Flames of Unfairness
Strekl, facing off against Rosano, held a sword that spat flames. He didn't like using the blade Marhal had given him. Marhal had acknowledged him as its master. And Strekl wasn't one to be picky about tools. But drawing this sword felt profoundly unsettling. It was because of the history embedded in the blade—and Marhal's true identity.
Understanding even a fraction of Marhal's circumstances and mindset, Strekl couldn't draw the sword lightly. But now, confronting Rosano, he drew the relic without hesitation. He had to. He was certain this was the moment to wield it. And that judgment proved correct.
Without the relic, he would have ended up like the carriage sliced apart from all sides, the trees, and the people. Nothing within about twenty paces of Rosano remained intact. Trees and carriages lay in chunks. The contents of the carriages were the same. Even the horses. There were dead workers too. Dozens of sword marks scarred the ground—trails left every time Rosano swung.
He wasn't just cutting what the blade touched; he was slicing everything along the path of his swing. Like a Hero. Even the iron plates inside the carriages were severed, so charging in relying on full plate armor would have left Strekl among those corpses.
His survival was thanks to the relic. The sword's flames had blocked Rosano's blade. Strekl aimed the flaming sword at Rosano.
"Strekl, don't you think the world is unfair? That operation where you saved the artisans—it was supposed to be my mission. That armor should have been mine."
"Some idiot got blinded by glory, charged into the demons, and got hurt. And if it'd been you, you'd have prioritized killing demons over saving civilians."
"True. That's what I would've done. But dragging up the past isn't very mature. Let's talk about reality. What the hell is that sword? Why do you always get the good stuff? We fought the same battles, so why do you get the reputation and the prizes? Isn't that unfair?"
"You mad bastard."
Rosano. Tied to Strekl by a tenacious grudge. His innate talent wasn't bad. Any knight active for over ten years now deserved to be called a prodigy or genius. Knights without talent had all met their ends in the demon wars—or become demons themselves.
Rosano was a skilled knight. But one whose personality inversely proportional to his skill. Blinded by merit, he'd abandon civilian casualties as a matter of course, even using comrades as bait. And yet he escaped military execution for it, proving he was the kind of person worthy of the "genius" label.
During the war, Strekl had crossed paths with him often. Their skills were comparable, and their operational zones overlapped. Strekl, who minimized casualties, and Rosano, who prioritized kills, constantly clashed. No blades were drawn amid the war, but heated arguments erupted several times.
Strekl had forgotten Rosano. He wasn't the only one nursing grudges against him, and their skills were evenly matched. In any case, Rosano couldn't beat Strekl. Strekl had his full plate armor.
'His absolute advantage is gone.'
It had been nearly ten years since they'd met. They'd passed each other fleetingly during the Union wars, but hadn't even spoken then. In that decade, he'd become an iron-cutting knight. No—more than that.
"I doubt you just swung that sword quietly with your temperament. How many'd you kill?"
"688 civilians. Make that 696 now? But don't you think it was a valuable sacrifice? Look—I have absolute power now."
Rosano swung. Strekl countered, slashing the air. The sword's flames clashed with something invisible. The mystery Strekl couldn't fully cancel sliced the tree beside him.
"A mage."
"She goes by Marina."
"What's that?"
"Definitely some kind of mystery... but since she seems to understand its history, we should call it magic. In terms of raw power alone, anyway. That phenomenon... it reminds me of the Hero."
"Me too."
A knight's interval was the sword's reach. That had been common sense since the profession existed. But the knight before him denied it. Like a Hero. Rejecting common sense, humanity, limits—slashing the sky itself. That man's technique gleamed in a murderer.
"Magic?"
"Ready. Your call."
Marina held potent spells but lacked combat experience. Show a fireball, and most fled in terror before fighting.
"The fireball from before, overhead. Then a bunch of small ones, whatever. When I signal."
"Got it."
"Strategy meeting over? Kill you, then the mage—how far will my technique grow?"
Rosano brimmed with leisure. Strekl had no intention of indulging it. He checked the rear one last time. Bayola was safe, dry-heaving in a secure spot. Her hemophobia had improved, but showed no sign of full recovery. He wasn't counting on her help anyway; staying safe was enough.
The other one, Marin, was nowhere in sight. Strekl hadn't told her to forget the thief's lessons. She was probably lurking, poised for assassination. The stage was set for all-out combat.
"Now."
A fireball bloomed in the sky, plummeting toward Rosano. He swung. It split and scattered. Marina panicked. Her flames weren't ordinary; infused with Silanatiell's name from her history, they burned even underwater if she willed it. Yet Rosano severed them into nothingness.
Marina prepared the next spell swiftly. Dozens of small ice shards targeted Rosano.
"A far more impressive mage than I thought. From some renowned family?"
To Marina's regret, Rosano's skill was the real deal, acknowledged even by Strekl. His straight slash traced a graceful curve. The sword danced like a butterfly; the ice shards shattered and vanished.
Strekl knew Rosano's sword. That's why he anticipated the magic being cut. Strekl closed in. Rosano slashed the air. The flames around Strekl's blade vanished. He'd severed even the fire.
