Continue On, Struggler. | Chapter 10, Onward. (Part Two of Two)

…

Guts.

…

Guts still couldn't say he understood the point of birthday parties—even after attending two now—but he was starting to see why people found them so important.

In short, it was all about marking change. Progress made, not made, and even unmade. Physical, mental, and otherwise. Everything five years could throw at a kid, positive or negative. They'd celebrate it regardless. Like the sorts of celebrations the Band of the Hawk would throw after a battle. Be it win or lose, with no dead or a sea of them, people just wanted to acknowledge that things had changed. And, seeing it through that lens, he saw it.

The little girl he had met on that hill three years ago—the same one he had been so ready to dismiss—wasn't the same. She was different. She had changed.

"I'll do it!"

Seeing it, Guts couldn't help but smirk a bit.

"I'm going to try out for Ranoa Academy!"

Sylphie had found her own path to follow.

He just hoped that, at the end of it, she'd find whatever it was she was looking for.

…

Months passed.

Despite her decision to leave, Sylphie continued to linger in Buena Village. Although, for decent enough reasons. In part because they were still at the mercy of whatever weather that kept people from traveling to Ranoa throughout the rest of the year, but also because the girl herself hadn't been ready to leave quite yet….

"I-If possible, I'd like to stay for Rudy's birthday. I-I know it's a lot to ask, but h-he came to mine, so I-I think it's only fair if… y-you know…"

And, despite the uncertainty that dripped from her at that moment, one important factor seemed to agree with her: the weather.

"I don't see why not," Roxy told her without much hesitation. "The timing actually works. If I'm remembering the details correctly, Ranoa becomes most navigable around the start of summer and, since Rudy's birthday is right at the end of spring, I don't think we'd lose any time at all."

So, despite all that happened, Sylphie and Roxy were going to stick around a bit longer.

"And to be honest," Roxy continued before glancing his way and flashing him a smile, "I'd like to attend his party as well."

Guts frowned. He didn't understand why it was so important to either of them.

Ten years ago, Guts was born Rudeus Greyrat.

Ten years later, he was still more or less the same person.

And so, in the absence of all real change, what was there to celebrate?

…

Two days before his tenth birthday, right before one of their afternoon sparring sessions, Paul ambushed him. Not with an attack—which would've been preferable—but with a question:

"Hey, Rudy, how would you react if I said that you had to leave the village for a while? Would you be mad?"

"Not really," Guts said, meaning it. His eyes narrowed. A bit out of confusion; more so out of suspicion. "Why? Can't wait a couple more years to be rid of me, old man?"

"It's just a question." Guts didn't buy it. Paul might've been saying one thing, but his tone said another. He could tell that the man was holding back. This wouldn't be the first time he had brought up the subject of his future, but this time didn't feel like those times. Not even close. "I know that I said you could only leave home when you turned twelve, but if you could leave before then—would you?"

"It'd depend on the chance, but yeah."

A smile cracked through Paul's seriousness, and it didn't look like a happy one either. "At least you know to look before you leap—that already makes you better than me when I was your age."

Guts's whole body tensed. Now, he was sure something was wrong. Paul never acted like this—all down in the dumps and dripping with regret. Not even after his biggest fuckups. Because if the man knew how to do anything, it was how to move on from those quickly. This time felt different. Something had happened without Guts's knowing.

"Hey, you never answered my—"

—Paul surged forward before he could finish asking. At a speed Guts had only seen him use one time before. A year or two back. When Paul decided to bring him along on one of his monster hunts. Right then and there, it became clear. This charge wasn't meant for a nine-year-old boy.

It was serious.

Guts's survival instincts flared. Hard. Harder than they had in almost a decade. Almost to the point of screaming. One moment, Paul stood a good ten paces away. The next, he bore down on him like a waterfall—his wooden sword heading straight for his neck. And right then, what his instincts were screaming rang clear:

"Do something or die."

Clack!

Guts grit his teeth. He felt the blow before he heard it. It shot through his arms like a bolt of lightning. Barely. Just barely. He had been able to get his own practice sword in the way of the attack. And he knew. In that instant. Deep down in his now shaking bones. It was the only thing keeping him from being unconscious. Although, it didn't keep his legs from nearly collapsing in on themselves. They didn't, but they were close. Way too close.

Move! He commanded himself, knowing that another attack was coming. And just like he predicted, he could see the man's leg move from out of his peripheral vision. Probably to try and kick his legs out from under him. Something, in all their years of sparring, he had also never done before. So, you're finally taking off the kid gloves, huh?

Guts felt himself grin. He had only planned on jumping out of the way at first, but seeing Paul stop holding back, he figured there was no point in him doing so either. Instead, he started to pour magic energy into his left hand…

"Hrk!"

And right before Paul's leg made contact with his, Guts stabbed a Wind Blast right into his chest. He didn't have his wand, or the time to concentrate, so it wasn't the strongest. However, it was enough to force the man back a few paces.

Not wanting to give Paul time to breathe, Guts poured more energy into his left hand and stepped forward. With both hands, he brought his sword over his head and ripped it back down with all his might.

In response, Paul took a step back. Just out of range—which would've been unfortunate, if Guts had ever meant for the attack to be anything other than a feint.

