The Stance at the Crossroads (2)
“Aspen!”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even the darkness that appears when you close your eyelids. Aspen stumbled backward, disoriented. What kind of magic is this? What did you do to me?
Spells require incantations or hand seals. Magic is a negotiation with nature; no deal is struck without some form of expression. That was common sense. Yet this had happened without any preparatory motion. Was it because she was an Eleim? Did the laws of the universe favor them?
“Aspen!”
The voice grew clearer. Startled, Aspen turned his head. The moment he responded to the call, color flooded back into the world.
Where am I…?
He had been here before. The damp foothills of Mount Gelsmog. He had once hunted a dragon here with seven formidable warriors. A mission that would have been suicide without a mage’s support. Yet the group had willingly risked their lives to protect a settlement of thousands. Five Lion Wing Knights including Aspen, and three paladins: Khan, Izelto, Nathan, Til, Omar, Faetro. And Aspen and Seneca.
On the way back carrying the dragon’s head, his father had been waiting. Armorless, Andau had rushed toward him, face drained of color, repeatedly asking if he was hurt. Exactly like that.
“Aspen—! Aspen—! Oh, thank the heavens. Thank you… thank you…”
Andau had ridden day and night without rest the moment he heard the news. What had driven him to such desperation was a terse report from the Federation army: Of the eight operatives deployed, three were confirmed dead. Status of the rest unknown. If Andau had simply waited for the next letter, he would have learned the truth sooner. But logic meant nothing to a man whose eyes had gone wild with fear. So he had come to see for himself.
Of course, Aspen had not been among the three dead. A great relief for Andau. It was the first time Aspen had seen his father’s eyes glisten since his mother’s funeral. Embarrassed by the constant fussing and checking for injuries, Aspen had grumbled that the blood on him was the dragon’s. Andau had paid no attention, offering thanks to the sky, the earth, everything. If there had been a god overseeing humanity, he would have plucked every hair from his head as an offering.
Then, still drowning in joy, his father had asked in a dazed voice, “By the way, where is your aunt?”
“Seneca Peres has fallen in battle.”
Wait—what had he just said?
Aspen snapped back to reality and realized he had been kneeling, unconscious. He tried to stand, but nausea forced him back down.
“Stay seated. You’ll be dizzy.”
Aspen looked up at the woman, veins bulging in his eyes. She clutched the dense veil tightly against her face.
“You saw what lies behind the veil. My mistake. I forgot to hold it down when the wind blew.”
She bowed her head. Aspen quickly lowered his gaze.
“Judging by your expression, you’re in a foul mood. Now I’m curious what you saw.”
A memory he neither wanted to recall nor share. As Aspen stared at the floor, tears suddenly fell. He wiped them away at once.
“Does the magic activate only when someone looks behind the veil?”
The woman gave a quiet laugh. Apparently he was right.
“When you put it that way, it sounds intentional. You understand now why I must keep my face covered.”
An unavoidable burden. Then why not wear a mask? Aspen cursed inwardly. Someone who must never show her face had chosen a loose veil instead. It reeked of malice. Perhaps she was a sadist who occasionally “slipped” on purpose for her own twisted amusement. Nathan had once said something similar—that dreams of training under his father sometimes felt so vivid they terrified him. Maybe Nathan had felt exactly this way. Aspen wished he had never teased him about it.
Santra quietly set Crossroads down at Aspen’s feet. Then, as if her interest had waned, she stood and turned away.
“Take the sword and rest. You look unwell. I’ll bring someone else to the tribunal.”
Aspen ground his teeth as he watched her retreating figure. No matter how hard he tried to suppress them, the memories kept rising. His aunt had died that day. Seneca Peres, who used to sneak candy into his mouth behind his parents’ backs and smile, had been torn apart in the dragon’s jaws. The paladin’s warhammer falling to the ground. The spilled entrails. He had deliberately avoided thinking about it all this time. He hadn’t wanted to. About his aunt returning only from the waist down. About how his father must have felt burying her with his own hands.
Aspen had dozens of relatives who served in the military and hundreds of battlefields. Hearing that kin had died was simply part of life. But to his father, Seneca had been more than a relative—she had been his younger sister, only a year his junior. Thanks to the vivid image of his father’s face, the weight of that fact struck him anew.
