Kalaman knew how to hunt very well. Shortly before his adventuring days, he lived in the kingdom of Eirsia to the east for a while, where forests were abundant. He learned how to hunt game while he was there, so he was well acquainted with stalking his prey, waiting for the chance to strike. The better the hunter, the less likely he is to be noticed.

But he also knew how it felt to be the hunted, especially after he became an adventurer. Many have tried to come after his life, be it beast, man, or something in between. Some amateurs, others professionals.

The better the hunter, the less likely he is to be noticed.

But there is always a degree of risk when it comes to hunting. No matter how good you are at hiding, not matter how well you stalk your pray, you cannot hide strong bloodlust.

That’s why the best killers in the world are those unfueled by hatred or violence. Those that kill without bearing the desire to kill are the most dangerous, since it’s damn near impossible to notice them.

But even they weren’t infallible.

It was strange when you think about it. You use your senses to spot amateur hunters. But sense alone isn’t enough to sniff out better hunters, so you use intuition. But what do you do when your intuition isn’t enough?

Kalaman’s answer was to go back to his senses, and heighten them to absurd degrees.

He walked the halls of the ship on his usual patrols. The waves crashed, the ship creaked, but when you’ve been prey to the greatest hunters, you begin to notice the tiny footsteps that hid behind all those sounds.

Incredibly quiet footsteps followed closely behind him. They were quick and light. Just one person.

He stopped in his tracks, and the footsteps stopped as well. He couldn’t see anyone with his peripheral vision. They were most likely hiding behind one of the corners.

Kalaman couldn’t care less about them, though. If they weren’t enemies, then they could be ignored. If they were, then he’ll just kill them. If he couldn’t, then that was that. Hardly anything to think about.

Bored out of his mind, he began thinking about who it could be. A likely answer would be a Farlan spy or assassin that managed to get on board. However, he had his own hunch, one which was more likely.

If he kept walking, then this charade would just keep going. It was best for both of them that he doesn’t drag this out.

Kalaman slowly unsheathed the sword on his waist, making it clear that he noticed his pursuer.

Almost immediately, two figures ran towards him from behind the corner. At a glance, it seemed to be a male and a female, their faces obscured with hoods. They held a shortsword each.

The male was the first to reach him. He lunged at him with his sword, aiming for his chest. Kalaman stepped to the side, the blade just barely missing him, and immediately swung at the man. However, the man bent his body into an impossible shape to dodge the blade, as if his spine broke in half, but he reverted back almost immediately.

The woman swung next, this time, aiming to slice his legs. Kalaman kicked the sword away with his plated boots, and stabbed down on the woman. She tried to dodge, but the blade struck her arm. Blood spewed, but she didn’t scream.

“...?”

Kalaman noticed something strange when he did that. Then, just as he was momentarily confused, the man attacked again, twisting his shoulder backwards to make an absurd swing.

Kalaman moved his face, but the blade ended up grazing his cheek a tiny bit. He slashed his blade at the sword arm, hoping to disarm him. Again, his limbs bent into an impossible shape, somehow growing a third joint in his forearm. He managed to land a small cut into his wrist.

“...Hm.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

There it was again. That strange feeling.

The two figures stood up and ran to the other end of the hall at blazing speeds. Kalaman should’ve chased after them, but he knew there was no need to.

When the stabbed into that woman, and when he sliced that man’s wrist, he could see the blade hitting them. He could see the blood pouring out. He could even feel the sword cleaving through their flesh. Yet, it didn’t feel like he was cutting through people at all.

When he sliced through people, there was a noticeable resistance. Skin, muscle, and bones wouldn’t be sliced the same way. Bone is harder than muscle. So when his sword sliced through a person, it would always slice relatively easy at first, before hitting the bone, where he’d need to use a bit more force to cleave through.

But those people didn’t have that feeling of varying resistance. It was like he was slicing through one solid mass.

If their target had been someone else, it would’ve likely been convincing, but Kalaman could see it as nothing more than shoddy work. All it gave him was a single wound, after all.

