous superheating. The fist surged forward, radiating a heat-haze—a blow that would shatter any human on impact. Richard unconsciously extended his arms toward the oncoming fist—arms with bones already broken and jutting out. The pain was a dull fog.
Kra-KOOOOOOOOOOM!
The roar of impact spread, and Richard was sent flying. He wasn't pulverized into a bloody paste; Loim's whiskers quivered with a thin tremor.
"Hmph. A mana tattoo. Are you a Baramunz native?"
The fist hadn't hit him square, but he hadn't fully deflected it either. Richard's rudimentary skill wasn't enough for that. He'd half-deflected, half-taken it, and survived thanks to his mana tattoo. That was the only reason he could stagger back to his feet. Any normal person would have fled. Richard, instead, was the one who advanced first.
Loim's face crumpled in displeasure. Demis, standing behind him, rubbed his chin with intrigue.
"Is there a reason to fight this hard with a body that's half-dead? If he tells you to live, you just take it and go... are you broken in the head?"
The deference was gone, but Loim's anger seemed to have cooled slightly, which prompted the question.
"It's called loyalty," Demis said. "Just as you and I have for each other."
"Hmph."
Loim snorted dismissively at Demis's siding with Richard, but a thoughtful silence settled, punctuated by Richard's ragged gasps.
"You, I like your guts. Would you not serve the War God?"
When Richard didn't answer, Loim continued, "You can keep your techniques and become strong. Perhaps even surpass your so-called master. There is a possibility. For the sake of the ultimate Mu as well..."
Richard still didn't answer, but Loim kept talking. Why serving the War God was good, what kind of beings they had originally been. As Richard listened, a memory surfaced of something Aslan had casually mentioned back at the cabin: that he would kill the Evil Gods, that he would change the world. Words that would normally be laughed off. Words that now confronted him directly.
With clouded eyes, Richard looked at Loim and thought: these Warrior Monks have human hearts, and that makes the atrocities they commit with those hearts all the more malicious. For one born to evil to overcome it and become good is a great feat. But one born to good who rejects it and turns to evil—that is something truly vile.
'These bastards... are vile.'
They survived in a state of vileness and served as their god a monstrous deity that consumed human spirits, plundering the martial arts that humans had built. Witnessing the truth of what he'd only heard about firsthand, Richard realized that his own personal tragedy was something small and ordinary by comparison.
A fractured, weary laugh escaped him, and his head dropped. He held no noble purpose. He was just a novice who couldn't forgive his father and couldn't accept his own past weakness. No grand cause drove him. But even in his shabbiness, one thing was certain. He didn't like the Warrior Monks. Or the War God. Or the Evil Gods like the War God. Aslan was right—they had to die. And he could not let them take Itar. If they did, Itar's Mu would be used for evil deeds.
Richard steadied his body through a painful exhalation, his broken ribs stabbing him with every breath. His mana tattoo emitted a dim glow. He raised both arms. They were broken and barely moved, bone fragments jutting out, agony clawing at him. But they still moved. He planted his ankle on the ground, unsure if it was sprained or broken. The pain dragged a groan from him, but it still moved. That was enough. His fogged consciousness slowly sharpened within the pain, and Loim, who had been praising the War God at length, closed his mouth.
"You're serious."
Instead of answering Loim's question, Richard just trained his two arms on him. He gave a short, final declaration.
"Can't... go."
Loim sneered. Demis looked on with pity.
"Right."
Loim's sneer became a sigh, and his fist shot forward.