Chapter 5: Return × Weapon × Trouble
Alistair stood at the edge of the harbor pier, his eyes fixed on the distant sea. Waves lapped softly against the pilings, carrying the vast, deep voice of the ocean to his ears.
Compared with that endless rhythm, the bustle of the port felt insignificant; only the surf echoed in the night air.
Lamps around town were flickering to life, scattering flecks of gold across the dark sky. Yet Alistair's gaze never left the horizon. Even now, nothing could be seen on the black water.
This was day 109. Ever since day 90 he had finished his daily training, then come straight to the pier to watch each ship that docked—waiting for Kite to return.
"Hey, kid—still waiting for your master?"
The speaker was Uncle Jerry, a dockworker about to clock off. Spotting Alistair perched on the rail, he couldn't help calling out.
"Yeah, Uncle Jerry."
Alistair flashed him a quick smile, then turned back to the sea.
Jerry tossed him a hunk of bread. "Give it a rest. No ships will berth this late."
Alistair ripped off a bite. "It's fine. I'll head back soon."
"You stubborn brat." Jerry shook his head, chuckling. "Well, I'm off to the tavern. Don't stay too late."
"Enjoy." Alistair waved the bread in thanks.
Night deepened. Exhausted, the boy finally nodded off against a barrel, the harbor silent but for the tide.
Footsteps broke that hush; a tall figure appeared.
Kite stared at Alistair's curled-up form, a pang of guilt tugging at him. He crept closer, stooped, and carefully lifted the sleeping boy.
Years of training meant Alistair normally sprang awake at the faintest danger—but here, with complete trust, he slept soundly.
Kite carried him to a decent inn, laid him on a bed, and slipped back out.
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Sunlight spilled through the window. Alistair yawned and stretched. "That was the best sleep—huh? Why's the ground so soft?"
He bolted upright. A bed? Not his usual sleeping bag!
Half awake, he looked around just as the door opened—revealing a very familiar face.
"Quit gawking. It's me."
Joy bloomed inside Alistair, though his expression stayed perfectly flat. "Oh, you're back already? Thought you'd be off playing longer."
The only thing tougher than his muscles was his mouth.
Kite ignored the jab and set two items on the table:
A necklace strung with a blood-red crystal.
A slender object, about the size of a small flashlight, its handle wrapped in leather etched with intricate patterns.
Alistair picked up the handle, turning it over. "And this is…?"
"It's a weapon," Kite said, lifting the ignored necklace.
"A—huh? This little thing? It's shorter than a stick!" Alistair tossed it back in disappointment.
Without comment, Kite looped the crystal necklace around his neck.
Back when he'd rescued the drowning Alistair, the boy's tiny hand had clutched that crimson crystal as if it were priceless. Kite had turned it into a pendant, guessing it must matter to the amnesiac boy.
Alistair let it hang there. Kite gestured. "Come outside—I'll demonstrate."
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Outside town, in a grassy field, Kite flicked the "flashlight" forward.
With a snap, a whip shot out from the tip, stretching long and fast. It coiled around a tree trunk; Kite yanked back, shearing the tree clean in two. In a blink the whip retracted smoothly into the handle.
Alistair's jaw hit the ground. He raced over to the stump—its cut as flat as if made by a sawmill.
"Whoa! Let me try!"
"I thought you hated it," Kite teased. "I was about to throw it away."
"No, no! Anything from Master is a treasure—could be toilet paper and I'd frame it."
"…Right." Kite rolled his eyes—then both froze at heavy footsteps.
A grey-haired farmer marched up with a dozen burly men in tow, jabbing a finger at Kite. "That long-haired fellow with the hat! He chopped down my fruit tree—grab him!"
Alistair and Kite traded a glance.
Run!
Before the word had left Kite's mouth they were already in motion—pivot, sprint, gone. Years of stealing chickens from villages had honed their getaway to perfection.
They vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving the mob scratching sweaty heads.
---
On a barren hillside, Kite crossed his arms, pretending nothing had happened.
"That weapon took me a lot of work. With a flick, the whip extends, coils, slashes—up to twenty meters, adjustable at will."
"But how do you reel it back in like you did? No button?"
Kite jabbed Alistair's forehead. "You think I'd hand you a toy?" He straightened. "It's all about release and pull force. Focus power into the handle—release to extend, pull to retract or freeze the length."
He demonstrated: a snap to send the whip flying, then faint rotations of the wrist—thup—and it zipped back.
"My brain and ears get it," Alistair said, wiggling his fingers, "but my hands don't."
"Training, starting today."
"Wait, one more question." Alistair raised a polite hand. "Why'd we run after you cut the guy's fruit tree? That's not how you usually handle things."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three quick thumps to the head settled that discussion.
Kite strolled down the hill, calm as ever, while Alistair crouched, rubbing the new lumps and muttering.
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