Chapter 16: Surabar (2)

Paramir’s entry into the Black Tail Mercenaries wasn’t for any grand reason.

Surabar had no choice but to accept the desperate pleas of Maximilian, who, practically in tears, begged him to take Paramir in, clinging to his pant leg.

At the time, Surabar only felt pity for the new branch leader, who seemed on the verge of fainting.

“Please, take this guy! Even as a porter!”

Surabar had no intention of treating him as a comrade. He planned to ditch this insignificant human slave in some town during a job and be done with it.

That was the plan, at least…

“What’s your name?”

“Paramir.”

“Don’t just stand there—carry this.”

“…Got it.”

Despite Maximilian’s hysterics, Paramir did his tasks decently enough.

Unlike the rumors of a lazy freeloader who only mopped or brushed when he felt like it, stealing hidden bread (Maximilian claimed his branch leader salary was meager) and sunbathing on rooftops, Paramir was different.

Even when abandoned in a city, he’d find his way back to the mercenaries. 

At first, he did the bare minimum, grudgingly, but over time, he started doing a rookie’s work without being told.

Months passed, and Paramir sought out Surabar one day.

“Boss, you like Jasmine, don’t you?”

A bold question.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I know. Perdual knows. Tenok knows. Even Jasmine knows you like her. They’re betting on when you’ll confess.”

Surabar didn’t know whether to scold this audacious human or be impressed that he’d seen through feelings Surabar himself had buried.

“You’ve been staring at Jasmine lately. Even Maximilian knows.”

“…Barhan help me.”

Surabar wasn’t clueless about women, nor was he a complete novice.

He’d felt flickers of affection before, but life’s harsh winds always snuffed them out before they could take root.

For the first time, Surabar faced a woman he could call his. No—she came to him, to the mercenaries, to him.

According to Jasmine, it was “Barhan’s destined path.”

“I love you, Surabar.”

Under a blazing campfire and twinkling stars, she whispered.

Jasmine.

My sun.

My goddess.

My love.

My everything…

Surabar knew the time had come to build a family, to be a husband to one woman and a father to their children, as his Saberhan ancestors had done.

It wasn’t taught or told—it was instinct, fate, providence.

Jasmine was the eternal partner the celestial gods had chosen for him.

“Confess now. Waiting only causes trouble,” Paramir urged.

“Wait, Paramir! You…!”

“Surabar?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze, awkwardly staring at the cobwebbed walls of their lodging, feeling her tail wrap around his.

Her flushed cheeks, her shyly lowered neck, her crimson hair tied with a string… It had to be magic. What else could it be?

Whether it was Jasmine’s spell or the setting sun’s, Surabar knew he could never go back. Ever.

The tiger beastman stammered before her, unaware of his own words.

“I love you. Marry me.”

“I love you too.”

“Yahoo! Time to spread the word!”

He’d admit it: back then, he was angry out of embarrassment, but looking back, Paramir was right.

Without that push, Surabar would’ve kept his distance from Jasmine, fumbling awkwardly forever.

Paramir made him realize how timid and cowardly he was—a truth he didn’t want to accept.

That’s why he came to Paramir now.

The old Surabar—the cold, ruthless leader of the Black Tails—was gone.

He couldn’t pretend to be that man anymore. So, he had to accept his changed self and move forward.

That’s why he sought Paramir.

That’s why he wanted to become a swordmaster.

“Did I hear you right? You want me to help you get stronger?”

“Yes. I want to be strong. If I become a swordmaster like you… maybe I’ll earn a title. The Emperor or a high noble might grant me land. I want to be stronger. A swordmaster. Stronger than you.”

Paramir was a swordmaster.

When he became one, Surabar didn’t know.

Likely, this brazen human was already a swordmaster when he was dumped into the mercenaries like a slave.

Surabar bowed to the stunned Paramir.

“No, stop, I get it! Don’t do that—it’s too much! You’re the boss!”

“Help me, Paramir. I’ll do anything.”

“Then lift your head! What kind of boss bows to his subordinate?”

Paramir sighed heavily, shaking his head as if dizzy.

The distant sound of the massive dam gate closing echoed.