His sword missed Paul entirely, but as all his momentum carried down towards his feet, he followed its pull and let off another Wind Blast at his feet. The spell sent him flying up into the air, up over Paul, and spun him around like a spindle—spinning him right into a downward slash aimed at the man's head.

Klunk!

Paul had just been able to raise his sword and block his attack; but, unlike Guts, the man took the brunt of the blow without budging. At all. Leaving him at a disadvantage.

Tch. Guts clicked his tongue already feeling Paul push into him.

Without his feet under him, it didn't take much to send Guts barreling back-first into the ground.

Guts grunted as he landed. Knowing that he couldn't afford to stay still, he rolled with it and got his feet back under him as quickly as possible. A good idea since Paul had taken that time to close the distance between them.

Once again, the man bore down on top of him and slashed sideways at his neck.

Guts leaned left and under it. And understanding that he didn't have the time or space to counter with his sword, he turned himself into a weapon. Shooting another Wind Blast at his feet, he went shoulder first into Paul's stomach, but since the man had run at Guts at full speed, the two of them stalemated. Colliding into one another in an awkward mess of offset momentum and entangled limbs.

Being the much heavier of the two, Paul toppled Guts with ease. But the sudden obstacle caused the usually sure-footed Paul to trip a bit as he barrelled over and past Guts. Not nearly enough to actually ground the man, but it did buy Guts enough time to roll onto his belly and use a Wind Blast to put some distance between them.

Guts skimmed and scraped against the ground like a rock over water, and only came to a stop after he rolled back onto his feet.

By the time Guts did so, Paul had recovered too. And the man looked far from happy.

Mad already? Guts scoffed as he raised his sword in anticipation. You better get ready, you old bastard. 'Cuz there's plenty more where that came from.

…

Zenith.

…

Zenith heard the commotion coming from outside—loud and clear—and all she did was shut her eyes and sigh.

Paul and Rudy were fighting again. She didn't even need to look outside to confirm. She just knew.

Clack!

Woosh!

However, there was a distinct difference between being used to something and growing comfortable with it, and she was far from comfortable with the relationship her husband and son had cultivated. Not at all.

"I get why you're worried, but how is Rudy ever going to get better if he's not challenged?" Paul asked her, after the first time. Their son had come back into the house dripping with sweat, visually exhausted, and covered in all sorts of scrapes and bruises. Coincidentally, and this hadn't been lost to her at the time, this happened the day after Paul's affair with Lilia had come to light. So, she didn't hesitate in voicing her concerns. "Besides, Rudy's a tough kid. He didn't complain about it once, so there's nothing to worry about. He'll be just fine. Trust me."

In that moment, Zenith felt a retort touch the edge of her lips—a retort so full of venom, bitterness, and disgust that she knew it would cut her husband to the bone.

"Trust you?" She would've asked. She would've balked too. Like a knife, she would've dug the words so deep into her chest that it hurt. "Like I'd ever make that mistake again."

Because how dare he? How fucking dare he? A day after she learned of his betrayal. Only a day after he hurt her like no one else had. He beat their son—the only one in the house who raised a hand against him, all for her sake—black and blue and the man had the gall to cover it up as a part of his training. Like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Like it was something to be expected. Like he was doing Rudy a favor. She wasn't blind. The writing on the wall could be read loud and clear.

Paul had only done it to make himself feel better. Because he couldn't justify what he did or why it would make their son hate him, so he did what he always did. He fought and he hurt. As if it'd make him feel any better, as if it'd prove he was right all along.

It took all that she had to keep it from slipping out. She bit down on her lip, she clenched her fists so hard her knuckles hurt, and she trembled from how angry she was. However, she stopped herself. Because, she knew, this was partially her fault too.

It had been her choice to stay with Paul. To try and make things work. So, despite every part of her not wanting it to happen, she knew it could've only happened because of her.

And so, Zenith thought better of lashing out at Paul. In a twisted sense, in her own head, doing so would make her just as bad as he was.

Instead, she asked Rudy how he felt about it.

"I've got no problem with it," Rudy told her as she healed him, voice flat as ever. "If the old bastard wants to be like that then let him. It just gives me a reason to do the same."

At first, she didn't know how to feel about his response. It was worrying, to say the least, and emblematic of the gap that now existed between him and his father. However, it was also hard to argue. Paul hurt Rudy; in return, Rudy wanted to hurt Paul just as much. Maybe even more. It hurt to see, but she decided to let them continue. Because if that's what Rudy wanted, she'd be a hypocrite to try and argue against otherwise.

After all…

"Because that's what I want."

…Zenith had asked him to do the same for her.

That's why—when she glanced away from Norn and Aisha, towards the commotion—she kept her response to a shake of her head. Despite the weight pulling down her heart… Despite her own feelings… Despite knowing what made this fight different from all the others…

She would let the two of them work it out.

"Hrk!"

However, the more Zenith watched them clash against one another, the harder it was to turn a blind eye to it.

From the onset, the two veered away from what any sane individual would call sparring. It was just a fight. Full stop. Sheer ferocity seemed to accompany every move they made.

Woosh!

They weren't pulling their punches. Nor did they seem at all concerned about hurting the other. To her eyes, it looked more like a fight between two strangers—not father and son.

Klunk!

For obvious reasons, Rudy lacked Paul's speed and strength. However, he made up for it. By using his magic to turn himself into a whirlwind.

Thud!

