"The locals weren't kidding. 'You really can't miss it.' 'It is clear as the sky and the sun.' I mean…"
He pointed with both hands at a comically large sledgehammer resting atop a shop.
"Heheh. They ain't wrong."
His hands dropped by his side.
"Let us commence the purchasing of equipment, but… what kind?"
He pinched his chin, eyes closed.
"Hmm, I think… I think I should go with mobility—it should help me with my next captain, and I'd be comfortable with my movements."
He nodded.
"Yeah, I'll definitely do that. In I go."
DING!
The door chime rang as he entered the blacksmith. The smell of ash and metal hit the back of his throat.
"It feels like I smoked. Cough cough. Three packs altogether."
The metallic clanks of hammering stopped, and a woman replied.
"Don't worry now, honey. Once you get used to working with it, that metal starts feelin' just like the air."
His gaze fell on the source of the voice. A blacksmith lady walked to the counter—dark-skinned, wearing a black tank top with a gray-and-black-splotched cloth around her neck, her hair fiery red.
"Wait a second, are you—"
"That burly instructor's husband? Mhm, yes I am."
He nodded.
"I see—cough, cough—your husband is that great instructor. My first impression? Inches from my face."
The blacksmith lady laughed, cleaning her face with the white cloth.
"He be doin' that. I call it 'Warrior Love'."
His neck jolted back.
"Warrior… Love? Well, I guess it makes sense, y'know. Fire to heat up the iron and a blacksmith to… straighten… it…"
What a yin-yang-ass relationship.
He shook his head.
"Anyways, I'd like you to make an armor with mobility in mind and a double-edged sword."
She rested her shoulder on the counter.
"That ain't comin' cheap, honey."
THUD! JINGLE!
"Name it—Wait! I should name it. Um… Twenty gold—whatever materials come within that, do it."
The blacksmith wagged her finger.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's thirty to you, sugar."
"Cap! Twenty five."
The blacksmith lady squinted.
"Twenty-seven, or you best get up out my forge."
Damn it! I haven't learned bargaining from dad.
"You win, lady, twenty-seven it is."
He paid the twenty-seven gold, and she accepted them graciously.
"Pleasure doin' business with you."
The business was dealt and his armor was made. A fitted leather sleeveless jacket and ankle-length trousers, overlaid with articulated steel plates at the chest, shoulders, and thighs.
"This… This is amazing!"
He performed jumping jacks and squats, then sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Worth the twenty-seven gold I was swindl— I mean I spent… on a deal."
"That's right. Don't forget that when you walk outta here."
He jumped to his feet and saluted.
"Yes, ma'am!"
He walked toward the door, waving.
"Thank you, blacksmith lady!"
DING!
The door chime sounded, followed by the door's click.
"Haaah, that kid," she sighed, shaking her head.
She looked at the counter, counting thirty-five gold.
* * *
Aelindor paced outside the arena, by the student's corner door.
"I cannot believe him!"
"Hey, what happened, mate?"
His gaze shifted to him, frowning.
"I did once more repair unto the inn, there to reckon the matter anew. And as I drew near, a clamour from within did assail mine ears. Forthwith I opened the door, whereupon mine eyes were met with the sight of a great sack of golden coins set boldly upon the counter. The innkeeper stood as one amazed and thunderstruck, avouching with trembling voice that it was a boon bestowed by the Queen's own most gracious hand."
"How many? Did ya count?"
Aelindor dipped his head.
"Five hundred coins of gold."
Korrin and Zharrak's jaw dropped.
"Our sundry trades, reckoned all together, do scarce amount unto fifty pieces of gold; yet here upon the counter do I behold five hundred coins of gold, even as…"
He felt a hand placed upon his shoulder.
"Oh, don't you worry your little head."
He looked behind him to the source of the hand—Oswald, clad in his new gear with sword at his side.
"Why? Why hast thou done this?"
"Why not? I was freeloading—using a room a customer should be. So, I just paid for the room… with interest."
I guess the interest was too much. Have I accidentally given him a million dollars? Oh, boy.
"T-This is impossible. I cannot render thee recompense. N-Neither can my kin, not with all the trades I—"
"Look, I didn't know five hundred gold was too much and…"
He inhaled deeply.
"I swear on everything—my mother, my father, the gods and goddesses—everything! I did that by my own will. And you don't—hear it again—you don't have to pay that back."
He shrugged.
"And y'know, keep the change."
His gaze shifted to Korrin and Zharrak.
"I would do the same for you guys as wel—"
CREE-EAK!
His corner's door opened, the creaking so loud that he and his friends winced.
They really should oil those hinges.
"Welp, see you guys later. Gotta hype myself before the fight."
Korrin waved.
"Righto then, best of luck."
Zharrak gestured at Korrin.
"What he said, kid. Hope to see ya walkin' out this time."
"You will!"
Zharrak and Korrin left for the audience stairs, with Aelindor silently trailing behind.
Haaah. Did I make the correct decision…? Being too generous? After this fight, I have to reflect on this. For now, time to see the second captain.
