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“What are you writing, Zeo?”
“Oh, this?” Zeo looked up, a wry smirk on his face. “Just a letter back to this elf who promised to teach me ancient magic. Follow me or not, I’ll be taking Toby there with me in a couple days.”
Zeo had mentioned wanting to learn ancient magic before, Masamune recalled. But back then, Toby had convinced him it was too risky to do so. They didn’t need it, and they didn’t have a permit either way, so he’d let it go, but now…
“What?! Wait, when did you meet this guy? Why do you need to know ancient magic now?!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Zeo scoffed, not meeting Masamune’s gaze. “Do you really think we can find a cure for Toby just walking around on the surface? Inside the dungeon is where all the magic power is!”
“But…” Masamune trailed off, “We don’t know how to use it, right?”
“That’s why I’m learning!” All of a sudden, Zeo has taken on a pleading tone, “Please, Masamune. Don’t you want to find a cure for Toby, too?”
“Of course I want Toby to be cured!” Masamune shouts, “Why do you think I’m so worried about all this?!”
“ You’re so worried?” Zeo drew out incredulously, voice raising ever higher, “If you’re not willing to find a cure for Toby at all costs, then how am I supposed to know you even…you even care about us as a team?!”
“That has nothing to do with it!” Masamune threw his hands up in frustration, “You know what, Zeo, if you want to go…”
Zeo finally looks at him, fists clenched, but this time, Masamune is the one to turn away.
“Then don’t let me stop you.”
—
That was weeks ago. Ever since, it had been a mad dash to the surface in order to find any mage that had knowledge of healing magic. Maybe it wasn’t all that efficient, when Toby was running out of time as it was, but Masamune told himself it was worth it, so they could be sure that Toby had a reliable way to recover after he was eventually cured.
Masamune is pretty sure Zeo has already taken Toby and gone to that suspicious elf guy by now, but since he left before that, he guessed he had no room to talk.
In many ways, Masamune muses, it was like doing a supply run. Except this time he was alone and effectively broke—Toby had been in charge of the coins, after all, and Zeo had taken Toby with him.
Team Dungeon’s last supply run had been a couple months ago, back before Toby started showing symptoms. Yet, the entrance to the dungeon is nothing like he remembers.
The commotion on the first floor now was overwhelming, a sea of all kinds of people packed into every corner like lemmings preparing to jump from a cliff. Masamune had no clue where everyone was trying to go, or about the sudden atmosphere of urgency, permeating the room with a single warning: to escape, as soon as possible.
But what were they trying to escape from?
Masamune is interrupted from his reverie by the slam of a firm body against his, and he coughs from the unexpected impact. The both of them lose their balance, only prevented from tumbling to the ground by the sheer concentration of people around them. Disgruntled yells sound from their immediate surroundings, undoubtedly from others who were victims of their unfortunate descent, but Masamune hears these exclamations as if through water, each subsequent shout blending into the next, as he opens his eyes to his mysterious assailant.
The individual who crashed into Masamune has long, pointed ears, and even pointier features. Hell, even the blue hair that fell in front of his even bluer eyes formed into points—and Masamune got the feeling it wasn’t the kind that could only be achieved by hair wax, like his own.
On second thought, maybe Masamune was in the water, after all. What business did this guy have being so blue, anyways?
“Hey, watch it!” Says the body-slamming stranger. Masamune blanches at the nerve of that response.
“I could say the same for you! Who are you, anyways?”
“None of your business. Just call me King.”
Yeah, like Masamune going to call some random stranger ‘King’. Much less some random guy who bumped into him!
“After you crashed into me like that? No way!”
“You were the one who crashed into me!”
“No, you were!”
“No, you—oh, forget about it. Sorry, okay?” The stranger replies, rolling his eyes. Masamune opens his mouth to speak, to comment on what a half-baked apology that was, but the stranger continues on before he has a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Just listen to me. Everyone needs to leave this place before the danger level becomes critical, understand?”
“What? Danger level?!”
“Yeah, pal. You know, how mature a dungeon can get before…never mind! Come with me, now!” All of a sudden, the stranger grabs Masamune by the hand, and he is too stunned to react before he is pulled onto open ground. Strangely, the crowd around them seems sparser than it was before.
Who was this guy, anyways?
