The cup in his hand contained a mixture of herbs, wrung and squeezed out, along with a combination of several poisons.
Though it didn’t look like it, it was said to cloud the mind enough to endure extreme pain and reduce the sensation of it.
To the eye, it appeared to be nothing more than poison, but I’taar had little doubt.
Not only was there no reason for Aslan to try poisoning him now, but the main reason was because I’taar trusted Aslan.
Rather, it was trust in the story Aslan had told.
I’taar swirled the deep, murky purple liquid in the cup as he recalled Aslan’s expression when asked how he knew how to make such medicine.
Aslan had scratched the back of his neck with an expression of great discomfort, hesitating and dodging the question.
Considering the past where his wife used to prepare and feed him this kind of concoction whenever he was in pain, it was only natural.
But even without words, there was an expression.
A glimpse of pain and discomfort.
Seeing that expression, I’taar couldn’t bring himself to think it was a scheme to poison him.
He wasn’t the type to entertain such thoughts anyway.
Thus, I’taar drank without hesitation. The sticky, dark purple liquid slid down his throat.
Soon, a burning sensation spread from his stomach, and before long, the sensation in his limbs noticeably diminished.
‘Fast-acting… indeed, it’s effective. The pain gripping my heart is fading.’
Of course, as the pain lessened, so did his bodily sensations, but to I’taar, it was irrelevant.
I’taar was going to die today.
He could feel his impending death and had no intention of resisting it.
He would simply pass quietly, accepting fate and embracing destiny. Sitting on the bed, I’taar turned his head.
“Why do you wear such an expression?”
There stood Richard.
The young man who had chosen to watch over and guard his master’s death instead of fighting alongside Aslan’s party.
The young man who thought himself far too weak to stand and fight beside Aslan’s group.
Richard hung his head with a mournful expression in response to I’taar’s question.
“Can I wear any other expression when my master is passing away?”
As the bitter words left his mouth, I’taar slowly lay down on the bed. He could no longer feel its hard texture.
“Are you thinking of your mother?”
Richard silently confirmed with a mix of silence and pain. Watching his disciple, I’taar buried his head into the pillow.
“Are you reproaching yourself for losing someone again?”
“…No.”
I’taar gazed at Richard with an expression twisted by compassion and regret. When their eyes met, I’taar’s face contorted further.
“It’s not your fault. Neither my death nor what happened to your mother… Of course, even if I say that, you won’t listen, will you?”
I’taar lied.
He had told Aslan he had no regrets, but in truth, he did.
He regretted not guiding Richard properly.
Guiding him to forgive his father, forgive himself, and return to his family.
To endure and live through this harsh world.
To remain steadfast despite the terrible evils arising everywhere and the prevalence of tragedies.
He regretted not teaching him those things.
He regretted not attempting to teach him, believing mere words wouldn’t change a person and delaying action, thinking there would always be time.
But still, nothing changed. I’taar was going to die today. With remorse and compassion in his heart, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Richard was barely lifting his head to look at him.
“Sorry.”
The emotion I’taar felt upon seeing that expression was one thing alone.
Regret for not teaching Richard more techniques, regret for not leading him better, regret for not showing him how to face the world.
Just regret.
Richard shook his head. With a desperate expression, he spoke, as if knowing this was his last chance to convey his feelings and understanding why I’taar had apologized.
“No, no, Master. You’ve done enough…”
“Do not lie.”
Anyway, I’m dying soon. It seemed Richard understood the unspoken message in I’taar’s apology and lowered his head.
“I know Angie sent fearful glances toward you. And you’re ashamed and afraid because you couldn’t block her attacks, aren’t you?”
Richard’s shoulders slumped at the words.
Because they were true.
“That child, much smaller than me, delivered an attack I couldn’t withstand. It was like the strength of a giant. That’s when I realized I couldn’t handle it. I’m inexperienced. I can’t become like you, Master.”
“I haven’t fully inherited your techniques. I still have so many deficiencies. It’s all my fault. My lack of talent, my laziness… I fear disgracing your teachings.”
“I’m not as strong as you, Master.” As Richard murmured these words, I’taar grasped his hand.
“I can’t withstand the approaching typhoon. I’m just a frail branch that bends helplessly. Whenever the wind blows, I can’t help but sway.”
“Richard.”
“I’m anxious, Master. Though it might not be appropriate while being protected, I feel something is about to happen. It feels like someone is coming. When that moment comes, I doubt I’ll be of any use.”
I’taar gently shook his head with a kind expression.
“Isn’t that because you’re trying to resist?”
“Are you telling me to surrender without resisting?”
“It’s not that. Don’t you understand already?”
As I’taar firmly gripped Richard’s hand, Richard looked at his dying master with a gloomy expression.
Despite his dark skin, his master was visibly pale.
Even so, the master spoke.
“If you resist, you break. If you surrender, you fail. Ultimately, the way to victory is to comply. When the wind blows, become the wind.”
“Comply.”
“When the wind blows, become the wind.”
Hearing these familiar words, Richard couldn’t conjure up any new insights.
He’d heard these words since the beginning of his training under I’taar; they were already ingrained in him.
So Richard remained blankly unmoved.
Unable to comprehend the words.
By the time he realized it was too late to ask, a sudden sound of footsteps reached their ears. I’taar, whose senses were fading, chuckled softly.
“Ah, it seems everything is over. It looks like Lord Aslan has returned…”
“…No.”
Although I’taar couldn’t hear it, Richard knew.
These weren’t the footsteps of Aslan’s party.
Between the heavy steps approaching, the sound of life and the ground beneath it dying could be heard.
