Arc-4 Ch-14

I slow the airbike and shift into landing mode. Chris and Brad have already secured the deck, so we’re safe from attack. One by one, the others catch up, but there’s no time to check faces. Speed and precision are critical for a rescue operation.

“Any casualties?”

“All units are intact!”

“Then those who’ve landed, start securing the airship! We’re taking a different route!”

“Understood!”

The subordinate’s report eases my mind, but I can’t let my guard down. We’ve cleared the most dangerous part, but the real fight—on foot—starts now.

“Thanks, you two. You saved us.”

“We’ll join the airship takeover now.”

“Got it. Take care of my men.”

“Leave it to us. Good luck.”

After thanking them, I regroup with Dad and Nicks. Now we settle the Bartfort family’s cursed grudge. I have no intention of letting those scum escape.

“Let’s go.”

Our target is a small door at the stern of the ship’s deck. Large airships have several emergency exits for crises. We choose one that leads to a specific location. I grab the handle of the small, single-person door, but it stops halfway—locked.

No matter how much force I apply, it doesn’t budge. As expected, it’s locked. The door isn’t built to be sturdy—it’s just locked from the outside. No need for a special explosive to break it.

I load a magic-enhanced, high-impact round into my shotgun, aiming at the lock while avoiding the handle.

BANG!

The gunshot echoes, punching a hole in the door. Turning the handle a few times, it opens slowly with a dull creak. Luckily, the impact didn’t warp the door. I eject the shell, reload, and we enter—Dad first, then me, then Nicks. Honestly, it’s a gamble whether Zora and her crew will act as I predict.

They’re idiots—hopeless idiots.

Their idiocy makes their actions somewhat predictable, but cornered fools are unpredictable. Still, years of dealing with them give me a sense of what they’ll do in a pinch. Even if they’re scum, they were technically family—and that sticks in my mind.

I hate them—wanted to kill them countless times. But killing someone you know, even them, brings hesitation. No. Focus on the rescue. We pass through a narrow emergency staircase into a corridor wide enough for two to pass. Using the ship’s guide signs, I gauge our position. We studied blueprints of this airship type for the assault—memorizing them.

Preparation is key for swift operations. It was a good distraction from worrying about the hostages. Following the glowing signs, we move silently. Dad, bulky and heavily armored, takes point; I’m in the middle with my gun; Nicks covers the rear. Faint sounds of combat echo from somewhere in the ship.

Turning a corner, we run into two men in unfamiliar clothes. Not hostages or non-combat crew—tough-looking enemies. Before thinking, I aim my shotgun over Dad’s shoulder and fire.

BANG!

The wide-spread, low-power scattershot is perfect for close-quarters combat in these tight corridors. The two men groan and collapse. They’re alive—for now—but there’s no time to finish them. If they’re lucky, they’ll survive. If they die, they’re complicit in this crime—no pity.

I tell myself this and press on. We reach a heavy metal door. Voices and multiple presences come from inside—our target. I crack the door to peek in. Five armed men—one, two, three, four, five. There could be more hidden, but at least five. No women’s voices, so Angie and the others aren’t here yet. I signal the count to Dad and Nicks with my hand; they nod in understanding.

We can win with a surprise attack, but time’s short. I load two rounds into the shotgun and loosen my knife’s sheath. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Repeat. Calming my breathing, I signal the others and slowly open the door without a sound. The moment before they turn—we charge. In combat, a second feels like several as senses sharpen. An enemy spots us, eyes wide with shock. I aim at one and fire.

BANG!

Scattershot’s inaccuracy is handy here—it’s likely to hit. The pirate-like man collapses. I aim at the next, but my stance or aim is off—I miss. The startled man flinches. With no rounds left, I hurl the shotgun at another enemy. As he recoils, I draw my knife. A custom military knife, as heavy as a shortsword, forged from iron. Short-ranged but thick and heavy—it’s closer to a sharpened hatchet. I grip it tightly with my right hand, bracing the hilt with my left.

Stabbing precisely between ribs is beyond me. Instead, I use my sprint’s momentum to maximize impact. I slam the knife into the flinching man’s gut like a body check.

SHUNK…

“Guh! Ja#Gyaba?! Aagh?!”

