Chapter 92
Chapter 92
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 92
Chapter Title: Creep Rukan's Throwing Art
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Sion had learned assassination techniques from the very best in each field, those who could rightfully be called "masters."
Among them was one man who had slain countless beasts and monsters with nothing but the javelin.
Creep Rukan.
He was a farmer who lived alone on the edge of a forest, a short distance from the hamlet of Rukan.
The circumstances under which Sion learned javelin throwing from him were, in hindsight, both amusing and chilling.
It all started when Creep, mistaking Sion—who happened to be passing near the village—for a bipedal monster, hurled a javelin at him.
At the time, Sion's senses and physical abilities hadn't yet reached their superhuman levels (looking back, it was probably because he was low-level back then), so he barely managed to dodge it.
Once Creep realized he'd nearly killed a person, he apologized profusely. Impressed by the farmer's skill—who had nearly killed him with a javelin in the dead of night, no less—Sion accepted the apology on the condition that Creep teach him the technique.
The good-hearted farmer (who was also a bit simple-minded) gladly agreed to Sion's request.
Illiterate and unable to wield a sword or bow, Creep was nonetheless a natural at throwing anything. He was even good at slinging stones.
Why would an ignorant rural farmer be so adept at throwing spears and stones?
Because the lord of the territory encompassing Rukan Village forbade peasants from owning bows or blades longer than a certain length.
Yet even farmers had to protect themselves from the beasts and monsters that constantly eyed their village.
Especially someone like Creep, who lived isolated from the village (having been ostracized).
So from a young age, Creep had thrown "anything" he could get his hands on, soon discovering his natural talent for it.
Creep was a master of the javelin—no, of throwing itself.
When he threw, it was always a hit (at least against anything but Sion), and despite his small stature, his power was immense—deer dropped dead after a few stumbling steps from a single strike.
The secret to Creep's fearsome throwing prowess lay in "spin."
Like a monkey (and unfortunately, his face bore a resemblance), Creep had naturally long arms, large hands, and long fingers. The moment he released anything, he imparted spin.
Not just with his hands and fingers, but using his shoulders and waist as well—essentially his entire body generated rotational force.
It sounded simple, but learning it was nearly impossible.
You needed the right physical build to begin with, and strength regardless of size (especially in the core).
But for Sion—a "player" in this world, not a native human, with a perfectly optimized body and abilities—it wasn't so difficult.
The only issue was that Creep, an illiterate and somewhat dim-witted farmer, struggled to explain the technique he'd intuitively mastered, so it took time for Sion to grasp the concept.
In any case, Sion spent about a fortnight learning javelin throwing from this rural farmer, who was the only teacher Sion had who lived a normal life to a ripe old age without being killed.
If Creep had been born a noble.
Or even just in a decent fief or a reasonably large town, with average intelligence.
He might have become a soldier or mercenary, passing his skills on to others.
But Creep was born the son of a poor, ignorant farmer in Rukan, never leaving the place, and died the same way his father had.
Thus, Creep's javelin technique was now known and usable only by Sion in the world.
'No, it's a skill now, isn't it?'
Sion had no doubt that among his innate talents—which he couldn't even read—there was "Creep's Javelin Throw."
Because this was a skill, an ultimate technique worthy of the name, and not just in his mind—everyone who saw him use it thought the same.
That "skill," passed down from the simple, somewhat foolish but kind and honest farmer who had lived and died alone, now unfolded in Rozin's harbor.
Against a wyvern, no less—the most powerful and dangerous of the flying monsters (Derkyos insisted dragons weren't monsters).
The wyvern, which had ruled as king over the southern Brandon Mountains, scoffed when the human made as if to throw something at it.
But the moment the long, black object left the human's hand.
Whiiiiiish!
The wyvern instinctively flapped its wings to gain altitude as the javelin hurtled toward it with terrifying speed and force.
However, it couldn't even fathom the speed and power packed into the skill of the human who had beaten its mother-killing ogre to death.
In any case, the instant the wyvern sensed danger and beat its wings on instinct.
Thud!
The spear, infused with the power of an at-least S-rank skill from a level 99 superhuman, pierced straight through its chest.
That was it.
The wyvern's heart, protected by tough muscle and even tougher ribs, ruptured in an instant, and it died on the spot.
Whoosh!
But its flight momentum didn't stop.
"Whoa!?"
"Dodge, dodge!"
The massive monster—with a single wingspan over ten meters—hurtled at high speed into one side of the harbor.
Boom!!!
A massive splash erupted with the thunderous crash.
Seawater rained down on the panicked crowd, sweeping some away with the pressure.
Total chaos.
But Sion, the one who caused it all, impassively watched the scene before casually turning his head.
