If This Is Life (2)

"Man, I don't know how long it's been."

The sudden two-week vacation granted to the entire Lion Wing Knights. It was a truly long-awaited special rest. More than half the members had arranged it through the druid communication network—to gather in the capital of Baylard for a drink.

Yet the mood in the capital was decidedly unsettled. Knight Quena, stepping through the entrance to Baylard, pinched at the air with her fingers and rubbed them together. The rather thick sleet melted away with a refreshing chill. And this was supposed to be midsummer. A sudden cold wave had struck the Federation. Some trembled, calling it an omen of doom. Others claimed the mana of the Abyss was tampering with the world's temperature to ruin the crops. That the worst famine in history was coming.

The approaches differed, but the conclusion was the same.

Are we losing?

The capital's people, who once treated the Lion Wing Knights like neighbors, now reached out as if trying to touch a living legend. That was why. The knights, hearing "Hang in there" from every person they passed, felt only bewilderment. It was more exhausting than smelling orc breath in battle.

An uncomfortable atmosphere. So Quena understood why her fellow knights were forcing themselves to act cheerful. But she didn't like it.

"How long? A year. The last time was the previous captain's funeral, wasn't it?"

Some frowned. Some closed their eyes in mourning. The former captain lay buried in Baylard's Hall of Heroes. It was also the place where every Lion Wing Knight would eventually rest. Whether they lived out their natural lives or not.

"Why the sour face all by yourself, Quena? If something's wrong, say it. Don't go causing trouble after a few drinks."

Quena shrugged and jerked her chin down the street.

"If there's one idiot with flowers growing in his brain, there ought to be a pessimist too, don't you think?"

Sudden clattering hooves. The knights' expressions froze as they saw Till riding toward them. The "flower garden in his head" wasn't just a figure of speech. He wore a party hat flipped upside down on his head and carried a wrapped cake box under one arm. Up close, even his clothes were a clown's costume. The knights blinked. What the hell is he doing?

"No matter how favorably people view the Lion Wing Knights, there's still such a thing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as basic dignity."

"No one stopped him from walking around the city looking like that?"

"I tried. He's planning to walk into the lodging dressed like that, so I warned him I'd crush that hat on his head."

When Quena ground her teeth, the other Lion Wing Knights shrank back.

"Doesn't seem like something worth stopping so aggressively. So Till ignored you?"

"No. He earned the right to look like that fair and square. Captain Khan said the winner of the spar could do whatever they wanted."

"Aha. You thought it was your chance to beat him senseless and jumped in?"

There was no need to add that he had been beaten senseless in return. Quena, who had held the advantage over Till until recently, fumed.

Till reached them and raised a fist in greeting. Quena, twitching her bruised eye socket, flipped him the middle finger. Till answered not with words but with noise.

Peeeeeeeeee—!

The party horn in his mouth unfurled its rolled tube to full length. Quena, stomach churning, kicked at the paving stones. Till smiled kindly and headed on ahead to the Lion Wing Knights' exclusive lodging.

"So, is today someone's birthday?"

"Nathan's."

The missing junior. At Quena's answer the other knights fell silent. Quena, who had been openly displaying her discomfort, spat on the ground as she vanished down a busy alley.

"Aish, damn it. He's probably still alive, but everyone's carrying on like this."

----------

He is alive. For now. And he is still struggling to remain alive in the future.

Frost digs into his wide-open sclera. Yet Nathan Maia does not close his eyes. Longswords as tall as grown men collide. Terrifying centrifugal force slams together and shards of blade fly off. Every cell membrane in his body rings and threatens to burst. The human body was not built to withstand such shocks. But he endures. He must endure. Because failing means death.

Nathan clenched his teeth, locked blades, and wrenched upward. It refused to cooperate. Morbi's sword slid in first, aiming for his arm and shoulder. Nathan tried to catch it with a parrying hook by twisting the flat of his blade. But Morbi's famous sword sank straight into the hook. Before Nathan could react, Morbi wrenched it free and retreated. The claw-like hooks sprouting from the blade were torn and bent beyond recognition. The two-hander bearing the Floating Arena logo was gradually turning into a wreck.

A technical gulf beyond imagination—more terrifying than the weapon's quality.

This is how life goes.

If someone pressed a cannon to his balls and demanded he bet on the winner, even Nathan wouldn't have the nerve to bet on himself. The level of completion was simply different. A man with no distinguishing traits, no standout strengths or habits, simply strong in every single aspect. Just like his father.

Yes, Father. So the world really is full of all kinds of monsters. You really did have your reasons. You had your own purposes.

Pushing a four-year-old off a cliff to teach him how to fall and cracking his skull. Breaking a five-year-old's fingers to teach him proper longsword grip. Shooting arrows at a nine-year-old to train his coordination and piercing his limbs. All of it was for me.

Thanks to you, I can withstand even a few exchanges against that absurd lunatic who's apparently eaten nothing but sword training for hundreds of years.

Now I understand everything. Understand my ass.