The sensation of stabbing something soft and the inhuman scream echo. I twist the knife out and face the man hit by the shotgun, who’s now drawing a gun in rage.

Too slow.

I grab his arm with my left hand, pinning it, and swing the knife sideways with my right.

SLASH!

A mix of cutting and wet sounds rings out. Blood sprays from his neck, splattering my helmet. He collapses with a thud—already a corpse. Looking around, no enemies are left standing. Nicks shot one with his rifle; Dad cut down the last with his sword. The shot and stabbed men groan in pain.

I slice their carotid arteries slowly, blood gushing as their faces pale. Massive blood loss kills in seconds—supposedly the least painful way to die. But this “mercy” is just to ease my own guilt.

A shot man, a slashed man, a stabbed man. Moments ago, they were alive; now their corpses litter the floor. Even dead, bodies react. Exposed bones gleam white; organs still pulse, spilling blood. The pooling blood stains the floor red—surprisingly more than I expected.

Nausea surges, but my helmet stops me from covering my mouth. Vomiting now would make a mess inside. I rip it off and spew stomach acid—my stomach’s nearly empty from eating only tasteless military biscuits since Angie’s kidnapping. The sour taste lingers horribly.

“Leon, you okay?”

“Still bad with corpses, huh?” Nicks says.

Dad and Nicks approach, unscathed. Physically, they’re stronger. My edge is cunning—and ruthlessly targeting weak points.

“If you were crueler, you could be a legendary strategist,” Dad says.

“Never wanted that,” I reply.

“Looks like they haven’t come here.”

If they’re not here, fine. The heroes upstairs should keep our casualties low. If there’s trouble, we’ll hear. If this was a wasted trip, better that way. I don’t want my family—especially the woman I love—seeing me kill.

“But it really happened. I’m shocked,” Nicks says.

“Did you predict this?” Dad asks.

“Not really. I just figured they’d do this.”

I wish I’d been wrong. I pull tools from my combat suit and hand them to Dad and Nicks.

“Let’s get started. Time’s short.”

※ ※ ※ ※ ※

The ship’s narrow corridors aren’t suited for adults. Dragging hostages and luggage slows you even more.

Zora, Merce, Rutart threatening me and Dorothea with a sword, pirates with Jenna and Finley, and baggage-carrying pirates. Nine people moving together struggle to navigate the corridors.

“Hurry up!”

“Stop dawdling!”

Zora and Rutart scream orders, but speeding up is impossible. Gunshots and cries echo throughout the ship. Each noise forces them to detour to avoid combat, slowing their progress to their destination. It’s obviously time-consuming.

They should’ve fled before the airbikes came—before Greg’s armor deployed. When half their armors were down, the pirates restraining us left the bridge with Zora’s family, heading to their quarters. They frantically packed valuables and money, preparing to escape.

We watched their lack of planning with cold eyes. Even now, Zora and her kids’ cowardice—fleeing without fighting—stirs disgust. Abandoning the pirates and the former knight to save themselves is unbecoming of nobles. Nobles must take responsibility for their actions. Great power comes with the cost of answering for failures with your life.

If you can’t, you don’t deserve power. Zora’s family are corrupt nobles—relying solely on bloodline, cowards who fled, abandoning people and land during the Fanoss Duchy war.

After winding through narrow corridors and descending several levels, their conversation reveals we’ve reached the stern hangar. If this continues, Leon’s efforts will be in vain—they’ll escape.

Setting the air conditioning on fire seems to have been a futile struggle. I need to buy time somehow.

“Running away like cowards? Letting your men fight while you save yourselves—you’re despicable,” I say.

“Shut up, hostage! Just obey us quietly!” Zora snaps.

“As Leon said, there’s nowhere that’ll take you, even if you flee. Why not surrender with some dignity?” I press.

“Our lives aren’t worth the same as filthy pirates or useless knights!” Merce retorts.

Saying that right in front of their pirate underlings? They’ve likely coerced loyalty with money and threats. Even if they escape, I doubt Zora’s family has a future. I sigh and walk slowly, praying the rescue team notices us.

But my hopes are dashed—we arrive at the stern hangar. A small escape airship is apparently prepared here. Zora’s family seems to have sent some ahead to prepare it, while ordering the pirates restraining us and carrying luggage to finish us off if they get the chance.