The crunch of roots crushed underfoot followed, and Richard’s expression hardened as he shouted.
“Master, get up quickly!”
—BOOM!
At that shout, the wall of the cabin collapsed.
For a brief moment, amidst the swirling sawdust, an arm became visible.
A muscle-bound, shell-covered claw.
For an instant, the claw glowed red and smelled of gunpowder.
The creature wielding that claw was a martial arts master.
A martial arts master standing at three meters tall with a bizarre marine-like appearance rather than insectoid.
A martial arts master Aslan might describe as resembling a mantis shrimp.
This martial arts master entered the cabin accompanied by another similar but larger-clawed martial artist.
“Hmm.”
The voice exuded interest. Upon hearing it, Richard leapt to his feet and shouted.
“Master! Run! I’ll buy some time―”
Before he could finish his sentence, Richard saw something moving faster than his naked eye could track.
The claw flung forward with a smell of gunpowder. Without any expression, it was thrown without effort—it was a punch.
In that moment, Richard saw death.
And the moment he sensed death, Richard swiftly extended his arm.
Bending it as the punch connected, he used his entire body as a conduit to channel the force.
The technique that made I’taar a veteran and earned him the title of the weakest veteran.
It was I’taar’s compliance.
The technique designed to deflect even the immense power of a larger being manifested through Richard’s body.
Crack!
But it buckled under an even greater force.
Richard’s figure was hurled backward.
BOOM, CRASH, CLANG!
The human body soared through the air, breaking through the sturdy wooden walls of the cabin and colliding repeatedly with the floor before finally falling outside.
Three, four times, consciousness flickered in and out as Richard crashed and woke, his memory hazy.
“Aaah… ugh…?”
Why he was lying here, why his arm was broken with bone shards protruding, none of it came to mind.
Spitting out blood filling his mouth, Richard realized the punch he’d faced exceeded even Angie’s full-force punches.
A punch that could never be deflected. Realizing this belatedly, Richard tried to rise but discovered no strength in his legs, prompting a bitter laugh.
Still, he survived because he’d deployed the technique, even though he couldn’t fully deflect it.
“Hm, he’s alive.”
“What? Alive? Did we miss?”
“How could we? We hit him squarely. There must be something strange about him.”
Listening to the martial artists’ conversation, Richard panted heavily. Sensing something unusual, the martial artists stood at the front of the ruined cabin, watching him.
“Hmm, come to think of it, I got the feeling the punch’s direction was slightly altered at the moment of impact. It might be some kind of technique.”
“Technique. That sounds interesting.”
Technique.
Martial artists, from their origins, were hunters gathering food for the Supreme Divinity. They collected the martial arts humans had developed.
Realizing the martial artists coveted his technique, Richard struggled to rise, forcing his immobile legs to move and falling multiple times before finally managing to stand precariously.
Just as he thought he’d managed to stand, slipping and collapsing once more, the martial artists approached.
“Let’s see if this counts as an offering first.”
“That sounds good. I wonder what the Supreme Divinity will grant us.”
Casual conversation. Understanding his insignificance, Richard trembled slightly while lying flat on the ground.
He’s going to die. Helplessly die. After ignoring an undeniable premonition, he’s going to die helplessly.
Seeing his master emerge from the collapsed cabin wall, Richard stiffened his expression.
“Master…!”
At his shout, the martial artists turned their heads, and I’taar emerged from the broken wall.
With blackened blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, he staggered forward step by step.
Wobbling as if ready to fall at any moment, he approached as if signaling his imminent death.
A frail figure on the verge of collapse.
Yet he didn’t stop.
As his slow approach dwindled and finally halted in front of the martial artists, they looked down at him without any caution.
“The veteran of combat, I’taar.”
His breathing grew rougher, the blood staining the corner of his mouth darkened as if it were his final drops, his eyelids fluttered, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“I’ll… take you on.”
A figure clearly incapable of fighting.
Even so, I’taar assumed a stance and declared it.
Their meaningless standoff caused the martial artists to glance at each other, displaying different expressions—one a wry smile, the other a sneer.
Despite their clear mockery and pity, I’taar remained motionless, extending both trembling hands towards the martial artists.
The sneering martial artist tilted his head and spoke.
“I’taar, are you really going through with this? Wouldn’t fleeing and using your disciple more ‘effectively’ be better?”
Ignoring the suggestion to abandon his disciple and flee, I’taar didn’t retreat. He merely lowered his gaze, struggling to extend his arms, which trembled faintly.
Witnessing the elderly figure burning his remaining life force, the martial artist filled with pity spoke.
“I respect your martial art, I’taar. Few have reached the level of a veteran in such poor condition throughout the ages.”
Truly expressing admiration, the martial artist slightly bowed and then straightened, pointing his thick claw at I’taar.
“However… you are weak. You cannot defeat us. I don’t wish to see your martial art broken or you experiencing your final defeat.”
In essence, it was a call to submit. In response to their successive humiliations, I’taar merely smiled kindly.
Within that gentle smile, I’taar turned his body.
Swinging the previously extended hand sideways, he flipped his palm in a pose that resembled a dance.
To the martial artists skilled in simple yet powerful combat, this sight was incomprehensible as I’taar spoke.
“No matter how weak one may be, there are times when one cannot retreat. Moreover, I am that child’s master. As a master, there is something I must demonstrate.”
With a sweeping movement, the long sleeves finally came to rest, leaving I’taar with one hand pointed towards the sky and the other towards the ground.
In this soft posture, I’taar smiled infinitely gently.
“Come on, let’s play.”
“If you insist.”
As the compassionate martial artist paused mid-sentence, a massive fist, glowing red, surged forward.
