“Long live the king.”
Stoga’s and Emile’s cheers reached the ears of the unruly military officers who were guarding the entrance to the hanging garden.
“If you’re telling us to keep people away, the least you can do is keep it down.”
“For real.”
They quietly snickered as they talked behind Stoga’s back. Not a single one of the master swordsmen who served the prefectural governor respected him. They had carried that sentiment for a while now too.
There was someone who scolded them, though. “But a dunce like that is our master. He’ll start a war and give us somewhere to fight. We must pretend to be loyal dogs until we can brandish our skills to our hearts’ content.”
Out of this group of slouching officers, he was a man who was particularly lax at his post. He was drinking on the job, seated on the grass as he leaned against the stone wall. He drank straight from the amber bottle and relished the burn it left in his stomach. The man was a little past the age of fifty, but the sharp glint in his eyes was just like a fine blade.
“Understood, master.”
“I apologize, master.”
The officers all apologized to him at once. They were all disciples who greatly admired the man’s excellence with the sword. That was to say that this man was the backbone of this group of master swordsmen.
“The moon is beautiful tonight. It really makes you wanna test your blade on some folks.” He gulped down the amber wine from the bottle while admiring the moon, red as blood.
He particularly stood out among the other officers in their messy uniforms. The man’s left sleeve had been cut clean off, and on his exposed shoulder was a tattoo of the three-eyed dragon.