“Yeah, we’re close,” said Adlet. “You’ve been giving us a rough time, but…that ends now.”
“…Have you figured out what’s really going on?” Goldof’s eyes were still locked on the rock.
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m the strongest man in the world.” It looked like Goldof was almost smiling. “Tell me about your helmet. What’s that hieroform, really?”
“…Hieroform?” Goldof muttered.
“I’m going to kill you now,” Fremy said, her finger sliding onto the trigger of her gun. “But before that, let me ask you this: Is it your hieroform that’s keeping Nashetania hidden?”
“That question…is pointless. For you…and for me.” Goldof shifted his spear from a one-handed to a two-handed grip.
Adlet swallowed. He had a grasp of Goldof’s skill. Three-on-one, they wouldn’t lose, even if they made a few mistakes. But now Goldof had something to overcome the difference in numbers.
“I’m disappointed…Adlet.” Goldof looked at him calmly. “I thought…maybe…you’d figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“Once it’s…all over…I’ll talk.” Goldof lifted his spear, and the other three readied their weapons as well. Rolonia began whispering her invective under her breath.
“I will…protect Her Highness,” said Goldof. And then, what he said next shocked Adlet. Rolonia stopped mumbling to herself, and Fremy’s eyes went wide.
“And…I’ll save Chamo…too.”
He launched himself at Adlet.
Chapter 4Goldof Auora’s Anguish
Goldof Auora.
He was known all over the world as a gifted young knight, extolled as the pride of the Kingdom of Piena. But in truth, few knew of his background. His origins were unfamiliar not only to foreigners, but also to the people of Piena. Even some among the knights and nobles were unaware.
Goldof was born into the lowest class of Piena, in a tiny port town on the western fringes of the kingdom. His father was a rag-picker-cum-petty-thief who targeted the wallets and accessories of passers-by. Goldof had been told that his mother was a prostitute, but he didn’t know her name or what she looked like.
He grew up in the slums, the territory of thugs and the abode of those who made a living stealing from honest people. Young Goldof’s job was to search among the piles of refuse for anything that might still be useful and then sell it. To him, the upper classes and the royal family were so far beyond his sphere of interaction, he was barely even aware they existed.
Goldof was a very taciturn boy. He would rarely reply when spoken to, and when he did open his mouth, he’d mutter a word or two at most. He just expressionlessly followed the instructions of his father and the other adults in his life. The people of the slums all thought he was simply stupid.
But there was one thing about Goldof that distinguished him from the other boys: He was born exceptionally strong. He grew at double the speed of the other children, and his strength increased at twice that rate. Goldof had everything: reflexes, athletic talent, and the unique sharp instinct of a first-rate warrior. Why was he so strong? No particular reason at all. He’d never had a teacher, never labored for it, and had never once had any ounce of desire for it. He was just strong for no reason.
This was not necessarily a good thing. Goldof knew this firsthand.
The first time he killed a living being was when he was four years old. A stray dog had tried to bite him, so he swung it around by the tail, and it died.
The first time he’d broken a person’s bones was when he was seven. He’d picked up a little ring by the side of the road and was on his way to take it to his father when a boy around his age came in to snatch it away. When Goldof grabbed the boy’s arm as hard as he could, he heard a horrible sound in his grip. The boy crumpled, wailing. Goldof merely looked down at the squalling boy.
The first time he’d gotten into a fight had also been at seven.
The boys of the slums were all in gangs. They banded together to protect themselves from unfair violence and also to coordinate for a chance to pilfer from adults. They plotted their revenge against Goldof, and late one night they all took up their preferred weapons and boxed him in.
They punched him and kicked him, but Goldof didn’t say anything. He didn’t apologize to them or cry. When they hit him in the head with an iron bar, he remembered none of what happened next. A few minutes later, Goldof’s fists were drenched in blood, and all of his attackers prone on the ground. Of the nine boys, two were wounded so badly they would never recover.
Goldof killed someone for the first time when he was eight. His father, the petty thief, had stolen a wallet from someone he perhaps shouldn’t have. Some oafish men were kicking him around on the street. Goldof grabbed one of the men from behind by the hair, threw him to the ground, and snapped his neck. Instantly, the man lay still.
Two small girls came running out of the crowd that had gathered around the scene. They flung themselves on the man’s body and cried, jeering and hissing at Goldof. The dead man was the girls’ older brother. When one of them came at him with a knife, he kicked her as hard as he could in the stomach.
Goldof first hit his father at the same age.
In their back-alley hut, Goldof’s father had grabbed him by the collar, ranting and yelling at him. You’re so violent, everyone resents me, too. I can’t live in this town anymore! How could you?! This is your fault! his father howled, crying.
Goldof head-butted his father in the face and kept on kicking it beyond all recognition. His father apologized and then begged for his life. When Goldof stopped, the man scuttled away in panic. The boy never saw him again.
He had hit people more times than he could count. Sometimes it