In hindsight, it was strange. Perhaps this was the “madness of the Lower World” Pontima had spoken of—the inability to accept loss as loss. When you lose too often, sometimes you no longer even know what you have lost.
Aspen took a deep breath and picked up the sword Santra had left. Then he stood.
“I’m fine. Take me as planned.”
“Hmm. I thought you understood. Andau will be disappointed.”
“What?”
“You’ve already heard—escorts dying during official duties happens more often than you’d think. Even if full-scale war is rare in the Heavens, assassination attempts occur as naturally as breathing. Andau wasn’t summoned because he’s the Peres representative; he volunteered for a dangerous mission to set an example.”
“I know that.”
“And yet you still want to walk into danger? Andau already told you why he decided to come to the Heavens. If he loses you the way he lost Seneca Peres, won’t he blame himself?”
Aspen’s grip tightened on the scabbard of Crossroads.
“Can you read my thoughts?”
“You spoke Seneca Peres’s name while waking from the illusion.”
Ah. That was true. But the woman had not denied it outright. Aspen clenched his teeth. She was leaving room for doubt to frighten him. He decided to think of it that way. If she could truly read minds like an open book, there would be no way to oppose her.
“The correct attitude for a traveler standing at a crossroads is to accept whatever lies beyond the path—even if it is not what you desire. Andau has already done so.”
The woman snapped her fingers. A black-rimmed circle appeared on the armory wall. From the writhing shadows within, someone stepped out.
“Now you must accept the price as well. The family meeting was so intense that your condition is a mess, isn’t it? So I won’t take you today. Don’t worry—I have a replacement.”
The unidentified figure stopped before the woman. Crimson armor covered their entire body. On the front of the helmet was the skull mask they had used the day Aspen and his family escorted Nathan.
Even intentional magic still requires simple hand seals. Aspen filed the observation away and glared at the woman’s new escort. He had to participate in Nathan’s trial. He would yield that right to no one. As a knight, there was only one way forward.
The woman smiled faintly at the fighting spirit in his eyes.
“You’re in no condition for this.”
“Consideration is often an insult to a knight.”
“Then I suppose I’ll be avenging Andau in your stead, however modestly. I’ll still show consideration for your state. Now step back.”
She dismissed him indifferently.
“Do you truly believe you’re qualified to accompany me right now? Do you want me to bring a broken child as my escort and suffer humiliation?”
Aspen drew Crossroads with his scarred hand—the same way his father once had.
“Before we speak of qualifications, I have a question. You said my father lost this sword. How did it end up in your possession?”
“The Floating Arena. Quite fortunate, really. It was in the hands of an orc legion commander Kada Sakano had kidnapped. He was once as powerful as Nagrik or Bakama. They coveted the sword so much that civil war was imminent. That gave me an idea—how to bring Nathan Maia to the Heavens without the Celestial powers noticing.”
She shrugged.
“But now that I’ve brought him here, things have turned out this way. Nothing to be done.”
Aspen nodded. Then he pointed Crossroads forward. Today, its tip aimed at—
“If I defeat this person—”
The blade pointed at the warrior standing before the woman. No—at the woman herself, beyond him.
“—will you acknowledge my qualifications?”
The woman’s smile widened.
“Very well. I’ll indulge your stubbornness—if you win.”
“Not that I’m suddenly trying to act spoiled or anything.”
Nathan frowned.
“There’s only an hour left until the trial. Does that mean I’ll be screaming in agony an hour from now?”
“Calm down. You’re not going to die. You’ll be sent to the Punishment Arena—”
Empato, the Celestial Guard officer, couldn’t finish. When he thought about it, there wasn’t much difference from a summary execution. They would probably fight until they died.
“Er, um, being sent to the Punishment Arena doesn’t mean certain death. If you complete the sentenced number of matches, you’ll be freed and your criminal record will be wiped clean.”
“Those guys usually end up fighting five or ten matches. I heard no one survives a hundred.”
The customer already knows everything, boss. He came fully prepared. So how was Empato supposed to comfort him? Empato turned away, feigning nonchalance, and bit his lip.
When an Eleim killed another Eleim, the sentence was usually five to twenty matches depending on the severity. But for Sapiens and other Lower World races, the punishment was fixed. Killing an ordinary Eleim citizen meant fifty matches. Injuring a high-ranking official meant one hundred fights without exception. It was to make the Heavenly hierarchy clear: the masters of the sky were the Eleim, and those who lived below had only been brought here out of necessity.