He walked into the newbie's corner armory, stretching his limbs and taking deep breaths before the duel.
* * *
"Welcome back folks to another day of student against the CAPTAIIIN!"
The crowd exploded behind the door.
"Let me say this! A thrilling duel yesterday. The student went all out—fighting until the last of his strength. Ladies and gentlemen of all islands, welcome, OSWALD JAAAACK!"
The door to the fighting ground creaked open—the muffled cheering now blasting at full volume.
Oswald jogged out, smiling and waving.
"Well, he came prepared for his next opponent, I see. From the captain's corner, known for ancient style of Muerte Bailando. Carrying a legacy that stretches back millennia, with an heir already chosen. His opponent, Seraphina WINDWHISPERRR!"
Muerte Bailando? What does that mean?
The door to the captain's corner creaked open.
Okay, I'm fighting a lady captain?
He squinted at his approaching opponent. She wore a black tehuana dress with red skull imagery at the neckline, holding two black, obsidian-bladed clubs of Ancient Mayan—each also adorned with red skulls. Her hair was tied with red braids, and black eyeliner with a red streak.
The red skull imagery is kinda sick, but… what is she? The Mexican Dancing Death or something? Hold on, that's a great title.
They met in the center of the arena, stopping a few steps apart.
"I have to say, lady, amazing dress and…"
Gulp.
"E-Equally amazing… weapons."
Her reply was a slight bow and smile.
Oh boy, silent ones are always the deadliest.
Both hands on the hilt, he readied his double-edged sword.
DING!
Seraphina didn't move an inch after the bell rung.
She's just standing there… MENACINGLY!
She finally spoke, her voice calm, cold, with a hint of a Latina accent.
"Hit it."
TAP!
She tapped both her knife dusters.
What—
As soon as she tapped, Mexican music enveloped the arena—a toe-tapping, finger-snapping song culminating in the high, sharp note of a trumpet.
What the—Where is the music coming from?
She moved toward him, her steps flowing with the music. At the trumpet, she swung her knife dusters.
WHOOSH!
He bent backward, barely scraping past his nose.
Whoa! Too close.
He straightened.
My turn.
Loosely following the music, he swiped his sword at the trumpet's peak. She side-stepped with dancer's grace and swung one of the knife dusters upward, his sword got caught between the blades of her knife duster. With a flick upward, the sword was freed from his hands, spinning through the air before clattering to the sand a few feet behind her.
FUCK!
She moved closer for round two. The music began to build, and with each high beat she sliced at him. At the trumpet, she swung both knife dusters in an 'X'. Between the seams—protecting his forearms—the exposed leather caught in her swing.
"Ah!"
He held his forearm, and saw his hand.
"Yep…" He let out a silent whistle. "Definitely blood."
Looking at his blood and the music around him, his mind flashed to him watching a movie—Puss in Boots—with his father, a movie fanatic—unlike him, an anime fan. The dance fight scene from the movie played in bits.
Heh, I see. Time to switch up!
He straightened.
"Alright, let's do this."
He double-clapped followed the flow of the music, walking sideways toward her. With every double clap, he'd rotate his body and take a few steps forward. A smile crossed her face. Nearing her, he swung his fist following the music. She stepped back, weaving away from his punches.
Nice, I'm getting closer to the sword. But.
He winced.
I feel… numbness. Ignore it, Oswald!
For next attack, she spun like a ballerina, knife dusters outstretched, coming at him.
Damn, even spinning, she has grace.
The spinning Seraphina got closer, few steps away and the music building up again. He took a step back.
Lord, please let this work.
He took off then slid on his knees, bending full backward as his back allowed him. His nose a hair's length away from the blades, a few hairs, caught in her tempest like leaves, drifted down behind him.
Clearing her attack, he picked up his sword and spun around—kicking up a circle of dust.
"Now, we're even."
They moved closer, their steps flowing like a river, their movements cat-like. Both attacked, blocked, and parried, all within the music. During those, he disarmed her knife dusters while she disarmed him. Instead of retrieving their weapons, hands were thrown instead. Each jab, punch, kick, and sweep followed the trumpets' call. During the music building up to the trumpet, Seraphina punched him. He side-stepped then grabbed her arm, he spun her around, her dress flared out.
At the ending trumpet, both ended in a pose as if he caught her in a fall, both stretching a single arm out for dramatic flair.
The music stopped, and the crowd erupted in cheers and whistles.
He helped her straighten up, then doubled over himself, breathing raspily.
"Who knew… dancing is… damn tiring."
He fell on his butt staring at the sky.
"WHAT AN AMAZING PERFORMANCE! I didn't know the student could dance…"
Neither… did I—
"Ah!"
He held his head, the commentator's voice muffling, his vision blurring.
What's happening… Oh… the cut… was poison—
THUD!
Consumed by darkness, he lay flat on the sand, red veins visible on his face and neck.
She bowed with her hand on her chest.
"It was nice dancing with you—niño."
* * *
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