Rudy's efforts didn't change the fact that Paul was still a mountain—one that would use every natural gift it had to keep him from climbing.

It was enthralling, in a way, watching the two crash against one another. Over and over. Even for the most part, with the advantage flipping with each exchange. Making it so that the fight took on an almost rhythmic feel.

Paul would try something, Rudy would evade, and then her son would get enough of an advantage to retaliate. Then, Paul would evade and do the same. And then, as if locked in an endless loop, the cycle would repeat itself—even when midday shifted to twilight, and the Sun sat right above the horizon. They kept going. As if they were both just waiting for the other to give, even a little bit.

To her, a woman who had been in her fair share of life-threatening situations, it was one of the most tense things she'd ever been a part of. A fact that wasn't helped by one detail, one that Rudy wasn't aware of: what would happen if he won the fight.

"Just so you know, things between me and Rudy might get a little extra heated today," Paul warned her, right before he went out to meet with their son. "For our gift to work, I need to be sure he's ready—that means I need to go all-out and, you know, make sure he can keep up. Otherwise, it's not going to do him any good."

Zenith smiled sadly. Coincidentally, she did so right as the two slowed to a stop and spoke to each other for the first time in the entire fight.

Because, deep down, she knew it meant the end was coming soon.

…

Guts.

…

"Seems like I taught you a little too well," Paul said, cracking a smile that clashed with the look in his eyes. Guts couldn't quite place the feeling, but it was somewhere in the middle of regret and anger. Everything about the man just seemed tense—ready to explode. His hands, his legs, his stance, and his voice. All of it. It was enough to make Guts's heart soar from excitement. "Still, you do know there's no way you're going to win, right?"

"That right?" Guts scoffed and raised his sword. "Come here and prove it then, if you're so sure of yourself."

"Hah! You are my son alright."

One way or another, this fight was going to have to end in the next exchange. Guts knew it. He could feel it in his bones. He was keeping up with Paul but just barely, and it was taking everything he had to just manage that. Sooner or later, this underdeveloped body was going to break down and he'd lose the ability to go all-out. He might be able to last a bit longer after, but the result would just be a formality.

If he wanted to win, he needed to end this now.

Guts cracked his own smile at the thought. "Save that for someone who cares, old man."

After that, the two of them stood there. Still and silent. Then, suddenly, Paul got down on all fours and held his sword out at his side, underhanded.

Guts tensed. Partially from confusion, mainly in preparation for what was to come. In all of his years, he'd never seen someone adopt a stance like that. At least not purposefully. He's done it himself before, but only whenever he gave in to the Berserker armor—when he allowed himself to be more beast than man. In those cases, survival trumped strategy, and he simply let loose. Acted on rage and instinct. So, in this case, he couldn't tell what Paul was trying to accomplish by doing so. However, he knew better than to assume that the man would do it for no reason.

Regardless, Guts was sure of one thing…

With his sword down there…

He began pouring magical energy into his hands.

…the only angle a strike can come from is…

Paul burst forward, bounding towards him like an angry beast. In response, Guts took a step forward, pulled his sword over his head, and planted his feet. Right as the man got into striking range, he loosened the grip he had on his sword's hilt slightly and pushed as strong a Wind Blast as he could manage through both hands.

…down there!

Guts slashed down. Paul slashed up. A thunderous crack echoed through the air as their wooden swords collided.

Dammit. Was the only thought that ran through his head as he stood there. Hands numb. Sword splintered. Heart pushed past the point of just racing. Even that wasn't fast enough, huh?

As telegraphed as his angle of attack was, his goal had been to surprise Paul—to get him thinking about one speed, one angle, and then he'd explode past his defenses right at the last possible moment. Right when he'd have no time to react properly or move to feint, as Guts thought he'd try to do with how telegraphed his own approach was. Unfortunately, it didn't work and he met Guts straight-on.

Now, Guts had no way to defend himself.

"Damn it."

Fortunately, Paul didn't fare any better.

"You almost got me there," the man admitted, hands resting on his hips. "Not bad, Rudy."

With both of them holding broken blades, Guts was ready for Paul to announce the bout a draw. However, instead, he…

"You pass."

…announced something else entirely?

"I wasn't sure if you'd be able to keep up with me, but I guess it never pays to bet against you." The way the man spoke kept Guts on edge. Something about it, and the smile it was paired with, kept him on his toes. "Anyways, from this point on, you're Advanced-tier in Sword God. Congratulations, son. You really know how to make your old man proud."

Guts blinked at the man. Confused. "Huh?"

"Huh?" Paul parroted, equally confused. "What do you mean 'huh'?"

Honestly, Paul's surprise attacked him before, so Guts just thought the man was trying to blow off some steam or something.

…

The days before his tenth birthday came and went; and as the day grew near, his family grew more and more anxious.

Guts didn't pay it any mind. The same thing had happened right before his fifth birthday. Although, due to him being older now, he was expected to pitch in. Mostly with tasks that had no real relation to the party itself, as Zenith and Lilia seemed adamant that they'd be able to handle it on their own.

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"I appreciate you asking, but I've still got my pride as a mother to uphold!" Is what Zenith said to him when he offered. "Lilia and I've got everything under control, dear." Honestly speaking, she didn't do a good job of convincing him. Her forehead was shiny from sweat and her hair looked like a bird had taken roost in it, but when he attempted to argue, she flashed him a smile—the one he could never seem to win against. "Although, if you really do want to help out, do you mind keeping an eye on your sisters? Your father's watching them right now, but he's going to be leaving for Roa in the afternoon."

