The Name of the Man Who Brushed Past You (1)

"Lost again?"

"..."

"So you've gone and racked up four losses in a row now?"

Ugh.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

That old geezer's at it again.

He muttered the words only to himself, never letting them leave his lips. The old man might have been ancient, but his ears were disgustingly sharp—curse him under your breath and he would come flying at you in a heartbeat. There was no other choice.

Yes. That man was his master. The old coot who had spent two full weeks milking his disciple's bitter defeat for all it was worth, teasing him without mercy. A man who had traded away the very concepts of maturity and benevolence for a handful of beans, he had failed to age with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any grace and instead styled himself a Sword Master—a walking disaster of a human being.

Wasting more than a decade under a guy like that, of course I get my ass handed to me everywhere I go.

Even as he grumbled, the old man's attitude never changed.

"Well, these things happen! A true warrior is a blade that only grows sharper with every loss! But just for reference—I've never lost once!"

"Yes. You're amazing, Master."

"Don't take it too hard. Defeat is simply something that happens from time to time. I know exactly how you feel. Wait—no, I don't know at all, do I?"

"So there are things even Master doesn't know. You always talk like you know everything."

"Are you being sarcastic right now?"

"Who knows. Maybe you should add 'which is it' to the list of things you don't know."

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, a vicious side kick came flying at him. The sound of it reached his ear before the foot itself did; in the split second before impact he twisted sideways and dropped into a defensive stance.

"Use your words, please. Did you take me as a disciple just so you could beat me up?"

"If you'd done it properly I wouldn't have hit you. More importantly—you dodged. So your instincts are still alive."

"After more than ten years of getting smacked around, if I still couldn't dodge I'd be a complete idiot. Ah, wait. I am an idiot."

"Hmm..."

He braced for another fist, but instead his master fixed him with an unexpectedly serious look. The old man whose only training methods were hitting, tormenting, and cursing him still had moments like this—moments that almost looked meaningful.

"So. Who did you lose to?"

"How many times do I have to say it. A girl. A little kid. A noble young lady. And a low-ranking demon. I don't even want to remember anymore."

"Hmm. I see."

"What is it now?"

"Nothing."

But the master soon broke into a sly grin again, the playful expression returning as if on cue. And of course, he launched straight back into gleefully teasing him.

"Still, it's a good thing! You've learned the rare and precious virtue of humility. You must always live with the heart of someone still climbing higher. The world is wide and the strong are many. Ah—though of course that last part doesn't apply to me."

"Yes, yes. I understand. Unlike our most exalted Master, I'm bottom-of-the-barrel talent, which is why I ended up like this."

"Hahaha. You can flatter me more if you like. Praise always feels good no matter how often I hear it."

"You're incredible, Master. Not a single proper rival in all those long years, right? Whether there truly wasn't one or you just forgot, I couldn't say."

"You little—"

His master's pride seemed stung by that single remark, and he looked ready to explode. Then something appeared to occur to him, and he sank into deep thought.

"Well... if you could call him a rival. There was one pretty decent fellow. This world isn't quite that small, after all."

"Oh-ho. So you're finally about to dig up a bitter memory of defeat. Who beat you, Master? A dragon? Or a salamander?"

"I didn't lose, obviously. It just took me a little while to win. In all my life I'd never seen a man whose sword was that fast."

"Your mind must have started wandering around then, huh."

"No, he was genuinely fast. So fast sparks flew. Wind rose, lightning cracked. Huh? You know that random gorge that suddenly appears about halfway to the capital? I made that one back then."

Here come the tall tales again. He yawned before the story had even properly begun. His master paid no mind and kept spinning his heroic yarn.

"On top of that his technique was monstrous—I couldn't let my guard down for a second. The moment I thought he'd strike here, he'd hit there. The moment I thought there, he'd hit here. Of course it was still trash compared to this body of mine, but still... it was something else, you know?"

"Your storytelling is truly magnificent every time I hear it, Master. I can practically see it unfolding right in front of me."

"What am I, some street performer? Always picking at my words..."

"So how did you manage to beat someone that skilled?"

"How did I win?"

For the first time his master's mouth closed. He thought he was finally about to see the end of the bluster—but unfortunately the old man only launched into something even more absurd.

"I won by using two swords. I am, after all, a master of dual-blade swordsmanship."

"Of course you are. In my entire life I've never once heard of a Sword Master who fights with two blades, but if Master says so, then the rest of the world must simply be wrong."

"That's because I only used it that one time. Still, why didn't word get out? I'm certain I let him live."

"Who knows. Maybe Master's memory is faulty. Or maybe you just beat up some drunkard and you're spinning it into a tall tale for me."

"That's not it! And that man was no common street thug. He was some big shot from the underworld. What was it exactly... that... uh..."

Damn it. This is going to drag on forever. Once the old man got started, even staying up all night wouldn't be enough.

If he didn't want to waste any more time, he needed an escape route—and right then, a voice of salvation floated in through the window.

"Claus! You there? A letter came for you!"

"Huh? Nobody sends me letters. Who's it from?"

"Dunno. I can't read."

What is this? Maybe they're calling me in to collect the reward from that last monster-clearing job. Whatever the purpose, it was a perfect excuse to escape his master's tedious lecture. Grateful for the unexpected stroke of luck, he rose at once.

"Looks like I should go check. I'll take my leave first, Master."

"You brat! I wasn't finished talking!"

"Yes, yes. I'll hear the rest later. A letter came, after all."

"I don't need it! A guy who never gets letters suddenly—"

"I'm really going! Make your own meals!"

"Hey!!!"

He hurried out; his master's hand snagged at the back of his collar. He slipped free by a hair's breadth and let out a long breath. The little kid waiting outside tilted her head.

