Oxtail Soup (2)
【Translator changed... So terms might change as a result...】
The mont I completed my thrusting stance,
Steve Jobs' famous speech ca to mind.
'Connecting the dots.'
The saying that everything is connected.
Although you can't connect present actions to the future,
if you strive at your current spot, sohow it'll be linked in the future—.
I never expected that speech to apply to .
My experiences as a kid, collecting dals at a taekwondo studio,
turned out to be imnsely helpful when I was learning sword techniques from Jeros.
― Heh heh. You pick this up quickly, too.
― Why? Is it bad if I learn quickly?
― Cocky. I ant, for an outlander, you're not bad. But compared to geniuses, you're sorely lacking. Heh heh.
After the day I learned swordsmanship, I had to practice with a kitchen knife.
I didn't have a proper sword, after all.
Bwoong. Bwoong!
But for so reason—maybe just my imagination—
I felt faster and lighter than when I was using Jeros' sword.
Of course, a kitchen knife is shorter and lighter than a regular sword,
and, since I'd wielded one for so long, that seed natural.
Returning to the current battle,
here I was in a thrusting stance, facing a spearman.
'What is this?'
It felt even more natural than the stance I held with the artifact.
My body weight centered,
muscles tensing to explode with rotational force,
the connection of my joints.
All of these were smoother than when I used the artifact.
It was extrely organic.
With that, I felt certain.
'Even if I fail, I won't fall.'
No, the thought of failure quickly faded away.
Only confidence remained, that I could strike precisely.
― Heh heh. A sword strike ans focusing all the strength of your body—every last bit—into a single instant. So, where do you think a sword strike begins in our bodies?
― From the tip of the foot, right?
Planting my foot solidly on the ground, I explosively drive my upper body forward.
― ... Right. From your toes, then your waist, torso, shoulders, arms, wrists, and finally! To the sword itself.
― Transferring the energy carried on this sword to the exact mont and distance you want. That's a sword strike.
Wind, or perhaps the airflow,
surrounded my ears and my body.
The stream of energy running through my body flowed into the kitchen knife,
and at the battered, chipped tip of the blade,
just that one spot caught the candlelight, flashed, and shot forward.
Puk!
At last, the tip of the kitchen knife burrowed below the spearman's left clavicle.
"Keuk!"
The spearman groaned.
But I didn't stop.
Shoving Spearman aside, I blocked a flying rock—thud.
After gouging his chest with the kitchen knife, I yanked the dagger out, flinging blood at Rotten Potato's face, right at his eye.
Splat!
The spearman's body collapsed, and as Potato-man panicked,
I focused mana in my legs and charged at the stone thrower.
Tatadadat!
In a flash, the distance between us closed.
As he was just about to load a stone, his hands froze,
and only confusion remained on his face.
"Damn—"
Puk. Pushuk.
I stabbed under his ribcage, at his solar plexus, then pulled the blade out.
Blood welled up in thick clots through the narrow gap,
and he dropped to his knees, face planting on the ground.
"Huff. Huff."
Where only the sharp clanging of tal echoed before in the shop, now only my ragged breaths remained.
But now wasn't the ti to rest.
One enemy still remained: Scythe-guy, Rotten Potato-man.
"......"
Rotten Potato gazed at Spearman's corpse with blood-stained eyes.
In his gaze, fear, anger, and despair blended.
At that mont,
I felt the strength draining from my body.
Like air escaping a balloon.
Seed my soup buff had ended.
Ping.
I just barely stopped myself from passing out.
A wave of exhaustion crashed over , enough that I wanted to collapse on the spot.
I even fought back dry heaves.
'Mana's almost gone too.'
At my current level, about 30 minutes of fighting is my limit.
Well, I'd used nearly all my mana fighting like that,
two days in a row, at that.
But I couldn't let the enemy notice this state.
No way.
I steadied my wavering blade and calculated.
'Can I kill that Rotten Potato, the man they called Milton, with the mana I have left?'
No. Seems unlikely.
The only reason I managed to kill two so far was the soup buff.
But now even that's gone.
My mana's depleted.
In this state, if I went one-on-one with that guy, even regardless of the outco, I might lose an arm.
Then—
'Let's take the diplomatic route.'
I'd shown overwhelming force.
If the opponent recognizes it, then diplomacy might work.
"Hey, Rotten Potato, you. You're Milton, right?"
"......"
Finally, milton looked away from Spearman's corpse to face .
"Answer."
"Yeah, fuck. I'm Milton. Satisfied, you damn outlander?"
His foul mouth made my irritation spike,
but fortunately, the light in his eyes had already faded.