If the shadow's words were true, there must have been a purpose behind Orcus's blood-soaked education ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that Nathan didn't know. Had he planned to sell him to the heavens from the start? Or was he simply venting his resentment at being exiled from the heavens?

It didn't matter. Whatever Orcus's purpose in training him, Nathan intended to use it however he pleased. As he had told the wraith, Nathan's life belonged to Nathan.

The dark interior tore open and outside light poured in. The shadow, losing its place beneath the dawn, wept.

Don't you envy the wealth held in others' hands? Don't you miss the good old days? Don't all the things you could have become stand vividly before your eyes? Aren't you curious about the path not taken?

Yet the ancient being's final whispered temptation did not reach Nathan. To an entity that had existed for thousands of years, such rejection was utterly foreign.

Nathan was focused on something else entirely. Pure struggle. Only a fighting spirit heated white-hot like a furnace and overwhelming exaltation existed within him. There was no gap for any concept the ancient being offered to slip through.

The ancient shadow, now a prisoner of light, began cheering for Morbi with its eyes wide open. That was the only thing it could do anymore. Waiting for the day Nathan would die and be freed. Praying for Nathan's death and cursing him.

When Nathan was sensing his own death, Morbi coincidentally found himself thinking something similar. He could not hide his admiration. Had this skill truly been completed in less than half a century? The time he had granted him to stand was purely out of respect. He had hoped the boy would die as himself, not as something else. But now Morbi wondered. Perhaps he should have listened to that incomprehensible being's words. Perhaps it would have been better to finish him while the chance existed.

The fighting spirit of seventeen years was slowly catching up to eight hundred years of depth. As it wore down and broke, the two-hander drew ever more terrifying arcs. When pushed by superior fundamentals, he endured with raw power and tried the same method. When attacked with completely new techniques, he somehow avoided fatal injury and learned.

Morbi felt as though every technique he displayed was being laid bare inside the Sapiens' head. As though every attack Morbi unfolded was being analyzed. So that's how it can be done.

The distance that had been as solid and selfish as an ice wall gradually melted and collapsed, becoming shared territory. The instant their blades met, a spinning counterattack. The blade that flowed past the side of his head bit savagely. Not satisfied with merely cutting hair, it tore away flesh as well. A minor wound. But the fact that he had failed to react in time was undeniable. At that fact, Morbi felt an inexplicable joy.

I can't figure him out.

A good counter. Significant in that it was properly executed, yet ultimately a failed one. It was still Nathan being driven back. However, Morbi's own injuries were by no means light. Blood dripped steadily from the frozen, fixed broken wrist. The knight's monstrous strength was burdensome even in the mere act of shedding it. The ice had already turned red. It was no simple fracture. Yet for some reason smiles kept escaping him.

Just when had it been? When was the last time life felt this full?

So when Nathan backed toward the wall and fled, Morbi felt deep regret.

"I've thought about it, but I really can't win."

"Are you surrendering? Even if you flee another way, even if I miss, my subordinates will stop you."

"Not surrendering. Just..."

Nathan, leaning against the wall, placed his hand on a certain spot. A very thick pipe running through the building. The vibration he felt from within. Having confirmed it, Nathan seized it.

"I hope you'll forgive me for doing something like this."

BOOM.CRUNCH.

As soot erupted, Morbi hurriedly covered his mouth. Beyond the thick curtain of dust, the last expression he glimpsed held pure bewilderment. Nathan cheered inwardly.

In the heavens, one could guess a tool's purpose from the symbol attached to it. The logo on the pipe was identical to the flue he had burst on his first day at the Graveyard House clinic. Pollution on the scale of the surrounding buildings poured out. Ash-gray that devoured the view in an instant. Morbi staggered. He could have blocked sword paths from dozens of directions without blinking, but for dust clinging to his eyelids he could only squeeze them shut and cough.

Eyes and nose blocked. But Morbi could still hear. He swung his sword to knock away the incoming attack. But what came was not Nathan. A flying metal trash can crunched violently onto the fiercely swung blade.

A trash can? The moment the flustered Morbi tried to wrench his sword free from the tin, Nathan's two-hander thrust forward. With enough force to skewer both the trash can and Morbi in one strike.

A perfectly straight attack. Using ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even his frozen wrist, he barely deflected the blade. Only then did Morbi realize. There are organs that deteriorate regardless of youth. Morbi's body, which had endured for hundreds of years, was inevitably more worn. Aged senses. Worn-out lungs. Yet the still-teenage Nathan was enduring it with sheer malice. With bloodshot eyes wide open, moving without restriction. Straight toward Morbi's blind spot.

The sound of Nathan's retreating footsteps. In the end Morbi, who had maintained distance until now, chose to charge instead. It would be dangerous to lose track of where the bastard was. As if he hadn't expected the enemy to approach, Nathan's footing twisted chaotically. Unstable steps hurrying to defend. Morbi paused, waited, then slammed his sword down from above the instant that defense completed.

But what it struck was not metal.

'What?'