"What's wrong, big bro? Did Master scold you again?"

"I get scolded every day. Anyway, where's that letter?"

"Here! They said absolutely nobody but you was allowed to open it, so I hid it super carefully and brought it!"

"Thanks. If it weren't for you I'd probably have been stuck with that old man for the rest of my life."

His gratitude was genuine, so he carefully ruffled the small head. Whether the child understood his feelings or not, she only beamed up at him and asked,

"Why? The old man's so cool! His beard is long, and he runs super fast!"

"Ha."

"And the stories he tells are really fun! I wish I could be his disciple too!"

"Sure, sure. Go ask him to take you on."

Crushing a child's innocence was a sin, so he simply kept stroking her hair in silence. To kids those stories must sound wonderful. The problem was that the old geezer told him the exact same nonsense.

Some underworld big shot nobody in the world had ever heard of. A secret dual-blade technique that never made it into any record. Complete and utter—

...

Anyway. A letter that absolutely no one but him was allowed to open.

"Hmm..."

A quick glance showed gold leaf edging the envelope—something about it felt ominous. He rustled the outer wrapping for a long while before carefully breaking the seal and opening the letter.

The blood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spilled by the severed moon soaked her eyelashes. Only after it had run its course did the tears realize they were raindrops, spreading as a crimson twilight across her bloodshot eyes.

Before eyes forced open because they could not close, what lingered—an unfulfilled dream, or a memory she could not forget? The endless afterimages that brushed past her had grown so faint she could no longer even name them. In the forcibly prolonged days of her awakening, there was only one truth she could grasp.

That the memory of victory could ache more sharply than the memory of defeat.

It was a truth far too heavy for a mere girl to bear. She was still a young woman who understood what playfulness was, who still threw childish tantrums whenever the mood struck her. Even her participation in that day's tournament had been nothing more than a whim, a bit of idle amusement.

And now, the hundreds of bodies sprawled beneath her feet were likewise nothing more—and nothing less—than a tantrum without reason.

"Wh... who..."

"..."

A man clinging to the last threads of breath spat out a meaningless dying word. No one present at the scene that day had ever seen the girl's face. By the time the intruder alarm sounded, a blade was already flying toward the leader's throat.

If measured by an hourglass, perhaps a single handful of sand had fallen. For the collapse of a notoriety built over decades, it was far too meager. Fortunately, an old man soon arrived to leave a pitiful eulogy over their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠graves.

"Barred the Fire-Quencher. A wandering knight who, blinded by gold, shattered his own legion and fled. His greed was petty, yet his skill was fine enough that he was even mentioned as a candidate for the next knight-commander."

"..."

"I hear the bounty on him was quite substantial. You did well. So what now? Do you intend to take this man's head and present it to the king?"

"..."

"You should not have killed him. His shadow was what hid our wings."

The voice was dry, yet clear contempt lived in the old man's eyes. The girl did not even turn her head in his direction; she continued to dig through the memories of the past.

Yes. Barred the Fire-Quencher. The worst criminal in the kingdom's history, with the second-highest bounty ever recorded. Even a giant like that had crumbled without withstanding her first strike.

But that man had dodged. Wondering if he had simply been careless, she swung a second time, a third—he avoided every one. If her fourth blade had not grazed his shoulder by the barest margin, she might have done something irreversible.

Just who had that man been? She was about to sink back into that answerless torment when the old man spoke in a pitying tone, as if he had peered straight into her mind.

"So these ones didn't know either?"

"No."

"I have told you time and again not to waste effort on such pointless things. There is already no one in this world whose swordsmanship surpasses yours. No matter how many tournaments you wander through, you will never find a rival."

"..."

"And that foolish behavior is what brought about this result."

At the pure hatred laced through those words, the girl finally turned her head. Looking blankly up at her master, she saw the two branching scars that had marked his cheek since she was small.

No matter how many times she asked about those wounds, he never answered. Why? You, who looked as though not a single drop of blood would fall even if someone drove a blade through your heart.

Just what had happened?

"He must have known from the beginning that you would enter that tournament. And under the pretext of a duel, he intended to eliminate you. It was no accident."

"I suppose so."

"But to think a swordsman of that caliber had been hiding... I wonder which faction he belongs to. The kingdom? Or perhaps those who have suddenly begun stirring of late..."

"..."

"The one silver lining is that we have obtained a clue to his whereabouts."

In that instant, color returned to the girl's dead eyes. At the sight of that unfaded, ominous gaze, her master finally allowed a thin smile.

"A rural village in the southern part of the kingdom. Someone there claims to have seen the man who participated in the tournament."

"..."

"Revealing himself so openly means he is, to some degree, luring us in. But we must learn the truth. Who is behind him. And what his purpose was..."

"...Not even bothering to hide his identity."

At that point the girl let out a bitter laugh. Such a brazen act of provocation. Not only had he crossed blades with her and lived—he was now moving about with his face fully exposed.

What an audacious assassin.

"He must be punished. Enemies without exception—"

"Don't give me orders."

"What?"

"You are no longer the master of this organization."

A quiet current of tension drifted between them. The cold master and the girl who had to become the best. That grinding master-disciple relationship had been finished from the moment it began.

All that remained was the barest minimum of respect for an elder—and even that was nothing more than the product of pure rational calculation. Right now, only one thing occupied her mind.

The face of that vacant country youth who had first put a crack in her cold ice.

That could not possibly be his true face. Whether he was a kingdom spy, a Red Dragon's lackey, or an assassin of the demonkin—

She would uncover his identity and tear it open no matter what.

The moment she made that resolve, the girl was already gone. On the hill steeped in darkness, only the lingering echoes chased after the traces she had left behind.