Continue On, Struggler | Chapter 11, The Approach.

…

The coach reached Roa—right as evening threatened to take the sky. True to Ghislaine's word, the trip took the better part of a day.

Guts watched the capital city grow near. Even from afar, it seemed every bit deserving of the distinction.

In his experience, the more important the city, the better built its walls. And Roa's walls stretched far, wide, and encircled the city in a layer of brick and mortar that rivaled even the largest cities he'd seen in his past life. Maybe only being beaten out by Wyndham.

Guts clicked his tongue. Just then, as they neared the city gates, he remembered that he hated cities. He hated everything about them. The crowds. The chatter. The commotion. All the people. More than he's seen or heard in over a decade, even with nightfall coming. Soon enough, foot traffic—dense, even outside the city gates—swallowed the coach and slowed it to a crawl.

He leaned back in his seat. Typical city bullshit, he thought. Can't even get in without something getting in the way.

As the coach pulled past the city gate, Guts glanced over at the beastfolk woman sitting across from him. He realized, as he did, that he never took the time to take her in. And she was a sight to see, that was for certain. From her tanned skin; to her absurdly muscular form, which seemed to flaunt with her lack of practical clothing and armor; to her long, platinum-brown hair that hid the eyepatch over her right eye; to her feline-like ears and tail. She cut one of the most unique figures he'd ever seen. One that, as a man, he didn't mind seeing.

"You've got something you want to say, kid?" She asked, her brow twitching. "Spit it out. We'll be at the manor soon. Once we get there, you're not gonna get a word out 'til after you're done talking to Lord Greyrat. Best get any questions you have out of the way now while you still can."

Guts didn't say anything at first. He looked back out the window, half to hide his staring and half to spite the woman for catching him. And then, in the sea of people passing by, he took notice of the number of armed men and women in the crowds rising. All around a single building made of wood and stone, standing taller and spanning larger than all of the other buildings around it.

Curious about it, Guts turned back to Ghislaine. He thumbed it and asked, "What's that building over there?"

"Hm?" Ghislaine followed his thumb—then, all of a sudden, furrowed her brows. "Hah?" Her voice grew irritated and she rose up from her seat. "You making fun of me?"

Guts cinched his brows together, not getting the reaction. "Huh? Am I not allowed to ask questions?"

"You were being serious?" Ghislaine asked, blinking.

Guts nodded.

"Oh." As quickly as she jumped out of her seat, the beastfolk woman sat back down in it. "That was the Adventurer's Guild. Or, at least, one of their smaller branch buildings. The main one is further into the city, near Greyrat Manor."

Guts let out a hum. He took a glance back out the window, to catch one last glimpse of it before the coach pulled it out of sight.

"Why ask?" she asked. "You thinking about joining up?"

"More than just thinking about it."

"Is that right?" For whatever reason, his answer seemed to pique her interest. "I'll bring you whenever we're free."

"Um…" Guts trailed off, surprised. "Thanks?"

"No need," Ghislaine said, smiling and nodding to herself.

Guts nodded, working his way through the sudden shift in atmosphere.

…

"That's the lord's manor," Ghislaine said, getting up from her seat to point it out to him. Her finger led to a stone structure on the skyline that dwarfed all others around it, which were all big in their own right.

"Pretty big for a manor," Guts said, having seen smaller castles back in Midland.

"You expected something different?"

"Fair enough."

Guts tracked the building as it neared. His memories flashed back to the last time he set foot in a building that large. He remembered the party. A lot of blood, and a lot of monsters. It hadn't gone well. Not for him, not for the people inside. He expected no different now.

…

The stagecoach rolled to a stop. A few moments later, Guts found himself being ushered out of it and into the manor by its staff, all dressed in stiff suits and maids' clothes. They also forced him to surrender his sword before being allowed entry. He complied, but not without making his distaste with it clear.