Guts raised an eyebrow at that. "Roa? Why's he going to Roa?"

"Your gift, Master Rudy," Lilia chimed in, despite her eyes never leaving the work in front of her. The tone made Guts frown. Out of discomfort more than anything. It was odd. The woman was technically his step-mother now, but she still addressed him like a maid. "As was the case with young Sylphiette, the gift your mother and father picked out for you is one that necessitates the trip."

Guts opened his mouth to ask further, but his mother cut him off. "And it's meant to be a surprise, so no questions. You're not going to be getting any more details out of the two of us. Isn't that right, Lilia?"

"Right, Lady Zenith." The maid-clad woman nodded, showing her own smile—which was a rarity in its own right.

Guts shrugged, knowing better than to argue. He's beaten some hard odds in his life. He's run up against some of the strongest forces his world could offer. And he's survived them all. Mostly. However, despite all of that, he knew there was no force in the world stronger than when Zenith and Lilia Greyrat both wanted the same thing.

In short, he kept his mouth shut and agreed to watch Norn and Aisha.

…

Babies are weird. It was a thought that popped into Guts's mind a year ago—back when Norn and Aisha were first born. His opinion really hasn't changed since then, even as he watched little sisters crawl around in their respective cribs.

He had little experience with children. He had spent all of his first childhood surrounded by grown men. Not the regular kind either. Mercenaries, that's who he grew up with. The kind who killed and risked being killed every single day of their lives, and thought of him as nothing more than a leech. A stray, starving puppy that Gambino only kept around out of pity—but then, Gambino lost his leg in battle and found an actual dog to take care of. It became abundantly clear what Guts was to them then.

Meat. He was meat. Meant to be raised, to be sold, and to be slaughtered.

So, growing up, he thought he'd think the same of other kids. However, it became readily clear that the opposite was true.

He realized it the moment he killed that general's kid, Adonis. He watched the life leave the boy's eyes and froze up. Later, he felt it stab deep into his heart and travel all the way into his very spirit. Regret. For the first time in a long time, he regretted killing someone. To the point of questioning his place in the Band of the Hawk. He didn't understand why at the moment, but it came to him after he met Jill, Ishidoro, Schierke, and that boy who would eventually become Griffith.

As much as Guts didn't want to admit it, he had a soft spot for the little bastards.

All that being said, they had all been children. Not babies. And that's how he came to the conclusion that babies were weird.

"Aisha, get down from there," Guts called out to his half-sister, jumping up from his post and rushing over to her crib. Somehow, despite only being a year old, she had figured out how to crawl up and out of it. "Quit it, idiot. You're going to get hurt yourself doing that." Lifting her up by the armpits, he glared at the little blob of a human being. "How do you even manage to keep getting that high?"

If I didn't know any better… Guts thought to himself, looking into her curious green eyes. Aisha in particular was weird, even as babies went. Despite being the same age as Norn, she seemed a step ahead of their sister at all times. She started making baby noises first, she learned to crawl first, and she even got her teeth in first. I wonder if this is how Zenith and Paul felt with me.

In response to his question, Aisha let out a giggle, flashed him a somewhat toothy smile, and reached her little hands towards him.

Nah, Guts thought, smiling back at her. There's still a lot of dumb kid in there, I think.

Looking at Aisha, he couldn't help but think about how weird she looked—how all babies looked, not just her. All pudgy and small. Exactly like a regular person but not. Her hands definitely belonged to a human, but they were way smaller and more fragile-looking. To the point where he had to think twice about touching them. Or her, for that matter. Then, he remembered that he wasn't a grown man anymore. That, sometimes, he'd look down at his own hands and feel a similar discomfort. Undoubtedly, they were his own. But not, all at the same time. Rough and calloused like they've always been, but smaller. Weaker. In his past life, with his past body, he'd have to be conscious of his own strength. To avoid accidentally hurting her. Now…

"Buh-buh…" Aisha said, still reaching out towards him.

Guts blinked. And then, awkwardly, he adjusted his grip and held her close to his chest.

Aisha let out an excited squeal and started prodding at his face.

He frowned and moved to put her back down, but before he could do so—

"Waaaah!"

—Norn started crying.

Guts let out a sigh and, while still holding Aisha, went over to her crib.

Looking down into it, he found Norn lying on her back, flailing her little arms and legs. A clear sign that she had tried, and failed, to crawl up the side of her crib too.

Not really knowing any other way to calm a crying child, Guts reached down into the crib and scooped up Norn with his free arm. Then, after some time, the crying stopped. Only to be replaced by another annoyance—his two sisters grabbing at whatever their grubby little hands could get a hold of. Mostly his face, his hair, and each other.

Well… Guts thought to himself, all of the while dodging his sisters' clumsy grabs. Much to their excitement and his annoyance. …I guess this isn't too bad.

Idly, as he did so, he wondered what they'd both look like once they weren't so little.

…

Guts still didn't understand the appeal of birthday parties.

He understood them better now, but only as a guest—as someone on the outside looking in. For the life of him, however, he couldn't understand why anyone would want to be on the opposite end.