The building wall. The rough, dull sensation of the sword biting into brick and mortar. A mistake born of focusing too intently on Nathan's position and neglecting spatial awareness. Morbi hurriedly pulled the sword back in the opposite direction. But that slight delay plunged him into crisis.

"Got you, you bastard."

An arm tightening around his wrist again. Ice cracking from the crushing grip. A hollow sensation as even the remaining mana scattered. Morbi made a boiling sound and kicked Nathan with all his strength. Nathan, nearing his physical limit, lost his grip. But that was enough.

Morbi, rolling backward and rising, nearly fainted on the spot. The crystals encasing his injured arms warped and shattered. His face flushed crimson as he trembled. The ice shards embedded in his broken wrist caused insane pain. The limit of his willpower was near. Morbi realized it. That the one running out of time was now himself.

Originally, until just moments ago, the one at a disadvantage the longer the fight dragged on had been Nathan with his bleeding. Morbi groaned in pain and froze his wrist again. The crystal structure he had forcibly squeezed out was far weaker than before. It wouldn't support his wrist for long. He didn't know what kind of sorcery it was, but the moment it touched the bastard's hand, mana fled the body.

However, there would be no need to prepare for a third clash. The dust cleared. Beyond Morbi's finally restored vision, he saw Nathan—near his limit—staggering to his feet. Armor embossed with a lion biting at the sky. Blood streaming from its gaps. An intuition seeped in. The duel would likely end with the next exchange.

The wind carrying sleet was fierce.

----------

The manager of the Lion Wing Knights' exclusive lodging was an extremely thorough man. His creed was that the greatest heroes deserved the greatest service. Therefore, whether a cold wave arrived suddenly or not, he was always prepared. Thanks to him, the Lion Wing Knights laboring on humanity's front line could enjoy the cozy warmth created by burning firewood without restraint.

Beer mugs clashed noisily in the hall. Till, entering quietly, deliberately avoided drawing attention. He could join the group later. He had wanted to make a bigger scene, but it seemed some colleagues disapproved of such antics.

Was Nathan the only missing Lion Wing Knight? Why should only Nathan be special? Scratch their nerves even slightly and those complaints would pour out. In truth it was merely gloom born from how much they all cared for one another. If they wanted to forget, let them forget. That too was a way of caring for comrades.

But Till intended to remember.

Till, dropping heavily onto a corner sofa, pulled the cake from the snow-dampened box and set it on the table. He stuck in small candles and lit a match. It was not Till's cake. The owner of the cake was not present. So since no one would blow them out, the tiny flames slowly melted down.

Hmm. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Looking down at the shrinking flame with displeasure, Till stretched out on the sofa and murmured.

"Happy eighteenth birthday, kid."

----------

Nathan's sword ultimately could not endure. Even if he deflected the impact with technique and avoided direct collisions as much as possible, the material itself could not match the opponent. The ruined two-hander's blade embedded itself in the far wall behind Morbi. The Protector Lord felt awe toward Nathan, who had held on until now. For a being who had lived merely seventeen years to force limits upon Morbi was achievement enough.

Striking downward, spinning once, and thrusting, Morbi was certain of victory. Nathan, cut in multiple places, had clearly slowed. Nathan, who should have already dodged before the Protector Lord even completed the motion, stood with both feet planted as if waiting for the blade.

No—he truly was waiting. Not because exhaustion prevented him from dodging. The response Nathan chose was something Morbi could never have predicted.

He's going to grab it?

He reached out. Truly. Trying to seize it directly.

Knowing my sword can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pierce steel?

It was difficult to accept, yet understandable. Probably a reckless hope that the sword would catch on the steel plate and then the bone. Offering his arm to block the weapon. If that was the final method Nathan had chosen, Morbi decided to respect it. Morbi thrust with all his respect and every ounce of his skill.

Nathan Maia had never wanted to live like this even the slightest bit. At least on that point, the wraith bastard had been right. Nathan knew. He was not a normal human. Rejecting the wraith's deal might simply have been because he was stupid. Unlike ordinary people who knew how to live constructively, he lacked the imagination to picture a better future. Giving up the chance to rewrite his life. Whether that was wisdom or foolishness, even Nathan himself did not know. There were too few clues to leave the judgment to others.

Yet for some reason a strange conviction brushed past him. If he had been the type to change his mind before temptation. He would never have obtained these hands.

A terrifying scraping sound as it pierced the gauntlet. Yet Morbi's sword could not shatter the hand inside it. Morbi's eyes widened in shock. Both Nathan and the Protector Lord felt it. The sensation of metal being firmly stopped by skin and muscle. The unbreakable hand seized the tip of Morbi's sword and crushed it. On the other hand, nothing blocked Nathan's thrust. One thing he had overlooked because he had used only the two-hander until now. Nathan had been carrying one more sword on his back the entire time. The sword Aspen had given him. The elegantly drawn longsword pierced the heart through a gap in the armor. Blood surging from Morbi's chest flowed down the bifurcated hilt decoration. The name of that sword was Crossroads.