The pirates think their share of the reward will increase, but there’s no guarantee Zora won’t do the same to them. They might even be planning to turn the preparers against each other. I’m not noble enough to warn them—rather, I’m desperately thinking of using their chaos to call for help. The door opens, and we’re forced into the cramped hangar.

A small airship sits in the center. I notice something off the moment I see the men sprawled on the floor. Red-black liquid pools beneath them, the choking iron smell fills the air, and their pale, vacant stares fix on nothing.

Several corpses, clearly dead, lie scattered.

I swallow a scream—someone else in the hangar might’ve cried out. A black figure stands among them, aiming a shotgun at us. That combat suit—I know it well.

Ah, he really came.

Seeing him, my body trembles with joy. He always strives for me, tackling any impossible task. Recalling his earlier love confession, warmth floods me. I want to see his face, but acting selfishly could endanger my sisters-in-law and Dorothea. I restrain myself, waiting for his move.

“W-Who are you?!” Zora shrieks.

The black figure discards his helmet, letting it roll across the floor. That face—I know it well. Or I thought I did.

“Who… is this man…?” I murmur.

It’s Leon Fou Bartfort, unmistakably him.

But something’s wrong—terribly wrong. He’s the foul-mouthed, perpetually complaining cynic I know, yet kind to me and the children, a loving husband who cherishes family. Yet the man before me doesn’t feel like the same person. No, I’ve seen this side of him before.

A dark memory I buried—him mistaking me for an enemy on the battlefield and nearly killing me. Terror rises from my feet, shaking my body. Erasing a deeply ingrained fear is nearly impossible, especially when it’s my husband I face daily. Fearing he once tried to kill me would ruin our life together, so I locked it away.

“Long time no see, Zora, Merce, Rutart. How many years since we last met face-to-face?” Leon quips.

It’s the same taunting tone from the comms. But it’s different—devoid of the usual emotion. His words match, yet it feels like a stranger speaking.

“When things get tough, you’re the first to run, huh? Still no shame for those fighting above?” he adds.

“H-How are you here?!”

“Think about your track record. You fled when the duchy attacked, when Dad aimed a gun, when the kingdom crushed your organization. No pride at all? I didn’t expect you’d really come.”

He’s right—Zora’s family’s pattern of fleeing danger is clear from our talks and actions. Leon, with his long history with them, likely predicted this.

“Fleeing first—aren’t you ashamed? I was taught nobles protect their land and people,” he says.

“Don’t lecture us on nobility, you lowborn!” Zola snaps.

“Then you claim superiority? Zora, I heard your family was dissolved. The head fled the war like you.”

“A noble’s life is worth more than a commoner’s! We can rebuild if we survive!”

“Running won’t earn you glory. Can’t you see that?”

“Sacrificing your life is for fools!”

“And Merce and Rutart’s real father was abandoned by his father, right? He was involved in crimes too. Your blood’s worse than commoners’.”

“How dare a climber defame our noble lineage!”

“Your ‘great’ ancestors’ legacy is ruined by your sins. Don’t you feel sorry? No, that’s why your house fell.”

Leon’s insults are precise spears piercing their pride. True nobles might feel shame, but Zora’s family lacks that honor. “Drop your weapons! Or do you want the hostages harmed?!” Zora’s shrill voice echoes.

Leon drops his shotgun, unbuckles his knife belt, and lets it fall. His eyes never leave us, unwavering even through the motions. Something’s decisively off from the Leon I know.

“Walking into a trap—how stupid. Getting a title made you cocky, dog,” Rutart sneers.

“Why not stop resisting? You know you’ve lost,” Leon retorts.

“Shut up! Don’t order us around, Leon!”

“Move, or the hostages suffer!” Merce adds.

Their insistence on superiority is almost admirable. To them, Leon’s still a lowly, mixed-blood slave. They don’t grasp how their misjudgment led to this corner.

“It’s your fault! The kingdom’s chaos started with trash like you!” Zora accuses.

“What? How could I disrupt the kingdom?”

“A stray dog goes to war and gets a viscountcy? Unacceptable!”

“Then you should’ve joined the duchy war. Dad tried to stop you. You’d have kept your barony.”

