Chapter 205 Day One (2)

A man stepped into the courtyard.

The man wore plain uniform, although an unfamiliar emblem had been stitched onto his shoulder. Three pale lines curved around a dark circle, forming a symbol Misha did not recognize from any Ashmoor guild.

Staying at House Faust had come with regular meals, comfortable rooms, and an unexpected amount of reading. Somewhere between being advised about proper introductions and learning which families disliked one another, Misha had been expected to memorize the organizations that mattered in Ashmoor, and those connected with the Four Great Families.

That emblem had not appeared among them. He might belong to a small guild, or he might have arrived from another Tower entirely. Either way, recognizing the stitching would have been considerably less useful than knowing what he could do.

The man stopped just inside the gate. His gaze moved from the open chest to the frying pan in her hand, then finally reached her masked face.

For a moment, neither spoke. Misha couldn’t help but shift her weight slightly, keeping both him and her exit within view. The courtyard had seemed reasonably spacious when she was alone in it.

"Hello," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "I assume you got dragged into this too?"

The man did not answer immediately. Instead, his eyes dropped toward the pouch at her waist. It was too obvious that Misha found it rather offending.

’At least say hello back. We can both behave like civilized people for three seconds.’

One corner of his mouth lifted into an unpleasant smile. He stepped farther inside, allowing the gate to swing shut behind him.

"Well, this is convenient," he remarked, taking another step into the courtyard. "I thought I’d have to search longer before finding someone."

Misha tightened her grip on the pan. "Lucky you, then."

Pale light gathered above his right wrist. It narrowed, darkened, and condensed into a metallic blade that extended beyond his knuckles, its surface marked with a faint line of energy.

Misha barely had time to register the details when he moved.

「 Mental focus sharpened. 」

She stepped sideways as he lunged. The blade caught her sleeve, slicing through the fabric near her upper arm before she turned farther out of its path.

He pulled back for another thrust. She brought the frying pan down against his forearm. The impact rang through the courtyard and jarred her wrist. His mouth opened around a curse, but the blade remained attached, its edge passing dangerously close as he jerked his arm away.

Misha retreated two steps, recovering the pan before its weight could pull her hand too low. Her eyes stayed on his wrist.

’Great. He brought his own cutlery.’

The man glanced at the pan, evidently surprised that she had managed to strike him with it.

Then a short laugh escaped him. "Seriously? That’s what you found?"

"It’s a limited-edition kitchen appliance," she replied, shifting the pan into a more secure grip as

she kept her eyes on the blade. "I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult it."

「 Grip stability maintained. 」

His jaw tightened. Whatever answer he had prepared was apparently less appealing than putting the blade through her stomach.

He came forward again.

Misha gave ground toward the washland, keeping her steps short. He followed quickly, encouraged by the retreat, and drove the weapon toward the center of her body.

「 Movement patterns detected. 」

The turn began in his shoulder. She caught it early enough to move, the blade passing beside her as she struck his wrist with the pan’s thick rim.

He grunted, but instead of withdrawing, he kept advancing. HIs free hand reached toward her jacket, and Misha realized he intended to press her against the wall.

Her heel touched the plastic bucket. ’That’ll do.’

She hooked it with her foot and kicked it across his path. The bucket rolled against this ankle as he stepped, forcing his weight sideways.

Misha struck his weapon arm again. He stumbled, his blade cutting uselessly through the air above the washstand, and she stepped close enough to bring the pan upward.

Iron caught the lower edge of his jaw. His head snapped aside. He collided with the washstand, catching its rim with his free hand before his knees could give away.

Misha stared past him toward the gate, but his hand seized the front of her jacket. She was yanked backward, the collar drawn tight against her throat. The blade turned inward, close enough that she saw its faintly glowing edge reflected against the gray fabric covering her abdomen.

’Shit!’

Her knee drove against his leg. He buckled, pulling her with him, and she twisted toward his weapon arm before he could complete the thrust. The edge scraped along her jacket and she felt the fabric give, then brought the pan down across his wrist with both hands.

His grip on her collar loosened.

