The Twins, Countdown (4)
The twins had been pushed into a corner. Were the Executioners in despair, or had they simply lost their minds watching the fight unfolding before them? The crowd that had been spewing venomous curses just minutes ago was now deathly silent, as if they no longer had the energy to jeer.
“Why’s everyone so quiet? Where’d you sell all your boos?”
It probably wouldn’t even reach the stands, but he taunted them anyway. That only made his true feelings more obvious—a desperate attempt to hide his shock and tension.
Kilika’s prediction had been spot on. The lizard’s head made for one hell of an effective hostage. That reptile had volunteered to fight an Executioner while half-crippled, when even a healthy body might not have been enough. You didn’t do something like that unless the bond ran deep.
She had already known the lizard would step in. She had rewatched their previous match—where the two of them had teamed up to slaughter the chimera—countless times.
No use pretending we’re not close now, you bloody lump.
The twins had obsessively analyzed Nathan’s every move and habit. Human. He didn’t look like one, but he was still in his growth phase. Decent swordsmanship and considerable strength. Yet he was burdened with excessive compassion, soft-hearted, and starved for conversation and warmth.
The arena master had provided them with footage of his matches. The twins had dissected Nathan’s movements like a corpse on a slab. They had gathered tactics from fellow gladiators who had faced human knights. They had sought advice from staff who had raised human orphans on how to build trust through conversation.
They had mobilized the entire arena’s resources to prepare strategies and traps. In effect, Nathan had been fighting the whole arena.
And yet it had come to this.
It was quite surprising, but Kilika refused to despair. She hadn’t lost yet. She still had plenty of cards left unplayed.
He was a human knight. As a knight, he had rightfully raged at his comrade’s death and risked his life because he couldn’t bear to watch children die. So this current standoff must disgust him. The fact that he was holding a hostage—especially a woman—must be stabbing at his conscience.
In the back alleys of her homeland, the Heavens, people like him were called good men. In other words, cheap goods. The moment they stepped into the sunless shadows, their flesh went to the butcher’s back door, their organs were stuffed into sacks, and once they rotted thoroughly, they were sold to farms.
“Ah… it hurts… ugh…”
She loosened her vocal cords as if her mind were hazy. She mixed in nasal tones like she was begging. Pretending to be weak. Pretending to be in pain. The most basic tactic street life had taught her.
A knight’s head was bound to be stuffed with instilled respect for women. Sure enough, his grip loosened for a split second.
Slithering like a snake, and he falls for it even easier than I expected.
“My shoulder… feels like it’s broken…”
The skills learned in the gutter didn’t end there. Kilika calmly waited for the moment his grip weakened further. The arm struck by the longsword earlier refused to obey, as if broken. That left her heels as weapons. The target was Nathan’s testicles, standing behind her. From the back of her heel, a long blade silently extended.
But just before the command from her brain reached her knee, Nathan kicked the back of her leg and knocked her down.
He shoved Kilika forward while twisting his grip on the back of her head. The blade’s position remained right above her collarbone, still pressed tightly against her. Kilika shuddered with goosebumps.
It felt like he had read her intent before the movement even began. The scene from his first match flashed through her mind—the shocking way he had slipped through a hail of orc strikes while running. She hadn’t understood it then, but it clearly hadn’t been luck or coincidence.
Gripping Ricaso so tightly it looked like he might snap it at any moment, Nathan bared his teeth.
Hodrick let out a groan. Kilika saw the sweat beading on her brother’s arm. His condition was far from normal. The iron plate nailed into his mouth must have gone wrong. She couldn’t even imagine the pain he was enduring.
She had to break this stalemate. Desperately turning the gears in her head, Kilika snarled.
“Hodrick, hold that bastard tight. If you slip up, kill—”
“Nathan.”
But Arqueba’s judgment was faster. The young Lizardian grinned with blood-stained lips.
“I’m going first.”
Where to?
Nathan stared blankly at Arqueba’s widely opened mouth.
Crunch.
Teeth that had shot out from his gums like a cat’s claws sank into the Executioner’s flesh.
“Should’ve sealed his mouth first, hot-blooded one. It’ll spread through his whole body soon.”
Hodrick noticed the stinging in his arm a little too late. He simply hadn’t had the luxury of minding other pain. The sensation of the crushed iron plate in his fist digging into his face was indescribable. It felt like his skull had been pierced by rebar.
Only after hearing Arqueba’s giggling did Hodrick realize it. The strength with which he had been squeezing the snake’s head had loosened from the pain, and in that gap, his arm had been bitten.
“You… will die in less than five minutes now…”
His brother’s body staggered. Kilika’s pupils dilated. A terrifying word flashed through her mind.