Guts and Ghislaine followed the staff through the manor. Going through so many stairs and corridors that it was almost dizzying. Up until they reached a room so ornate, with a ceiling so high he half-expected to see gold-laced clouds forming at its top. In its center, two padded benches faced each other. On the way, a butler—an old man with a large, grey mustache—had called it the 'reception room'. The place, Guts guessed, where he'd meet his soon-to-be-employers. Who were also apparently family.

"Please take a seat," the butler said.

Guts frowned. The idea didn't sit well with him, not when he didn't have his sword. In a place like this, writhing with noble bullshit, actions were never done for their sake alone. Sitting puts a person at a disadvantage. Made them relax. And put one extra step between them and defending themselves. A dangerous thing to do in the company of strangers.

Still, Guts gritted his teeth, bore through it, and sat down. This wasn't the first time dealing with nobles. He knew how they operated, how the tiny things always seemed to set them off the fastest. To them, you either bowed or stopped existing. There was no in-between. So, he did as he was told. No matter how much he disliked it.

In contrast, Ghislaine drifted away from the conversation. Off into a far corner. Probably to keep a survey of the room. Of him. A reminder, Guts guessed, of the fact that she had already pledged her loyalties elsewhere.

"The young master should be here in a moment," the butler said. "Please wait here until he does."

Guts hummed, a bit irked.

Without saying another word, the butler poured some tea into a gaudy-looking cup and retreated back to the entrance of the room.

Guts glanced at the cup, steam wafting up from dark brown water, before dismissing it. Poison concerned him, but he doubted the Boreas Greyrats would drag him out here just to kill him. He just didn't like tea.

"Where is he?!"

All of a sudden, a voice—deep and angry, almost like thunder—boomed from somewhere in front of him. Muffled a little by the manor's walls. Followed by footfalls so strong they shook the floor beneath him.

"In here?!"

The doors across from him exploded open, revealing the origin of the noise. An old man. His red eyes snapped onto Guts with the immediacy of an apex predator. Tall, muscular, and menacing—every bit the opposite of what Guts had expected to come through those doors. The man in front of him was no prissy noble. He was the very wall circling Roa. Its living embodiment. More of a fortress than anything else. That's all Guts needed to guess his identity.

The old man was none other than Sauros Boreas Greyrat, landlord of the Fittoa Region.

Guts met the man's gaze, intense and imposing, without any hesitation or difficulty. The kind designed to make others feel small and demanded nothing short of total obedience. All without saying a word.

"Have you no sense of decorum, boy?!" The voice echoed the look in his eyes. "Stand and introduce yourself!"

Guts bristled, suddenly reminded as to why he hated nobles.

"Master Sauros, it's my understanding that this is the first time young Rudeus has ever been outside of Buena Village." For whatever reason, the butler rushed to his defense. "I am sure he has yet to be taught proper etiquette. Surely, just this once, you could forgive his ignorance—"

"—You! Shut up!" Not that it mattered to the old man. "Do you not see the way he looks at me? His idiot father might not have seen it fit to teach him manners, but his impudence is all his own!" The man marched up to Guts, casting his shadow over him. "Tell me, boy. I am Sauros Boreas Greyrat. Lord of all Fittoa. Just who do you think you are?"

Guts didn't falter. He refused to. He refused to let this old coot walk all over him. Screw him, screw his title, and screw whatever power the old man thought he had—because he wouldn't have any over Guts. Pissing him off might lose him all that he had come to Roa for, but he refused to sell his pride to keep hold of it. He'd done that once before. Back in his past life, bending the knee, thinking that it would be worth it in the end. Look where that got him. He would be damned if he did it again.

Guts stood him from his seat and returned the man's glare, in full. "Rudeus Greyrat. Son of Paul and Zenith Greyrat."

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The two's eyes stayed locked. What felt like an eternity passed. Then, Sauros crossed his arms over his chest, snorted, and said, "Impudent! But you've already shown more spine than all the other members of the Notos line combined. Learn how to introduce yourself, and I will allow you to stay!"

