Continue On, Struggler. | Chapter Nine, Distance. (Part One of Two)

…

A month passed.

After forgiving them for their affair, Zenith made Paul take Lilia on as his second wife. A decision that made the woman and her child official members of the Greyrat family.

"What?!" Naturally, Guts disagreed with the idea at the time—so much so that he couldn't help but raise his voice when she came and pitched it to him. "Why?"

That doesn't make any sense, was all he could think. Why reward betrayal like that? Lilia confessed to her part of the affair without much hesitation and that warranted a show of kindness, Guts would be the first to admit that, but making her an official member of the family? Wouldn't that lean way too far in the other direction?

And what about Paul? Didn't he cheat on her? Didn't he break a promise that supposedly meant a lot to her? Didn't he hurt her to the point of tears? Then, where was the sense in having him take Lilia on as a second wife?

Guts couldn't find any sense in it at all, and he made sure his mother knew that—with his voice and with the look on his face.

In response, as if she fully expected him to react that way, Zenith flashed him a sad smile and put her hand on his head, and said, "I appreciate you being angry for my sake, Rudy; but if I wanted to punish them, I wouldn't have forgiven them in the first place."

Afterward, she explained her side of things. She didn't want Lilia's child to be a bastard or any arguments about legitimacy breaking out in the future. She just wanted them all to be equals, which honestly just sounded like she felt bad for the kid.

"Tell me—if I hurt your father before you were born, do you think it'd be okay for him to do something like that to you? To say that you weren't his real son? Because of something I did?" his mother asked, to which he could only frown in response. There was no way to argue against her logic without being cruel and, while he was no stranger to it himself, even he couldn't bring himself to do so towards a child who wasn't even born yet. "See?" she asked with a giggle. "Not so easy when you think about it like that, huh?"

In Paul's case, Zenith didn't see his marriage to Lilia as a reward at all. In that, she wasn't letting him do so without there being certain rules being put in place—his mother chose not to elaborate as to what they were, so Guts figured they had something to do with sex. If Paul did break them, then she'd leave the man without hesitation. She promised that to him, and she promised that to Guts as well.

"Don't worry, Rudy. Next time something like that happens, I'll take care of it all myself."

Guts didn't want to agree, but he didn't want to argue either. Zenith seemed pretty dead set on it. And, in the end, it was her decision anyway.

If it blew up in her face, then that'd just be her own fault.

…

Two months had passed since the affair.

His training with Roxy carried on like it usually did, despite all that happened. He figured that Paul and Lilia's affair, and their later marriage, would make things awkward for the Migurd. The opposite rang true, however. She just kept doing her job without mentioning it. Although, she did tell him she'd be moving back into town once Zenith and Lilia had their babies.

"I don't do well with babies." Was all she said on the subject.

Outside of that, not much changed.

Roxy—with Zenith's help—taught him a few Beginner-tier healing spells. And the Migurd explained the basics of melding magic, which basically consisted of combining two kinds of magic to create an entirely different effect. He learned how to do prior pretty easily. It had been a little harder to do without chanting, but he figured it out after some practice. The latter didn't come nearly as quickly; although, he was able to combine Fire and Wind magic. All it let him do was create a steady stream of hot air, but it was something.

Sylphie improved a lot in that time too. The girl could now use Intermediate-tier spells in every school outside of Fire. All without chanting. Roxy referred to her level of growth as unprecedented, and Guts had to agree. It had taken him years to achieve that amount of success and Sylphie had somehow done it half the time.

Talent-wise, there was no contest. She was just better than him. Through and through.

Not that he ever planned on bringing that up to her, though. Knowing her, the girl would just deny the fact and somehow make it about him or Roxy.

One day, after yet another success on her part, Roxy made the mistake of trying.

"T-Thank you, Miss Roxy! But even if that's true, I never would've gotten this far without your and Rudy's help."

The girl was so predictable it made him laugh.

…

It took three months for Paul to get over himself. That meant it took him that long to tone down the intensity of their training.

Not that Guts ever minded. The man made a decent sparring partner when he was pissed enough to throw his weight around. As a result, his swordsmanship improved at a much higher rate than it had before.

…

Guts watched his father close the distance between them. He entered into striking range with a firm step of his right foot.

No. Too firm, Guts thought. A feint.

He took a step back. Paul's horizontal swipe fell short by a hair, but he was far from safe. Paul had put his whole body into the swing, and so he used the momentum to carry him forwards. He moved his feet, spun, and swung down at him with twice the strength as before.

Too much force. Guts took another step back.