Their blades tangled. Rosano twisted his wrist, aiming the tip at Strekl. Strekl gripped his own blade's edge and wrenched it forcibly. Rosano's tip punched a hole in the nearby carriage.
Pure swordplay after so long. Aside from overseeing disciples' training, Strekl preferred brute, armor-maximizing brawls. That maximized his strength. But he never neglected sword training. He'd seen iron-cutting knights. Sky-defying giants. Living in the West, traveling with Marhal, he'd face such things repeatedly. The environment forbade sloth.
Rosano gripped his sword too. His gauntlet prevented finger severance. A common tangle in knight duels. But their situations differed. Strekl had to account for every trajectory of Rosano's blade. One mistake, and he'd be bisected. Rosano just needed to point and thrust. His mystery wasn't limited to slashes. Less efficient than cuts, but thrusts fell under it too. Point the tip, invoke the mystery—Strekl's end.
Rosano hooked Strekl's leg. Strekl lost balance. But he blocked the tip from him to the end. As he stumbled, he forced a footing. Ceding the advantage to Rosano. Rosano pressed down, seeking an opening to aim.
Even without full plate, superhuman knights made their whole bodies weapons. Gripping blade and edge with both hands, they menaced with knees, shoulders, elbows. Rosano took the loss. Superhuman or not, human flesh couldn't match iron. Bloodshot veins burst in Rosano's eyes.
Strekl wore a helmet. A ridiculous one, festooned with iron wires dyed like bird feathers. Rosano couldn't read his expression. Couldn't see Strekl smirking beneath.
"Gaining power killing 696 doesn't mean your combat sense didn't rot to hell."
"What?"
Hundreds of ice shards rained. Strekl clamped his mouth shut. They couldn't pierce his armor. But the impacts transmitted fully. Rosano stood before him, fully exposed. No proper armor—he had no way to block. Too late, he tried retrieving his sword to swing, but Strekl wasn't watching idly.
Strekl wove his blade more intricately, pinning Rosano. Marina's furious strike—twice-sliced magic—impaled him with dozens of shards. Strekl hurled the corpse aside.
"If you'd kited from range swinging that sword, everyone here would've died. Foolish beyond words."
"But his technique was threatening. Lucky I was here."
"Eh. Marhal probably would've handled it without casualties."
"Marhal's amazing, sure, but he's just one man. What could he do against a knight like that?"
Marina bristled. Strekl's relic had blocked the mystery admirably, but the fight was clearly against him. Without her, he'd be dead. Everyone here would be. Polishing swordsmanship didn't mean a 700-kill lunatic would spare survivors. Yet Strekl seeking only Marhal irked her.
To Strekl, it was petty jealousy. A man who'd trained under the Hero himself—couldn't handle an imitator?
"Heard the rumors of a Hero in the West lately?"
"Hundreds of times. Saw the split sky myself. You saying it was Marhal? Why?"
Did this mage know she'd hit the truth? Would such a day come again? Strekl turned.
"We've delayed. Clear the corpses and move out. Marin, Bay—tend to the group."
Mood soured. Supplies lost, people dead. Workers aside, migrants were among the dead. He'd failed not just comrades, but their families. A shrewder Rosano, and it would've been over.
"……."
Strekl eyed his hand. Iron gauntlets hid calluses and warmth alike. Like the metal encasing his body, he locked his emotions in his chest. Meeting Marhal's group would finish over half the schedule.
* * *
Strekl arrived at the rendezvous; Marhal was already there. Marhal's face was grim. Strekl had seen him frown before, but never this dark.
"What happened?"
"Ah, Strekl. Sorry. My fault—I didn't handle it well."
No cheer in Marhal's voice. Eyes down like a criminal.
"…What happened?"
"Something like demons attacked. I ended up like this, and without the nun, Marhal would've died too."
Haribal showed Strekl his hand. It trembled like a drunk's. No mercenary work like that. Marhal present, yet casualties—and he nearly died?
"Survivors?"
"Half."
Regaining senses, Strekl gripped Marhal's collar.
"Half? Half? With you there, half died?"
"Let go. You need to cool off."
Haribal tried pulling him, but his shaky strength failed.
"Calm down—now? The dead entrusted me with their families. My family! Half of a hundred is fifty. Tell a man whose family—fifty strong—is dead to calm down…!"
Blind faith. With Marhal, failure impossible. Not long acquainted, but Strekl had never seen him fail. Unimaginable. Yet he had. Expectation bred betrayal.
Strekl had trusted Marhal. More than trust—faith. The Bachea heir, Paulownia Crown bearer, failing a simple task? Absurd. Expectation betrayed; he lost his deemed family.
"Not Marhal's fault. When we arrived, they were already dead. A bit later, and the nearby village would've been wiped too."
Haribal spoke, but Strekl heard nothing. He raised his fist. Marhal stared at the iron knuckles calmly. Strekl's fist never reached his face. The only one here matching Strekl's strength intervened. Eyes red, Marin seized his arm. Her other hand gripped a relic behind her back. Red aura rose slowly from her.
"Let go."
"And if I don't?"
Both drew relics almost simultaneously.