Guts clicked his tongue. "Fine."

Sauros turned and stomped off. He exited as he entered: loudly, without saying anything at all.

Guts continued to glare at him, all while thinking, What a blowhard…

"My apologies, Master Rudeus," the butler said as his lord disappeared into the hallway. "I should have taken your circumstances into account and better prepared you."

Guts rolled his eyes, disliking the stiffness. "It's fine."

"Thank you for your understanding," the butler said, bowing his head.

Guts felt his skin crawl at the formality. He should've gotten used to it by now. Lilia used it with him, even after she married Paul, but he still hated it. Mostly because it reminded him that he was related to the loud asshat leaving the room.

"What's going on, Alphonse?" Before the old man could say anything more, a man—thin, lanky, messy brown hair, finely dressed in green, eyes closed like Serpico—came into the room, coming in through the same door Sauros exited. "I just passed by my father and he seemed in a cheerier mood than usual. Did something of significance occur?"

'Father', huh? That must mean he's…

Stiffly, still facing Guts, the butler raised his arm towards the newcomer and introduced him, "Master Rudeus, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Phillip Boreas Greyrat, only son of Sauros Boreas Greyrat."

Guts and Phillip exchanged glances. The older of the two paired his with a bow.

Seeing that, the butler turned towards Phillip. "To answer your previous question, Lord Sauros came to meet with Master Rudeus before you arrived. A bit of an argument broke out."

"And you're still here?" his uncle asked, surprise evident, and turned to face Guts. "Quite the achievement. You still being here, I mean. More often than not, those who cross my father rarely stick around long enough to do so again."

"And?" Guts asked, thoroughly unimpressed.

"I see now that Paul wasn't exaggerating," his uncle said, sitting down on the sofa facing Guts. He gestured for Guts to do the same with his palm. Guts obliged. The fancy clothes and uptight attitude obscured it some, but after hearing him speak, he sensed it. Danger, hidden by his appearance. Like a snake slithering through tree branches. "Question, how old are you?"

"Ten," Guts said. "As of yesterday."

"And you weren't intimidated by my father? Not at all?"

Guts shook his head.

"Then, you must be as unflappable as my cousin says."

Guts narrowed his eyes at the man, suspicious, not understanding where he was going.

"Oh, right, we've yet to properly introduce ourselves. My apologies."

Guts shrugged and waited for the man to make the first move. Phillip didn't move at all; neither did Guts; and so, the two of them ended up staring at each other. In total silence.

"Hm," Phillip hummed. "I think I can guess as to what drew my father's ire." He smiled. Guts frowned. "In court, when nobles meet, the one of lesser standing always introduces themselves first. Usually with a hand to their heart and a bow of their head. Allow me to demonstrate." His uncle stood, demonstrated, and—upon next raising his head—asked, "I assume your parents failed to teach you this?"

Guts nodded.

"How very much like Paul." His uncle snorted, cracking a smile. "Anyways, shall we start over?"

"Rudeus Greyrat." Guts stood and did his best to mimic his uncle; although, it did make his skin crawl.

"Good enough," the nobleman said, before performing his own bow. "My name is Phillip Boreas Greyrat. It's good to finally meet you, nephew." He sat back down, gesturing for Guts to do the same. "Now, shall we discuss the terms of your employment?"

Guts agreed and sat back down, itching to be done with the formalities.

"How much have you been told?" Phillip asked.

"About the job? I know that I'm here to be some girl's sparring partner; and that I've got the position until the day she turns fifteen, or whenever I'm no longer needed. Whatever comes first."

"Was that all you were told?"

"Yeah. Why, was there more?"

Phillip stayed silent a moment. "No, that'll suffice for now," he said, in a way that wasn't altogether convincing. "Tell me…" He paused, clearly contemplating. "Do you like girls?"

"I prefer women."

An awkward beat of silence passed between them.

