The Protector Lord (2)
Nathan thought he knew how Mornid had died.
He had forgotten. When had he started fighting? Five minutes ago? An hour ago? Or had it been his whole life?
“He sold his body to some pathetic abyss and forgot how terrifying a properly trained warrior can be.”
The same could be said of Nathan. The knight spat out the blood pooled in his mouth.
From his experiences so far, he had vaguely assumed he could see the bottom of these long-lived elf bastards. That there was no way he would lose a fight to such a uniformly sloppy race.
That belief was brutally shattered after dozens of exchanges.
With every clash, it was Nathan who bled.
In every collision, the Protector Lord scored cuts across him as if deducting points for his deficiencies.
Nathan felt the rage boiling in his head slowly freeze over.
He could hardly believe he had endured this long.
When armor met armor, a longsword user employed every part of the blade. Rather than pressing the edge against plate and scraping away uselessly, it was far more efficient to make use of the metal’s weight.
Besides, unlike the opponent’s armor—deliberately riddled with gaps to reduce weight—there was no opening for a blade to slip into the heavy plate Benny had given him.
Yet Morbi’s edge gouged the iron like paper.
Had he been unarmored, one of his limbs would have been severed long ago.
A bizarre red blade whose material defied guessing. After colliding with that eerie masterpiece again and again, Nathan’s two-hander was not only chipped but trembling unsteadily.
The difference in sword strength was obvious. If he didn’t want the weapon to break, he had to keep the edges engaged.
Even then, Morbi—who held the initiative in technique—freely created distance whenever he wished.
“That won’t work. Show me something else.”
Peres swordsmanship. The opponent refused to fall for even the slightest feint.
Lion Wing sword wrestling. It could only be attempted if the opponent allowed distance.
The eastern art of joint locking. After suffering once, Morbi never fell for the same move again.
And the Johannes longsword style—also known as Federation swordsmanship. The standard and foundation for every warrior in the Human Federation, constantly refined and therefore the most current.
That proved useless too.
In truth, it was more than simply ineffective. Morbi’s swordsmanship resembled the Federation style. Like twins raised in different places who had somehow reached the same conclusion.
It was no coincidence that he had mirrored Nathan’s stance at the start.
Similar, yet strangely sidestepping Nathan’s own grammar. Familiar, yet offering no gap to exploit.
Was ground swordsmanship simply inferior to that of the heavens? No. It was purely a difference in perfection.
The opponent’s skill, always half a beat ahead, was the heart of the problem.
When seventeen years of desperate struggle tried to seize hold with everything it had, centuries of training slipped away one mocking step at a time. As if taunting him that this was a road it had already walked.
Therefore, he could never catch up.
For the first time in a long while, Nathan felt a familiar, suffocating terror. The fear of violence wielded by someone he could not defeat. Exactly like standing before his father.
“How old are you? Twenty? Forty? You make our hundreds of years look pale.”
Morbi, for his part, seemed to feel a certain admiration.
But admiration and fear were different things.
Utter confidence radiated from every inch of Morbi’s body. The belief that a ground-dweller who lived a finite life could never defeat him, who had trained without wasting centuries. The pride that Nathan Maia would never overcome the wall called Protector Lord.
Before falling for the third time after being grazed across the forehead, Nathan barely regained his balance.
He had leaned against the wall for a moment, then forced himself back into position with everything he had.
There was no time for the luxury of catching his breath.
Aspen.
Normally he would have hurled a provocation to rattle his opponent.
But he had run dry. Both the well of words and his composure.
Because right beside him, Aspen was losing body heat with a deathly pale face.
Stay calm.
Something twitched at the edge of his vision. Nathan glanced sideways at Aspen.
Aspen had barely turned his head and was glaring in his direction. Through the tangle of red hair, those burst lips moved.
Words shaped without sound, so the enemy would not hear.
You can win.
The fear was wiped clean from his mind.
Nathan turned his eyes back to Morbi.
“Why the hell are you bastards so desperate to devour me? Hey.”
“What is it?”
“I never thought I’d say this in my life, but spare me.”
Morbi smiled calmly. An expression that even hinted at sorrow and regret. It was grotesque precisely because it didn’t fit the situation.
“Begging? A knight from a world where an honorable death is considered a privilege.”
“I was dragged here without a single coin to my name, so what’s wrong with begging a little? We don’t live long compared to you anyway. Close my eyes and open them again and I’ll be an old man who died in his sleep.”
Morbi’s smile vanished. He shook his head.