“Don’t joke! Die in a hopeless war? Never!”

“It ended in a draw. The old Bartfort land saw little fighting, minimal damage. Losing valuables to you hurt more.”

“That money was ours!”

“Thieves have no shame!”

The irony of who’s the real thief is obvious. Their distorted perception makes them seem inhuman—selfish and incoherent.

“Stay and fend off scouts, and you’d have gotten what you wanted. You abandoned everything. We picked up the pieces and built from there,” Leon says.

“Don’t preach! That viscountcy is mine!”

“I earned my title through my own merits. The Bartfort name’s irrelevant.”

“You fled from us!”

“You gave me the choice—marry or join the army, Zora. I chose the army.”

“Silence! No backtalk!”

“You could’ve rejoined the last war to restore your house. The royal family isn’t that heartless with pardons.”

“Ridiculous! Who’d believe that?”

The conversation goes nowhere. Leon’s logic fails to reach their emotional state, wasting time. Is this intentional stalling? They likely didn’t expect Greg and Jilk’s involvement. The other three might be here too. Thinking they cornered the Bartforts, they’re panicking against unexpected foes. More time favors us.

“Move, now! Or the hostages die!” Zora threatens.

“Fine, I have a plan too,” Leon says.

He pulls something from his pocket—a slender metal key reflecting the light. Pinching both ends, he starts applying pressure.

“What’s that?!”

“The airship’s ignition key. Break this, and it starts.”

“!!?”

His explanation is flat, emotionless, as he steadily increases force. With his strength, bending that small key is easy. If it breaks, the airship won’t move, trapping Zora.

Killing us would remove any mercy from the Bartfort forces. Wasting time lets the upper decks’ pirates fall. Either way, their fate is sealed—surrender’s their best move.

“Stop! Break it, and we kill the hostages!” Zora warns.

“Kill them, and I’ll break it, then slaughter you all.”

The situation locks. Any rash move, and Leon will destroy the key without hesitation. Zora’s group can’t risk harming us to escape. But Leon’s also immobilized. Someone must act to break this, though it could cost a life. Tension fills the hangar, time stretching impossibly. Unexpectedly, Rutart disrupts it.

Drawing a pistol, tension spikes.

Someone will die—I brace myself. He grabs my shoulder, shoving me to Merce, and hands her the gun.

“Sister, take the hostages. I’ll kill Leon now.”

“Scum.”

“Quiet! Watch Leon die!”

The four hostages—me, Dorothea, Jenna, Finley—are restrained by Merce and two pirates. If they wanted Leon dead, they could’ve used the pirates. But the pirates cling to luggage, focused on us. Zora's leadership plays a role, but this is a blunder.

Leon’s combat-savvy but not invincible against Rutart and two pirates. Unarmed, he’s vulnerable to a coordinated attack or a shot if they loosen our restraints. Their inaction stems from us as valuable bargaining chips and Zora’s obsession with wealth.

Or maybe Leon’s provocation worked. His insults targeted their noble pride. In Holfort, nobles avoid firearms in honor duels—using them is shameful, though armor duels allow ranged weapons.

Did Leon plan this? I’m not sure. The loving husband I know, the feared rogue knight—neither feels like his true self.

“Kill him now! I don’t want to stay here a second longer!” Zora orders.

“If you don't want this, Leon, hand over the key—save your wife!” Rutart taunts.

“Release Angie first. Then we talk.”

“I won’t negotiate! Die!”

Rutart grins wickedly, raising his sword. A cursed strike flies toward Leon.

┳⁠━━━━⁠━⁠⁠━⁠━⁠━━━⁠┳

Authors Note

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Chapter Title is based Inspired by Shiosato Jun-sensei’s illustration.  

https://twitter.com/shiosatojyun11/status/1301539015003271168  

This Leon is notably violent. For a genius to thrive on the battlefield, they must sacrifice humanity or adherence to law. His taunts are half-rational, half-natural sass. Personal insults reflect his sharp tongue, while ancestral jabs are calculated. After years of Zola’s abuse, harsh provocation is justified.

Addendum: Per the client’s request, MAHYO-sama provided an illustration. Thank you!  

MAHYO-sama: Pixiv  

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