Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 4.4

“Hey, kiddo, remember the legend of the master archer?”

The first time your master asked that question, you were still young and had just begun learning the sword. But while your master still looks the same as back then, you are your present self as you sit before her.

Your master was a bit sex-crazed, often out chasing women, but sometimes the two of you had these little chats, as well. She reaches into her gi, toward her slight chest, and gives you a toothy smile. “They say he learned the art of shooting without shooting, that he could hit a bird without firing an arrow. Eventually, he threw away his bow.”

You nod: You remember. You don’t know how you answered when you were younger, but now, you remember the story.

“Good,” your master says, the word merging with the rustling of the branches as the wind blows through her hut.

Outside, it’s summer. The blue sky is warm, the clouds dizzyingly white. You smell the rush mats, the incense, the medicine, and finally the sweat on your body and your master’s.

“Question.” Your master exposes one shoulder as if hoping to beat the heat a little, brushing hair away from a pale neck as she leans back easily. “This master archer. You think he was all he was cracked up to be, or was it just a con all along?”

You let the question hang in the air for a moment, then reply that you think he was truly a great man. If he was a master indeed, then of course he would no longer need his bow. It would be no impediment to him to be without it.

Your master’s grin widens at that answer. It’s the same way she always smiles, neither happy nor mocking. “I see, I see. So that’s your thinking. The real masters, the ones who really know what they’re doing, don’t have to worry about weapons.” She stretches her arms as she speaks, hiding nothing of herself as she relaxes, and then she takes up the katana lying by her side. The pale blade sings out as she draws it. It gleams dangerously even in the gloom of the hut, hinting at what a fine piece of work it is.

“It’s anonymous.” She seems to have noticed your gaze. She rests the plate lightly against her shoulder and says thoughtfully, “But us, we revere our equipment. Only natural, isn’t it? If you can pick up just any old thing and be strong…” Now the sword slices silently through the air, driving directly at you. There was distance between you, separation, yet the blade ends up at your throat as though space has constricted. “Then how much stronger will you be if you put a little thought into it?”

Her smile is like a tiger bearing its fangs. Your master is capable, without twitching an eyebrow, of eating you alive or of backing off entirely.

It’s no longer clear to you how you answered back then. But as for now, the present you, you form syllables of protest with your mouth. “Mm?” your master says, urging you on.

You tell her a master with a great weapon against an amateur with the same will win out every time. That much is clear. In other words, it’s the skill and not the sword that tells.

“Izzat right?” your master remarks when she hears your answer and slides her sword back into its scabbard.

The instant she appears to do this, though, poof: The sword is resting across your knees. Startled, you pick it up, and your master spreads her arms as if to say, Look. She tilts her head slightly. “But there’s fortune in battle, too. A master with a crappy sword versus an amateur with a masterpiece? Can’t be sure how it will turn out. Why, you might be able to kill me right now.”

She exposes her pale, unsunned throat and chest, giving you the innocent, inviting smile of a girl, and laughs. Her body seems so slight you can see the bones through her skin. It feels as if even with only the strength you had back then, you could break them easily. If you tore open those thin blue lines, would they gush with startling red blood?

In the distance, you hear the cicadas crying their protests against the heat. But then you feel the sweat forming on your brow, and even the cicadas stop. Too tired to go on or eaten by birds?

You swallow heavily. The sound of it seems so great. This must be what it feels like to face a real tiger.

It’s not the fact that your opponent could devour you in the next instant—but that you might be able to cut her down. The possibility. That the very idea enters your heart is what’s so terrifying.

Finally, you grip the hilt of the sword, hands slick with sweat, and gently set it beside you on the floor, on the side of your dominant hand. It’s only proper etiquette.

There’s fortune in battle. One can’t know how fortune will go, meaning there is no guarantee of success in any challenge.

“Mmm. So that’s it, eh?” Your master straightens up; her murmur might indicate a loss of interest or an increase. Either is possible. “You talked about skill earlier. And luck. Said gear didn’t have much to do with it. That’s an answer…and not an answer.”

As she speaks, your master stretches out with one bare foot, reaching for a tray sitting at the edge of the floor of the hut; she grabs it with her toes—unladylike thing to do—and pulls it over to her. She takes a packet of medicine from the top of it, a full sake bottle and a bowl with no lip, and pours the bowl full of the drink.

“All right then, another question.” She takes a satisfied sip of the sake, swallowing noisily. Her red tongue licks away droplets on her lips; her cheeks, more colored than before, relax into a smile. “You’re a master.” Her finger extends suddenly, pointing at you, then at the air beside you. “And so is your opponent. However!” She takes another mouthful, then two mouthfuls, watching you with languid eyes. “Your opponent holds the masterpiece weapon, you the piece of junk. Now, what do you do?”

You can’t answer.

Couldn’t then, can’t now.

Even in such a situation, you would probably throw yourself into the fight. But that—that’s both an answer and not an answer.

When your master sees you, lost for words, she chuckles good-naturedly, deep in her throat. “Heh, that’s about right. No one can say and do the right thing all the time, every time.”

Then she lets out a warm, easy breath, all four limbs spontaneously relaxing. There’s no tension in any part of her, and at the same time she loosens her collar, looking up and letting the wind fill her gi. It’s utterly mannerless, this way of relaxing, and it has none of the intimidation of moments ago. She looks just like a cat stretching out in the sun. Red-faced, you drop your eyes to the floor.

“You can have that sword,” she says. She rises quickly, kicking away the empty bottle and starting off at a slow walk. Going to go “play” again, you suppose. Even as she walks right by you, you don’t hear a footstep.

“We can have another little riddle game sometime. Maybe you’ll know the answers; maybe you won’t.”

The door clatters open, then rolls shut again with a clack. You look up slowly, then gradually draw out the sword lying by your side. It gleams dangerously. But not blindingly; this is the gleam the sword will one day possess.

The blade comes out of the scabbard without a sound, and without a sound it returns. It’s not just a sword.

There’s a faint smell left in the room, a mildly fetid odor of sweat mixed with your master’s medicine. Not wanting to relax your posture, you take a slow breath, looking studiously at the sword in your hands.

From beyond the paper that covers the sliding door, the cicadas begin crying again. So they survived, after all.

It’s unbearably hot.