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[Translation] Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The Guardian's Melancholy | Part 1/7
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The Guardian's Melancholy | Part 1/7
He let out a long, long sigh.
Man . . . what a pain in the ass.
One could almost hear these words in that utterly lifeless sound. Though of course, actually giving voice to the sentiment would in itself have been too much of a pain.
He had pulled his long black hair back and carelessly bound it with a strip of cloth, had wrapped his tall frame in a black mantle that resembled mourning dress . . . In short, this was the result of considering concern about one's outward appearance to be "a pain in the ass." Nothing more and nothing less than that.
"The Guardian," Shannon Casull.
Somewhere along the line, members of a certain class of people had come to whisper that name with awe and dread.
Around a year had passed since the siblings had set out on this journey. One after the other, he and Raquel had taken down the professional killers that the Royal Family hired under the veil of secrecy. They had faced several near-death experiences, and every time they had slipped through the fingers of death, he and his elder twin sister had polished their skills and grown ever stronger.
However.
None of this is to say that his deportment had undergone any dramatic changes. Once past twenty years of age, humans don't change their natures. "Pain in the ass" was a verbal tic of his. And in the vein of a single instance indicating the norm, he found himself fighting off assassins today as well.
Be that as it may . . .
"Y--you--!"
For the enemy with whom he was crossing swords at this very moment, his attitude was probably insufferable. Many times, during what should be a life-and-death struggle, one's strength simply drains away.
"You bastard--!"
They were on one of the branch trails that split off from the main high road.
Though carefully maintained, it was a branch trail all the same, and as such the surrounding landscape comprised only the absurdly straight road and the copses that spread out on either side of it. Traffic always fell off the moment the sun began to set. It was, perhaps, the ideal setting for an ambush.
At that moment, the world was dyed in twilight colors.
It was a time when even two blades--rasping against one another in the fixed intention to kill--shone this languid cast.
But then . . .
"Here we . . . go."
Shannon thrust his katana up while twisting it, and his opponent's long sword flitted up into the air almost too easily to be believed. The mustached man who had lost his sword reflexively twisted his body to reclaim his weapon . . . then froze in place.
"Ugh--"
The sensation of a blade biting into the nape of his neck.
Having knocked away the man's sword, Shannon had flipped his katana over and pressed it against the man's nape.
He was fast.
Pouring all of one's strength into straightforward attacks that hack through the enemy's armor is a fundamental technique of the great sword. By contrast, the katana's standard attack is an illusive dance that shreds the enemy's weak points. To that end, the blade of a katana is keen, its strikes swift and fluid.
Even so . . . Shannon's slashes were especially swift. Incredibly swift, keen, and precise.
The mustached man shivered at the sensation that crept over his skin.
If Shannon increased the pressure by the slightest fraction, a fountain of blood would surely gush from the man's throat . . . he felt himself to be in just such a precarious position. In other words, the sensation he felt told him that he now faced the formidable skill of a master swordsman, whose control would allow him even to slice through a single layer of skin.
This was an opponent against whom he could not possibly win.
Be that as it may, he could not meekly withdraw. At the very least, he was far too proud to humbly admit defeat.
"Y--you bastards . . ."
Indignation shone on his grimy face. He did not feel even one iota of guilt for having conspired with his fellows to set up this sneak attack.
Could he merely possess a shamelessness that ill-suited a man of his pride? Or could it be . . .
"D--do you bastards have any idea what you're doing?! Surely even the most poorly educated, lowborn brat knows of the Oracle of St. Grendel!"
He appeared to be one of those who hold to such wistful notions as "justice is on our side."
However . . .
"So, Ossan1 . . ." Completely ignoring his opponent's words, Shannon looked the mustached man over once again as he spoke. "I've got no idea who you are, but since you apparently expect other people to just hand over their lives, I'm guessing you're prepared to do the same?"
The man wore leather armor that was as simple and perfunctory as possible--the kind of battledress preferred by mercenaries who specialize in nimbly sweeping across the battlefield. However, this mustached man's armor was much too tidy. Arms and armor that see extensive use in actual combat, even if meticulously maintained, will nevertheless be marred by stains and scratches . . . yet this man's equipment bore no such marks.
His movements as well stood out as being strangely neat. They were different from the sort one often saw in a mercenary's swordplay, which tended toward a mixture of self-taught skills and abilities gained through actual combat. His were the movements of one who had studied an orthodox school of fencing under a famous master, and whose training had begun with the meticulous recreation of proper forms.
It was quite possible . . . that this mustached man was no mercenary.
"You fools, this folly of yours--"
He cut his words short.
Deep crimson had begun to bead along top of the blade, which had now pierced through the line. It did not particularly hurt, but it stoked his terror all the more. This young man was so skilled that he could probably decapitate a person without their even realizing what had happened.
Choking down his panic, the man surveyed his surroundings once more.
