Round Eight: Sword Skills

“Trade secret!” Kairo playfully wrinkled his nose. “You can take it back and try it first. If it works, you can pay later. We’re friends, right?”
“Let me use you as a human test subject? You’re truly a genius at doing business.” Moriel felt a slight displeasure, but quickly felt ashamed of such thoughts. As a mage, skepticism was a necessary virtue, but facing a lower-level mage who only knew some unsystematized family magic—actually, they weren’t even proper mages, just folk sorcerers who knew a few spells—was she being too harsh?
“Moriel, I like you. You’re an interesting red-robed mage.” Kairo’s big eyes seemed to take on a gentle sheen, adding a thoughtful look that made him even more charming.
47 really wanted to use something more solid to practice the sword skills he had created. He could already skillfully swing his wrist to shatter whatever was in front of him, which made him proud. He hardly noticed that the blade was already showing signs of bending. To 47, a sword was far less valuable than those paladins—those guys who talked endlessly about righteousness and morality, treating their swords as their second life.
47 had no idea about the paladins’ attitudes. To him, even if he were holding a piece of iron, he would still swing it with enthusiasm, not caring about the differences in weapons. Of course, a sword with a blade would look more impressive and professional when swung.
Moriel returned, carrying lots of bags, like a housewife who had just finished shopping at the market.
47 looked at the ruined courtyard. It surprised him that Moriel seemed oblivious to it all. He thought she would use her staff to hit his head again—seemingly, this had become her habit.
Moriel took out a bottle and found some magic book pages, spreading them on the floor before studying them intently.
“Go away! Don’t disturb me!” Moriel waved at 47 without even looking up. “But you must come back before dark. I want to try this concentrated magic myself at night.”
“He must have found something good, while I can only pick up trash,” 47 thought as he left.
Rain City wasn’t particularly large or small. The truly bustling area consisted of just two streets that crossed at right angles. But within a few miles around, one could find settlements hidden behind swamps or forests—sometimes a few dilapidated wooden houses, sometimes grand clay castles. Whether they were guilds or homes, they all belonged to Rain City.

Although the existence of Forty-Seven was no longer the biggest news—the fierce fight that had just taken place at the Blade Tavern yesterday was the hot topic these days—Forty-Seven’s strange appearance on the streets still drew some attention. Fortunately, Forty-Seven had no sense of being a famous figure; his interest was entirely focused on his new weapon, as he pondered finding a deserted area to explore new ways of using his body—something he had somewhat neglected during his time in the Mage Tower. After all, this was still a primitive society stuck in the age of cold weapons, he reminded himself.

The Blade Tavern was not open during the day, but since it was located at a corner of the intersection in the heart of Rain City, its entrance remained bustling. As Forty-Seven passed by, he was suddenly called out by a voice.

“Hey! It’s you, you metal monster! Stop right there!” Forty-Seven turned around—it was Castor, the thief leader.

“Mr. One-Ear, what do you want from me?” Forty-Seven had heard this name from blacksmith Marcus, but no one had told him whether it was appropriate to mention it in front of Castor. Even if someone had, Castor wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong with using a nickname that matched that of some famous animal celebrity.

The half-elf’s remaining ear twitched, immediately capturing Forty-Seven’s attention. He found this moving ear interesting but didn’t notice that Castor’s eyes seemed to be spewing fire.

“Don’t think that bitch can back you up! You unknown construct—are you even a construct? You look more like a piece of rotten copper stuck in the swamp, waiting to rust. Maybe that red-robed mage traded you for it from the swamp dwellers, or—” Castor suddenly leaned closer to Forty-Seven, staring up at him. “Maybe she traded *you* instead?”

A few scoundrels behind Castor burst into unrestrained laughter. Encouraged, Castor turned around and declared, “Do you know how this one-and-only construct satisfies that bitch? That’s how!”

“Though I’m quite interested in your moving ear, I have other things to do now. Goodbye!” Forty-Seven left Castor behind, who was making vulgar gestures, and turned to walk away. But Castor grabbed Forty-Seven’s collar, only to fail due to the slippery gray leech skin.

“I said stop! Don’t ignore Lord Castor…”

Castor couldn’t continue, as his upper palate and head were flung backward along a line parallel to the corners of his mouth. His tongue kept moving on his lower gums, but he could no longer make any sound.

Forty-Seven’s arm swung behind him like a whip, with such an angle that it seemed his body had no joints at all. In his hand, he held a long, wide sword, its blade level—yet not a drop of blood was visible, as if it had merely been waved in the air. On the face of a passerby to the right of Castor’s still-standing body, however, appeared a blood streak—caused by the sword’s blood being flung out due to its incredible speed.

Forty-seven stepped forward. In fact, he merely swung his arm and continued walking without stopping. The few accomplices standing behind Castor were also stunned by what they saw. No one wanted to step forward to stop him. Thus, Forty-seven severed half of Castor’s head right in the busy market and then left calmly.

Rain City had no recognized ruler, let alone government or legal constraints. It was merely a transit point and resting place for gold miners from all over. Yet every place had its own rules. Killing someone in Rain City might not be considered a major offense, but someone would surely intervene. Moreover, the victim was the leader of the thieves’ guild, the half-elf Castor, who still stood in the small square in front of the Blade Tavern, clearly underestimating the seriousness of the situation.

The key issue was that the killer was an artificial being supposed to follow only its master’s orders and have no independent consciousness—a situation probably unprecedented in Rain City’s history. As a result, Forty-seven immediately overshadowed the minor scuffle that had taken place at the Blade Tavern the previous night and became the subject of discussion among the city’s residents once again. Meanwhile, Forty-seven himself had found an ideal open space to practice his new moves, also underestimating the seriousness of the situation.

When the news reached Moriel’s ears, she immediately realized the severity of the problem. Although she already disliked Castor greatly, she wasn’t to the point of wanting to kill him out of vengeance. However, it was well-known in Rain City that Forty-seven was her own artificial being. Therefore, as Forty-seven’s owner and guardian, there was only one explanation for his actions—he must have been acting on Moriel’s orders to kill Castor.