Creak… screech! As the gate shut, the river below began to shrink.

“You helped me in Garam Forest. It was a tough call. But the second, third, fourth time… I’ll come to rely on you.”

“…Fine. Since you’re asking, I won’t half-ass it. Don’t complain later when it’s tough.”

“Deal.”

But within a day, Surabar regretted his words.

***

Surabar.

The man I respect, the leader of the Black Tail Mercenaries who ended my days as a wandering slave.

A rare tiger beastman.

Even to a swordmaster like me, Surabar was a formidable warrior.

Though not a swordmaster, his raw physical prowess outclassed mine by far.

It’s a pity—his innate strength is exactly what’s blocking his path to becoming a swordmaster.

Despite humbling himself to ask me for help, what I demanded was, paradoxically, for him to become weaker.

“Paramir, I’m not doubting you, but does this really work?”

Surabar’s words said he trusted me, but his eyes didn’t.

How could lying on grass, breathing deeply, possibly relate to becoming a swordmaster?

Even for knights, rigorous daily training is a given.

Surabar expected grueling, dangerous, perhaps deadly training.

Instead, I asked him to relax, close his eyes, and feel the tender grass, wildflowers, and the scent of baking bread carried on the breeze.

His skepticism was natural.

I shook my head.

“I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“What? I’m not joking!”

“Neither am I, Boss. Listen.”

“Calm down…”

My gesture stopped him mid-rise, leaving him awkwardly seated.

“You’re too strong. In raw physical ability, even the empire’s top knights couldn’t match you.”

“That’s… hard to deny. It’s true.”

I could guess what he was thinking.

He imagined brutal, life-threatening training.

But as his temporary mentor, ahead on the path of the sword, I demanded the opposite.

“Look at this.”

“A spoon?”

“Hold it.”

“…Okay.”

Setting aside his war hammer, I handed him my copper spoon.

When I asked how heavy it felt, he said, “Light as a feather.”

That was the problem.

To reach the swordmaster’s realm, Surabar first needed to feel that lifting a spoon was as taxing as it would be for a frail, sickly woman, or that breathing felt like torture.

Not to become weak like a patient, but to understand their heart.

That was the issue—it was the hardest thing in the world for him.

“Let’s talk, Paramir.”

After an hour of snoring and waking, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Surabar spoke.

I realized I needed to explain the necessity of “becoming weaker” in more detail.

Setting a goal and path isn’t easy, especially when it means denying the road you’ve walked.

“Why are there so few beastman swordmasters and so many human ones?”

“Because humans are nobles and support talented kids from a young age?”

“That’s part of it. I think differently. Humans can become swordmasters because they’re weaker than you.”

I knew I sounded absurd.

If anyone else said this, Surabar’s volcanic rage would’ve erupted.

“Weak? How does being weak make you a swordmaster?”

He continued with superhuman patience.

“That’s the irony of swordmasters. If we arm-wrestled without magic, who’d win?”

“With those conditions… me.”

“Exactly. Your natural strength is so great, you’ve never felt the need to reach a higher realm, even unconsciously.”

“…I don’t get it.”

This would take time to explain.

“Let’s go back to the beginning. Before we were born. Far into the past.”

Surabar’s smart and wise, but not as sharp as Jasmine.

That’s part of his charm.

A born alpha male, you could say.

Even in the animal world, among siblings, some are born with leadership qualities.

Surabar was one of them.

That’s why he couldn’t understand the hearts or feelings of the “weak.”

It’s not his world.

To make him a swordmaster, I realized instinctively:

He needs to feel a desperate need for strength. Otherwise, it’s impossible.

He had to understand a world he’d never been part of, and the hearts of those living in it.

A difficult task.

Even people living in the same city their whole lives can’t always understand each other. Asking a strong man to feel a weak person’s heart? The odds of success were slim.

“Let’s imagine. You’re human. Worse, a woman. Worst of all, you were born with a defect, limping on one leg your whole life.”

“That’s… grim.”

A good reaction—he could at least immerse himself in the scenario.

“You’re born poor, with nothing. In a place like that…”

Surabar listened intently.

“Poverty…”

I would guide him to become a swordmaster.