He counted the fallen forms that lay scattered over the ground: one, two, three.
Of them, two wore cuir bouilli armor like the mustached man, but one wore a distinctive cloak--long, azure, and covered in complex white embroidery. It was the standard garb of a mage.
In general, the combat capability of a mage who has mastered offensive magic is roughly equivalent to that of ten infantry soldiers. Of course, this applies only to infantry soldiers who specialize in close combat . . . But at any rate, these three assailants--assuming they were not imposters banking on the strength of their appearances--possessed the combined fighting ability of thirteen infantry soldiers . . . the same as a military squad.
And Shannon alone had taken them all out.
On top of that, he had done so without killing them.
The three fallen men's backs and chests rose and fell, albeit in extremely shallow breaths. Even a glance at the horrible spectacle made it clear that their bodies were absolutely covered in wounds--from fractured bones to bruises to outright hemorrhaging--yet none of them had died.
It is impossible to put into words the extreme difficulty of such a thing. Even fighting one-on-one, it is next to impossible to defeat an enemy who has every intention of killing you without killing him in turn. To manage against several such enemies would be impossible unless one's combat capabilities were on an entirely different level from theirs.
"I can gouge out your eyes, shatter both your kneecaps, or chop off your sword arm. Go ahead and pick whichever you like."
Even so, as Shannon forced this merciless choice on the man, his voice held no trace of triumph, exaltation, or pride. His exhausted tone seemed to suggest that finding himself in this situation was even more of a bother.
"You fools, that girl is--"
"I'll choose for you, then. All right?"
"W--wait! Would you just wait a minute?!"
Seeing Shannon carelessly raise his katana overhead, the mustached man's face went pale. Shannon--who appeared to possess a surprisingly conscientious nature--stilled his katana and replied, ". . . how long you want me to wait?"
"Ah, no, the duration isn't the point here . . . Even you must know about the Oracle of St. Grendel!"
"Nope."
Upon hearing this blunt denial, the man found himself momentarily at a loss for words.
"There's . . . there's no way you don't about it! Listen, according to that prophecy--"
"Man . . . just shut up already."
So saying, Shannon adjusted his grip on his katana.
"No, I said wait a min--!"
"No way. This is a pain in the ass."
However . . .
In an instant, the mustached man's expression shifted inscrutably.
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) This is a rude way of referring to a middle-aged man. I tried "Mister" and even "Pops," but neither sounds quite right. So I'm leaving it as "Ossan" for now. Back
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | The Guardian's Melancholy | Part 1/7
He let out a long, long sigh.
Man . . . what a pain in the ass.
One could almost hear these words in that utterly lifeless sound. Though of course, actually giving voice to the sentiment would in itself have been too much of a pain.
He had pulled his long black hair back and carelessly bound it with a strip of cloth, had wrapped his tall frame in a black mantle that resembled mourning dress . . . In short, this was the result of considering concern about one's outward appearance to be "a pain in the ass." Nothing more and nothing less than that.
"The Guardian," Shannon Casull.
Somewhere along the line, members of a certain class of people had come to whisper that name with awe and dread.
Around a year had passed since the siblings had set out on this journey. One after the other, he and Raquel had taken down the professional killers that the Royal Family hired under the veil of secrecy. They had faced several near-death experiences, and every time they had slipped through the fingers of death, he and his elder twin sister had polished their skills and grown ever stronger.
However.
None of this is to say that his deportment had undergone any dramatic changes. Once past twenty years of age, humans don't change their natures. "Pain in the ass" was a verbal tic of his. And in the vein of a single instance indicating the norm, he found himself fighting off assassins today as well.
Be that as it may . . .
"Y--you--!"
For the enemy with whom he was crossing swords at this very moment, his attitude was probably insufferable. Many times, during what should be a life-and-death struggle, one's strength simply drains away.
"You bastard--!"
They were on one of the branch trails that split off from the main high road.
Though carefully maintained, it was a branch trail all the same, and as such the surrounding landscape comprised only the absurdly straight road and the copses that spread out on either side of it. Traffic always fell off the moment the sun began to set. It was, perhaps, the ideal setting for an ambush.
At that moment, the world was dyed in twilight colors.
It was a time when even two blades--rasping against one another in the fixed intention to kill--shone this languid cast.
But then . . .
"Here we . . . go."
Shannon thrust his katana up while twisting it, and his opponent's long sword flitted up into the air almost too easily to be believed. The mustached man who had lost his sword reflexively twisted his body to reclaim his weapon . . . then froze in place.
"Ugh--"
The sensation of a blade biting into the nape of his neck.
Having knocked away the man's sword, Shannon had flipped his katana over and pressed it against the man's nape.
He was fast.
Pouring all of one's strength into straightforward attacks that hack through the enemy's armor is a fundamental technique of the great sword. By contrast, the katana's standard attack is an illusive dance that shreds the enemy's weak points. To that end, the blade of a katana is keen, its strikes swift and fluid.