Upon closer inspection, the outfit this brazen stranger wore was not that of the average traveler. For one, the cape flapping behind him was more style than substance, its thickness doing nothing to detract from the lack of coverage it gave. In fact, lack of coverage seemed to be the theme here, as multiple pieces of fabric were cut out, exposing his arms and vitals, which no self-respecting dungeon-goer would allow for the sake of keeping warm and shielding themselves in the case of a confrontation.
This elf was either bold, stupid, or both, facts which heightened Masamune’s apprehension for whatever new location he was being dragged to by said elf.
He was shoved through something, the tug on his hand turning into a push, before he felt nothingness, weightless in the embrace of an endless cold.
He couldn’t pinpoint the sensation, but it felt as if he were falling.
—
As it turns out, that guy who’d pulled him out of the first floor was part of the Canaries.
How did Masamune know this?
He was currently sitting in the same room as the entire Canary squad, for one. He felt rather out of place, having only been led here as a result of brute-forcing the crowd—of which some fault could be attributed to the one who’d dragged him all the way here—but there were enough other stragglers (presumably also teleported) around that he didn’t feel as singled out as before.
The Canaries had shown up to the dungeon because ‘its energy shifted’, whatever that meant. At least, that’s what Dynamis, their captain, had mentioned. Masamune had only been half-paying attention at the time. Combine that with the mention of ‘danger level’, and he could almost consider himself lucky for evacuating.
Speaking of which, the squad had been able to evacuate everyone earlier than expected, and hours later, the foretold threat had yet to show up. However, it hadn’t been long enough for the threat to no longer be considered active, and the Canaries couldn’t leave. As a result, just like the crowd who’d been pulled from their daily routine, members of the squad were growing restless. Some more than others.
Did they really need to practice sparring on random travelers like him?
“Come on, Captain! Let me at him!” One of the Canaries, the one with blue hair he’d bumped into earlier, attempted to clasp his hands to Dynamis’, who recoiled at the prospect of bodily contact.
“King, I would advise that you hold yourself with more dignity than this,” Dynamis intones flatly, “Remember that the Canaries as a whole are an extension of Her Grace, the Elf Queen, and its members, criminal or otherwise, should conduct themselves as such.”
Really, the most surprising part of that speech was that, apparently, ‘King’ was the guy’s actual name.
“Aw, come on, Captain, chill out!” The Canary—King—chuckled. Then, turning to Masamune, he asked, “Hey, you! You want to spar with me too, don’t you?”
“Uh…” Masamune feels a bit lost at suddenly being confronted. “Sure. Why not.”
Dynamis sighs, stepping back, but King doesn’t appear to be satisfied.
King rolls his eyes. “Sure. Why not,” He repeats mockingly. “Where’s the enthusiasm?”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe you’re afraid of losing, is that it?” King taps at his chin. “I would be, if I was as short as my life expectancy.”
“What?!” Who did this guy think he was?! “I’m a tallman, just so you know!”
“Alright. If you’re a tallman,” chuckles King, “How come you’re shorter than me?”
“Sh-shut up!” Masamune’s ears warm, to his own chagrin. This guy was really asking for it. Maybe this would have been a simple sparring match before, but now? Masamune absolutely had to win. “Okay then! You asked for it. I’ll spar you, and I’ll win for sure!”
King’s grin widens, and the tattoos on his skin flash, glowing faintly. Masamune’s heart begins to beat faster at the prospect of this fight, relatively risk-free as it was. “That’s what I like to hear!”
—
“Weapons out,” Dynamis calls.
A moderately sized group of people have gathered to watch them spar. They even have a healer on standby in case the match ended in an injury. The formality of it all makes Masamune’s hair stand on end.
A couple meters across from him, King looks at the scabbard hanging from Masamune’s belt, as if assessing, before drawing a short, curved blade from his forearm.
Oh, Masamune thinks. That’s what the tattoos were for.
Carefully, Masamune draws his own sword, Striker. The familiar, quiet swipe of metal against the scabbard grounds him, corralling his frenzied heartbeat into a rhythmic drum pounding in his chest.