Poison.
“No!”
In a panic, Hodrick released the snake’s head. Arqueba, who had fallen to the ground without a care, muttered with a triumphant expression.
“It was a good life. At this point, please open the gates for me, Coatlicue.”
And then he stopped moving.
The hostage on that side was dead. The stalemate had broken. The hand gripping her head was tightening more and more. Kilika’s legs went numb. If she did nothing, she would die. Right now.
Perhaps sensing its master’s crisis, sensation returned to Kilika’s arm.
Thanks for helping now, you cheap piece of junk.
“Arqueba! Hey! Arqueba—!”
While Nathan glared at the lizardman’s corpse with wide eyes, Kilika grabbed his hand.
They say the Heavens are perfect. They have to be. Not a single flaw can exist in the land blessed by the Heavenly God. Therefore, everything revealed beneath the blessed sunlight—everything captured in the Heavenly God’s burning single eye—must be perfect.
So in the damp shadows untouched by sunlight, all the wretched lives are forcibly pushed aside and left to linger. A quagmire forms where the sick and imperfect losers gather, stagnate, and rot.
In that other world, adults kill each other to avoid dying, and children steal to avoid starving. The older sister who stole has both arms chopped off by a guillotine and rolls in the mud, while the younger brother who didn’t snitch has iron cores and plates nailed into his mouth…
With her lost arm, Kilika asked Nathan. Do you know that hell?
The metal part of her metal-cast arm exploded. Not Nathan’s—Kilika’s arm. The awl-sword that had been hidden in her forearm shot out and fiercely stabbed into Nathan’s palm.
A heavy resistance. It had definitely pierced through. Nathan’s eyes widened. The pressure loosened.
Kilika shook him off and spun around.
“If you think you’re going to die to a bloody lump who’s only lived about twenty years, you should’ve just died that day—!”
Half the words were meant to encourage her terrified self, but they worked. Kilika triumphantly drew back her palm, from which blades had sprouted. Her torn sleeve fluttered from the shock of the mechanical device firing the weapon. The gears of her exposed metal arm creaked and shuddered.
But what she felt the moment it struck wasn’t the satisfaction of penetration, but an unnatural resistance. Kilika glanced sideways at her right hand. The awl that normally pierced even armor was now grotesquely crumpled.
Only then did Kilika realize. Nathan’s hand wasn’t covered by gauntlet plating. It was an artificial hand cast entirely from metal, just like hers.
The reason he had let go of her arm wasn’t the shock of penetration, but wariness.
What the hell. He’s got something more expensive than mine.
Kilika cursed the arena master. He had said the guy’s hand had been cut off and the aftereffects were severe. That he’d probably be wearing some cheap tin mechanical arm. Why was nothing accurate?
Nathan reached out with his hand. Kilika drew the awl from her intact left hand and swung it. Once again, the outer shell and components covering the prosthetic exploded in all directions. Twenty years’ worth of salary had been shattered in an instant, but there was no choice. Unlike mechanical arms, lives couldn’t be swapped out at the workshop.
However, the performance gap between the prosthetics was painfully clear. So was the difference in the users’ skill.
Nathan grabbed Kilika’s wrist and slammed it violently into the ground. The suppressed forearm was smashed against the dirt. He seized the hilt of his two-handed sword and brought it down like an axe. The blade dug into the joint of her arm. Even the left arm’s awl broke and fell out.
The pain of her neural connections being severed made Kilika scream. Just like that day a hundred years ago when she had lost her living arm.
If he had raised the sword and struck down at that moment, he could have easily cut her in half and killed her. That is, if it had been one-on-one.
But he also had to watch his back. As expected, a roar came from behind.
Nathan released both Kilika and the two-handed sword. He caught the incoming arm and used the momentum to throw its owner over his shoulder. Peres’s swordsmanship could be applied even bare-handed.
Hodrick fell as brutally as the chimera had. At least he landed on his back rather than his head or neck, but the impact was still tremendous.
Keuk.
His lungs shriveled, forcing out a choking gasp. His neck bone struck by the pommel. Dislocated shoulder. Spinal shock. And the excruciating pain from his already ruined face. It wouldn’t have been strange if he had died instantly.
He had thought that would be the end of him.
Nathan turned back toward Kilika. So when his wrist was caught in the other’s grip, Nathan felt a strange sense of awe.
“Ugh, grr.”
Where do you think you’re going?
The next moment, Hodrick roared and yanked Nathan toward him. Using the recoil, he kicked off the ground and used Nathan’s own weight to force his dislocated arm back into its socket.
It was by no means a simple feat. Overcoming the dislocation, and replicating a move he had only seen once. Hodrick had recreated the throw he had just suffered.