“Don’t give up hope yet. I can’t remember the name, but there was someone who survived ninety-nine matches.”
Nathan gave him a flat look. Every convict fought once every twenty days to a year at most. Ninety-nine matches with recovery time between each meant that surviving that many was undoubtedly an achievement, no matter the opponents. But—
“Sentences are always multiples of five, right? So they must have been sentenced to at least a hundred. What happened at the hundredth match?”
Empato gripped the end of Nathan’s binding rope tightly. He wanted to cry. He had no idea who had given Nathan such detailed information, but thanks to it, he couldn’t offer any reassurance. Nathan had promised not to cause trouble. Yet as the officer responsible for escorting a Sapiens, Empato found sitting side by side with him on the waiting room bench extremely uncomfortable. The man was also the benefactor who had saved his daughter and his own life. And—
I’ve seen how this Sapiens fights.
This man tore yetis apart. If he suddenly started crying and begging to live, Empato wasn’t sure he could stop him. He had already prayed to the Celestial God: if the man tried to escape, please don’t let him kick me.
“The hundredth match never happened. Or rather, it was canceled the moment it began.”
The tone was coldly professional. Empato looked up hopefully, thinking another guard had come to relieve him. If a considerate colleague who noticed he was working overtime had arrived, he might be able to finish this unpleasant escort duty and go home…
But Empato’s expression grew even more uncomfortable. White hair like fresh snow, a face so pale it looked sickly. The intruder was a northern Eleim.
“Your name was Moru… Molu… what was it again?”
The Eleim smiled faintly at Nathan, who was staring blankly with his finger raised.
“Morbi. No need to memorize it. Everyone calls me Protector Lord, so you can do the same.”
Upon learning the intruder’s identity, Empato’s discomfort multiplied tenfold. Whether Morbi noticed or not, the Protector Lord plopped down beside them without ceremony. Empato looked like he wanted to die.
“Do you know there’s a law in the Heavens called Gladiator Fight? When a dispute that might spill blood arises, it can be settled through proxy duels.”
Nathan nodded with a dubious expression. Santra mentioned something like that. She said she’d use me as a duelist for disputes.
“Because the Winter King is watching, the trial will be rushed. Even if your murder charge isn’t clearly proven, you’ll obviously receive a heavy sentence.”
Morbi spoke in a flat, calm tone, fully aware that Nathan had killed his brother.
“But if one of the powerful declares they will share your burden, the story changes. You can become a gladiator in a Gladiator Fight and have your punishment waived. This applies to any form of punishment—except challenging the Celestial God.”
“A gladiator?”
“It’s the same logic of washing away sin with blood, but it’ll be far better than the Punishment Arena. Losing doesn’t mean certain death. Some even exploit loopholes to become kept men for noblewomen. They’re required to fight once every three years, but match-fixing happens frequently behind the scenes.”
“Huh.”
As Nathan stared in disbelief, the Protector Lord raised a finger.
“And this pardon soaked in the smell of blood also applies to convicts already serving sentences in the Punishment Arena.”
“Oh. So that’s why the hundredth match never happened…”
“Correct. The man who became a legend by surviving ninety-nine matches was hired as someone’s gladiator and escaped the Punishment Arena. A certain noble who valued his skill granted him pardon. The hundredth trial, which would have surely killed him, simply never occurred.”
“Impressive. But why would the powerful bother using convicts? Wouldn’t criminals be untrustworthy?”
Nathan grumbled on purpose to suppress the hope rising in his chest. Among the rotten old men in the Heavens, who would bother throwing him a lifeline?
“Anyone sentenced to a hundred matches and surviving ninety-nine must have been a serious criminal to receive such a heavy sentence. Maybe they were saved for another purpose? Private revenge by the victim, perhaps?”
“The criterion for selecting gladiators is always skill first. Trust isn’t necessary. If they refuse to fight, they’re sent back to the Punishment Arena. If they die, they’re simply replaced.”
Morbi shook his head slightly.
“As for your assumption that he was a vicious criminal—well, the records don’t say why he received a hundred-match sentence. But judging by the nickname the audience gave him, he probably wasn’t particularly brutal. Dispater. ‘The Sated Old Man.’”