Slave-Master Relationship

In the Main Hart Duchy

Three days later, the gossip began to settle. The earthshaking rumble was violent enough that it seemed to echo through the bones of the continent and left its mark in the minds of many.

But with no further tremors, speculation gave way to dismissal.

Some prophets claimed it was a divine omen. Others claimed it as a wrathful echo of seven ancient gods stirred from their slumber.

…Perhaps, it was a sign of a new era's dawn.

A few warned it was the prelude of a continental war.

Conspiracy theorists spun wilder tales: celestial alignments, one of the seven forgotten artifacts, or long-lost magic resurfacing in the wrong hands.

Seven ignored them all.

He already knew what it was.

It was the…

'...Archmage.'

That destructive magic, and the kind that could erase a defenseless kingdom, bore the unmistakable mark of the Archmage's power.

He had read of it before. A spell that could collapse the universe into a single water bubble, the final act in the battle against the Archduke..

Or so he believed.

He had no idea it belonged to his father. After all, Archduke Ethan died in the original novel as he got weakened after getting caught in a trap meant only for him (though still managed to win and get back to Duchy).

Clank—!

Seven's wooden sword scraped against damascus steel as he twisted his wrist, barely deflecting the dagger meant for his ribs.

He slid his back foot to catch balance, given that the force of Lythian's strike shoved him a step sideways.

The sting on his forearm where the last cut landed was still fresh and the fabric of his shirt was torn, damped with a thin line of blood.

But.

He did not look at it.

After all, they were trying to kill each other under the word 'training' for three whole days now, with no bell to mark a start and no words to announce an end.

Neither ate or took a rest. 

Seven adjusted his grip and tightened his fingers around the wooden hilt before shifting his weight slightly forward.

"You're slower today."

Lythian mirrored him, holding the dagger low but the tip angled forward in a stance that allowed him to react without delay.

"Fucker. So are you."

In truth, only one of them was tired.

Seven movements had dulled. 

Lythian, on the other hand, was not tired. He was simply sluggish because his body was constantly enduring the pain of his own stomach devouring itself to relieve the hunger, only to regenerate moments later.

Cra— Crackle!

Faint traces of zaen shimmered at their soles and along their weapons.

Seven lunged forward with his sword arcing from shoulder to hip. A full-commitment strike. He followed up with a quick elbow that was meant to crush the jaw if the sword missed.

Lythian dodged both.

He dropped to one knee, twisted beneath the elbow, and drove his dagger upward into Seven's abdomen.

Seven grunted but did not falter seeing a second of future, thus he grabbed Lythian's wrist with his off-hand and surged forward, crashing shoulder-first to break his stance.

Now they were too close.

Even Lythian's dagger could not do much here.

So Seven did the only thing he could.

Punch!

His fist caught Lythian's jaw. There was no satisfaction in landing that punch, but only a dull ache that shot up his arm and made his fingers go numb. 

Lythian jerked his head sideways, forcing himself not to fall. 

Punch!

He answered with a hook of his own that smashed into Seven's cheek and sent him staggering.

Seven's next punch was slower as his body barely followed through.

Lythian caught it against his shoulder before he drove his forehead into Seven's nose hard enough to send both of them dizzy.

Crack.

Both of them saw stars, but Lythian forced himself to stand upright.

For a second, Seven saw the dream where his seven stepfathers did the '002' dance.

Hence, Seven slapped himself on the cheek and tightened his grip on the dagger.

"Fucker. You finally lost your mind?"

"..."

They ignored the pain as none of their pride allowed them to lose.

Punch! 

Punch! Pun—

They did not stop.

Punches turned into grapples, and grapples turned into dragging and leaning stumbles. 

Neither of them could land a clean hit anymore. Their bodies now sagged against each other like crumbling walls, where each held the other up more than pushing them down.

Haah…

Haah…

Their breathing fell into sync.

Together, they raised their arms to prepare another punch, but—

Thud.

Both of them collapsed. 

Now, there were nothing but just two bodies falling into the floor side by side, gasping, bleeding, eyes half-closed and staring at nothing.

"...Fudge."

Seven muttered that not even himself was sure if he meant it as a curse or a breath. 

His gaze drifted towards the edge of the training yard where snowflakes fluttered through the open air like ashes.

And for a moment, he forgot everything.

'I wish Iria was…'

Subconsciously, he thought of Iria. 

It was understandable. Iria would not let this happen. 

She would have barged into the training yard by the first night, tray in hand, while scolding him with that half-whispered fire in her voice, threatening to report him to the Archduke while slipping him warm soup (though poisoned) and a clean cloth for his wounds.

She would not have let the cold creep into his bones or let blood dry beneath torn sleeves.

But she was not here.

And that made all the difference.

So… he shook his head.

He planted one hand into the floor and pushed. 

His arms trembled, his knees buckled, and his lungs burned with exhaustion, but he forced himself not to let go of his consciousness. 

Inch by inch. 

Breath by breath. 

Until his body was standing upright.

Because he had to.

Because in this place, in this arrangement, one of them needed to be the master and the other needed to remember what that meant.

Lythian stirred beside him, groaning low as he rolled onto one elbow and tried to rise. His face was smeared with blood. 

His jaw hung loose, one eye nearly swollen shut, but still he moved as those injuries were slowly regenerating.

But. 

Seven raised his right hand and curled his fingers just enough to…

"Fucker, don't—"

"Lower your head."

He activated the enslavement seal, and the mark on Lythian's forehead responded instantly.

"Aurghhkk-kh!!"

Lythian's eyes widened as he collapsed back to the floor with his body jerking as if he was hit by lightning. He raised both of his hands to his head and clawed his fingers at his temples as if he could dig the pain out from his skull.

Seven, looking down at him, slowly ran a hand through his hair. 

"...You stood way too soon, fudger."