The Stubborn might have been an idiot, but he wasn't a murderer. The longsword struck with the flat of the blade, catching the young soldier squarely on the temple.
A solid 120 centimeters and 1.5 kilograms of steel smashed against her skull, and her eyes rolled back as she crumpled to the side, hopefully just unconscious.
The music inside the salon stopped in an instant. The man at the piano froze, his fingers hovering right above the keys. Arin immediately noticed that he wasn't a soldier. His crisp, modern suit marked him as someone far removed from combat. But the other two soldiers in the room, who had just witnessed their comrade being struck down, shot to their feet.
Arin gritted his teeth.
"Damn it," he muttered.
The Stubborn strutted past him, raising the longsword with a gleam of battle-lust in his eyes.
"You said it yourself. We're going through," he said with a cocky grin.
Slowly, Arin nodded. His muscles tensed, and his heart began to pound.
So much for subtlety and finesse.
One of the soldiers' eyes flicked to the side. Arin followed the glance.
Their weapons!
A spear and another sword, both propped against the wall an equal distance from either side.
Arin's gaze locked with the soldiers again. For a moment, the room was utterly still. Then, as if on an invisible cue, both soldiers bolted toward their weapons.
Arin and the Stubborn reacted instantly, their pounding hearts and grinning faces driving them with different motivations, but the same goal. They sprinted forward, vaulting over the extravagant tables and sofas that had transformed from luxuries into obstacles between life and death.
One of the soldiers reached the weapons first, his hand closing around the shaft of the spear just as Arin yanked the stiletto from his belt and plunged it deep into the man's leg.
The soldier cried out in pain but refused to let go of the spear. With a guttural yell, he spun around, the tip of the weapon aimed straight for Arin's chest. Arin wrenched the blade free, the movement earning another agonized grunt from his opponent.
But the pain was blinding, and the moment of hesitation was fleeting as the soldier's bloodlust carried him forward. Arin barely rolled out of the way in time, the spear's tip sparking against the metal floor.
The abrupt retreat left Arin off-balance, and he stumbled backward, collapsing into a nearby armchair. For a brief second, he glanced across the massive dining table at the center of the salon. On the other side, the Stubborn was locked in a fierce sword fight with the second soldier. The Stubborn's brute strength clashed against the soldier's superior technique. He was losing – technically.
That was all Arin could register before the other now limping soldier came after him again, spear still clutched in hand. His steps resembled more of a stagger, but the man's determination to end Arin was undeniable.
As the spear thrust toward him, Arin grabbed the small tea table next to the armchair and swung it up as a makeshift shield. The sudden metal impact sent the soldier off-balance, causing him to stumble.
Next thing the man knew, the table was flying towards him. The rounded edge struck the soldier square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him as he gasped for air. A last kick to his liver sent the man to the floor.
Arin snatched the spear from his hands and looked up.
The Stubborn was bleeding from several wounds. His opponent was clearly better trained with the sword. But Arin could also see the Stubborn's sheer will keeping him in the fight. He wouldn't allow himself to lose that easily.
Still, if one of his Incarnations got hurt, Arin would ultimately bear the consequences of it. He moved to help his Soulart, but the sound of a door swinging open froze him.
The man who had been sitting at the piano moments earlier was fleeing, running toward the bridge.
Arin's eyes widened.
"He's going to alert the others!"
"Let them come!" the Stubborn bellowed, laughing through bloodied teeth.
But Arin didn't wait. He bolted after the fleeing man. If the ship was alerted before he and the Cold completed their missions, the Smoking Guild wouldn't attack. And if that happened, Arin would be as good as dead.
He barreled through the door, shoulder first, the frame rattling as he burst into the corridor beyond. His heart pounded in his chest, while he could only hope that the sounds of their fight hadn't carried – or that it would end quickly enough for him to send the signal before anyone realized what was happening on the Ariana.
Ahead, the pianist ran. No, ran wasn't the right word. He stumbled forward, his tailored suit bunching awkwardly as he fled with the grace of a wounded bird.
It was almost laughable how slow the man was. Arin caught up in seconds, his body moving on instinct. With a quick sweep of his leg, he hooked the man's ankle and sent him sprawling to the ground.
The pianist cried out as he hit the floor, his hands slapping against the metal with a dull thud.
Arin loomed over him, his stiletto already in handm, though he didn't intend to use it. He crouched, ready to knock the man unconscious, but hesitated when the pianist's face turned up to him. The man's eyes were wide with terror.