Misha tore herself free, caught his jacket, and pulled him across her planted leg. His attempt to recover helped her turn him toward the low wall beside the washstand. He struck it shoulder-first and fell awkwardly, one knee scraping across the paving.

She followed before he could regain his feet. Her boot came down against his weapon arm, pinning the forearm while she kept the blade angled from her leg.

"Stay down!"

He looked up at her, blood gathering along his lower lip. For a moment, his free hand stopped moving. Then it shot toward her ankle.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake." Misha pulled her foot clear before he could catch it and swung as he tried to rise.

The pan struck the side of his face. He fell heavily onto the ground. The blade above his wrist flickered, its dark edge breaking into pale fragments before the light disappeared altogether.

Misha remained where she was, holding the pan ready. Her breathing sounded too loud inside the mask, and the front of her jacket had been stretched badly enough to hang crookedly from one shoulder.

The man did not get up. She watched his hands first. When neither moved, her gaze shifted toward his chest. It rose.

Misha let out a slow breath, then looked toward the gate and the narrow passage. The fight had made enough noise to advertise the courtyard to anyone nearby so she knew that she shouldn’t stay long.

She approached the man cautiously, keeping the pan in reach as she crouched. No light returned to his wrist, even when she touched his neck to check his pulse.

It was present. His chest continued moving, though blood marked his mouth and swelling was already forming along his jaw.

Misha pressed her lips together.

Knocking somebody unconscious did not conveniently remove them from a fight and return them unharmed later. She knew enough about head injuries to dislike the possibility of what she had just done, and considerably less than she would liked about treating one here.

"Well, congratulations." Her shoulders lowered a little as she sat back on her heels. "You’ve successfully lost a fight to a frying pan."

The man offered no defense of his performance. Given his condition, that was probably wise.

Her sympathy became less enthusiastic when she glanced at the cut in her jacket. Still, leaving him sprawled carelessly on his back seemed unnecessary. She settled him on his side, keeping his mouth clear of the paving and arranging the injured arm so his weight did not rest directly on it.

That was about as much help she could offer. At least in this way, she could uphold the code of ethics engraved into her as a medical professional.

Until now, she had left the killing of other humans to Olivia. Perhaps it was a convenient way of easing her conscience, considering she was still acting through her body, but it was a line she had chosen not to cross herself. For now, she intended to keep it that way.

Besides, helping someone survive was one thing. Staying beside him until he recovered enough to attempt killing her again was another. Misha considered herself as a medical professional, not a saint.

Her gaze moved toward the pouch at his waist. She opened it and found a single pale-metal disc. Its size matched her bronze token.

Misha turned it once between her fingers. Her registration band responded with a brief pulse.

「 Trial Tokens Held: 2 」

Her first captured token. A respectable beginning, provided she ignored the part where somebody had nearly opened her stomach over it.

She slipped the disc inside her pouch and fastened it carefully. Then her eyes returned to the man’s jacket. It looked warmer than hers.

Misha considered him for a moment. Ten days was a long time to spend in this place and she had no idea whether the field would be supplied with the same generosity it had supplied weapons.

"Next time, try saying hello before pulling a blade." She began checking his pockets. "You might actually make a friend."

The first pocket contained three wrapped candies.

Misha stared at them, then looked down at his unconscious face. She pocketed them. Sweets were always welcome.

The second held a folded handkerchief and a short length of cord. Both were taken after a brief inspection. Then she returned to the jacket. Removing it took more effort than she expected. He was heavy, one sleeve caught beneath his shoulder, and she had to stop twice to avoid pulling on the arm she had repeatedly struck.

"Honestly." Misha eased the fabric free and folded it over her own arm. "You could’ve made this easier."

He continued being unconscious, which she chose to interpret as cooperation.

Beneath the jacket, he wore a serviceable shirt. He still had trousers, boots, and enough pride to become extremely unpleasant when he woke up, assuming his pride recovered faster than his jaw.

She checked the remaining pockets anyway. There was nothing useful in it. His belt, however, had a decent buckle. Misha decided to remove it as well. It belonged to her now.