Chapter 19 – The Terrible Master and Disciple (2)

The Terrible Master and Disciple (2)

“How have you been feeling…”

As expected, when I turned around, what appeared was a woman with orange hair reaching down to her feet. She had a face that made it hard to believe she had lived for over 200 years.

“…Master.”

“Ah, I’ve been well. Looking at the new scars on your face… it seems you’ve had a rough time.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Master Rekke nodded her head while shouldering a basket. Her clothes were smeared with dirt from wherever she had been. Truly, nothing about her has changed.

Perhaps realizing something from the prolonged gaze, Master dusted off her shoulders and set down the basket.

Then she rummaged through the piled-up herbs. She sifted through various unnamed herbs and then spoke to me without even looking at me.

“The Demon King of this era was quite formidable, wasn’t he? How strong was he?”

How strong was he.
Asking me that… I didn’t directly contribute to the defeat of the Demon King. I scratched my head with a bitter smile.

“As you know… that strength is quite subjective, isn’t it? How could I casually discuss power? I just accept things as they are.”

“You’re long-winded.”

“…Yes, he was incredibly strong. Honestly, at first, I thought Troka wouldn’t be able to win.”

The battle was fierce. The hero party, myself included, couldn’t even step foot in the final chamber and all retired. It was an embarrassing fight, being defeated by just one of the subordinates.

“According to the stories, it was said that with comrades, it could be handled easily, but we had a tough time. Somehow, Troka ended up facing the Demon King alone.”

“A hero should be able to overcome such situations.”

“It’s not easy to assert that a human can easily turn such situations around.”

I spoke with a firm tone. It might have seemed a bit arrogant, but I crossed my arms and slightly shook my head, directing my gaze at the Master. Master, whom I hadn’t seen in a long time, seemed immeasurably large.

But I didn’t back down.

That day’s final battle was a struggle. No, it was more appropriate to call it a fight to the death. It was a battle that Troka won by a hair’s breadth.
Would it be right to call that desperate fight, which would have been lost without a last resort, something to be taken for granted?

Master narrowed her eyes and looked up at me. Then she sighed deeply as if the ground was sinking. She looked somewhat adorable, crouching and holding the herbs in both hands.

“Talking with you is never an easy task. Fine, you’ve always been that kind of person anyway.”

“…If that’s a compliment, I’ll gladly accept it.”

“Tsk. Sly bastard.”

Master clicked her tongue shortly and put the basket back on her back. In one hand, she held the carefully selected herbs.

“By the way, Master, those herbs?”

“They’re for you lot to take. Don’t even think about passing them by without a taste, especially since they’re all good for the body….”

Cough, cough, cough.

Before I could finish speaking, a fit of coughing burst forth. Blood was thickly smeared on the hand covering my mouth. She was frail to begin with, but it seems her illness has worsened.

Worried that her condition might be critical, I tried to approach, but Master rejected me. Her attempt to reassure me by feebly waving her hand was somehow pitiable.

“I’m… I’m fine. So don’t waste your thoughts on me.”

She wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and stood up. Her body was unsteady, looking dangerously fragile.

Putting on a stubborn front just because she’s in front of her disciple.
Like this place, which hasn’t changed a bit, Master hasn’t changed either.

“Go and prepare a place to sleep. The sleeping bag is in the storeroom; just take it out. Since you’ve come, you might as well stay a few days.”

“…Depending on the situation, I might descend the mountain again today.”

“Go down by yourself. You ought to get a good thrashing without Troka.”

“I’ve tried this and that since I last descended. Climbing up is hard, but going down should be easy now. Probably.”

“Hmph, only you’re talking out your ass.”

Master dismissed my words and started washing the herbs.

What is she thinking right now?
What would happen if I announced his death?

I’ve delivered the news twice before, but no matter how many times I do it, it never gets easier to announce someone’s passing.

“You’re all talk and probably plotting some dubious scheme. Talking with you is no fun; call Troka. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, and I can’t believe he went outside so soon…”

Master spoke as if lamenting.

My gaze turned to the ceiling. Was it really right to tell a dying Master about the death of her favorite disciple?