He's… afraid of me?
The man raised his trembling hands.
"I'm not a soldier! Spare me, please!"
The plea hit Arin harder than he expected. He froze, his grip on the blade loosening slightly. His breath came fast and shallow, and for a moment, the adrenaline rushing through his veins faltered.
…immediately regretting it, because now it was much harder to do anything. Striking a pleading foe wasn't something that brought him any satisfaction.
"I… I have a family!" the pianist stammered, his voice breaking.
"A son and wife – please! They need me!"
Arin grit his teeth, his head tilting back in frustration.
"I'm not going to–"
The words barely left his mouth before he felt a sharp tug on his leg. The pianist had swept his foot under Arin, knocking him off balance. Before Arin could react, the man lunged at him, slamming into his chest. The man wasn't very big, but neither was Arin.
They wert sent crashing to the floor, Arin paying the price for it. His head struck the metal with a sickening clang, and the world blurred, pain radiating from the back of his skull and spreading through his fiber.
The pianist was screaming now, a raw, primal sound of desperation, fear and fury. His hands scrabbled at Arin's, clawing for the stiletto as he pressed his weight down, trying to pin him.
The sudden betrayal made Arin's heart thunder, as he felt a surge of rage flooding through him. The heat of adrenaline coursed through his body once again, drowning out the pain.
With a snarl, Arin spat into the man's face, the surprise forcing the pianist to recoil slightly. Arin's arm broke free, the stiletto still clutched in his grasp. He twisted, aiming to drive the blade into the man's side, but surprisingly, the desperate pianist caught his wrist and, with wild misery, sank his teeth into Arin's arm.
"Agh!" Arin roared, his voice filled with fury and pain.
But the pianist didn't capitalize on the situation. He wasn't even strong, nor was he trained in any way. He didn't hail from the lowest parts of Crownblossom. Meanwhile, pain and fury were Arin's childhood friends.
Even if not his best ones.
He drove his elbow into the man's face. The impact felt sharp and satisfying. The pianist toppled off him, clutching his nose as blood trickled between his fingers.
Arin's vision was red now, a haze of pure instinct overtaking him. His head throbbed, and blood dripped from his bitten wrist, yet he still clutched the stiletto. His knuckles turned white, and he threw himself onto the pianist.
The man tried to resist, but after exhausting so much of his energy, he was no match for the seething Arin. Straddling the man, he raised the blade high, ready to plunge it into the bastard's heart.
And then, he froze.
The pianist's face stared back at him. Twisted with terror and fear, his pupils shook in an unsteady rhythm. His bloodied hands were raised defensively, trembling as his dry lips pleaded for mercy.
Arin's chest heaved as he stared down at the man. The fury that had gripped him moments ago began to ebb, and was now replaced by a cold, gnawing realization. His hand wavered, the point of the blade hovering above the pianist's chest.
The man wasn't even fighting back anymore. He was just… begging.
Arin's breath caught, and for a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and insistent in his ears. Then, removing the blade from the pianist's heart, the haze around his throbbing mind began to clear.
What the hell am I doing?
Did… did he really almost kill this man?
He wasn't even a soldier. A pianist. A father.
He was helpless and Arin was the one who attacked him. He was the intruder here. How he must look, mask concealing his face, knife in hand, going around in the darkness of the night... to steal even more.
Mayia's words echoed faintly in his mind.
You said you wouldn't hurt anybody anymore for me.
"Fuck!" Arin screamed, slamming his fist into the man's face.
The pianist's head snapped to the side, and his body slumped unconscious against the floor. Arin staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as blood dripped steadily from his bitten wrist, pooling on the cold metal below.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. The Stubborn appeared, blood smeared across his face and arms. His protective goggles had been ripped away, revealing the gray eyes beneath them, and his mask was stained red from a deep cut along his cheek.
He was breathing heavily, though not as raggedly as Arin.
The Stubborn glanced down at the pianist briefly before looking back at Arin. His gray eyes were stern and unyielding, betraying no sorts of regret.
Arin squinted at him.
"What? Should I have killed him?"
The Stubborn shrugged, his expression impassive.
Arin scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. He knelt down, yanking a strip of fabric from the pianist's suit and wrapping it tightly around his wrist to stem the bleeding. The pain flared, sharp and hot, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.
When he was done, he pushed himself upright, his legs finding new steadiness beneath him. His voice low and seething with exhaustion, he muttered:
"Let's get to that fucking bridge."