"…Oh?" Phillip asked, as if shocked by the distinction. Guts paid it no mind. He had the body of a ten-year-old, so the reaction made sense. "I guess you pass then."

Guts blinked, confused.

"Don't look too confused." Phillip chuckled. "Back when he was your age, Paul bent over backward and forwards to please a cute girl." He shrugged. "I assumed that, as his son, you would be more or less the same. I guess I was wrong. My apologies."

Guts felt a sudden urge hit him. A violent urge. One that involved Guts taking his uncle by the throat and throttling it until all life left him. Because, in his mind, the comparison felt like one of the worst insults he'd ever received. In all his two lives. Appearance aside, he was nothing like Paul, especially when it came to women. In that regard, the man was unmatched. An idiot among idiots.

"For now, if you'd allow me to be honest a moment, I'm not expecting much out of you," Phillip said. "I just figured that, since you're Paul's son, I may as well give you a chance."

"You don't think I'll cut it as her sparring partner?"

"I have no doubts about your skills with a sword," Phillip told him, waving the question away literally. "Your father raved about your skills in his letters to me. Outright told me that he thinks you'll surpass him in skill one day. For a man like Paul, that's high praise. The kind he wouldn't heap on a person without reason, not even his son. There isn't a doubt in my mind you'll be a fine sparring partner for my daughter, that's not the issue here."

Guts shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. Unsure as to how much of Paul's praise was said in earnest. "Then, what's the issue?"

"Well, quite simply," Phillip began, discomfort leaking into his voice, "I'm not hiring you just to be her sparring partner."

Guts narrowed his eyes at the implication.

"My daughter, she's what you might call…" Phillip trailed off, pursing his lips together. "A recluse, one with a penchant for violence at that.

"To my knowledge, Ghislaine is the only person whose presence she tolerates. Likewise, and most importantly, Ghislaine is the only person who tolerates her. Edna—her current etiquette teacher—used to be the same, but as of late, she's been unable to get through to that girl." Phillip heaved a heavy sigh before continuing, "To be perfectly frank with you, she's completely out of control."

"And what?" Guts asked. "You need me to reel her back in?"

"No, that much won't be necessary," Phillip said, speaking with a finality that made Guts want to balk. A finality—Guts felt—either borne from exhaustion or sadness; either way, the man showed more genuine emotion in those six words than he did the whole of their conversation. "She's a lost cause; her mother and I have come to terms with that fact. In less than three year's time, she will become a woman. Right now, if at possible, we'd like her to have the skills to make something of herself—even if it's the realms of swordplay."

"You want me to babysit her then."

"You're free to consider it that way, if you wish." Phillip leaned forward in his seat, put his hands up on his knees, and interlocked his fingers. "Anyways, for the moment, I see no need to overcomplicate things." He stood and gestured to the door Guts had come in from. "My father has permitted you to stay here. I do as well. I will tell the staff to bring your belongings to your room. In the meantime, I think it's time we introduce you to my daughter." He looked over Guts, towards Ghislaine. "Ghislaine? Join us please."

Guts nodded and stood.

Suddenly, Phillip let out a snort. "You know, you really are exactly as Paul described."

Guts waited for him to elaborate.

"He told me that it always seemed as though you wanted to be someplace else."

Guts shrugged, knowing it mostly to be true.

…

Phillip and Alphonse, the butler, led Guts to the girl's bedroom. Ghislaine followed them in silence. The double doors to which, like all of the other doors in the manor, had been draped in so much ornate finery that they looked more nauseating than impressive.

Phillip went up to the doors, knocked three times, and called out, "Eris?"

"What?!" A voice came from the other side, somewhat muffled and obviously displeased.

"Do you remember what we discussed a few months ago?" Phillip asked. "About getting you a sparring partner?" Being met with silence, Phillip continued. "He's arrived. Would you care to meet him?"