Can't block it. Planted his rear foot into the ground.

Gotta parry it. And swung to meet Paul's sword with all his might.

Their wooden blades came together and a loud thunk echoed through the front yard.

Guts got sent reeling back, but Paul fared no better. And not having ruined his own foot placement by spinning, Guts was able to reset his stance quickly and take a slash at Paul's shoulder. That forced the man to scramble—to block. Seeing a prime opportunity present itself, Guts stepped hard onto his left foot to shift his weight, manipulated his wrists to switch his sword to the same side, and turned a downward slash into an uppercut to the ribs.

"Ha, nice try but—!"

Paul proved too quick. He saw the change and hopped back to avoid it. By a hair.

Despite the miss, Guts could feel the match turning in his favor. He had seen it. The tip of his sword grazed Paul's shirt. His footing and balance were both off-kilter too. Guts was close. Just apply pressure and the match was his.

Not wanting to let Paul get his feet back under him, Guts hopped forwards, brought his sword over his shoulder, and swung for Paul's chest.

Paul just planted a foot and sidestepped to the right.

Dammit, Guts cursed to himself as he watched the blade miss Paul. Still not fast enough.

He knew what was coming next. That miss didn't just give the man enough time to regain his footing, but worse than that, it gave him multiple angles for a counter-attack too. If he didn't guess right here, the match was over.

Assuming Paul would swing at his exposed back, Guts draped the blade of his sword over his shoulder as quickly as he could—

—But Paul's sword came from the opposite side.

Dammit, I'm not going to—

"—I've got you."

Guts clicked his tongue and glared at the wooden blade at his neck. Then, he turned it to the man holding it and the smug grin plastered on his face.

"Aw, c'mon, don't look at me like that." Paul's grin grew wider as he lowered his weapon and stepped away. "Losing sucks, I know, but that feint just then was perfect. Trust me, if you were older, it would've landed for sure."

Guts grit his teeth at the encouragement. Like I need you to tell me that, jackass.

"Alright! We've got some time before dinner." Paul pointed his sword at him. "You wanna go again?"

Guts nodded and raised his own sword.

…

Guts lost those rounds as well.

He was really starting to hate being a kid.

…

Paul.

…

Paul let out a sigh as he watched Rudy disappear into the house.

Zenith had called the both of them into the house for dinner. And, despite having just got done sparring, his son's little legs rushed through the front door with ease—his stomach grumbling the whole way.

It occurred to Paul then that something was missing—that a sight like that should've sent him into a laughing fit. Or following after him because he was hungry as hell too. But he couldn't stop thinking about the look his son shot him just then. And how it carved a pit in his stomach every time he saw it.

It wasn't new either. He'd been on the receiving end of it ever since Lilia announced she was pregnant and their affair was revealed.

It was pretty subtle, just like everything Rudy did. Like he'd knit his brows together a bit whenever he was upset, or his lips would curl a little whenever something went his way. The sorta stuff one would expect from a grown man, not an eight-year-old kid. At first, he found the boy hard to read as a result, but he'd gotten used to it over the years. Learned how to read those little signs as best he could. Always, the biggest tell would be his eyes.

As of late, all his eyes said to Paul was, "I hate you."

Paul tightened his grip on his wooden sword. Involuntarily, his memories took him back to the night of their first real argument.

Rudy had thrown a rock at Mr. and Mrs. Eto's son, Somal. Hit him right between the eyes and gave him a nasty bruise.

Honestly, Paul didn't think much of it at the time. It was just boys getting into a fight, that sorta thing happened all the time. Still, he couldn't have his son think that he could solve every problem with violence, especially when he was so much stronger than other kids. Paul would have to scold him, but that was only natural. One apology and Paul would let it go. So, when Rudy returned home, that's exactly what he did.

Instead of an apology, all Paul got was resistance—not even denial. Rudy outright refused to accept that what he did was wrong. He said that all he did was defend himself. That he wasn't going to let Somal and the other boys walk all over him. And, while Paul could see where his son was coming from, he needed the boy to understand that defending himself wasn't the problem; the problem was who he was defending himself from.

Frankly—and Paul hated when he had to think like this—Rudy wasn't normal. Far from it.

"Maybe they shouldn't be picking fights then."

Rudy didn't give a shit, though. Stated it outright too. And did it so matter-of-factly that it bordered on being appalling.

Paul moved to correct the behavior, but his son wouldn't budge. Then, the argument kept getting more heated, and eventually, he got so pissed that he took a step forwards, reared back, and—

—Well, he was about to hit him.