"H-Happy birthday, Rudy!" True to her normal form, Sylphie needed to shut her eyes and dip her head to say any of that to him.

Guts nodded in acknowledgment. Normally, something so trivial wouldn't have moved him, but she had come rushing over to him the moment she and her family arrived. And she hadn't hesitated to do so—which, to her credit, was an improvement. "Thanks."

"I-I…" However, her meekness made him question the validity of his praise immediately. "Y-Your gift…" Just then, Guts noticed the burlap sack the girl was clutching to her chest. "W-Where did…?"

"The dinner table," he said, nudging his head towards it.

Nodding, the girl rushed off without saying another word. However, before he even had a moment to relax, her parents took her place. Smiles plastered on both their faces.

Guts found himself fighting the urge to sigh. As it turned out, he just wasn't cut out to be the center of attention.

…

The party came and went quickly enough. Although, all in all, Guts would've preferred to not have to suffer through it at all.

Most of it played out the same as his first. He got a 'happy birthday' from everyone who came; and when everyone was settled, they went on to eat, drink, and make merry.

Things did get a bit exciting when Paul drunkenly challenged Laws to show his skill with a bow, which somehow led to Sylphie's father attempting to shoot an apple off the man's head. Although, before anything fun could come of it, everyone else with a working brain talked them out of it.

Tch. Guts clicked his tongue as he watched it play out. Killjoys.

…

Thankfully, merry-making gave way to gift-giving—meaning the party's end was drawing near.

Sylphie's parents were up first.

"On one of our patrols together, your father told me about your plans to leave the village and become an adventurer soon," Laws explained to Guts, standing behind his wife, who was holding a bundle of fur in her hands. "It's not much, but it should keep you warm on your travels."

Sylvia stepped forward, held the bundle out towards him, and let it unfurl—almost all of the way to the ground.

"Laws found Woods-Wolf tracks near the village," Sylvia said. "After he tracked and killed it, he thought the pelt might make a good gift, so he had me turn it into a cloak."

Guts took the cloak and examined it. It was a simple thing, made of two parts. A fur outer layer that was mostly ruddy brown with splotches of black and white in it, and an inner, longer wool layer that had been left its original cream color. Both seemed long enough to reach his feet with ease, but only the wool layer seemed wide enough to cover him fully. Overall, it seemed well-made. He really didn't like the combination of colors—he'd rather have something darker-colored—but it would work regardless of whether he liked the look of it or not. So, he figured the complaint was a meaningless one.

"Thanks," Guts told them before throwing it on. True to their word, it felt pretty warm.

They smiled back at him.

However, just when he thought the conversation was over, Sylvia added, "Oh, by the way, the pelt and cloak are two separate layers. If you ever end up wanting to reuse the pelt, you can always have someone replace it with a much longer cloak later."

Guts blinked. Guess that solves that problem.

…

Roxy went next.

"Here you go, Rudy," the Migurd said before handing him a roll of dark brown leather. "I figured this was something you could use."

As to be expected, his magic tutor got him something practical.

"Since you like to mix your magic into your swordplay, I tried making you something that worked like a wand without taking up your left hand," she explained as he unfurled her gift, revealing it to be a panel of leather cut into an upside-down cross. One that had been roughly doctored, with two holes sitting at the top and a thinner piece of leather sitting right below it—its top stitched, but its bottom loose. Clearly sitting over atop something. "My first thought was a glove, but then, I remembered I don't have much experience working with leather." A sheepish smile broke through her usual stoicness. "I did the best I could, but it still ended up a little rough-looking."

Guts nodded. He hadn't seen it at first, but after hearing her intent, it did remind him of a shitty archery glove.

"And how is it supposed to help me with my magic?" Guts asked as he slipped on her gift; and once he poked his middle and ring fingers were through, he wrapped the lower end around his wrist. Now, with it pressed against his palm, he could feel something hard at its center—right where the loose piece of leather was. Curious, he lifted it and found a… "A magic stone?"

"Indeed," Roxy said, nodding. More specifically, it was a flat red one nearly the size of his palm. "It's meant to enhance your fire magic. Not as much as an actual staff would, but it should serve you well enough in your travels."

Guts hummed—understanding—and pushed a bit of magic energy into the stone. Almost immediately, the crystal lit up and a Fireball formed in his hand.

Groovy, he thought before dismissing the fire spell.

"Thanks," Guts said, shooting Roxy an appreciative nod.

Roxy hummed. "Don't let its appearance fool you. It might look simple, but it was a pain to put together. Leather isn't the best material to channel magical energy through, so I really had to think outside the box for it to work."

"That so?"

Roxy crossed her arms and nodded proudly. "Most leathers are usually made from hides of monsters and animals that have no natural affinity towards magic. However, just like with pieces of parchment and rock, a magic circle can be used to give it those properties. Even then, it turned out that a single magic circle wasn't enough—so I put one on both sides! One to rest against the palm, and the other hidden under the stone. Ingenious, if I say so myself."

"Huh," Guts replied, feigning interest—channeling another spell through the glove. "Real complicated."

"…And you're not even paying attention."

Guts snorted. It was nice to know that—even after all of these years—things between him and Roxy haven't changed a bit.

…

Sylphie was next to give him a gift.

"H-Here you go, R-Rudy," the half-elf said, holding the sack from earlier out towards Guts. "I-I hope you like it."

