Reckoning Time, Landing (1)
Kilika’s body crumpled as though it were collapsing in on itself. Hodrick, whose head had been tilting little by little, slumped down right after. Nathan could have delivered the finishing blow, but the fight was already decided. Instead, he caught the big man just before he hit the ground and propped him up, then laid him neatly beside his sister.
Nathan rose, brushing dirt from his clothes, and turned toward Arqueba. His blood-smeared hand settled on the lizardman’s shoulder, almost as if offering comfort. Then he gripped it and shook hard.
“Wake up. It’s over.”
“Ugh, damn it all. This is too miserable to bear. You should’ve let me sleep in peace, but no—you had to shake me awake. What a cold way to mourn your own brother.”
“We only swapped names yesterday, so let’s call it awkwardness. Stop grumbling and open your eyes.”
The lizardman casually cracked open just one eye. His recovery rate was astonishing. It had been only yesterday that the ghouls burst his eyeballs, yet the half-healed orb already focused with sharp clarity. The claim that his legs would regrow in three months might not have been a bluff after all.
“Still kicking, see?”
“I already knew. Every time those twins turned their backs, I saw you squinting and watching the show with great interest.”
The poison that had seized Hodrick’s ankle had been pure bluff. Like most large reptiles, Arqueba possessed no lethal venom that could kill an enemy in five minutes. His only snake-like talent was playing dead—drastically slowing his heartbeat and metabolism until he appeared to have drawn his final breath and slipped past the crisis. No blood leaked from the thigh that looked impaled; the chain sickle had miraculously missed the leg and pierced only the bandage.
Arqueba sat up and gazed down at the twins lying side by side. The younger one writhed unconsciously, clearly suffering intense facial pain. If the iron plate in his mouth was the cause, there was nothing to be done. Truthfully, Arqueba felt little desire to help anyway.
In contrast, Kilika’s face looked far more peaceful. She was even grinding her teeth and tossing. The bruise from the headbutt and the single vivid red line across her forehead were striking—nothing more than ordinary flesh compressed by impact, not the horrific wound a cleaver would leave if it had split her skull.
Arqueba frowned. “You didn’t kill them?”
Nathan gave the cleaver a lazy shake. The blade was so clean one could believe it had been stolen from an executioner’s guillotine rather than a butcher’s block, yet not a drop of blood clung to it. At least for today, no one would become food for the decapitation sword.
“I struck with the flat. They’ll have splitting headaches tomorrow morning.”
“…In the jungles I call home, grudges are not easily forgiven. Every tribe is tightly bound to the others, revenge can be sought at any time, and before the reach of biological poisons available everywhere, all are equal.”
Arqueba tilted his head. “That’s why I don’t understand. Was there any need for mercy? They tried to kill you.”
“They tried, and nearly succeeded. If I hadn’t been through similar fights before, something would definitely have been severed.”
When he was young, refugees had flooded in from a distant continent. Among the survivors of a fallen nation now folded into the Human Federation were many skilled in martial arts. Nathan’s father—a man of influence within the Federation—had offered them sanctuary in exchange for teaching their secrets. The lessons were as close to real combat as possible. There had been only one student: Nathan, freshly nine years old.
“The whole clan specialized in hidden weapons and irregular tactics—a family-run assassination syndicate. Tangmun, Dangmun, something like that. After rolling around with two or three of them, my eyes started to open.”
“…Not satisfied with beating you himself, he even hired foreign martial artists. For a nine-year-old. Just what kind of man was your father?”
“What kind? The rotten kind who beats his own child. Anyway, the reason I didn’t kill them… the match was decided. That’s all.”
Sliding the knife to Kilika’s feet had not been about settling her karma or teaching her a lesson. It had been solely to give her the chance to wring out every last ounce of her skill—so she would never even consider coming back for revenge.
He was in no position to criticize others for staining their hands with blood. Nathan was a knight, and every knight is a specialist in war. Time would make it so even if he hadn’t been. Survival demanded countless killings: a mother monster defending her territory, separatists who had risen in rebellion, civilians corrupted by the abyss charging forward. It would be a lie to say none of those deaths ever visited his dreams.
Among them were several he would have avoided if he could. Fortunately, the choice now rested in his own hands.
“They just seemed like people fighting to live the same way I do.”
Arqueba nodded, looking deeply moved. “So you, who killed to survive in turn, have no right to judge another? The fact that they tried to harm you isn’t sufficient justification for death? I don’t entirely understand, but it sounds like the classic repertoire of a human knight. Impressive. It feels both naïve and rather magnificent.”
“I don’t know much about justification or knightly conduct—those complicated ideas. Truth is, there’s a clearer reason right over there.”
Nathan jerked his chin toward the stands. The elves were turning the place into pandemonium. An announcement had clearly ordered them to pack up and prepare to disembark, yet the gamblers who had been wiped out to the final match showed no signs of regaining their senses. They simply wailed in place, drenched in bewilderment and grief.
Yet amid that gloomy uproar, a distinct demand rang out in a voice far from small.