Nathan, thrown in an instant, tumbled through the air. But he didn’t lose focus. He had been thrown by Aspen’s sword countless times while still in armor. The way to respond was etched into his body like memory.
Twisting in midair, Nathan rolled across the ground to disperse the impact with a proper breakfall. The Single-winged Knight soon rose, brushing off the dirt.
Hodrick, who had been panting heavily, dropped to his knees. His bloodshot eyes slowly closed.
“Hodrick.”
Kilika staggered over.
“Hodrick, can you hear me? Say something.”
Her brother couldn’t even lift the hand he used for sign language. He could only barely nod his head. Blood streamed down from beneath it.
Action was needed. Kilika tried to remove his helmet with her ruined arm. But the dented helm wouldn’t budge. It looked like she would need a cutting tool to get his head out.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Kilika glanced back. In Nathan’s hand as he approached was her brother’s executioner cleaver.
“Is this the end?”
Nathan’s question held neither mockery nor provocation. It was a pure question. Could she protect herself any further? From him?
Kilika blinked, then briefly closed her eyes and stared into the darkness. If only this were a dream.
When she opened her eyes again, she stared straight at Nathan.
“Couldn’t you just let us go this once, Nathan? Let’s say we lost. I don’t think I have the strength to protect my brother from you right now.”
It sounded submissive at first glance, but she had said “let’s say we lost.” Not that they had lost. The deception was too shallow and arrogant to miss.
“Then shout it to the sky. Say you surrender. That you want to live and can’t fight anymore.”
No answer came from Kilika. Just like when she had been thrown to the ground, Nathan once again felt that strange impression.
“No intention of giving up?”
Kilika, who had been staring blankly, sighed and looked around. The dagger was bent, the wrist awl was broken like that and unusable. The only weapon within reach now was one.
“Do you even know how to use that?”
Nathan asked sincerely. Kilika was struggling to lift his True Two-hander. The weight transmitted through her ruined arm was heavier than it looked. She was slightly flustered but soon adapted and took a stance. Her broken ribs screamed in agony, but she endured it. Hopefully it wouldn’t take more than two swings. The difficulty of the swinging motion would increase dramatically otherwise.
Probably like how that guy held it when he first aimed at my brother.
She held the horizontally leveled blade in front of her face. A defensive stance aimed at the opponent’s brow. Nathan was impressed. Only inwardly. But knowing one stance didn’t mean you could use the sword.
He shook his head.
“Give it up. You’ll cut your own hand.”
Kilika grinned. Even in this state, the Executioner was smiling. Did she have something to fall back on? No. It definitely wasn’t that.
“The reason we’ve survived this long and stayed beloved is because we maintained perfection in the genre of execution.”
“That reputation will be broken today. Congratulations.”
“Yeah. Like wine—if even a single drop leaks, that thing called reputation loses its value. At first I felt nothing. I was just desperate to survive each day. But after living like that for about a hundred years, that fucking brand started clinging to me on its own.”
“Is that why you’re risking your life? Pride in cutting other people’s necks?”
“I’ll admit it looks pathetic. But there are plenty of fools overflowing with pointless pride besides me. And even if you say that trivial self-respect doesn’t matter… you don’t seem like you’d spare us anyway.”
Life and death are decided by the victor. Those were the words Kilika had spat from her own mouth.
Nathan strode forward. The upward-swinging cleaver and the downward-swinging two-hander crossed. But the two-hander’s blade never reached Nathan. The cleaver dug fiercely into his hand, and his paralyzed fingers released the two-hander’s grip as if electrocuted.
Nathan twisted Ricaso and smoothly took the sword away.
Anticipating the finishing blow, Kilika squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t retreat. Her brother was behind her.
But when she opened her eyes, Nathan had taken a step back instead. Something slid across the sandy floor toward her. Kilika stared down at it blankly. It was the cleaver.
Nathan, who had kicked the execution sword over to her, raised the two-hander and aimed it. It was the same stance Kilika had taken earlier.
“You said you enjoyed slowly toying with people before killing them.”
You crazy bastard.
It sounded like he was returning the karma. Kilika slowly lifted the cleaver, trying not to show her pain. Then, as if to show she wasn’t afraid, she spat out a bloody glob of saliva.
“Well, sometimes I did. After dealing with so many lunatics who’d lost their minds from arena sentences, I thought I was going crazy too.”
But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed killing bastards like you. I never got used to that.
Kilika giggled.
I really did like you, Nathan. No matter how I look at it, even if I turned this arena upside down and shook it out, there isn’t a single Eleim better than you.