Of course, for all of her progress, she still couldn't do so without stuttering.

Silently, Guts took the sack. He considered what it could be before opening it. It was light, but a squeeze told him that it was still solid; and through the fabric, he could feel a series of rough bumps and divots. Ones too coordinated to be random.

Something made of wood then?

Pulling its content out, Guts found himself staring at a wooden pendant attached to a thin black string—a small green jewel right at its center. The shape was rough, but it looked to be styled after a feather.

"A necklace?" he asked.

Sylphie nodded, looking away and hiding her hands behind her back. "I made it myself."

"Why's it shaped like a feather?"

"I-It's something that's been passed down through our family," the girl explained. "T-The symbol, I mean. It's supposed to be good luck."

"And what? You think I'm going to need it?"

"I-I mean, you are going to try and be an adventurer, right? That'll be d-dangerous work! A-And since I won't be there to make sure you're okay, Papa thought it'd be a good way to help you—even if I-I'm not actually there."

Guts shot a glance at her parents, who both just smiled widely and waved back at him.

Nevertheless, Guts found himself smirking a bit. It was as sentimental as gifts got; and as those went, he tended to stay as far away from those as possible. More than anything, he liked things he could use—all the better if it made killing other things easier. Because, in the end, he saw things as things. Things to be used, then thrown away and replaced. So, sentimentality never held him like it did others. It wasn't like he had much reason to hold onto the past anyway. It was just bad memory after bad memory. He only ever saw it as a reason to push forward, never to look back on with any fondness.

Things were different now, though. Ten years and a whole world separated him from the past. And while things hadn't always been sunshine and rainbows, he'd be the first to call himself a liar if he said that he had no fondness for Buena Village.

For a time—in this place, with these people—Guts had known peace for the first time.

Some days, it bored him to death. Most times, it felt like a rope around his neck. A noose, on the worst days—a leash, most others. Nonetheless, both pulled him towards the same end.

Someone like him had no place here. He was a fighter. Born and raised. Steel, blood, and death touched him every moment of his life. Fighting touched every moment of his life, and his fight was far from over. And yet…

"Thanks, I guess," Guts said, slipping the pendant on.

Sylphie beamed at him, despite his admittedly lackluster attempt at thanking her.

…he didn't hate the idea of holding onto it either.

Peach, huh? Guts thought as he took another look at the gift. This is kind of fitting, isn't it?

To him, peace—true peace—felt like a wooden feather hanging from his neck.

No replacement for the real thing, but he supposed there was no harm in a reminder.

…

Zenith, Lilia, and Paul went last.

Guts felt himself tense up almost immediately. Something was wrong, he could feel it. He could see it—in how they had all gotten up together, in how they didn't have a visible gift in hand, and in how they were all looking at him.

Something big was coming, he knew it.

"Alright, you can come in now," Paul called out, focus directed towards the front door.

Guts narrowed his eyes, following the man's gaze. Mostly out of confusion, not suspicion. Despite the strain on their relationship, Guts trusted Paul enough to rule out an outright betrayal. And even if he didn't, Zenith and Lilia would've never stood beside a plan like that.

No. He was just confused. By the setup, by the secrecy, and by the sadness hiding behind all their smiles.

Hold on, haven't I seen this—?

"—Finally." Before he could finish the question, Guts heard a voice come from behind the front door. Deep, rough, and gruff but obviously belonging to a woman. Then, an instant later, the door flew open. "You made me think I'd be out here all night."

Guts locked eyes with the stranger; and immediately, his instincts started screaming. Her singular brown eye, the other half of her face being hidden behind a combination of her hair and eyepatch. Despite the laid-back nature of her entrance, he had no room to relax. This wasn't a normal woman. No, he'd met people like her before. Dangerous. A warrior. From top to bottom, from skin to bone. Maybe she was something even more wild if the tiger-esque ears on top of her head and tail peeking out from behind her were anything to go by.

The more he looked at her, the more obvious it became. From the long scar splitting her brown skin to the muscular physique she made no effort to hide, and the sword hanging from her hip. There was no mistaking it. Despite her strange choice of dress, it was clear. She could kill everyone in the room if she wanted.

"Quite the reaction, boy," the woman said. He blinked. And within that instant, she closed in on him like a surprise shot to the chest. "Is that why Paul speaks so highly of you?"

Guts frowned as she towered over him. Regardless of the mountain looking down at him, his eyes never left hers.

"Looks like the two of you are having no trouble hitting it off," Paul said, reminding Guts that they weren't alone. "Anyways, I guess it's about time I introduce the two of you. This giant mound of muscle is an old friend of your mother and mine—from all the way back in our adventuring days. Rudy meet Ghislaine—one of the world's few Sword Kings and your new swordplay instructor."

A Sword-King, huh?

Guts felt himself smile like he hadn't done in years.

Ghislaine met him right in the middle, looking at him like a stone wall.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like things were going to get fun.

…

"You want me to go all the way to Roa and be some noble brat's sparring partner?" Guts asked once Paul finished explaining the situation. Apparently, it had been a part of their agreement—a way to both compensate Ghislaine for teaching him, while also appeasing the beastfolk's current employer. "Why does she even need one?" He tilted his head towards Ghislaine, who had kept quiet for Paul's whole explanation. For the most part, she stayed as still as a statue, her arms crossed and back pressed against the wall behind Paul. "Miss 'Sword-King' over there not cutting it or something?"