Even so . . . Shannon's slashes were especially swift. Incredibly swift, keen, and precise.
The mustached man shivered at the sensation that crept over his skin.
If Shannon increased the pressure by the slightest fraction, a fountain of blood would surely gush from the man's throat . . . he felt himself to be in just such a precarious position. In other words, the sensation he felt told him that he now faced the formidable skill of a master swordsman, whose control would allow him even to slice through a single layer of skin.
This was an opponent against whom he could not possibly win.
Be that as it may, he could not meekly withdraw. At the very least, he was far too proud to humbly admit defeat.
"Y--you bastards . . ."
Indignation shone on his grimy face. He did not feel even one iota of guilt for having conspired with his fellows to set up this sneak attack.
Could he merely possess a shamelessness that ill-suited a man of his pride? Or could it be . . .
"D--do you bastards have any idea what you're doing?! Surely even the most poorly educated, lowborn brat knows of the Oracle of St. Grendel!"
He appeared to be one of those who hold to such wistful notions as "justice is on our side."
However . . .
"So, Ossan1 . . ." Completely ignoring his opponent's words, Shannon looked the mustached man over once again as he spoke. "I've got no idea who you are, but since you apparently expect other people to just hand over their lives, I'm guessing you're prepared to do the same?"
The man wore leather armor that was as simple and perfunctory as possible--the kind of battledress preferred by mercenaries who specialize in nimbly sweeping across the battlefield. However, this mustached man's armor was much too tidy. Arms and armor that see extensive use in actual combat, even if meticulously maintained, will nevertheless be marred by stains and scratches . . . yet this man's equipment bore no such marks.
His movements as well stood out as being strangely neat. They were different from the sort one often saw in a mercenary's swordplay, which tended toward a mixture of self-taught skills and abilities gained through actual combat. His were the movements of one who had studied an orthodox school of fencing under a famous master, and whose training had begun with the meticulous recreation of proper forms.
It was quite possible . . . that this mustached man was no mercenary.
"You fools, this folly of yours--"
He cut his words short.
Deep crimson had begun to bead along top of the blade, which had now pierced through the line. It did not particularly hurt, but it stoked his terror all the more. This young man was so skilled that he could probably decapitate a person without their even realizing what had happened.
Choking down his panic, the man surveyed his surroundings once more.
He counted the fallen forms that lay scattered over the ground: one, two, three.
Of them, two wore cuir bouilli armor like the mustached man, but one wore a distinctive cloak--long, azure, and covered in complex white embroidery. It was the standard garb of a mage.
In general, the combat capability of a mage who has mastered offensive magic is roughly equivalent to that of ten infantry soldiers. Of course, this applies only to infantry soldiers who specialize in close combat . . . But at any rate, these three assailants--assuming they were not imposters banking on the strength of their appearances--possessed the combined fighting ability of thirteen infantry soldiers . . . the same as a military squad.
And Shannon alone had taken them all out.
On top of that, he had done so without killing them.
The three fallen men's backs and chests rose and fell, albeit in extremely shallow breaths. Even a glance at the horrible spectacle made it clear that their bodies were absolutely covered in wounds--from fractured bones to bruises to outright hemorrhaging--yet none of them had died.
It is impossible to put into words the extreme difficulty of such a thing. Even fighting one-on-one, it is next to impossible to defeat an enemy who has every intention of killing you without killing him in turn. To manage against several such enemies would be impossible unless one's combat capabilities were on an entirely different level from theirs.
"I can gouge out your eyes, shatter both your kneecaps, or chop off your sword arm. Go ahead and pick whichever you like."
Even so, as Shannon forced this merciless choice on the man, his voice held no trace of triumph, exaltation, or pride. His exhausted tone seemed to suggest that finding himself in this situation was even more of a bother.
"You fools, that girl is--"
"I'll choose for you, then. All right?"
"W--wait! Would you just wait a minute?!"
Seeing Shannon carelessly raise his katana overhead, the mustached man's face went pale. Shannon--who appeared to possess a surprisingly conscientious nature--stilled his katana and replied, ". . . how long you want me to wait?"
"Ah, no, the duration isn't the point here . . . Even you must know about the Oracle of St. Grendel!"
"Nope."
Upon hearing this blunt denial, the man found himself momentarily at a loss for words.
"There's . . . there's no way you don't about it! Listen, according to that prophecy--"
"Man . . . just shut up already."
So saying, Shannon adjusted his grip on his katana.
"No, I said wait a min--!"
"No way. This is a pain in the ass."
However . . .
In an instant, the mustached man's expression shifted inscrutably.
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) This is a rude way of referring to a middle-aged man. I tried "Mister" and even "Pops," but neither sounds quite right. So I'm leaving it as "Ossan" for now. Back