Chương 1405: [1318] - Y06.218 - Of Steel III

Kizwolima's eyes beamed upon all the jewellery before her, those made of silver, coral, and even wood. The half elf's heart remained heavy, though he had managed to convince himself to spoil the young girl.

'Since I'm spending so much coin on her, I can give more money to the businessfolk to spoil them too, right?' Mana: 34 -> 31 Spell: Sending"Darling! I almost adopted another child! She is so cute, you have no idea! Unfortunately, fortunately, her family is well. I love you, my Vonda!"

'I cannot wait to hear the tale, my love. I hope you enjoy your trip. Are you eating enough? Are you resting enough? I love you.' Adam could hear it within her voice, the placation of when he was acting too cringe. He hadn't realised just how awful of a Sending he had sent, the half elf reaching up to his forehead, covering his eyes in shame.

'If I don't fix up, she'll leave me for someone actually worthy of her.' Jurot turned his head to the half elf who walked down the steps, feeling the grave aura emanating from the half elf, the kind which meant he was ready to spend even more gold.

'Did he speak with Vonda?'

"Laygak," Kitool called.

"I have a request."

"What is it?" Laygak asked, stretching his neck from side to side, before the woman informed him of the matter. Brittany drew her bow, not shooting her arrow, just knocking and drawing a hundred times with each arm, though she would shoot a hundred arrows daily, fifty in the morning, fifty in the evening, she would also draw her bow another one hundred times with each arm across the day.

"Brittany," Laygak called, carrying a target he had procured from the guard, a simple enough affair.

"Yes?" Brittany asked.

"I would like to challenge you to an archery competition," Laygak admitted, the young man placing the target a hundred steps away, all the way towards the other side of the estate, before he returned to the woman. Brittany blinked. She hadn't been challenged by an Iyrman before… The first arrow missed the target, not even reaching the boar, causing her to let out a small sigh, one that had already resigned herself to defeat. She noted Laygak's hand and the young woman handed him the bow.

"Deadwood minor," Laygak said.

"It is a great wood. Firm enough to be carved into a blade, flexible enough to be formed into a bow. One day, you may even receive the real deadwood."

'Oh, right. He is a wood merd too. Nerd? Nard?' Brittany couldn't quite recall the word for it.

"My family may use a sword and shield, but I was taught how to use every weapon, including the bow," Laygak said, knocking the arrow, narrowing an eye, shooting, the arrow reaching the target, though missing it by almost an entire arm's length.

'I should practise more.' Brittany took the bow from the Iyrman, shooting it, this time striking the outer edge of the target, but gaining a point on the board. Laygak's next shot barely hit the bullseye, though Brittany's next arrow struck it more clearly, until finally each had two bullseyes, and Brittany had four arrows on the board to Laygak's three, but it was Laygak's last turn. He inhaled deeply, focusing, and as he shot, he missed the target by another arm's length, this time on the other side.

"You shoot one hundred arrows each day?" Laygak asked.

"One hundred, but sometimes two," the young woman admitted. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"I have shot one hundred arrows each day since I was twelve, save for when we adventure," Laygak admitted.

"I was born and raised in the Iyr. I wielded my first blade at first, more seriously at ten. It is my life to know this, to know of blood, to know of steel." Brittany accepted the bow back from the young Iyrman, swallowing lightly. She eyed him up, following his gaze towards the target, wondering if they were both looking at the same thing.

"My family name is Gak. Sword and shield. I swing my sword one hundred times every day, without fail. Two hundred. Three hundred. Once a month, I swing it a thousand times that day. No matter how many times I swing my sword, I will be unable to do it."

"Do what?" Laygak turned to face her, staring at the young woman, who, without a doubt in his mind, held a greater talent than him.

"Brittany of Lipetal, hear my words. I, Laygak, admit it this day. You are greater than I. So raise your head, for you have defeated an Iyrman." The young woman flushed, furrowing her brows, partly confused, partly because her heart was aflutter. She had defeated an Iyrman? However, he didn't use a bow, did he? Did that even count?

"Do not forget, we of the Iyr, every time we step out, hold the conviction to die," Laygak said.

"You hold the doubt now, but you are not of the Iyr, you do not need to hold the conviction to die, only the conviction to shoot. You have defeated me today, but if I was one of the Whirlwind Arrows, who had once challenged you, I do not believe the outcome would have changed."

"Y-yes?" Brittany replied, her brow raised, the shock in her voice evident.

'The Whirlwind Arrows?' Laygak turned upon his heel, sauntering away, clasping his hands behind his back, as though having dispensed sagely wisdom. Brittany's eyes lingered upon him, that tall and proud back, which was of a young man who had already accepted his place within the world, to never be known among the lands. As the sun passed overhead, the half elf having spent his fill upon the jewellery, he returned to find Brittany practising her swordplay with John.

'Looks like she's feeling much better.'

"You did well," Jurot admitted. Laygak shrugged his shoulders, whittling away upon his carving, that of a drake.

"There are things you can do, I cannot. There are things I can do, you cannot."

"I could not?"

"You are too strong," Laygak stated simply.

"Even with the matter with Balrog, you do not understand the heart of the weak, and hopeless."

"Is your heart hopeless?"

"We of the Gaks abandoned hope generations ago," Laygak replied bluntly, though he was uncertain if he could say that truly. After all, in this generation, did they not know what it meant?

"I do not believe you are weak, or without hope." Laygak smiled, shrugging his shoulders once more, this time more casually.

"At the very least, I can carve wood as good as you."

"There are things you can do, I cannot. There are things I can do, you cannot." Laygak and Jurot held one another's gazes for a long moment, the Iyrmen's lips twitching slightly.

"I really want some of the vestments that you have," Adam finally admitted.

"Perhaps at the Order?" Dunes joked.

"I don't mean the design, but the material, it looks heavy, but in a comfortable kind of way."

"It is," Dunes replied, with a tone that implied he had only realised it when the half elf had mentioned it.

"Although, I wouldn't mind the design, since I am pretty close with Lady Arya, or at least, in another life time I was?" Adam wasn't sure how it worked in this life, but since she had assisted him previously, he couldn't just abandon her. Even if this Arya was different, taking the role of Bandlor, her missing… uncle?

'Seriously, Bandlor, where are you? It's bad enough your father is missing, but you were so fun…'

"You may ask the Vestmaster, though, it might be best to gain permission from the Fariq, the Malawi himself…"

"You've got to make sure you come back to me alive, because the moment you die, I'll be causing trouble for them!" Adam warned, though mostly as a joke, since Dunes was fairly certain he wouldn't be killed, but it was one of those situations in which it depended on the world, rather than them.

"If I die, you may consider your chains to Black Mountain broken, including those of my children."

"Hey!" Adam gasped.

"I meant their chains to Black Mountain."

"Oh…" Adam's face turned red slightly.

"Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Either way, if you do end up dying, then tell them to give me a week. I'll message Lady Arya for a favour, and she'll save you."

"You always say such dangerous things, Adam."

"Well, what did you expect? How many monsters am I related to?" Dunes laughed, sipping his cold milk, chilled by Adam's magic. Kizwolima also cackled, before sipping her own milk, sighing.

"Do you like your clothes?" Adam asked.

"Yes!"

"Are they comfortable?"

"Mhmm!" She nodded her head with such fervour, her hair bounced.

'How adorable! I bet little Xarot would look cute in a turban! It'll be so big and it'll slip down his face and he'll be so confused and then I'll pick it up and he'll see his father and he'll smile so brightly with that little gumfilled smile of his!'