A Dog's Duty
Arthur receiving side missions on his own was nothing new. It had been happening for years.
Among knights who prized honesty and uprightness above all else, Arthur was a remarkably flexible man. As a commoner by birth, he moved comfortably among the lower classes, and when the need arose, he never hesitated to get his hands dirty with work that sat squarely on the wrong side of the law. That set him apart from the noble-born knights, who pursued propriety with an almost pathological fastidiousness.
And yet he never neglected his duty as a knight, either. It was only natural that Laios trusted him.
Arthur knew exactly why Laios trusted him, too. He never blamed his stuffy seniors for it. A knight who swung his sword for the Emperor had to keep both hands clean, always — only then could he stand tall even in the moment he was drenched in the enemy's blood. So if someone had to do the other kind of work, then it was right that he should be the one to do it. Arthur had always thought so.
To serve others and lower oneself. That, he believed, was where knighthood truly began.
That brat wouldn't know the first thing about any of this.
Hiding in the darkness, Arthur caught the thought surfacing unbidden. Lately, thanks to being dragged around at Arendt's side more often than he cared for, that insufferable face kept popping into his head at the worst possible moments.
"Tch."
Now is not the time. Arthur tried to shake the thoughts loose by scratching irritably at his head. But a stray thought, once planted, did not vanish so easily.
Cocky little bastard.
The face came to him easily — that air of total indifference, as if nothing in the world touched him. The blank expression sat perfectly on Arendt's pretty features, together creating that signature cold impression of his. But those golden eyes, always scanning people like they were appraising merchandise, sometimes carried a glint of killing intent so sharp it made the hair on your neck stand up.
Like when his focus hit its absolute peak during sparring. Or in the courtroom, where he'd sneered openly, mocking the Knight Commanders and the nobles to their faces.
Was he always like that?
The thought came suddenly. Arthur had no way of knowing — before this whole string of events, he'd never looked at the kid closely enough. If anything, Arendt had been the one avoiding them. He'd once despised socializing with his commoner-born seniors more than he despised death itself.
Considering how he used to be, his recent behavior was utterly out of character. The realization was hard to pin down, tangled as it was under that filthy temper of his, but Arthur's thoughts were twisting themselves into knots.
……Was it deliberate?
Keeping his distance so he could slip easily among enemies — and, at the same time, so that the other knights wouldn't get dragged into what he was actually doing?
The moment the thought reached that far, Arthur flinched hard and slapped himself across the cheek. Smack.
"What kind of lunatic nonsense is that."
If it were true, Arendt wouldn't be a traitor at all — he'd have to be called a hero, one willing to wade through filth for the Emperor's sake. Of course, in the most generous, wildly charitable reading imaginable, it wasn't a completely impossible hypothesis… but the memory of Arendt sitting crooked-eyed, needling people with that slime-coated smirk of his, rose unbidden, and Arthur shook his head violently.
"Hero, my ass. He's just a foul-tempered, insufferable little shit."
It was a sound from outside that finally cut the thread of his thoughts. Reflexively, Arthur pressed his concealing hood down tighter and checked his surroundings again.
Beyond the alley where Arthur hid, a small cluster of people had gathered in front of a modest house, murmuring gravely among themselves. Distance garbled the words beyond recognition, but one thing was clear enough: these were no ordinary group. A faint scent of blood had seeped into the dank night air, and its source was standing right there. No one among them seemed badly wounded — which meant someone had been killed, and only moments ago.
Arthur's face hardened. Out of habit, his hand brushed the well-maintained sword at his hip as he dampened his presence even further. Moving closer was dangerous — but at this distance, he couldn't learn anything either.
If I can just get a little nearer…
After a brief moment of deliberation, Arthur made up his mind and carefully took a single step forward.
In that very instant, a chilling sensation crawled up the back of his neck.
"So there was a rat."
Arthur drew his sword by pure reflex and deflected the strike hurtling toward him.
CLANG!
The thunderous shriek of grinding steel shattered the pre-dawn silence. The group mid-conversation jolted upright, heads snapping toward the noise.
"Who goes there!"
"……"
But Arthur had no room to answer them. The man standing before him had claimed every shred of his attention.
He gave off no presence at all.
The instant he registered that death had brushed past him by a hair's breadth, a wave of icy cold ran down his spine. The enemy — who seemed to have sprung straight out of the shadows — gazed down impassively at the blade Arthur had just parried.
"Not bad. I was certain I'd caught you completely off guard. You must be qualified to call yourself His Majesty's dog, at least."
A thin smile showed beneath the deep hood that hung over him. Arthur steadied his grip on the sword and growled.
"Identify yourself."
"You're the one tailing me, and you're asking for my identity? So this is how knights are."
The reply dripped with incredulity. It was the men behind Arthur who answered his question in practice. One of them let out a short breath of recognition.
"Lord Betchel."
"I'm not blaming any of you, so rest easy. But I won't tolerate a second mistake."
The man called Betchel spoke in a voice that was almost gentle. The group nodded and began drawing their weapons, one after another.
Shing.
Listening to the sound of blades clearing their scabbards, Arthur forced the corner of his mouth into a twisted smirk.
"So you're the one those bastards answer to."
"That's right. It's only natural that the strong protect their subordinates. Unlike the Emperor you all hide away so jealously, buried under lock and key."
Betchel nodded without a flicker of emotion and strode toward Arthur. Arthur tried to back away, wary — but quickly realized that enemies were closing in from behind as well. He was completely surrounded.
"Damn it…"
Arthur had no choice but to swallow the curse. Even if he could somehow handle the small fry, this Betchel did not look like a man he could take easily. With the dark night at his back, the man seemed like a hulking mass of blackness itself. Betchel's presence, no longer suppressed, bore down on Arthur like a physical weight.
