It was a hard-fought battle.
The air stilled cared the stench of burnt flesh. Soldiers moved like ghosts through the remnants of the town square- tending to the wounded.
While the town center was quarantined until further notice, not a single human died during the attack on Saranhell. It was nothing short of a miracle that we could suppress the malevolent figure, though there were more pressing matters at our disposal.
I leaned against a shattered column, the throbbing pain a dull companion to the now silent city.
Then I heard his voice.
"You..."
I looked up.
Xerxes approached me, his gait fixed and regal despite his injuries. He stopped before me, his countenance ever unreadable. That eternal sternness was not dulled, but tempered.
"You didn't have to take that blow."
I turned my head to him. "I suppose that is correct."
"So what made you do it?"
"She was in an active battlefield. Protecting the lives of the innocent is a core component in any war."
"So that's it?" Xerxes said, his gaze the ever-imposing monolith.
He was quite the persistent man indeed. Why did he care so much? A life was saved and the monster defeated. What more could he ask for from such a fruitful scenario?
"What is it that you gain from this conversation, Xerxes of the Seventh Seat?"
His eyes narrowed, as though sifting through a web of lies- something deeply than the logic I presented. "Everything about you is anomalous and bizarre. In body and mind you are merely a machine, a tool executing it's programming, yet you deliberated saved a life when it wasn't convenient for you. Just what are you?"
"I have already told you this before, Divine General. I am an automata, nothing more. A pretender seeking to reach and usurp it's original. That is all I am."
"A pretender couldn't manifest a uniqueness."
"..."
"You also didn't seriously injure my men early."
"..."
"Your silence is a sufficient answer."
He then turned his gaze to the ruined square. "You imitate us, even when it hurts. One may call it fool-hearty, while some may call it sympathetic. I will take neither side."
"You are a difficult person."
"Haha! Perhaps you are not wrong in that assessment, though you are no different."
He said with a gentle smile, "What is your name, boy?" Xerxes extended his hand to me, proposing a handshake. "I am willing to overlook your crimes, given your acts of heroism against the Demon Child."
I took up the offer, accepting his handshake. "Ereth. My name is Ereth."
"Ereth, boy. Come with me to the capital. A man with your skill is rare. You will be an imperative asset in the coming war."
"Very well, though you must understand that I have no loyalties to any creed, country, or faith. I operate with necessity and purpose. If you can provide me both, I will be of great assistance to you."
He released my hand and gave me a nod of approval. "Good! I'd rather take an honest soldier over a loyal dog."
____
Near the outskirts of Saranhell, the sky a gentle lavender, muted but peaceful.
Freid was tying some supplies to the wagon while Surt approached the vehicle with a clay jar in one hand and two cups in the other.
"You forgot the spices," said Surt, bumping his brother lightly with an elbow. "A good stew hides all impurities, even the burnt rice."
Freid scoffed, accepting one of the cups, "Do you think I don't know how to cook you oaf?"
"I know you don't."
They sat beside each other, drinking the herbal, sour mixture. It was a recipe inherited from their mother, promising vitality and good fortune.
Whether they believed it was the genuine article or not had hardly mattered- it was still a valuable fragment in time.
Not far from there location stood Xerxes and Ereth. The boy's posture was awkward and as stiff as ever, as though he were trying to "mimic" ordinary human posture. He accepted the soldier's handshake without an ounce visible uncertainty. He certainly had the makings of a soldier.
Freid inquired with a gentle tone, "He doesn't understand why we're proud him, does he?"
"Of course not," Surt said, taking another sip of his drink. "He's as green as Xian tea."
Silence came, the brothers observing their compatriot- their friend prepare for his leave to the capital.
"He was the worst at haggling. Remember that one lady from Harlan? Sold him fake pearls and a smile."
Freid laughed, "Hah! The boy even thanked her! Said he appreciated her efforts of deception."
Surt laughed alongside his brother. "He really is a kid, through and through. You think he'll survive in the capital? That's a lot of responsibility for an Outworlder."
Finished his cup, Freid put down his drink and remarked, "He certainly isn't like us, that's for sure, but that's why he needs to leave. We can't go stifling him like dotting parents."
"Hmph, I suppose that's true. He's going to change...and I don't know how I feel about that."
"Should we write him?"
"Nah, let's send him something instead. A receipt, a report, even a law abolishing merchant tax."
"I'd frame that."
Ereth approached the caravan, his expression as unreadable as usual. Despite his stiffness, his eyes lingered than usual on both of them.
"I...don't know what to say." Ereth said, his tone flat but not cold. "It appears this is the end of our transaction, yet something feels incomplete."
Surt offered a jug, startling Ereth. "A drink, brother. It is a family tradition."
Ereth accepted, lifting the mug to his lips. Despite it's sour taste, he downed it in a single gulp, his face expressing mild confusion.
"A strange drink. It was of a harsher flavor than water, with an herbal aftertaste."
The brothers stood before him, confounded. After a moment of shock, they laughed at the absurdity.
"You really are a unique fellow, brother."
"That drink would have knocked any normal person out! Even we aren't completely immune to it."
Ereth tilted his head, "It wasn't bad." He looked at them both, eyes flickering- not with light, but with something approaching meaning.
"I will send word from the capital. And I will remember to write down the inventory reports- you always relied on me for those."
Freid chuckled. "We won't need those brother. We relied on you for a lot more than that."
Ereth bowed slightly, "Understood."
With that, he turned, heading towards the convoy. Xerxes called him from afar.
"...Think he'll be alright?" Surt asked with a hint of sadness.
"Course he will be," Freid replied. "That guy is gonna be the Immortal Sword Saint."