Kill them. If you won’t die yourself, at least kill that brother and sister. Since it’s come to this, someone has to die for us to watch. If you’ve eaten our money, the least you can do is spill some blood. If you plan to survive to the end and turn our stomachs, then kill the losers and at least give us a spectacle.
A sadistic order. For those who had paid and bet to enjoy the show, it was their way of recouping even a fraction of their loss.
The desperation and regret soaked into those voices were terrifying. A chill ran down Nathan’s spine. The sight of another person’s severed neck should be horrific, not entertaining. That principle held whether the victim was a kind neighbor or a murderer who preyed on neighbors. He didn’t know how things worked in their world, but in his, that was how it was.
Rather than obey the demands of demons wearing human skin, Nathan lifted his gaze and glared at the stands.
“Above all, I hate doing what those bastards tell me to do.”
“Open your eyes and lift your head.”
In her haze, Kilika managed an awkward smile. Same as what I heard two hundred years ago.
Back then, young Kilika had obeyed out of pure terror. The frightening Eleim adults wanted the trembling girl to see it with her own eyes. Her severed forearms had been waved before her face.
There was nothing they wouldn’t do to a child not even twenty.
You who stole—we cut off both arms. What should we do with this liar?
They had seized the fleeing younger sibling by the neck and laughed loudly.
No, my sibling didn’t steal. I did it. Please spare us.
Even after her arms were cut off for begging on her knees, the child could only crawl through the mud and beg again. Kilika herself could scarcely imagine how agonizing it had been. The fear worn away by centuries no longer felt real; it seemed distant, like an object without life. Now that she stood at the threshold of departure from this world, even that faint terror would finally be forgotten…
“Lift your head.”
The same vividly real voice from that day jolted Kilika awake. The memory that had flashed before her eyes was not a deathbed panorama but a simple dream. The unconscious could only stage its performance while breath remained. In other words, Kilika was still alive.
“…I’m alive.”
“Alive? You’re alive? I seem to recall a Sapiens saying something similar in this room. The very Sapiens I ordered you to kill.”
Kilika’s eyes flew open at the foul breath blasting across her face. The arena owner was glaring at her from inches away. Over the long years she had grown used to him; she had even forgotten he could make such an expression because the twins frightened him more often than not. So he could look like that. It was a face she hadn’t seen in a very long time—the same one from the day he stripped the twins of their physical freedom.
Damn. Like I always think, I never should have touched that bastard’s wallet.
“…Did that tank of a guy come into this room too, boss?”
It had been a long time since she last smelled the stale reek of the torture chamber. A sunless, gloomy space layered with spells inside the walls to block surveillance and eavesdropping. The iron stench of blood baked into the cement was intensely unpleasant. It kept dragging up bad memories from childhood—the slums where every alley was soaked with corpse fluids like a dog marking territory.
Especially now, the smell was thick around her throat. Kilika tried to look down, only to cough and jerk her head back up.
“Just how did you tie this collar? It’s suffocating.”
“When the scale of a business changes, the pond you swim in changes too. I learned a rather cultured hobby from the wonderful new friends I’ve made. Ever heard of fox hunting?”
She had. So she could guess what it meant. After nobles finished enjoying their fox hunt, hunting dogs past their short prime were culled once they had produced offspring. They were hanged by ropes adjusted so only their hind legs barely touched the ground. It could take hours or days to die of asphyxiation. Of course the nobles had vast lawns where they could raise them for life, or they could hire professional veterinarians to grant swift release. The reason they showed no mercy was simple: pure amusement. Or venting frustration over poor hunting results.
Hearing a groan, Kilika turned right with a pained grunt. The silhouette of her similarly suspended sibling dripped with cold sweat. Her brother was alive too. An immeasurable wave of relief washed over Kilika. His condition, however, did not look good. The rope holding the larger man was tied much higher and far tighter. Unable to nod, she bobbed her chin vigorously instead. The arena owner looked satisfied.
“I see you understand.”
So our current situation is that of hunting dogs who failed the hunt.
Kilika swallowed dryly against her constricted throat. Such an active performance to frighten them proved their owner was thoroughly enraged. From now on she would have to weigh every answer. The slightest irritation of his mood could see her dead and dumped in some alley, marking territory with rotting fluids…
“I’m selling off every asset connected to this business. I poured enormous capital into this tour, yet it ended like this. Membership cancellations are exploding, investors are screaming for immediate refunds, and public opinion has caught far too much fire. With no future in sight, we must cut our losses.”
Kilika’s prediction had missed the mark. The arena owner had never intended to spare them.
“I could sell the pair of you, but for a quick disposal your record is too good—your value as fighters is high—while your popularity is too low for buyers to show much interest. So I’ll simply weigh you and sell you as meat. Fortunately, there are customers in the land of the undead curious about the taste of an executioner.”
The arena owner clenched both fists in excitement. Kilika’s pupils, however, trembled with terror. The land of the undead belonged to vampires. In other words, they would be delivered alive—as food.
“…Damn it, since when did we get into the restaurant business? Eating us will make you sick. Hodrick has a contaminated iron core in his mouth; he needs periodic blood chelation to remove heavy metals.”
Kilika had never imagined it would come to this. Food? She had begged for her life many times, but never thought the day would come when she would have to argue that they tasted bad. How far could a thing called life fall?
