The Black Reaper and the Monster Husks

Within the royal Order of Beast Hunters, there were a special few who were known as “sorcerers.” They were warriors with such terrific power that even monsters knew to fear them, or so the rest of the knights and soldiers often joked over a mug of ale. The most famous of all was the “Sorcerer of Ash.” This was the name given to Grato Bartolone, captain of the Beast Hunters. Wielding Ash-Hand, a magical sword passed down through the Bartolone family for generations, this imposing man with red eyes and dark-gray hair slew even gargantuan monsters with ease. After Grato, the next most renowned warrior in the order was the “Sorcerer of Water,” Vice-Captain Griswald Lanza. Blue-eyed and blue-haired, Griswald was built like a bear and fought with a lance and water magic. He was a celebrated mystic knight. The sight of him valiantly battling swarms of monsters with his lance and magic never failed to inspire.

The third-place spot was always contested and had changed hands a number of times over the years. Occasionally, the top three became the top four or five. In recent years, the name spoken most often after that of the captain and vice-captain belonged to one of the Scarlet Armors, Volfred Scalfarotto. However, this young knight was no sorcerer. He had earned a more unique title—the “Black Reaper.” He possessed no magical ability whatsoever besides spells to strengthen his body. He did not wield a magical weapon passed down from his ancestors. He simply put on that blood-red armor and led the battle charge with a standard-issue sword in hand, doing whatever was needed to draw the foe’s attention from his comrades. Killing, sprinting, leaping, evading, striking, activating his strengthening magic—these motions seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. In his first year, he had requested to join the Scarlet Armors. Six months later, his wish was granted.

“Kid must have a death wish,” some had whispered behind his back.

In his second and third years, they all thought his behavior reckless and foolhardy.

“He won’t last much longer,” they said.

But the next year, and the year after that, Volf was still alive. What’s more, he hadn’t even sustained any serious injuries. He was now deadlier than ever before, having developed a knack for striking with pinpoint precision at monsters’ weak points, and he had established himself as a cornerstone of the Beast Hunters’ vanguard.

One by one, the voices around him had changed their tunes. He was not reckless, but supremely talented—his golden eyes saw the specter of death itself, they said. Volf, with his raven hair, soon found himself nicknamed the “Black Reaper.” Certainly, from the perspective of the monsters he slew, it was a fitting moniker. However, according to the female knights, soldiers, and maids of the royal castle, the unflattering name of “reaper” only reflected the other men’s sense of inferiority.

With his tall, lean figure, hair as black and lustrous as polished obsidian, and a countenance whose likeness could grace the walls of the temple, he was surely more fallen angel than reaper. His eyes gleamed more brilliantly than a newly minted coin; many women who’d met that golden gaze said it had almost stopped their hearts. Despite turning heads everywhere he went, he ignored all love letters, rebuffed all attempts at seduction, and refused all invitations for marriage interviews, no matter how favorable the match. As far as the world at large knew, Volf’s sole romantic liaison was with a certain dowager duchess, but no one could be certain how true this rumor was. That ambiguity only seemed to stoke the gossip further.

“What the heck have you got there, Volf?”

“These? They’re called toe socks.”

At that moment, the young man known as the “Black Reaper” and “fallen angel” was deep in a forest in the middle of the marshlands. The knights had stopped for a break, and he was taking the opportunity to change his socks. For the past five kilometers, they had been traveling through a patchwork landscape of marshes and dense forest. Their boots, made from waterproof cloth and leather, were sturdy and kept the water out well. Unfortunately, this came at the cost of any breathability. This was why many knights took the time to change their socks and insoles at the final stop before they reached the battlefield.

“Toe socks? They look like some kind of husk shed by a monster.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Dorino...”

Dorino Barti, a fellow knight and friend of Volf’s, was peering dubiously at the socks in Volf’s hand.

With a slightly sheepish smile, Volf began to explain. “Look, they’re just like normal socks, except all the toes are separate. These here are insoles that help keep your feet dry. I was telling a friend of mine what trouble we have with the damp out here, and she gave me these. I’m testing them out for her.”

“I guess the insoles look all right, but those socks give me the creeps. They look like a real hassle to get on too.”

“They took me by surprise when I first saw them too, and yeah, they do take a little more time to put on, but they’re doing a good job so far. I’ve worn them all the way here, and my feet and boots are both still dry.”

He reached down and touched the foot he hadn’t yet changed. It wasn’t damp in the slightest. Normally, his toes would have been clinging together with sweat by now. His feet had rarely known such comfort.

“You’re kidding. Mine are so sweaty already that it’s like a swamp in there.”

“Why don’t you give these a try?”