For decades now, she had imagined far more horrific endings. Being subjected to even crueler and more imaginative bastards, suffering more painfully, dying more spectacularly. Just like how the twins had done to the previous Executioners on the day they took over this arena’s executioner position.
If it ended like this, it would be a good death.
“Still, when I cut your neck, I planned to make it clean. I wanted to send you off without you feeling anything.”
“Then should I show you the same mercy you tried to show me?”
The hand gripping the cleaver made a grinding sound. Not from rage, but from malfunction. The fingers, damaged by multiple impacts, were trying to loosen. Kilika used her other hand to fold them back one by one while humming a tune.
“Baby, baby, sleep deeply without rest.”
A lullaby spat out between ragged breaths. It was the song Executioner Kilika had sung in the old footage Nathan had seen, boasting of her victory.
“If you don’t run away to tomorrow quickly, yesterday will come running and devour you.”
The lyrics that had been drowned out by the audience’s cheers in the video. The words wrapped in that eerie melody carried a far stranger hue than he had imagined.
“A life that should have died in that quagmire long ago—I borrowed it from hundreds of people and lived quite long. Yeah, it must be our turn now.”
The Executioner smiled. Perhaps for the last time in her life. Strangely, without a single stain of regret.
“I thought it would be fucking awful, but it really is fucking awful.”
“Docking in one minute.”
One minute. As if replacing the speechless commentator, the ship’s announcement explained the situation. It might have been pointless effort. There was no need to fill the silence between commentators—everyone was already frantically clutching their heads and wailing.
It’s over. It’s finished.
The Eleim who had boarded the fixed betting knew their situation well. Anyone who wasn’t a fool would know. One minute until arrival at the Heavens. One minute until the bet ended.
But there were almost no optimistic Eleim hoping that there were still sixty whole seconds left. Cold sweat trickled down their foreheads. Their blood felt far hotter than their body temperature. Was their blood boiling, or had their bodies gone cold?
Kilika, who had barely blocked the attack, staggered and dropped to her knees again. Nathan, on the other hand, looked far too relaxed. The shadow of defeat was clear.
44 seconds.
“You’re not going that way.”
Nathan, who had been trying to circle behind, was stopped. Kilika extended her cleaver—though it couldn’t reach him—to block his path. It seemed he had mistaken it for an attempt to reach her unconscious brother kneeling there.
Kilika took a deep breath and prepared for the next attack. Her whole body was throbbing, yet somehow it felt refreshing. The suffocating blockage that had clogged her veins like sewage was gone. Long-held resentment and poison were draining away.
35 seconds.
She lowered her head to avoid a large arc. Her folded ribs screamed. What was it? Why did it feel refreshing? Even while getting beaten so miserably? They said that when a donkey suffered from colic, they bled it to treat it. Was it something like that? Why did getting hit make her feel a bit refreshed? Had she really reached that point, Kilika?
The Executioner chuckled inwardly. No way. Then what made all the battles she had gone through in the past so different from this moment?
23 seconds.
Because it wasn’t a day when her hands would be stained with filthy blood? Because she was fighting purely to survive? She didn’t know. There seemed to be a better explanation.
The moment the blade closed in, distracting thoughts vanished. The broken dagger blade and cleaver crossed, blocking the vertically descending sword. But she couldn’t absorb the impact. Kilika, who had dropped the cleaver from her malfunctioning hand, fell to her knees. Droplets of blood pattered down.
15 seconds.
Nathan lowered his sword and aimed it as he walked to her left side. A composition like executioner and prisoner. His entire body seemed to be shouting that he would now take her head. He seemed to have done something similar before.
He was going to send her off in one blow. Cleanly. Kilika was grateful for that kindness. Thanks to it, she could play her final move.
8 seconds.
The conclusion was instantaneous. Kilika, who had been nodding her head as if she had given up on survival, suddenly kicked off like lightning and shot forward. The final strike fueled by adrenaline. A spinning kick extending the dagger from her heel. The lightning tipped with metal slammed fiercely into Nathan’s body.
Or rather, into his steel palm.
If it was an achievement, it was one. It was Vandveer’s prosthetic that had remained intact despite all the arena master and guards’ attempts and the countless impacts during battle. But what it needed to pierce wasn’t plate armor—it was Nathan’s life.
Nathan gripped it tightly with his strength and twisted her wrist, snapping it. The Executioner’s final fang broke far too easily. Kilika’s body, with her leg caught, collapsed forward in front of Nathan.
1 second.
The knight pulled the cleaver that had been embedded in the ground. The massive blade closed in on the crown of the kneeling Kilika’s head. Kilika Niko closed her eyes. The instant the iron edge touched flesh was cold.