"Yeah, you dirty old spud. Is it right for a bunch of grown n to barge in with weapons just to kill one kid?"
"Kid? You keep going on—is this so sick joke? I don't know what you're on about pedophile this, pedophile that."
"... You're not here to kill Nava?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Wait. Was I mistaken all along?
"... Then what are you here for?"
"What for—? To kill you and take this shop, obviously!"
His unexpected reply left hollow,
while my evaluation of Jeros—who struck the deal to leave alive and split profits 8:2—rose.
Jeros, are you an angel?
Anyway—,
'These damned dieval brutes.'
I pointed my knife at Rotten Potato and said,
"You don't actually still think that's possible, do you?"
He imdiately cowered at my threat.
"No way, dammit! You think I'm crazy enough to go one-on-one with a second ranker? Spare !"
His attitude hardly seed like soone begging for his life, but his body language and eyes showed he'd lost all will to fight.
"Please! Spare !"
The bastard dropped his scythe from his hands. Clatter.
Looks like the fight is over,
but simply accepting it would be suspicious.
"We'll see. Is there any money in sparing you?"
"No!"
"Then why spare you?"
"I—I have to live, so, um... to—to spread the rumor that you're a second ranker, so no one else will ss with you!"
It sounded like nonsense, but there was truth in it.
If rumors spread that I'm strong, maybe incidents like this won't happen.
A shop run by an ordinary outlander is always a possible target, after all.
'Just like now.'
After a brief thought, I spoke.
"Third rank."
"What?"
"Spread the word that I—the outlander working at the Fairy's Leg—am a third ranker."
Whether he'll actually spread the rumor, who knows,
but if it's going to get out, better to exaggerate.
"Will you spare if I do that?"
"Why? You don't want to live?"
"N-No, dammit! Spare !"
"Then why do you keep cursing? Do you want to die?"
"... No. No, sir."
"Then scram."
I stepped aside from the store's entrance.
He glanced at , sidled past, and then ran outside—
but,
Thud!
With a sound, he was thrown right back through the door and sprawled out inside the shop.
He squird and then passed out.
Soon after, two people in leather armor entered the shop.
"Well, well. The soldiers will regret missing this—huh? You survived, Ian?"
It was guard captain Jaw Ralph, and—
"Heh heh. What happened here?"
Jeros.
Whether it's Korean police or a dieval guard, they always show up late.
"Ugh. My taxes..."
I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.
"You never even paid taxes. Heh heh."
"If you'd co on ti, would I say this?"
"Heh heh. Looks like you want to get arrested for tax evasion."
"Jeros. Save the jokes for later."
Ralph narrowed his eyes and continued.
"Ian. Did you do this—these bodies?"
Nod.
"I had no choice if I wanted to live."
I showed the bruises from the stones I'd taken.
Jeros cackled gleefully at that.
* * *
A few hours later,
in a certain brothel.
Jeros sat in a chair, eyes closed in thought.
A few days ago, after "that accident" at the spirit stone mine managed by the 2nd company,
and the fire that broke out at the fence last night,
the guard had to lighten village patrols and focus on outer defenses.
That was why Jeros had been late.
'I nearly lost a good inco stream.'
When he'd seen the broken door of the Fairy's Leg and the unextinguished candle, he thought it was too late.
He'd gone against advice and taken on the brown-haired kid as a worker, and in less than a day, thought the kid would be dead.
Yet,
Amazingly, Ian was still alive.
The one who'd struggled and collapsed against just one Flaco—
had taken down a group, so of whom must have been 1st-rank.
'How?'
Ian was brimming with talent for mana, but
his swordsmanship had never asured up.
'If only he'd awakened mana through the top hole instead of the bottom.'
He had the gifts better suited for a mage than for a swordsman.
Regardless,
the Ian Jeros knew shouldn't have survived against a group with 1st-rank mixed in.
He'd run simulations in his head, over and over.
Not even "miracle" could explain Ian's survival.
'He really is an interesting kid.'
Ian had beco the only joy and the biggest cash cow in Jeros' otherwise dull Granfenn life.
"What—what the hell!!"
A shout snapped Jeros from his reverie.
The man in front of Jeros—who'd yelled—rubbed his eyes after waking from his sleep, then stared in disbelief as if confused whether this was reality.
"Jeros!?"
"Have a good nap, Derek? Heh heh."
It was Milton's boss: One-Ard Derek.
"?!"
From Derek's perspective, the shock was understandable.
He'd spent a hot night with a prostitute, fallen asleep, and when he woke—his greatest enemy sat before him.
"You—what the hell are you doing here?!!"
As Derek's voice rose, the prostitute beside him stirred.
