The Name of the Man Who Brushed Past You (2)

Alright.

Let's go back over everything from the start.

Getting from my village into town takes about thirty minutes by carriage. One ride costs as much as a bottle of wine. Not exactly cheap, but I happened to have the money on me, so I figured I'd treat myself and ride in comfort.

That was when my master suddenly appeared. While I was heading out, he said, go buy me a bottle of wine. I held out my hand and asked for the money—no way I could swing two bottles—and all I got was a scolding about how we could just call it even for the tuition I owed him.

With the carriage option gone, my trip ballooned to an hour and a half. Round trip, three hours. If I was unlucky enough to run into a pack of beasts, make it five.

Wasting a whole golden day on one outing. If some excuse to head into town hadn't suddenly dropped into my lap, I would've just sprawled out in the yard and slept.

"Hmm..."

My hand brushed the pocket where the letter I'd received still rustled. I stared blankly at the envelope again, then pulled out a potato from beside it. Well, nothing for it. Once a reason this solid shows up, you just have to go.

The same old absurdities. The same old day.

Or so I thought—until I spotted the masked man leaning against a tree far ahead.

"...?"

"..."

At first I didn't think much of it. Maybe he just liked dark clothes. But the man was definitely watching me, and he didn't look away even as I drew near.

"..."

"...What?"

"..."

Weird guy. I walked past, but he still wouldn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠take his eyes off me. I shot him a look that roughly said what are you staring at and kept going.

This time a man and a woman blocked the path on either side. They too had their faces hidden—collar and mask—and they never once looked away from me.

"..."

"Coming through."

"...."

I was busy enough without people blocking the road. I didn't even bother returning their stares. After pushing past them twice, no one else stepped in front of me.

Instead, people started following. One, four, six. The group multiplied rather than added, their footsteps tapping harder and harder against my back.

"..."

What the hell were these people doing? I had zero interest in getting mixed up with them, so I casually angled toward the main road. But right as I reached the crossroads on the outskirts of town, I saw a carriage sitting squarely across the path I needed to take, and I let out a sigh.

"...What now."

"Ignoring us, are you. Bold. I suppose we simply aren't on your level."

"What?"

"We've been waiting."

The coachman spoke in a meaningful tone as he looked at me. It was pure nonsense, so I gave the only reaction that made sense.

"Who the hell are you people."

"Enough. There is someone else who will speak with you. Hold your tongue."

"Hold what? I haven't even said anything yet."

"Master."

"Hey—"

He didn't so much as pretend to hear me. He simply bowed his head toward whoever was inside the carriage. A moment later the door opened, and the soft click of low-heeled shoes rang out one after another.

I was ready to give the same reaction as before. Then I saw the face—and my mouth fell ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠open on its own.

"Uh... you..."

"..."

Black hair, rare in the kingdom. A face that still looked barely grown. And a sword hilt far too long for her frame.

She wore a black mask, but recognizing her was never hard.

It was the girl I'd crossed blades with at the Levenia tournament.

The girl stared openly at the boy standing in front of her again.

Green hair. Thick eyebrows. Clear, bright blue eyes. And a vacant expression that wasted a face like that.

A solid build. Perfect posture. And yet clothes so baggy they looked ready to fall off.

On top of it all, that consistently guileless way of talking.

She was the very picture of an ordinary country boy, and the girl murmured under her breath.

"...A perfect assassin."

Her master had always told her to beware delicate girls more than burly men, and old women in rags more than armored warriors. Familiarity breeds comfort, and comfort breeds carelessness.

That was why she had been chosen as the successor. No one else in the world combined such an ordinary exterior with such innate talent.

But that belief shattered the moment she met the boy in front of her. The fluid swordplay that had tangled around her hilt that day could never have come from some backwater nobody.

"Hello."

"Uh... you..."

"It's been a while."

"Uh... y-yeah..."

She offered a light greeting, and he looked thoroughly flustered, wearing that signature vacant expression. Exactly like a country boy who had no idea how to handle an unexpected reunion.