“I use a cheap mechanical arm that sheds iron filings, so my blood can’t be very healthy either. You know that.”
Hodrick’s medical costs, the price of Kilika’s arms. Those were the reasons they had stepped into the arena a hundred years ago and ended up working under the very enemy who had taken their bodies. For people of lowly back-alley birth, choices had been few.
“A fine observation. But my friends who enjoy hunting see things a little differently. Eleim who treat hunting as sport have a peculiar habit. Most prey, no matter how appetizing or plump, is left to rot because it was born and raised in filth on the streets. However…”
The arena owner took out a bucket and shook it. Salt grains at the bottom swirled violently.
“…they absolutely want to put on the table any prey that bit them and escaped. Whether it tastes good or not.”
Once it was thoroughly mixed, he carried the brine over the sibling’s head and poured several drops onto his crown. The saltwater seeped in—onto the scar around the iron-embedded mouth where it should never touch. Hodrick twisted his head desperately.
“Don’t—! Damn it, Hodrick! Hodrick—!”
“A very long time ago, there was a vampire brother whose legs you cut off before he surrendered. Thanks to his solid family background, you showed restraint and he survived. Unlike your arms, his severed legs were neatly reattached.”
The arena owner’s lips twisted.
“He claims he had forgotten you completely, without the slightest grudge. But the moment he inherited the family and became patriarch, he suddenly remembered you two. Tsk, tsk. So why set your hobby on something as uncultured as fighting? It’s fortunate he finally turned to a wholesome pastime like hunting, even if late. Thanks to meeting a friend like me, he can have his belated revenge.”
“…And what if the customer has picky tastes and says they don’t need the male? If you pour all that saltwater, it looks like my brother will die from shock.”
“How did you— Who are you?”
The arena owner leapt up in a frenzy. The brine bottle that nearly doused Hodrick spilled across the floor. Kilika silently thanked whatever gods she rarely bothered to pray to.
A youthful Eleim with golden hair tied at the nape of his neck now stood beside the arena owner without the slightest trace of presence. His expression suggested he would like to wash his ears immediately if possible.
“Not only petty, but it seems the siblings come as a matched set of perverts. They lost because their own skill was lacking, yet they requested this sort of thing?”
“Who the hell are you—!”
The roar was loud enough to burst eardrums. The young man blinked repeatedly as though struck by a strong wind.
“Uh, my name is Bin. My primary occupation is private security services. As a side job, I modestly serve as a member of the Sword Star Sect.”
Bin bowed politely and offered a business card. The arena owner accepted it in confusion, then looked past the bowed head toward the corridor beyond the door. The Sword Saint of the Sword Star Sect. Traces left by a master certified by the Celestial Realm’s administration were clearly etched into the corridor walls and floor—marks that could never be made by steel alone. Concrete sliced like soft tofu by sword qi crumbled helplessly into powder.
The guards who should have been standing watch outside were nowhere to be seen. Moreover, the complete absence of blood suggested they had fled safely without offering meaningless resistance. Indeed, how could men armed only with electrified batons hope to deal with a master who wielded sword qi? It made no sense.
The very fact that it made no sense enraged Kada Sakano. Rather than feel relief at the thought that his employees were safe, the arena owner’s fat face twisted in fury, as though he might grind someone into paste and hurl them into the monster cage’s feeding trough at any moment.
Seeing that expression, Bin shrank back.
“The corridor… uh… my client said he would pay for the damages. He said it doesn’t matter what gets broken, so I was to demonstrate my skill and then deliver this letter. He will visit in person soon.”
The arena owner unfolded the letter Bin had handed him and began to read. Kilika and Hodrick’s eyes darted busily between the two men. Whatever he saw in it, the arena owner could not tear his gaze away. While the man remained frozen with his face buried in the paper, Bin offered a careful farewell.
“Then I’ll be taking them. Goodbye.”
Take them? Who?
A sliver of hope narrowed Kilika’s eyes. When Bin raised his longsword, they flew wide as if they would burst.
“Wait a m—”
She thought her neck would be cut and her heart lurched, but the blade struck only the rope binding the twins’ necks. The pair fell with a thud and instinctively gasped for air. Had oxygen always tasted this sweet?
“Can you walk?”
“…Before that, who saved us?”
Though she had been too dazed to identify her rescuer, Kilika’s mind worked quickly. Whoever had sent the letter to the arena owner, the fact that this pig had his nose buried in it and lost his spirit proved it came from someone of immense power. Since an opportunity to change sides had appeared, she had to seize it—especially for her brother, who urgently needed a hospital.
Catching her breath, Kilika poured out words of gratitude and loyalty without even standing.
“Telling me is pointless. I’m only temporarily employed.”
Bin looked deeply troubled.
“Hmm, I’m afraid I can’t tell you who my employer is. They said it’s still a secret. However, I can tell you who made the request of my employer. When you get the chance later, please thank Nathan Maia.”
Kilika’s eyelids closed very slowly, then opened just as slowly. In two hundred years of life, she had never encountered anything quite this absurd.
“Who did what, exactly?”