And I never sensed it until he was this close.
It was staggering. Which also meant the man in front of him was a genuine master. Add the rabble at his back, and honestly — Arthur had no confidence he could fight his way out.
Which meant running was his best option. But.
Is that even possible?
Against him? Honestly, the odds of that looked slim too.
Betchel spoke.
"Take him alive. Unharmed. There's something I need to find out anyway — this works out well."
At those words, Arthur's expression hardened further. Betchel, watching him with an impassive stare, added one more line.
"Nameless knight, I'm afraid this is your misfortune."
That was the signal. The men waiting behind them all lunged at Arthur at once, and Arthur could do nothing but grit his teeth and meet them.
"Oh, for the love of—!"
Arthur batted away the swords flying at him from every direction in a single sweep.
CLANG!
In the instant the staggered attackers reeled from the force of the blow, Betchel kicked off the ground and closed the distance like an arrow. Arthur twisted his body against his own momentum and caught Betchel's blade with his own.
BOOM!
The two men collided, and a deafening shockwave ripped through the desolate alley.
Sssrip.
The violent gust from their clashing blades tore both hoods away, baring their faces beneath the moonlight. Arthur's razor-sharp glare and Betchel's frigid eyes locked in the empty air.
Arthur gripped his sword with both hands and held on with everything he had. But the effort was for nothing — under Betchel's crushing strength, his feet began sliding backward, inch by inch. Arthur's arms trembled violently.
Creeak… krk… The sword let out a strained, agonized wail.
Betchel's cold eyes swept over him. Unlike Arthur's contorted face, his own remained perfectly serene.
"Fine sword."
"It was granted by His Majesty the Emperor himself. Not the sort of thing a piece of trash like you deserves to touch."
Arthur snarled like a cornered beast. Betchel let out a short laugh — pft — and simply flung him aside. In the next instant, a kick buried itself in the belly of the staggering, off-balance knight.
"Kghk—!"
CRASH!
Arthur's body went sprawling across the ground in an ugly tumble. He barely gathered himself and tried to rise. But the moment his upper body came up, a sword sheathed in pale-blue blade aura came hurtling down at him again.
"…!"
Reflexively, Arthur rolled clear.
BOOM!
A deep crater gaped in the ground where he had been lying only a heartbeat before. Giving him no time to even shake himself off, Betchel's foot lashed out and caught Arthur square under the chin.
THWACK!
With a dull, heavy sound, Arthur was sent flying once more.
"I'd hate to waste a life so young, so I'll grant you mercy."
At the voice directly overhead, Arthur forced his swimming head steady and lifted his gaze.
Shing.
A cold blade came to rest against the nape of his neck. Betchel continued, tonelessly.
"Come with me. Give us the information we want, and I'll simply let you go."
"I have no idea what could possibly be so fascinating to you people, but sorry — I've got nothing to tell. I'm just His Majesty's sword, and the Commander's errand boy."
Arthur forced his mouth into a lopsided grin. The keen edge pressed into the soft skin of his throat, raising a thin, stinging cut.
"No, even the lowest foot soldier would know this one. It happened only recently, after all."
Beneath his hood, Betchel's ruthless eyes glinted coldly.
"Not long ago, a great many of our comrades lost their lives at your people's hands. And from what I hear, you knew where we were headed in advance. Rats like you dug your trap and sat waiting for us."
It was the East Vault.
Betchel watched the color drain from Arthur's face — he couldn't help it — and pressed on.
"Which means the information leaked. So tell me: who passed it to you? Give me that one name, and your life is guaranteed. I swear it on my own name."
"……"
In that moment, Arthur knew for certain. They don't know about Arendt yet.
Chilling his mind to stillness, Arthur wrenched the corners of his mouth up into a smile.
"I've got exactly one thing to say to you. Go eat a dick."
"A pity. Then I'll have no choice but to extract it by force."
At Betchel's glance, the men waiting behind began creeping closer. Arthur reflexively tensed his body — and the blade threatening his throat sank in deeper for it.
"Cut off his legs. Drag him back as he is."
"Yes, my lord."
The black-robed enemies closed around him in a ring. Even as he hung there half-conscious, Arthur's grip on the sword he had never let go tightened until his knuckles whitened.
If I can't survive this, then at least I die fighting.
Capture was the one outcome that could never be allowed. The moment he resolved on that, every last trace of hesitation drained out of him. Killing intent pooled in Arthur's eyes, and a vicious growl escaped through the blood bubbling between his lips.
"It won't go the way you bastards want. Not even if it costs me my—"
"Ah — oops. Looks like I'm a bit late."
A voice utterly at odds with the entire situation cut in out of nowhere.
Betchel and his men whipped their heads toward the sound by pure reflex. So did Arthur.
As Arthur took in the uninvited guest, his eyes went wider and wider.
At some point the clouds had parted, and an enormous moon hung pale and full in the sky. A lone figure sat perched atop the garden wall, silhouetted against brilliant white moonlight, looking down at them all. His snow-white hair seemed to hold its own light, glittering like spilled moonbeams. Revealed beneath the moon's glow were that characteristically indifferent expression, and the golden eyes that pried into a person like a blade under the skin — both carrying a quiet, piercing chill.
Arendt's gaze moved slowly until it landed on Arthur. Onto that face, deceptively gentle, crawled a slippery smile that scraped raw at a person's nerves.
And then — tap, tap.
Arendt rapped a fingertip against his own throat.
"Senior, is your head still attached down there?"
It was the natural continuation of a conversation they'd once had.
Even with his brow split open and blood streaming from the inside of his bitten-through mouth, Arthur couldn't help it. He wrenched his lips upward into a grin.
Laughing like a man gone half-mad, Arthur muttered:
"You absolute… little bastard…"