"First off, she isn't just 'some noble brat'—she's your cousin," Paul corrected. It didn't do much to move Guts, especially after learning how exactly the two of them were related in the first place. The girl in question was Ghislaine's charge, but more importantly, she was the granddaughter of Sauros Boreas Greyrat, Landlord of the Fittoa Region. Technically, a distant uncle of Paul's by a few generations—meaning that they were more connected in name than in blood. "Secondly…." Paul shot a timid glance at Ghislaine. "Yeah, basically."

Guts's eyes drifted over towards Ghislaine. Considering his and Paul's not-so-subtle jabs, he was surprised to see the Sword King nodding along without so much as a frown.

Huh. Calmer than I thought she'd be.

"From what I've been told, the girl is as talented as they come, but she hasn't been able to apply any of it to her actual lessons," Paul continued, leaning back in his chair. "A year's passed and she still hasn't made it past Beginner-tier—isn't that right, Ghislaine?"

The beastfolk nodded. "It is."

"Everyone seems convinced it's because she doesn't have anyone at her level to practice with," Paul added. "Honestly speaking, I can see where they're coming from. Ghislaine is a total dumbass, but if there's one thing she knows, it's how to swing a sword—so I doubt it's got anything to do with how she's teaching the girl."

The implication made sense. Although, Guts couldn't really relate to it. He'd been taught the sword two times now. First by Gambino, and then by Paul. In both cases, there was never a point where he thought matching their strength was hopeless. To him, every loss to them was just another reason to get stronger—and no matter how frustrated he got, he just used it as motivation. Then again, he wasn't like most kids. And Ghislaine wasn't like most sword instructors. She was a Sword King. One of the strongest swordsmen in the world, and there was only so much holding back someone that strong could do before they made other people feel like bugs in comparison.

Speaking of bugs, there was one thing about the stipulation that was bugging him.

"Why's it gotta be me?" Guts asked. "She's only Beginner-tier, right? Are Roa's swordsmen so shit that they can't even match that?"

"Hey, watch your language," Paul said, sounding more reflexive than berating. "And to answer your question, it's more like they can't match her. Apparently, she's got a really bad violent streak." Guts glanced over to Ghislaine for confirmation. She nodded without any hesitation. "Each time they've gotten her a sparring partner, she's beat them up so badly, they quit within a day or two of being hired. Beginner-tier or Intermediate-tier, it doesn't matter. She's so naturally talented that she makes quick work of them—regardless of any skill gaps. And, even if they do manage to beat her, she finds ways to make their lives hell in or out of sparring."

"They try any Advanced-tiers?"

"Honestly, most Advanced-tiers have got better things to do than play-fight some rich girl, even if she's the Landlord's granddaughter. The ones who don't are usually so past their prime that they don't last long against her either."

Guts refrained from asking the obvious question, in response to what Paul was obviously implying about him. Largely because, as much as he hated to admit it, the man was right. Guts didn't have anything better to do. He had spent the last ten years living a child's life. A life as peaceful as it was mind-numbing. A life that—if he spent the next two years just as they agreed, living in wait for the day he was allowed to leave—would meander to the point of meaninglessness. Really, thinking about it like that, the opportunity felt too good to refuse. Like he'd have to be an idiot to pass on it for pride and comfort's sake. Not only would he be able to test his mettle against a Sword King, he'd get a two-year headstart on his real goal: finding a way back to his world. Back to Casca.

"It's a pretty good deal if you think about it," Paul said, as if sensing his trepidation. "Not only are they offering you room and board, but they're offering a decent salary too. And all you'd have to do is exactly what you've already been doing. Just, uh, somewhere else. With someone else."

"Fine," Guts said, finding no reason to disagree. "Is that all?"

"Oh, right, one more thing." Paul thumbed over towards Ghislaine. "Muscles-for-Brains wants you to teach her how to read, write, and do math. It's how she wants to be repaid for being your swordplay instructor."

Guts blinked, then turned to the beastfolk woman.

Ghislaine didn't even have the decency to look away in shame, despite outright admitting that a kid had her beat on all fronts. In fact, it was probably the most engaged she'd been in the entire conversation. Meaning that it probably meant a lot to her. Also meaning there was no probably room to haggle either.

Guts sighed but relented. It felt like his life was about to get a lot more complicated.

…

Guts was going to accept Ghislaine's offer. There was no way he could say 'no'.

Now, there were obvious drawbacks. He didn't like the idea of being beholden to a group of nobles—even if the Boreas Greyrats were technically family. Nobles were fickle. Even worse, they were just as spineless and slimy. Surrounded by so much faux goodwill and pageantry that, to Guts, a snake seemed more earnest in comparison. And that was them at their best. At their worst…? There was probably a reason why so many of the apostles he had killed were or wanted to be nobles. In general, once he left the Band of the Hawk, he did his best to avoid rubbing elbows with them—because more often than not, things got bloody when he didn't. And they got bloody fast.

Although, in the case of the Boreas Greyrats, Guts just disliked the idea of having to take orders—a small price to pay to some but meant a whole lot more to him. He would never bend the knee. Not for anyone, not for anything. His life was his own, and he'd rather die again before letting someone else dictate it, but… If it meant getting back to Casca… If he was truly serious about getting back to her… As long as he didn't get dragged into any of their nobility bullshit… He'd endure it. He wasn't naive or idealistic enough to think that he'd achieve his goals without some sort of sacrifice.