Bellin and Miuran stood there with mouths agape, along with the Yajanins.
Not just them—everyone near Sion wore similar expressions, staring at the wyvern's corpse, now mangled beyond recognition in its crash-landed form.
"Hey."
"Y-Yes!"
"...Y-Yes, sir!"
He'd only called Bellin, but Miuran beside her also snapped to attention and shouted back.
"The harpies will be handled by our elf squad. Anyway, with the wyvern down like that, they'll probably flee soon."
"Yes, sir."
"Send the Yajan mercenaries back after cleaning them up. And you know? As agreed, this one's billed separately."
"O-Of, of course."
"Good. I trust you. Don't disappoint me."
Sion smirked and walked toward the elves firing arrows seaward.
Miuran, watching his back—lips parched dry, swallowing hard—spoke to the trembling Yajanins, who couldn't utter a word.
"Bit awkward to say this now, but if any of you had funny ideas, I hope you've dropped them."
"Th-That..."
"For reference, I dropped mine days ago."
"Bullshit."
"Urk!?"
Miuran flinched at her lover's cold retort.
"I saw your face when the handler—no, instructor—picked up that spear. The hell you lying for? You were thinking nonsense right up until then."
"Ah, urk!?"
"What's with the 'urk'? Anyway."
Bellin glared at the Yajanins, most of whom looked guilty.
"You lot better behave when you get back. If you go blabbing nonsense and sour relations with Rozin—no, Duke Sion's territory— I won't let it slide. I'll hunt you down and kill you for real. This isn't a warning. It's a heads-up."
"W-We won't."
"Y-Yeah, we get it. We're not idiots."
Fool around against the monster who felled a wyvern with one javelin toss?
Against someone backed not just by a ducal house but the royal family?
(If Bellin had revealed Sion was a hexagram aptitude holder, it would've been pandemonium—but that was top secret.)
What a joke.
Haha... hahaha...
Hahahaha...
Amid awkward laughter, the harpies—having witnessed their king's gruesome death—fled in panic. This was Rozin.
* * *
There's a saying: a word unspoken travels a thousand miles. Meaning rumors spread fast.
But in this case, it was more accurate to say a horse with legs travels a thousand miles.
While Sion took his falcon squad south to handle various matters in the dukedom, news of his exploits in Pamell County and Ogreust Territory spread far and wide.
Some of it thanks to letters (threats) bearing the ducal house's sincerity to certain lords.
But the decisive factor was Jenna sending Yens to the intelligence guild headquarters with Sion's permission—and a certain box, sprinkled with salt, tightly sealed, and sent via royal express carriage.
"Kyyyaaah!"
The shriek was far too girlish for a man over forty.
The man on the floor, scooting backward on his butt, had a large wooden box before him, lid pried open.
Not just any box—it was sealed with paper bearing the royal crest.
Inside was a corpse, folded to fit perfectly.
"B-B-Baron Botan... Baron Botan...!"
The corpse belonged to Baron Botan.
And the man scooting away—having pissed himself a little—was Crown Prince Philon.
"What are you lot doing? Close the lid and get this out of here now!"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
The stunned servants rushed over in a panic.
"Urp! Ugh!"
Suppressing vomit at the horrific sight of Baron Botan's (formerly) wide-open eyes, they hauled the box away.
"......"
Count Rundel watched the box and servants with cold eyes until the door shut, then turned to his nephew.
Crown Prince Philon, helped up by two favored maids, slumped into a chair. Trembling, he grabbed the water glass they offered and gulped it down.
"Your Highness."
"Ugh...?"
Still pale and shocked, Philon looked at Count Rundel.
"Why was Baron Botan's corpse in that box?"
"H-How should I know?"
"This isn't the time to play dumb. It's not just any box—it's sealed with the royal crest."
When the box first arrived, Philon had been thrilled, assuming some royal sent a gift to curry favor.
Count Rundel had harbored similar hopes upon seeing the large, ornate box.
But out came the corpse of a noble friendly to the crown prince.
"We'll soon know who sent it. But first, tell me everything. We need to prepare countermeasures."
"W-Well, actually..."
Glancing at his uncle, Philon licked his lips and confessed.
"That Bettisect family asked you for a favor, right? Said their granddaughter suffered injustice after marrying into some house."
"Yes. It was worthless, so I shut it down myself. But why bring that up...?"
"The place she married into was Ogreust Territory. Where that 'Whale' or whatever stirred up trouble."
"......!"
Count Rundel's eyes widened.
His sharp mind pieced it together in an instant.
"N-No way... His Majesty?"
Not entirely accurate, but close to the truth.
(Continued in the next chapter)