Cultivating Anthro CEO RPG Hero Harem Reincarnation In Another World - Chapter 159

VII.

It was quiet, except for Baraba’s horse Tulie stirring restlessly in its pen. For reasons unknown to Typhon, Baraba kept his horse in the tent they both slept in, rather than in the stables with all the other horses in the camp. Because of this, there was always a stench of manure in the air, so Typhon generally avoided being in the tent for any long periods of time other than to sleep.

Regardless, he laid in his bed all that morning, too lost in thought to be disturbed by any foul stenches, nor sounds of life coming from outside.

I can’t believe it…

After last night, it was all he could think about.

Dad is working with the slave traders.

Typhon’s thoughts drifted back to his home, to the smell of sawdust and sweet pie. To his friends and his mother’s smile, and the simple life he’d left behind to seek out his father.

He remembered his mother’s words to him, as she lay dying:

“Go, Typhon! Find your father.”

“At first he might seem  harsh…even scary.”

“But he’s a good man. You’ll see.”

And so Typhon had done just as she said, going out to look for his father even though all he’d had to go on were stories. Stories she’d told him as he was growing up, about the heroic mercenary captain Baraba and his noble crusade against the evil Ankh empire.

What would mom think, if she’d ever found out the truth?

Rousing himself, he set about combing the room in search of the key to El’s cage. He shifted through business ledgers, yellowed with age,  his father’s collection of maps marked with ink from planning work done for previous jobs, even under his mattress…

When he was sure he’d searched every nook and cranny of the tent, Typhon went outside.

It was a slow day in the camp. Without any new jobs on the table, most of the men stayed holed up in their tents, hungover or sleeping off recent battle wounds.

Those that were up and about were all gathered at one place.

On the outskirts of the mercenary camp, was a makeshift fighting arena — a shallow pit of dirt encircled by a crudely constructed log fence, around which the men would gather to watch and place their bets on the combatants below.

Among the throngs in attendance that day was Baraba, laughing and jeering with the rest of them.

Seeing him there made Typhon’s blood boil. He was pumped, not thinking like his usual self, waiting anxiously until the current match ended, when the two fighters had dropped their swords for whoever was to come next.

Abandoning all restraint, Typhon hopped into the ring.

“You and me, dad!” he said, the feigned depth in his voice doing little to make him sound tough, but rather like a child that was trying too hard. “Let’s fight!”

There was a wave of excited oos from the other mercs.

Baraba didn’t care, though.

He  waved the challenge away, not even dignifying it with a response.

Typhon gritted his teeth, not taking no for an answer. He took up one of the blunted blades that were left on the ground, and beckoned to the crowd.

“Do I have any other takers?” If not his father, he would still take his anger out on someone.

The challenge was met with some amused chuckles, and glances being exchanged. A long enough lull for Typhon to realize how foolish this really was, as just about everyone in the camp was bigger, stronger, and more experienced than he was, and they knew it.

He was like a lamb nominating itself for the slaughter.

Luckily for him, it seemed no one would accept the challenge. After all, even though Typhon wasn’t exactly close to anyone in the camp, it’s not like there was any thrill to be found in humiliating a child.

It almost seemed like he was being let off the hook, if not for an unexpected visitor.

Someone declared, “I accept your challenge!”

As Typhon watched, an elegantly dressed young man brushed past the other spectators to approach the pit, his finely brushed hair of wavy blonde bouncing with each step.

Planting one boot unto the fence, he climbed up and stood atop it, leering down at Typhon.

“Surprised to see me again, so soon?” He said. “Are you impressed that I, the great Elias du Chevalier, would go so far for the sake of vengeance as to dwell among this wretched, unwashed lot?”

A few scattered protests came from the mercs, to which he rolled his eyes.

Typhon groaned — not this guy again.

It wasn’t all that surprising, though. Freelancers would often sign on with the enemy forces after suffering defeat on a job, their loyalties by nature able to be bought and sold.

Typhon gave a sheepish smile.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting your hat back.”

Elias hopped off his perch, landing in the pit with his rapier drawn. “Not only for my hat, but I must also claim victory over you–”

He stabbed his rapier at the air.

“Pour l’honneur!”