However, his employers weren't the only problem with the arrangement…

"I'm going to miss you, Rudy," Zenith whined as she pulled him into her chest. Obviously, she had her own reservations about the deal. Reservations that were fueled by the mead she had downed before wrapping around him like a snake. "You better take good care of him, Ghislaine! Don't let his strong and stoic act fool you! Deep down, he's one big softie!"

Right now, though, her one concern seemed to be embarrassing him as much as possible before leaving.

"Do you know how many times I've seen him sleeping with his sword?" Zenith asked, her voice frustrated and slurred. "It's like he can't fall asleep without hugging it!"

And Guts had to admit, she was doing a great job of it.

In response, Ghislaine just smirked and nodded. She had drunk some as well—and so her cheeks were a little flushed—but she was still nowhere as drunk as Zenith was. "There a problem with that?"

"Huh? What do you mean? Of course, there's a problem! Normal kids hug toys or pillows or whatever! Not swords! Who needs a sword to sleep at night?"

"Warriors. And those who want to be warriors."

"He's a ten-year-old boy! Who hasn't been in a real fight in his entire life! He's as much of a warrior as Norn or Aisha!"

Guts let out a sigh, resigned to his fate. He wasn't trapped or anything. The party ended a while ago. Sylphie and her family had already gone home, Lilia had already taken Norn and Aisha up to bed, and neither Roxy nor Paul were conscious—both having passed out on the dining room table. Guts, Ghislaine, and Zenith were the only people still awake; so for all intents and purposes, there was no need for him to play along anymore. He wasn't trapped or anything. Even as a child, he was plenty strong enough to pull away from his mother's grasp. However…

"Being a warrior has nothing to do with age," Ghislaine countered, tipping back another swig from her mug. "It's something that comes naturally."

"Oh, would you quit it with all that 'warrior' talk!" his mother yelled back, tightening her grip on him. "He's still my little boy—one who already doesn't lean on his mother enough as it is! Don't you know how embarrassing that is for me? I'm a grown woman, and I feel jealous of a sword!"

…despite how embarrassing her words were…

"And it's not even a very good-looking sword!"

…there was a warmth in them. In everything about her really. Even now.

A warmth that—just this once—he'd admit to missing. Long past his leaving. This place, and this world.

Guts had never known what it was like to have a mother. So, for as long as he still could, he wanted to bask in her glow. In her arms. In her warmth. In her everything.

Even if it was only for a little while longer.

…

Ghislaine was expected back at her post in a day's time. In theory, it took around a day to get from Buena Village to Roa by horseback, meaning that—if she wanted to make it back in time—she and Guts would have to set out the morning after the party.

"You ready?" The beastfolk woman asked, already standing at the gate. Right behind her, a coach stood in wait for the both of them.

All things considered, Guts would have rather walked to Roa. Wagon, coach, or carriage; it didn't matter. Things tended to go to shit whenever he rode one, but a free ride was a free ride—and honestly, he could care less if things went sideways on the way. Actually, it was preferable to hours of doing nothing. He'd been itching for a real fight anyway.

Guts nodded, adjusting the two things that hung from his back. On his right shoulder, he had the longsword Paul had gifted him on his fifth birthday—and right behind it, hung a burlap sack with some of his belongings. In totality, he was bringing along spare clothes, the cloak Sylphie's parents had made for him, and some other odds and ends he figured might be useful in Roa: like the book on monsters his mother had given him.

"Good." Ghislaine nodded back. Then, her eyes shifted behind him, and nodded again. In acknowledgment to all the people who had come to see him off, if he had to guess. "It's a long ride to Roa. Hope you're ready."

Guts hummed and headed her way. Idly, while doing so, he couldn't help but think about how familiar this all felt. Then, he realized he'd done something like this before. Leaving home. Or, at the very least, leaving family like this.

A long time ago, he had left the Hawks; and then, he had left Casca. All in service of a goal he had no idea to put words to. Just that it was something he needed to do. To crawl and claw after it until an end was reached. Either its or his. Whatever came first.

Really, thinking about it a little more, the three situations weren't entirely the same. The similarities were there and they made him wish that—just this once—things would turn out differently. Better.

"I'll miss you, Rudy!" However, before he was halfway to the carriage, Zenith called out to him and stopped him in his tracks. "Write when you can! And don't forget that we'll always be here for you!"

"Bye-bye, Rudy!" Then Sylphie did the same. "I hope we can see each other again!"

"Goodbye, Rudy." Then Roxy. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"Goodbye, Master Rudeus." And then Lilia.

"See ya later, Rudy!" Even Paul said something. "Roa might be a big city, but try and stay focused on your job while you're there! And if not, no worries! You're a Greyrat, after all! Just try and keep from making me and your mother grandparents too early! We're still way too young for that!"

It was all so embarrassing, but it was enough to remind him of a fact he couldn't deny…. Between this and then, present and past, things were different. There was a whole world of distance. The only proof was staring right at him; Zenith, Paul, Lilia, Roxy, and Sylphie, all smiling and waving him goodbye.

Because, unlike all throughout his past life, Guts did look back.

…

Chapter End.