If she hadn't known it was an act, she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠really might have taken him for an ordinary kid. High-level, as always.

"Where are you headed? You seemed to be in quite a hurry."

"I wasn't hurrying or anything. More importantly, you—"

"We already know everything, so why not just be honest."

"I'm just running an errand for my master... uhh..."

"Master? Who is—"

"Ah!!!"

The moment he shouted, every operative around them tensed and reached for their weapons. The girl herself whipped her head around, wondering if it was some kind of signal.

What came out of his mouth next was so idiotic she almost couldn't believe it.

"You're that kid from the Levenia tournament, right?"

"...What?"

"I wasn't sure at first, but that sword gave it away. You carry a pretty short one. It must drag on the ground."

"..."

"So what are you doing out here? Do you live around here too?"

The question was so absurd she briefly lost control of the conversation. She recovered her composure soon enough and pressed on.

"You're pretty good at changing the subject. But I'm not playing along. So—who do you work for?"

"Work for?"

"I'd prefer you didn't play dumb. I already know you weren't acting alone. So why not just tell me? The one who ordered this. Who is it?"

"That'd be my master, obviously."

Master. The girl, who happened to share a similar figure in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her own life, understood better than anyone how those words should be interpreted.

So you're also possessed by a relic of the old days. She thought it, then asked again.

"Then will you tell me who that master is?"

"Hmm. I'd rather not talk about that."

"Ha."

So now the true colors come out. For the first time the boy's expression hardened, and a stiff tone slipped into his voice. Then, suddenly, he reached into his coat.

"That guy, huh."

"...!"

Long-trained instinct sent the girl's hand flying toward her weapon. The tension crackling down her spine was already prepared to take his head.

A hidden blade? Smoke? A magic scroll? Every operative nearby was hyper-focused on the boy's hand. And then that calloused hand emerged from the deep pocket holding a potato that looked undeniably delicious...

...

...A potato?

"Sorry. I skipped breakfast. Anyway, our master? Just a crazy old bastard who thinks of nothing but tormenting his disciple every single day."

"Old...?"

"If you're going to get old, at least get old gracefully. I'm only saying this because he's not here, but without me that man would've starved to death ages ago. Can't even boil a single potato himself... tsk."

"..."

"I don't even know why I spent over ten years under a guy like that."

The boy poured out years of accumulated grudges while the girl fell silent, at a complete loss for words. The reason she was so thrown wasn't the content—it was that the very concept of speaking about one's master with such familiar contempt simply did not exist for her.

And that attitude. That completely clueless attitude. The longer they talked, the less she saw any of the tells of someone acting. A new thought began to surface in her mind.

What if this idiot really doesn't know anything?

...

But just before the thought could harden into certainty, something beyond the horizon seized her gaze.

"Why am I even telling you all this. Sorry—just thinking about that old bastard makes my blood boil."

"..."

"By the way, who are the people with you? Why's everyone dressed in black..."

"...Before that."

"Hm?"

"Before that, could you explain what that is?"

Only then did the boy turn his head in the same direction. Across the golden fields of ripening grain, a group of people was approaching.

Roughly twenty. About the same number as the operatives the girl had brought. Matching numbers was hardly destiny, but the reason behind it was no coincidence either.

Twenty. Too many for a simple meeting, just right for an escort. Clearly they had come to take someone away as well.

And the fact that they were clad in white armor—the exact opposite of this group—was definitely not a coincidence.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"This is what you were after. You."

Only then did the girl smile coldly, marveling at the boy's acting. Flaunting his identity like that. Playing the innocent to buy time. All part of the plan, was it?

"I expected something, but this is beyond even that."

"What?"

"The Knights have gotten rather cunning. Not the empty cans they used to be."

"Wait. Knights? I think there's been a misunderstanding—"

The boy still waved his hands, pretending to be flustered. Then something seemed to click, and his eyes dropped to his pocket.

The letter he had received was still there. When he looked up again, the white figures written inside it were pouring toward them.