Nathan snorted.
“Ah, right. Then at least let me die knowing why. Why the hell is this our problem?”
“Since the war of kings hundreds of years ago, the Heavens have known no conflict for a very long time. Most Eleim alive today weren’t even born at the time of the armistice. One of the crucial ancient provisions of that armistice was the silence of the shaking spear.”
Nathan thought he understood. The straight-line trail of destruction that had erased an entire city was indeed something to fear.
Breaking such an important vow and bringing war back to the world. That much he could grasp.
But.
“Your father committed the massacre. Why do I have to die?”
“Because you caused the embers of war to flare again.”
Nathan frowned.
“What?”
“When I told my father you had killed the eighth prince Mornid, he laughed and said an interesting fellow had appeared. But when Ulukabo described your appearance and traits, he suddenly burst into tears. The most powerful cold-element magician. That ancient being.”
Morbi let out a small sigh.
“He whined that a single Sapiens was terrifying and ordered me to lead hundreds of warriors down to kill you. I thought it was a joke. I assumed Father was simply demanding entertainment as usual. No one in the frozen lands imagined he was serious.”
Nathan, utterly dumbfounded, asked, “What the hell am I that this king is so afraid of?”
“The Nodin Beseni.”
Morbi’s calm reply as he flicked blood from his blade.
Nathan blinked.
The Nodin rebel Beseni? The ghost that devours kings? That was…
“An old fairy tale.”
“I don’t know the details. However, His Majesty has lived more than a thousand years. Perhaps a simple oral legend sounds like lived experience to him.”
No. Not that kind of old story. A folk tale made up by people who hated the king so they could punish him in their imagination.
Nathan let out a hollow laugh.
If I die today and get buried, the epitaph would be artistic as hell. Nathan Maia. Died in action. Cause of death—children’s fairy tale.
It would be even funnier if the body somehow made it back to the Federation and was buried in Baylard’s national cemetery. Tradition would demand one more line carved beneath.
The Lion Wings vow revenge against every “children’s fairy tale” in this world.
“I’m not a nursemaid for a senile old man. So the Protector Lord’s job is wiping a patient’s ass? Shame. The dutiful eldest son really has it rough.”
“If my father learns you are still alive, he will not send a raiding party. He will assemble a true legion and dispatch it. The shaking spear will almost certainly breathe fire once more. That unfortunate dragon will resist for a few days, but it will be pointless in the end. As always. I despise massacres. As the bound dragon’s friend, I have no desire to force it to commit innocent slaughter.”
“Friend? The tyrant’s lapdog blames everyone else in grand fashion. Killing with your own hands doesn’t sting your conscience, you hypocrite?”
“I did not become Protector Lord out of personal ambition.”
“Then why? To hold the bedpan for your father? Did your mother and siblings wash their hands of it?”
“To ensure someone like Mornid never gains the power to harm so many. And to shield as many people as possible from my father the tyrant’s whims. To do that, one must occasionally do things one would rather not.”
No matter how hard Nathan tried to scratch his temper, Morbi’s voice remained serene.
“You need not forgive me. My karma will be judged twofold by the heavenly gods on the day I die.”
Provocation had no effect. There was no way to find Morbi’s reverse scale. His composure was far thicker than that of the other elves.
Nathan sighed and leaned against the wall. Then he jerked his chin.
“Then there’s no helping it. Come on in.”
“Planning to fight with the wall at your back? Your tricks are obvious.”
He was right. Nathan had tried to lure him into a favorable position. The opponent’s sword would strike the wall and limit its range.
His intent had been seen through, but Nathan decided to remain shameless.
“What are you talking about? You kept swinging until I couldn’t even move.”
Morbi nodded, then drew a metal rod-like object from behind his back. It unfolded with a series of clicks, transforming into a cross shape. He slotted a quiver onto it and immediately aimed at Nathan.
It was the repeating crossbow Morbi had used inside the collapsing building.
“You thorough son of a bitch…”
Swish.
Arrowheads hurtling forward at terrifying speed all at once.
With his last plan ruined, Nathan hurled his body sideways with everything he had.
----------
“What?”
The scenery had changed abruptly.
Flustered, Nathan reflexively patted himself down. No arrow seemed to be lodged in him.
“No, it did hit my forearm. It wasn’t a fatal spot to begin with. But why is everything black—”
That’s right. You’re not dead.
The multi-layered shadow that had approached from behind spoke indifferently.
When Nathan spun around, rising fury momentarily stopped his breath.