“...Pain will complete us, huh?”

He reached out and traced his finger against his cheek wound. As he expected, it stung. In fact, it hurt.

He forgot how much wounds hurt. He’s had more severe wounds before, but he always ignored the pain. Bruises. Broken bones. Lacerations. Hemorrhages. Stab wounds. He’s felt all sorts of pain, but he never really minded.

People have called him “selfless” and “noble” for prioritizing healing others before himself, even when he had the clearly more serious wound, but that wasn’t quite right.

It was just that he felt more comfortable with those wounds. They gave him solace in ways rest, food, medicine, or magic never could. He remembered Nentonia. When leaving that room, she held her neck and smiled. That same neck he strangled twice.

He felt close to the answer; to the heart of Nentonia Brava.

Kalaman sheathed his sword and continued his patrol, blood dripping down his cheek.

†

Kalaman ascended to the upper deck, the cool night wind caressing his cheek wound. Nentonia was there, leaning against the railings as she stared down into the dark waters below. He figured she’d be here, considering she wasn’t in any of the rooms.

He walked forward to stand beside her, gazing at the oceans as well.

“...Do you think drowning would be a good way to die?” she suddenly asked. She didn’t even turn to look at him, as if she knew who it was from the footsteps alone.

“Good. Bad. Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “In the end, we’d die.”

“I guess that’s true. If you could choose, though, how would you want to die?”

Kalaman thought about it for a bit. “Guillotine.”

“Why?”

“You asked me to choose, so I chose.”

“So it’s random, then.”

“...What about you?” he asked back.

“Hmm...” She placed a finger on her chin and looked up in deep thought. “I’d wanna scatter into a million petals and be swept away by the wind.”

“The hell kinda death is that?”

“I don’t know, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

The frigid wind blew through her hair, and it danced along with it. She tucked one of the stray strands behind her ear and looked up at the stars in awe. The night sky itself was reflected in her eyes, so he didn’t feel the need to look up as well.

Nentonia probably noticed him staring at her, since she turned to face him. Her eyes widened slightly. “What’s with that wound?”

“An assassin’s on the ship.”

“An assassin, huh? You don’t sound too panicked. Did you deal with them already?”

“No. There’s no need to,” he replied.

“Hmm. Do you know who it is?”

“Yes. Someone in our party.” He was certain of that. He knew no one else on the ship capable of creating such convincing shells, even if she hid most of her spells from them.

She placed her folded arms on top of the railing and rested her chin on them. “...Hmm. I see. So ... it’s probably Rem, yeah?”

Kalaman was surprised. “Did you know all along?”

“Just had a hunch. I’m pretty good at spotting fakes. I’m pretty fake too, after all. She felt like she was hiding who she was, so I made a lucky guess. So? What are you gonna do about her now?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Not like I care anyways.”

“Hmm. So, has she been an assassin since the very beginning?” she asked.

“Yes. She was probably waiting for a chance to strike for years now.”

“Did who know who she was since the very beginning, then?”

“She did kill our previous cleric, so it was pretty obvious. I doubt the elf and the dragonborn knew though.”

Ques Van Lendi had always been too smart for his own good. Remina probably killed him because he figured out her identity.

She turned her head sideways to look at him. “So, you knew all this time, but you didn’t do anything. Why is that, I wonder?”

Almost instinctively, he touched the wound on his cheek again, as if that was the answer. Then, he saw that cave. The cave that he’d always been running away from. Inside, he could hear himself crying.

How long has it been since he wallowed in that memory?

Pain completes us.

“...Because it was fine if she killed me,” he answered. “...No. I was hoping that she’d be able to kill me. That’s why I became an adventurer. I threw myself into many life-or-death situations because I didn’t really care about living or dying. I was just going through the motions at that point.”

He looked up to stare at the moon, looking down upon him as to judge him silently.

“You said you wanted to hear a story,” he continued. “Will you listen to mine? Not the Dragonslayer’s story, but mine.”

Nentonia stared at him without saying a word. That, alone, was confirmation enough.

He gave out a sigh, and began his tale.