"Co on, pipe down, I'm tryi—?!"
Even the prostitute trailed off, shocked at Jeros' presence.
Jeros smiled thinly with his eyes, pointing at the door.
The prostitute hastily got dressed and bolted outside.
"What is this, Jeros. Why are you here?"
Derek barely cald himself and asked.
"Who knows. What do you think? Heh heh."
He chuckled, but his expression didn't change at all.
"After that day, nothing's happened between us! Hell, you were the one who crossed the line first! You barged into the gambling hall first and... ahem."
Jeros suddenly opened his eyes sharply, making Derek clam up.
"Then this'll be easier. Rember the black-haired outlander you saw that day?"
"... Yeah. Why?"
"Your underlings tried to kill that kid. And they tried to take his shop."
Derek scowled at that.
"That's—that's not my business. Why are you coming to for what those shitheads did? And! It's not like they tried to kill you—they tried to kill the outlander!"
"Huhu. That's the problem. He's my cash cow."
Snap!
"Kaaagh!"
It happened before anyone realized.
Blood stread out of Derek's nose,
and he clutched it in agony.
"No, no, no,ooo!! My n tried to kill the outlander? Tried?! So, that ans he didn't die! Then what's the big deal?! And what about the deal we agreed on!?"
"I haven't forgotten. That's why you're still alive."
At Jeros' cold voice, Derek sucked in a frightened breath.
"Th—then what do you want from ?!"
Jeros curled his lip chillingly.
"Your underlings broke six chairs, three tables at the Fairy's Leg, put seven rocks in the wooden wall, and...."
Jeros pictured the floor.
He figured the footprints likely ca from Ian using mana as he ran,
"And the whole wooden floor needs fixing, too."
"......"
"Pay up. Repair costs. I'll take at least thirty shillings."
Gulp.
Without thinking, Derek swallowed.
* * *
A few days before Ian fought desperately against the hunters, Flaco and Milton.
A snowstorm raged at a spirit stone quarry about 50 km from the village.
Two soldiers, dressed in gambesons, were shivering as they guarded the quarry entrance.
"Ugh. Of all tis, the weather had to be like this during our shift."
They had just started their watch, yet
they wondered how they'd endure the next four hours.
"Right? Even though the Dark Era is over, January is still January."
Still, the one bit of luck was that the winter in the North was an unspoken armistice period.
With this, the soldiers' watch naturally beca lax,
and it was common for idle banter to ensue.
"Squad leader, have you visited that shop that's all the rage after the dueling match?"
"Ah, the one the company commander approved of? I had so bad mories there, so I didn't go. Did you?"
"Of course! I went and tried the food, it was so shockingly—"
The soldier hurriedly shut his mouth mid-boast.
A figure, seeming to be human, had appeared in the distance.
"How is soone coming from over there?"
"Damn it. What are those idiots at the checkpoint doing?"
The two soldiers reached for the bows strapped to their backs,
and fixed their attention on the silhouette approaching the quarry.
It was broad daylight, but with the snowstorm raging, they couldn't make out who it was.
Yet, judging by the attire, it didn't seem to be an enemy soldier.
Wearing neither armor nor tunic, but ordinary clothes—
"A woman?"
Because it was a woman.
"What's a woman doing here...?"
"Squad leader, that woman, she's bleeding from her head."
As she drew closer, they could see more of her strange condition.
She wore no coat, even in this freezing cold.
She had her eyes covered with so sort of cloth,
and blood from a scalp wound was streaming down her face and dripping off her chin.
At last, the squad leader pulled back his bowstring and shouted.
"Blow it, Brody! Quick!"
Because all the snow near the path the woman walked was lting.
That was why they had seen her from afar despite the snowstorm.
As if the cold never existed, the soldiers' bodies heated with tension,
and just as one of them was about to put a horn to his lips—
Fwoosh!
Blue flas erupted.
"Arghhh!"
Both soldiers' bodies were engulfed in the blue flas.
"A-a mage!! Kuhhrk!!"
Fwooooo—
Even in the mont he burned to death, the soldier managed to blow the horn before collapsing.
Boom!
A massive explosion hit the quarry's entrance gate,
and the two soldiers vanished without a trace.
But perhaps their sacrifice was not in vain, for the sound of a horn echoed from inside the quarry.
Fwoooo—
"We're under attack!!"
"Everyone, battle stations!!"
Yet the barefooted woman, with calm footsteps at odds with the raging blizzard,
Crunch, crunch.
entered the quarry, mumbling to herself.
"I'm... going to end..."
Her violet straight hair scattered in the knife-like wind,
"End this war..."
Tears were streaming down from under the cloth covering her eyes.
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