“You… crazy…”
Why get angry? We won’t be seeing each other again anyway.
“I’m not seeing you, you bastard! Send me back right now! It was a life-or-death moment!”
Even if you spend days or months in here, not even a fraction of a second will have passed outside. Rest easy.
Decades? A chill ran down his spine. Could this evil spirit lock him inside until he went insane if it felt like it—
I told you. I’m not dragging you here. You come looking for me. Only when you lose consciousness in an unfair situation can you appear before me.
Nathan shook his head. The shadow, sensing the deliberate refusal, ignored it.
You’re not dead. I’ll send you back when the time comes, so rest assured.
The multi-layered shadow dragged a luxurious armchair with fine sheets out of the darkness somewhere and pulled Nathan into it.
I was preparing an explanation anyway. For your sake, since your lack of interest is excessively severe.
Nathan recalled their previous conversation.
He had kept the words “Won’t you even give me basic notice?” bottled up inside. What a petty evil spirit.
A light turned on some distance away.
The scene revealed beneath the bright illumination in front of Nathan was—
“A courtroom?”
It was the place where Nathan had received that absurd verdict.
In the real world it should have been smashed to pieces by dragonfire, yet somehow it remained perfectly intact.
This time watch from the guest seat rather than as the accused. I trust you will render a wise judgment, honorable juror.
The shadow leapt onto the stage and waved its arms theatrically like a street performer, then changed shape. It became Nathan clad in Lion Wing armor.
In Nathan’s displeased, narrowed eyes, another figure appeared—Morbi, covered in plaster-like achromatic color.
The recent battle was recreated.
Nathan, leaning against the wall, throws himself aside to dodge the arrow. He avoids most of them, but one sinks into his arm.
The disadvantage of being unable to use one arm.
Even so, Nathan fought like a wild beast.
Yet there was no reversing a match already tilting so badly, and finally…
The instant the fake Nathan’s head flew off, Nathan squeezed his eyes shut.
It was what would happen when he returned to reality.
“Are you showing me this just to piss me off?”
Open your eyes. The important part starts now. Shall I ask you one question?
The ticking stopped.
Only then did Nathan realize he had been hearing the sound of clockwork.
A massive clock affixed to the ceiling of the stage trembled with its second hand.
People say only once. That life, opportunity—none of it can be undone. But what if you didn’t have to be bound by that limit?
The second hand, trembling at a certain point, suddenly spun backward of its own will.
The minute and hour hands groaned and followed that tyranny.
In response, something bizarre happened on the stage as well.
The severed head of the fake Nathan traced its own trajectory backward, flew, and returned to its proper place.
Time kept walking in reverse.
Before the arrow struck his arm. Before he crossed blades with Morbi. Before he ran toward the fallen Aspen…
The fake Nathan sprinted through the gray-recreated alley.
In a direction markedly different from the path Nathan had chosen in reality.
The dead-end clearing appeared once more.
Morbi, who had stationed subordinates in every alley, waited for Nathan.
Yet the position from which Nathan emerged was different.
The fake Nathan suddenly appeared on the rooftop behind him and leapt down without hesitation.
What if you didn’t have to mourn losing everything over a single failure? What if you could gather up every last thing you wanted but let slip through your fingers?
An unexpected ambush.
Morbi’s back ribs were torn away; his eyes bulged as he collapsed.
But instead of dying quietly, the bastard flipped over in an instant. He swiftly closed and opened his palm.
The fake Nathan could not stop the motion in time.
The price was death—his head exploding.
The achromatic Aspen wailed silently from one side of the clearing.
Yet the movement soon vanished from that wail.
And time rewound again.
This time even further back.
The hospital. Before secretly leaving, Nathan visits Hrozka and asks if he can borrow a bow.
Nathan, returned quickly from the past to the present, pierces the wrist with an arrow.
It missed.
His head explodes once more from the cold magic.
The horribly spilling contents returned to their place and reassembled the next instant.
This method had failed. Then this time—
“Damn it. What the hell do you want to tell me!”
I’m shoving it in front of your eyes because you already guessed and chose to ignore it. Like a cheap merchant.
The stage lights went out.
If you simply close your eyes once and accept the contract, you may enjoy all of these services free of charge, honored customer.
Then they turned on again.
Morbi, somehow killed, lay collapsed at the feet of the fake Nathan.
Not a corpse, but a victor.
The fake Nathan who had overturned fate smiled and spoke.
Of course, a sample is provided. Would you like to experience the trial course?