“Well...it’d be a godsend if they worked, even if they do look like monster husks. All right, gimme a pair. I’ll pay you for ’em after.”

“No need. I’ll be writing a report on them for my friend, so just let me know how they work for you.”

“Sure. Hey, uh, is there some kinda technique for getting these things on?” Dorino asked, having tried and failed to tug the socks on in one go.

Volf came to his aid, instructing him to pull his toes through one at a time.

“Oh, wow! My toes aren’t sticking together anymore. They feel really nice and cool. I think I’ve even stopped sweating.”

“Glad they’re such a good fit. My friend even thinks these socks and insoles might help prevent athlete’s foot.”

“What did you say?!”

One of the senior knights, having been quietly sharpening his sword until that moment, suddenly interjected.

“Volf, tell me more! Those will really prevent athlete’s foot?”

“Y-Yes. At least, I think so. I can’t guarantee it, but they’ll probably help,” Volf answered hurriedly. The older knight was looking at Volf with the same fervor a man showed during a heated battle. “I’m not sure about athlete’s foot specifically, but these socks and insoles are made to keep your feet dry, so they should definitely make things more comfortable.”

“I see... Tell me, where did you buy these?”

“Actually, they’re only a prototype...”

“A prototype? You mean I can’t buy them?!”

The rising volume of the man’s voice was drawing glances.

“I have plenty of spares. Would you like to try them?”

“Yes! By all means, yes!”

Volf was taken aback as the other man suddenly clasped his hands tight. This older knight must have had a serious hatred of sweaty feet. Perhaps it had been a problem for him during battle. Firm footing was especially important for knights who wielded heavy weapons like greatswords, as this man did. The ground here in the marshlands was treacherous enough without boots full of sweat making it worse. Convinced by this reasoning, Volf handed over a pair of toe socks and insoles.

“Please let me know what you think of them later on.”

“Gods bless you! I shall! I’ll report to you with all my might.”

Leaving Volf pondering the meaning of that promise, the knight sat down and began solemnly pulling on the new socks.

“Now you’ve got me curious,” came a familiar voice from behind them. “I’ll buy a pair too.”

Volf made to jump to his feet but was quickly pushed down by a firm hand on his shoulder. It belonged to Captain Grato. He must have quietly approached while Volf was watching the other man. Beside Grato was another knight of around the same age. Volf couldn’t help noticing a steely glint in that man’s eye.

“If they’re effective against athlete’s foot, I’ll gladly try them.”

“Me too. I’ll pay the full price.”

“Oh, no, sir. They’re only prototypes, and I can’t guarantee they’ll really help with athlete’s foot. I’ve never suffered from it myself. Is that really that serious a condition?”

“The itching can be a dangerous distraction. In more serious cases, it can even affect your footing.”

“I see. Not so different from heat rash, then.”

The explanation made good sense. The socks and insoles were likely to have a positive effect on those distracting symptoms. Volf was in no position to turn his commanding officer down, so he meekly handed over a pair of each item.

“You know, Volf...that’s not all. If you go home with athlete’s foot, your wife and kids don’t treat you the same. They practically run the other way.”

“Can’t you have it cured at the temple?”

“Sure, but it just comes back again after a while. When it does, it’s even harder to treat,” the older knight beside Grato said gravely as Volf passed him a pair of socks and insoles too.

“I never knew it was such a serious problem.”

“Ah, Volfred! You can say that now with that young, fresh skin of yours!” the captain exclaimed. “Just wait till you turn thirty-five—that’s when it comes for you!”

“That can’t be right, Captain! We young men sweat more; I thought that was the cause!”

“No, no. Your skin rejuvenates more slowly as you get older and takes longer and longer to heal. Believe me, boy, we’ve got it worse!”

All Volf knew was that the atmosphere in the camp had suddenly become decidedly tense. Unable to properly empathize with either side, he simply smiled bemusedly as he looked on. He glanced over at Dorino only to see that the man had made a swift escape. Volf could see him a little distance away, pretending not to know what was going on, obviously trying not to draw any more attention to his friend. Volf swore he would thank Dorino for his consideration with a strong drink filled to the brim the next time they drank together.

“Volf.”

The young knight heard his name and turned to see another of his friends approaching. His name was Randolph Goodwin. He was the son of a noble known as the “Earl of the Frontier.” He had reddish-copper hair and was around the same age as Volf. Perhaps he meant to mediate the heated discussion, unlike Dorino.

Once he stood right beside Volf, he leaned over and whispered with a solemn expression, “If you have any left, might I have a pair of those socks as well?”

Volf silently handed them over along with a pair of insoles.