By then, Laws and Sylphie had shown up and interrupted their argument. Right before it crossed into a territory Paul would never forgive himself for. They explained what really happened. That Rudy had only picked a fight with Somal and the other boys because he'd seen them bullying Sylphie, and only ever threw the rock because it had been thrown at him first.

Rudy wasn't at fault at all.

Paul knew he fucked up then. Rudy had done something worth praising, and all he got in return was a scolding from a father who was seconds away from hitting him. That fight had been the first time Rudy gave him that look, and it made him feel smaller than a bug. He felt as pathetic as one too. And he hated it.

He hated it even more because it made him think of his own father. Did Paul ever look at him like that? And, if so, did that mean Rudy hated him just as much? The thought made his skin crawl.

The day Paul left home, he swore that he'd do everything in his power to avoid ending up like him.

In the weeks leading up to Rudy being born, all he could think about was how he'd show his father what being a father really meant.

That night, when he saw his newborn son's green eyes peek up at him, he knew that the last thing he ever wanted was to be in his father's shoes. Because that meant that his son hated him.

The news of his affair completely and utterly dashed those hopes.

The look was constant now. Paul had lost his son's respect, and the worst part was that he only had himself to blame. No, actually, the worst part was that he understood that much but still tried to take his frustrations out on Rudy.

For whatever reason, Paul still felt entitled to them. And he brought that entitlement into their sparring sessions. He stopped trying to teach his son anything and just went into each one trying to wipe that look off his face.

But it never once wavered, Rudy never once buckled. His son met him head-on and only seemed to get better with every session. And now, he was on the brink of being made an Advanced-tier swordsman.

Today, Rudy had come so close to hitting him—not just once, but multiple times. And if he had, then Paul would've promoted his son on the spot. He hadn't, but the point still stood.

To put it lightly, Paul was immensely proud. An eight-year-old kid reaching Advanced-tier in any sword style put him in rarified air—the kind prodigies and geniuses breathed. The kind that basically guaranteed Rudy would surpass him and become a full-fledged Sword or Water Saint someday. Maybe even reach King-tier if he really applied himself, though that would be a long shot. After all, only a handful of people in the world could claim to be that strong.

Paul thought Rudy could do it, though. He had inherited his father's skill with the sword, but even more than that, he inherited the love for it. That was something he could tell all the way back when Lilia found him swinging that little stick around like it was a sword. Ever since then, the boy never went anywhere without something like it. He never went a day without practicing how to use it. And, on the night of his fifth birthday, Paul found his son fast asleep, hugging the sword he had gotten as a gift close to his chest.

To Rudy, it was clear that a sword wasn't just a sword. It was a part of him. Not so much an extension of his arms but more like their direct replacement. Wholly. He bled into the blade and it bled back into him. And it showed itself in how he fought in sparring. It was something he noticed a while ago, the way he made mistakes.

His son wasn't a perfect swordsman. He made his share of mistakes. He'd overestimate a few things, and he'd underestimate others, but he'd never second-guess anything. Everything he did, he did with purpose. And everything he purposed to do, he did with a confidence beyond his years. Not just in himself, but in the sword he wielded.

Maybe that's what made the look so unbearable. The sword was Paul's gift to his son and even then, Rudy still had it in him to look at him like that. Like he was nothing, an insult to his very being. And each and every time he did, it was like Paul was being reminded:

"Yeah, buddy. You fucked up. Bad."

He could never bring himself to disagree either.

With a sigh, Paul followed his son inside. He wondered if there was anything he could do to make up for it.

…

"What're you thinking about doing when you grow up?"

The question slipped out of his mouth as soon as it popped into his mind. Rudy—the one it had been meant for—lay flat on his back. His body was covered in sweat and dirt, and his chest heaved in and out with rhythmic exhaustion.

They had gone hard in sparring again. By design this time, not because of his own stupid pride. Right before they started, Paul had told Rudy of his intentions to promote him… if he could land a hit on him. So, understandably, things had gotten heated. But again, Rudy had gotten close but fell just short.

His son's face scrunched up. Slowly, his eyes drifted over to him.

Paul let out a sigh and fought the urge to meet the disdain being thrown his way. There it was. The same look as always. Months had passed and nothing had changed. Then again, he hadn't done much to bridge the gap between them. He had figured that actively trying to get back in Rudy's good graces would only make things worse and hoped that a healthy amount of distance and time would do the trick. It didn't. Then again, he knew some rifts took years to heal. To forgive. To forget. After all, it had taken Paul years to even consider forgiving his father, much less actually do so.