Even if she considers Troka a tool for her own purposes, seeing someone frail like this softens anyone’s heart. It’s like the feeling when you send away an abusive mother, a mix of relief and an empty sensation.
Is that why I held back my words?

“…You will know when the time comes.”

“Good grief, make your words easier to understand…”

“It’s getting a bit harder for you to understand in your old age. It’s a bit much to accuse someone who narrowly missed first place in a speech contest.”

“Shut up.”

For now, I let it slide. She will find out by this evening at the earliest, or tomorrow morning at the latest.

That Troka is dead.

Even if it’s just to prepare her mentally for the letter, it’s better for her to be prepared.
Who knows what kind of accident might happen if I tell her directly.

I’m sick of accidents now.

“…he should return before dinner time…”

Master looked at the herbs washed with water. Not a speck of dirt was left on them, such was her care. I’ve told her several times that they’re not very effective since we come from a different world, so why does she go to such lengths?

Leaving Master tending to the insignificant herbs, I stepped outside the building.

The sky was as unsightly as ever, and I felt nauseous.

This fucking world.
Still, four remain.
Or should I say, four chapters left, anyway.

I stand in front of a gate that hasn’t completely closed. It’s made of sturdy wood that doesn’t budge even when I push against it, making it comfortable to lean on.

I could use a cigarette right about now. Why the hell doesn’t this world have cigarettes?

If Troka were here, he’d probably say, “Don’t even think about putting that shit in your mouth, cigarettes are bad for your health,” with that stupid look on his face, eyes wide and round.

Thinking about it made me feel a bit better.

Of course, the feeling of disgust came back all too soon.

I guess this place isn’t for me.

* * *

That damned disciple of hers.
To think he’d be so cold after all these years since their last meeting.

No matter how much of a throwaway disciple he was, once a master, always a master, and once a disciple, always a disciple. It’s an unbreakable bond.

He was a bit cruel, sneaky, and somewhat evil, especially in appearance, but perhaps she was too easy on him, and now she didn’t feel respected as a master.

And his face, it had gotten so scarred, it was hard to look at.

Was she getting old, having such thoughts? She had Troka to carry on her will, so maybe it was okay to be a bit softer on Flan, was her thoughts at those times.

“You there, what are you doing standing around? If you stay out there, the demons will snatch you away, come inside.”

Flan, leaning against the gate in a strange posture.
Despite the master’s words, he didn’t move an inch, but then with a fierce look in his eyes, he finally spoke.
“Master. Why did you say you would expel Troka that day?”

His tone was accusatory.

She had thought that even if their reunion wasn’t joyful, it could at least be pleasant. How foolish that thought seems now.

“It was just a joke for the wretched disciple. You don’t need to take it to heart. It would be a different story if Troka asked.”

Though she cherished both disciples, Troka was special.

He had the potential to conquer the world. A freak who absorbs everything taught to him. In terms of talent, no one could come close.

The only flaw might be that he was too caught up in his mission as a hero.

Yet, he was the only one who could fulfill her deepest wish. He alone could reach the heights she never could. Troka was that person.

“Useless disciple, come inside and help prepare the meal. Are you planning to waste the little help you have?”

Rekke thought of Flan’s words as mere petulance. At that age, everyone has strange stances, thoughts, and actions.

“Was it raining that day, the day we first met?”

“What nonsense are you spouting? Have you finally lost your mind?”
She wanted to say that, but she held back and listened to Flan’s words carefully.

“It’s not raining now, but as always, there’s plenty of fog, so it doesn’t matter.”

On a rainy day.

Troka and Flan had stood in front of the firmly closed door. After three days of their pitiful pleading to be accepted as disciples, the attempt to at least see their faces was the beginning.

Come to think of it, Troka always got flustered when that story came up. She was eager to tease him about it again.

With that thought, a smile spilled over Rekke’s face, and then, thud. Something fell in front of her.

A sword with only a hilt.
It was a holy sword.

“Troka is no longer your disciple, Master. Since you expelled him that time, it’s only natural, I suppose.”