Again, silence. Then, from behind the door, the girl stomped around the room—doing so with enough force that he could track her position off their volume alone. They started soft and only got softer, meaning she moved away from them. He heard the scraping of wood and a shuffle of feet. And then, the stomps grew louder and louder, only ceasing when they reached the door. A mechanic click. The doors flew open.

A girl stood on the other side. Eris, Guts figured. Pale skin, long-haired, red-headed, and half a head taller than him. Where her father seemed the epitome of the stuck-up nobles Guts hated so much, she looked like a caged animal. Her hair looked tangled and greasy, like it had gone days without being brushed or washed; her dress—cream-topped, crimson-bottomed, visibly much more expensive than anything he'd ever seen in Buena Village—sat sloppy and wrinkled on her body, like it had been put on in haste; and, even from where he stood, he could smell her. Of sweat and sun exposure, he recognized. The very opposite of a sheltered noble girl. Wild. A trait that showed in her eyes. Red, sharp, and glaring. Not at him, but past him. At Phillip.

"I thought I told you not to bother," Eris said, teeth grit. "I don't need anyone other than Ghislaine."

Phillip frowned and sighed—the first, deep, the second, somehow deeper. Guts could see it: some previous argument these two had long before Guts's arrival; and, from the looks of it, it had done some damage.

"Ghislaine, you explain," Phillip said. Guts snorted. "This was your idea, after all."

"Of course," Ghislaine said, not hesitating.

Eris knit her brows together. Her glare jumped from her father to the beastfolk woman. It softened a bit and then hardened back up again.

"Is that true?" she asked, her tone pointed and accusatory.

Ghislaine nodded. "Your improvement's stalled. You know it. I know it."

"And?" Eris snarled.

"I figured that this would be the best way to solve that problem."

For the first time, Eris met his gaze. She looked unimpressed. In fact, as her eyes drilled into him, Guts thought he could see hints of disgust. "How is he going to help me? He's younger than me, smaller too!"

Guts bristled. Not so much from the insults, but at the contempt she had for him. It was palpable. Not just in what she said, but in how she stood and how she looked at him. She didn't look just angry or just disgusted. She looked tense too—like them standing there was some sort of grand insult to her. It became clear. She didn't want to be here, having this conversation or considering what Ghislaine and her father offered. In short, she had made up her mind long before she ever opened the door.

"Yes, but he's still stronger than you," Ghislaine said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Huh?" Eris asked, her voice full of insult. "You think he's better than me?" She released the doors and stepped towards the beastwoman. "Why?"

"No, I know he's better than you." For her part, Ghislaine stood her ground. Firmly. Eris took a step back. "I've been your teacher for three years now and you still haven't grown past Beginner-tier. Rudeus is two years younger and he's already done that and more."

Eris scoffed. "How do you know it's not just because his teacher—"

"—His teacher is one of the most well-rounded swordsmen I know." Without hesitation, the teacher cut the student off. "And he's not the type to give out ranks without reason."

Eris grits her teeth and ground her foot into the ground. She kept glaring at Ghislaine, who backed down none. The two clashed for a good while. One glared, the other admonished—a back-and-forth that Ghislaine won. And had won, the moment Phillip asked Ghilsaine to step in. It became obvious as the conversation ran on. Ghislaine—her words—held too much sway on the girl. Every argument made her buckle. She might've been able to hold firm if she had been arguing with her father, but against Ghislaine? She only argued for argument's sake, solely to make her displeasure known.

Right then, Guts saw his opportunity to step in.

"Duel me," Guts told Eris, his challenge direct.

The girl balked, stared, and scrunched her face up. She stomped up to him, getting so close that they were almost chest-to-chest. He saw it right then and there. The same look her grandfather had. She looked down at him, not just physically, but in every way possible.

"What'd you say to me?" she growled.

"You heard me," he growled, right back. "Duel me. I win, I stay. You win, I leave."

"…Fine."

Guts grinned. It seemed they both understood that they spoke the same language.

Fuck talking. There didn't need to be any more talking. They needed one thing: a fight.

…

Chapter End.