“Hey, Fralian!” Baraba yelled, watching all this unfold with detached amusement from the sidelines. “If you’re gonna fight in the pit, you’re doing it with one of the practice swords.”

Begrudgingly, Elias obliged.

Whether dull or sharp, he would have his revenge by the blade!

The energy that he brought to the pit was infectious. The men watching were riled up, and it was clear to Typhon he wouldn’t be able to slither his way out of this one.

“En garde, little rat!” Elias cried, and launched the first attack.

He came upon Typhon with a lightning fast flurry of thrusts with the sword. Too quick, too aggressive, and too unpredictable, leaving no openings for him to maneuver around or exploit, constantly forcing him on the defensive.

With each parried strike, Typhon could feel his arms and shoulders rattle from the impact.

Typhon knew he was outmatched. There were days when he would marvel at the other men, as they fought in the arena. How they commenced the fight at five paces, and maintained those five paces all throughout;  perfectly matching each other’s blows in a kind of coordinated dance. Not a single movement nor action wasted.

Even though he could visualize it, Typhon’s attempts to replicate it were floundering. Untrained.

In less than a minute, Typhon’s back was to the fence.

Elias pressed his sword to his neck.

“Tch,” he scoffed. “Pathetic.”

Typhon could see the disappointment grow like a stain upon his father’s face.

But this fight wasn’t over yet.

As Elias was distracting himself; proudly gesturing and waving to his audience like a gladiator in an arena, Typhon slowly extended his hand to take up a handful of dirt…

Seeing this, Baraba stood up, furiously jabbing his finger in the air at him. “I see you, boy!”

“This isn’t the place for one of your little tricks!”

Panicking, Typhon quickly let go of the clump of dirt, but not fast enough.

Elias had seen it.

In an instant, he reversed his sword and drove the pommel straight into Typhon’s face.

Typhon fell to the ground.

His head spinning from the harsh blow.

He tried not to cry as his face seared with pain, and he tasted blood.

Why am I so weak? He pondered, watching Elias continue to rally ever more praise from his audience, with Baraba’s face no longer to be seen among them.

Typhon quickly ran out of the arena and caught up with him, back in the camp.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s in that cage?”

Baraba looked at him with disdain.

“I thought I already told you to mind your own damn business!”

Typhon was about to reply, but caught a glimpse of something dangling from one of Baraba’s belt loops that gave him pause.

It was a set of keys.

Could those be…? He wondered, his eyes widening at the prospect.

With an annoyed grunt, Baraba turned to leave, so Typhon had to think fast. He would have to do something he’d once considered unthinkable.

Typhon ran forward, tackling his father to the ground.

Barabas shook, writhing viciously, kicking up sand and dust all around him.

Baraba was roaring with anger. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, boy–”

“I know what you’re keeping in that tent, dad!”

Typhon held him an armlock, then switched to a headlock while pinning him down with one knee as best he could, trying to restrain him just long enough, with one hand free to try for the keys on his belt…

“What would mom think if she knew what you were up to, huh?”

Suddenly, Baraba gained the momentum he needed to reverse on Typhon, and now it was Typhon being pinned down, with an arm held firm against his neck.

“If you’re so concerned about what your mama would think, maybe you should get packing!”

“You’re no use to me, anyway!”

Typhon was struggling to breathe under his weight.

“I’ve been too easy on you!”

Typhon, trapped, gasped for breath. Black circles started to cloud his vision. His muscles ached. If this went on for very much longer, he was sure he’d pass out, or worse.

“Letting you play thief instead of teaching you how to be a real man!”

Then there was shouting, as some of the other mercenaries came to split the two up. With so many men in the camp rubbing shoulders all the time, outbursts such as these were all too common. It was a major cause for the existence of the fighting pit, for those occasions when words just simply weren’t enough to resolve a dispute.

“Tonight,” Baraba spat, “you can sleep outside!”

As he trudged away, being lead by the other men, Typhon stayed on the ground, catching his breath while contemplating some of his father’s words.

‘Playing thief’ is how he thinks of what I do, huh?

Typhon checked his closed right hand, just to be sure it was there, and sure enough it was – the set of keys he’d successfully snatched off Baraba’s belt during the scuffle.

Feeling satisfied, Typhon smiled to himself.

Not bad, for a play-thief.