He had gotten Striker back when Team Dungeon had first begun dungeoneering. Occupationally, he may be a locksmith, but he was the only one out of Team Dungeon who’d bothered to train himself in physical combat, with claims he needed it because he didn’t have magic attacks to fall back on like Toby and Zeo did. Well, he definitely needed it now—if not for self-defense, then for the defense of his own honor.
“You can do it, King!” Cheers one of the Canaries, the shortest one, interrupting Masamune’s thoughts. Talk about unfair! Masamune didn’t have anyone cheering for him.
“Ready?” King squares his shoulders, and Masamune mirrors the action, still needing to settle his own nerves.
“Set?” His opponent’s expression pulls into a smirk, and Masamune’s eyes narrow, planting his feet into a wider stance, one leg forward, one behind.
“Go!”
At the final word, Dynamis raises a hand. With the signal, Masamune is the first to launch forward, the first hit of his blade predictably parried by the flat of King’s.
There weren’t meant to be victors in sparring matches like these, but in the spirit of competition, they’d decided whoever was the first to disarm their opponent would be the winner.
“Attacking first doesn’t mean you’ll win, you know,” King taunts, sandals scraping the ground as he falls back from the parry. His blade cuts the air in a wide arc before it is hidden behind his cape.
“Maybe not,” Masamune fires back, eyeing the movement, waiting for the next opening, “But you’ll have the element of surprise.”
“Surprise me, then,” His opponent challenges. Masamune grits his teeth. Who said he wouldn’t?!
“Oh yeah? Just watch me!”
They trade blows for a short while, neither of the two willing to give in so early on. Of course, this does nothing to stop them from attempting flashier attacks, each drawing awed gasps from their onlookers as they land.
Already, Masamune can tell the weight of his opponent’s blade is something he’ll have to get used to. Even when the tip connects, full force, with the flat of Striker’s blade, his opponent’s blade doesn’t bend, leading him to believe it’s more of a really long knife that’s been repurposed as a sword.
“What is this thing made out of?” Masamune asks, pausing after a particularly hard hit.
“Why do you ask? Giving up already?” Noticing his hesitation, King slashes down, and Masamune staggers back, barely able to distance himself from the other’s blade.
“No way!” Masamune makes a swift recovery, drawing his hand back to gain momentum for the next attack, “I’ll show you,” He swings Striker forward with all his might, “You can’t just drag me around!”
“I dragged lots of people out of the first floor today,” King parries it last second, his off hand supporting the flat of his blade. Masamune quickly rescinds his own hand before King can use his momentum against him. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Jeez, this guy didn’t even remember who he was, did he?! Just Masamune’s luck he happened to be the one sparring him now. Well, in that case, he just has to make sure King remembers him this time.
“Maybe this’ll jog your memory,” Masamune digs his boots into the ground before rushing in again, both hands on the hilt, nearly toppling them both over with the momentum of his swing. King parries, breathing heavily. He seems to have been caught off guard, judging by how he doesn’t immediately take the opportunity to disarm Masamune while he is still open, which is just as well. Masamune steps back, and watches as King once again shields his sword hand behind him.
It’s the sort of maneuver that would be beyond useless in an actual fight. However, since the goal of this sparring match is to disarm the opponent, it’s not a bad strategy to recover while keeping attacks at bay.
So this guy does know what he’s doing. It was the last thing he’d expected from someone who summoned their weapon using magic, but he guessed it made sense to only stock up on weapons you actually knew how to use.
All that does is fire him up more. Masamune cannot lose this match. This is someone who has, from the moment they met hours ago, done nothing but demand attention, but all Masamune wants now is for some of that attention to be turned onto him.
“You wanted a surprise, right?” Masamune prompts, causing King to raise an eyebrow at him, looking confused.
“Yeah? I’m still waiting.”
“Then you better stay sharp!” Masamune shouts, and King’s eyes widen, just barely, as he swipes his sword up in an attempt to knock King’s loose from his hand. It works, but he doesn’t anticipate the step forward King takes, and it sets his aim slightly off from where the focal point of his disarm will be. King has enough time to regain his grip on his own blade before he swings himself, and Masamune has no choice but to parry again.
“Oh, really? I’m the one who needs to stay sharp?” King laughed, stepping forward again, to Masamune’s frustration. He needed to get back on offense. It was taking a toll on him to parry this onslaught of attacks, and he wasn’t sure he could hold on much longer. He’s given up putting any strategy to his thrusts, point after point after parry, neither fatal nor precise.