It had also taken his father dying, but Paul hoped that it wouldn't need to come to that.

"…You even have to ask?" Rudy asked between panting.

Paul felt like rolling his eyes. Despite his age, Rudy rarely ever said anything childish. It's what made conversations with him both easy and maddeningly frustrating at times. That answer, however, was extremely childish. But it also sounded like an answer Paul would have given his own father as an answer, if the man had ever given enough of a damn to ask. That's why he kept from actually rolling his eyes.

"I mean, sure, there are a lot of ways to make a living with a sword," Paul began, taking a knee so that he wasn't standing over Rudy, "but what do you actually want to do? Do you at least have some sort of job in mind? You can't buy food with grunts and glares, y'know?"

Rudy didn't answer.

"You're gonna be turning nine soon. That means, after a year, you're going to be ten. And five years after that, you're going to be fifteen. You'll officially be a man. Right now, I know that might still seem a ways away, but trust me, you'll be wishing that you came up with a more solid plan when the time comes." Paul flashed his son a smile. He wanted to come off as fatherly, in both face and tone, but he wasn't too confident in his execution. "You're pretty advantaged, y'know? I'm a knight of the Asura Kingdom! Sure, I might not be a particularly high-ranking one, but if you wanted, all I would need to do is write up a letter and you'd officially be my page. Then, you could take up my position as a knight here after I retire."

The idea didn't seem to excite Rudy. At all. So, Paul switched up his pitch. "If you'd rather leave Buena Village, then how about serving under some other knight in the kingdom? It would mean that you'd be away from home for years and you'd probably have to learn a bunch of court rules and stuff, but if you performed well, you'd be made a knight. With some luck, you might even land some cushy job, serving under some high-ranking noble in the capital. Maybe even get land of your own—"

"—You're not doing a very good job selling me, old man." Rudy's voice was steadier now, having regained control of his breathing. It was also pretty terse too.

Paul shrugged off the interruption. It shook him a bit if he was going to be honest, having knocked him off-topic enough that he needed to take a moment to find his words again, but he wasn't going to give his son the satisfaction of knowing that. "Just giving you your options—seeing as you weren't giving any yourself."

Rudy didn't say anything after that.

Paul sighed and sat himself down.

"Alright, fine, let's just start with this then: do you want to stay here in the village?" Paul asked, meaning to seem as nonchalant as possible, but the question had rattled around in his brain for a while now. "Or would you rather go off somewhere else?"

Naturally, when the possibility first came to him, Paul's mind carried him to its logical extreme: sending Rudy off to some school somewhere to further his education. However, after Paul thought about it some, he came to the conclusion it was a bad idea.

Rudy was his son. Paul Greyrat's son. And Paul had been sent off to school at his age too. He hated it. Loathed it to the point of loathing his father, even more than he already did. If Paul subjected Rudy to that, his son would probably do the same. He might even see an opportunity to run away and disappear entirely, and that's the last thing Paul wanted. Besides—since Roxy already taught him how to read, write, and do math—there was no real practical purpose in sending either. It'd just be a waste of time and money, so Paul scrapped the idea.

However, if Rudy wanted to leave of his own volition? Do something other than attend a school or become a knight? Go down the same path Paul did? Become an adventurer or a mercenary or a soldier? Put his life on the line? Fight and earn everything he had? Then, he had to consider it.

Because a long time ago, that's exactly what Paul wanted. Not just out of life, but from his own father too.

Rudy was silent again. And he stayed like that long enough for Paul to consider leaving the conversation for some later time. He even opened his mouth to do so.

"I want to leave."

Then, he gave his answer. And it was full of conviction and determination, but the time it took told Paul all that he needed to know.

Rudy knew what he wanted. He didn't want to stay in the village, that was clear, but that didn't make him any less hesitant in saying it to his father's face.

Paul smiled, liking to think that meant something.

"Fine, but you're not allowed to run away until you're twelve, got it?" Paul said jokingly. "That's the age I ran away at, so it should be a good enough age for you too."

Rudy didn't laugh. He just nodded.

…

Another month passed and Rudy managed to land a hit on him during sparring. Paul had feigned an attack and Rudy managed to counter it effectively.

And, as promised, Paul gave Rudy the rank of an Advanced-tier—in Water God style since the act was technically a defensive one. It dawned then that Rudy wasn't even nine yet.

Paul couldn't have been prouder. So were Zenith, Lilia, and Roxy. And they showed it by throwing the boy a special dinner to commemorate it.

As they prepared, Paul figured it was the best time to write a letter to a certain someone.

…

ChapterEnd.