Bro, I’m not an Undead!

Maugor was considered a talented assassin.

She had considered herself the same too.

For someone to be able to endure restricting their instincts and taking to patience, striking in quick, quiet and efficient blows… it was a feat to be commended.

Unlike everyone else, except her teacher, Maugor had to suffer through having a Class that was despised all throughout Maqi.

Stealth.

Patience.

Swiftness.

None of it was rewarded or regarded with any form of prestige or respect within the large, eccentric nation. After all, in Maqi, the form of combat everyone considered to be worth any attention at all, was that which disregarded all else to heed raw instinct.

This was why the nation had been recognised as the bastion of humanity and the hub of the strongest humans alive in the entire world.

The men and women there were a far cry from being worthy to be termed as barbarians, but the induction of their motto since the founding of Maqi, called for everyone who was proud to be part of it, to carve it in their hearts with an almost maniacal level of devotion.

FACE AHEAD, NOWHERE ELSE.

Not your body, regardless of how torn it is.

Not your weapon, nomatter how worn it is.

Not your allies on the field, nomatter how much they call for help.

The motto was obnoxious and idealistic in a very, very tragic way.

Indeed.

Even the First Horn, the current King of Maqi, had recognised the flaw in it as well. It was unrealistic and ancient.

His intervention and mind-set, was why Maugor was here right now.

The tall woman sat on the dry ground and exhaled.

“Mission failed,” she said as plainly as she could in her normal bestial voice.

Somehow, it had mutated, as she spent fifteen years of her life training in silence, being punished torturously for spilling even a decibel of sound during her ruthless ‘Five Segments To Calm’ training. She had become a legitimate mute for a long time during this exercise, which was crafted to hone her ability to remain silent and to wait for opportune moments to strike.

She took deep breaths.

The air in this nation, Pelian, was stale.

There was too much human in it. Human, mixed in with a lot of things she couldn’t quite recognise.

When she had been younger, she remembered drinking up the fresh air of home greedily whenever she returned from a trip outside Maqi. The minty flavour that she often detected in its migrant body near the lush forests, the aquatic scent it gave when it passed by rivers and falls, the dry and crispy grit it would carry when she passed plains…

The air was empowering.

It was enriching.

Maugor often thought that maybe… maybe Maqi still retained a semblance of the glory of the olden times, where mana was air and air was mana, within its embrace champions being spurned every year.

It was nice to think about.

From the distance behind the tree she leaned on, a familiar rhythm of footsteps came, crushing slowly yet detestfully on the dried grass.

“How crushing,” a voice came.

“I already said it for you to hear. Do you have to remind me?” she said without turning. “You were watching weren’t you?”

A harrumph was heard.

Beside her stood a short, stout man.

In truth, this was an understatement. He exceeded that parameter by a fair bit… to instead look like a pear. The fact that he wore nothing but a pair of long pants made of a thick, black, shaggy hide with white ends, made his shape even more apparent. His torso which had no traces of firm flesh, looked like a small castle of pudding, atop it, a perfectly round head.

That said, he had fairly wise looking face, fitted with small, ruby-like eyes that looked to peer through the soul.

“You’ve gotten very talkative since your training. I should have known you were a subpar candidate to begin with. Unravelling as you please,” he said mockingly. “And yes, I watching. That was not the way of an assassin.”

Maugor turned to him with the same kind of bile sponsored scowl.

“Your honey plastered comments from years ago have finally showed their true, dung flavoured colours, huh?”ραпdα `nᴏνɐ| сom

“With this, they definitely have.”

The two stewed in their hostility for a while without a word between each other.

In all honesty, no words were really needed between them; between student and teacher. They both had the same habits, mannerisms and Class after all.

Maugor hung her head.

“I thought I had more time,” she said in a low voice.

“You did. The First Horn was merciful enough to give you TWO weeks.”

“…”

“…But that’s a lie. Even you know that,” the man said with a deep sigh. “The moment he said that to me, I knew his mind had already taken to other ideas rather than my own. All things considered, he did give me a fair chance.”

Indeed. He had been given quite a bit of time.

ραпdα -n૦νe| , c૦m

Maugor kept her head hung low.

Only she knew how much it hurt to grit her teeth so fiercely. So hiddenly.

“The First Horn is different from the past rulers. He recognised what most others couldn’t. That a nation’s strength, while committing to tradition, can be nuanced. Just because we was open and forthcoming, doesn’t mean we can’t have assassins for assignments that require a less bombastic approach! He… he understood that!”

Hints of frustration showed in the man’s voice; in his eyes and in the bulging columns of blood vessels on his neck as he strained through each word.

“He gave me a chance, and when I set to create what I hoped, oh, fortune thought it too fortunate and made my spine as fickle as a twig. Alas, I had to…. manufacture replacements and prove the worth of this division through YOU.”

Maugor remained silent for a while, as did her teacher after saying all this.

“So, after all my wasted years, this is how I die…?” she asked.

“It’s either you or me. I can only benefit from the one. TWO WEEKS. Two choices,” he said with a hard face.

Maugor finally raised her head.

Her face looked as perfectly bratty and rebellious as the man remembered, with not a single tear in sight.

To that, he gave a brief smile.

At least she wasn’t going to serve up a cacophony of worded weakness before passing.

“What about the mission?” Maugor asked. “That Sif Princess? Will you sent the others to finish her off?”

The man looked into Maugor’s eyes curiously before answering.

“I doubt the First Horn cares for her much. He just wanted to be courteous to our allies who proposed the idea. My suggesting that I could have you do it quickly probably extended his wish to try this uncharacteristic plan, but now…” the man paused. “…I’m sure he’ll just want to raze Opungale to the ground with a full army, once and for all.”

Maugor gave it some thought.

“He understands nuance, you said?” a mocking tone escaped her lips.

“Tradition and history are two separate things,” the stout man said as a sharp ray of mana clad his hand, its sharp edge slicing off the thick trunk of the tree inches from it.

“Comeuppance must be served as the main dish to History, while Tradition… Well, it’s more like a one course meal.”

Maugor gave a laugh.

“You always told the worst jokes. I guess I’m just the one that never came from your lips.”

Another micro smile shot from the man’s face before he replied.

“Hmmm. You’re right. Maybe the others won’t be. I’ll give them your regards.”

In the secluded space, a head rolled.

—

[Author’s Note]

And that concludes this arc. Finally. Took a while with the delays and all, but here we are.

We are now entering into the final arc of the volume. The Royale. Strap in, enjoy and feel free to leave your comments!