Then, in one fluid movement, King turns his arm, the flat of his blade over Masamune’s following the motion, both tilting to an uncomfortable degree. This is a disarming maneuver, Masamune realizes, a fraction too late.
“Wait!” He cries, reflexively, which does nothing to halt his opponent’s momentum. As if in slow motion, his right hand falls to the side. Striker flies from his hands. It turns on the stone floor, once, twice, before skittering to a complete stop.
He lost.
—
“King wins.” Dynamis says, not a speck of emotion clouding his voice. One would think the Captain would be glad one of his subordinates won, but King is used to his captain’s general lack of expressions at this point.
All things considered, when King suggested the match, he really had just been bored, not to mention restless at the thought of having to stay in the dungeon doing nothing at all while they waited for the threat to emerge. It was a way to stay alert, active, prepared for what this dungeon could spit out at any given moment. But for all his challenges, he hadn’t expected anyone to agree.
Honestly, he would’ve dropped it if he were given some kind of command to stand down, to hold back, his captain’s warning notwithstanding. He gave those out like candy and rarely followed up—it was one of the things most of his subordinates liked about him, as it allowed them more freedom than most other inmates put into service. Now, the only thing King isn’t sure how to contend with is the fact that he enjoyed it.
He really, really enjoyed it.
When he really thinks about it, he hasn’t been able to use his skills for something as fun as that in ages.
“You won,” His opponent, the tallman, admits, extending a hand. The small group of onlookers has all but dispersed since the Captain’s lackluster announcement, and it’s not difficult to pretend they’re alone. King looks at the hand for a moment, shocked at how easily the other is conceding his loss, before shaking it. With that, the victory truly sets in.
“I…I won!”
“The name’s Masamune.” His opponent continues, hand lingering in his.
“King.” He replies, still somewhat dazed.
“Yeah, I know,” Masamune grins, the ease with which it overtakes his face suggesting it is an action he has done many times before. Even so, this is the first time King has seen it, and it’s bright and beautiful. “You keep telling me, I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”
“It is my name, you know,” King snorts, “You act like I told you it for no reason.”
“Do all elves have pretentious names like yours?”
“Huh? Pretentious?!” Masamune takes one look at King’s face and bursts into laughter.
“Calm down, I’m just messing with you!” Before King has the chance to protest further, Masamune continues, grinning again, “You know, it’s kind of funny. My job is to pick locks, but I still feel like I’ve got to try my hardest when I do something like this.”
King chuckles at that, shaking his head slightly. “You better have! I was trying my hardest, too!”
“Actually, this whole time,” Masamune scratches at his neck awkwardly, flushing slightly, “I kind of just wanted you to focus on me.”
“What? I was focusing on you the whole time!” King exclaimed, indignant. He respected his opponents at least that much!
“Okay, okay! I get that now!” Masamune waves his hands around defensively.
“But still, thank you, Masamune,” King says, testing the name on his tongue. The other falls silent, hands still inexorably mid-wave. “I haven’t been able to try my hardest in a while.”
“Seriously?” It is Masamune’s turn to exclaim, surprised. “I thought you guys just sparred anytime you liked!”
“I can…see why you thought that,” King trails off, “But we don’t really get to use our skills unless it’s required. Part of the whole imprisonment thing, get it?”
“Oh. Makes sense.”
“But maybe we could spar again sometime,” King throws out, tamping down the hope that escapes with the suggestion, “If you’re still around here by the time we deal with the threat?”
Masamune laughs again, this time bittersweet. “I would, but I have to leave soon.” His stare is faraway, aimless, as if stuck in a distant memory. “There’s a friend of mine who’s really sick, and I’ve got to find someone who can figure out what it is and cure him before he…before he dies from it.”
“Oh…that sounds like a lot to deal with.” King isn’t sure what to say. He’s never had to deal with someone close to him getting sick or dying. He’s never had someone that close to him, either. “Then, I guess this is where we part ways.”
Masamune nods once, with finality. “Guess so.”
Just as King is about to walk away, he hears Masamune call out to him again.
“Hey. King, right?”
King turns back to face him, curious of what else the other has to say.
“Don’t miss me too much, okay?”