Beauty X Beast ~ Twenty-Six!

- Gasteel -

The town of Frontière was practically buzzing with a twisted festival mood, a hint of excitement mixing with a palpable bloodthirst. The townspeople, conscripts, and soldiers were already shouting and jeering in eager anticipation of the day’s entertainment. Gasteel stood on the balcony of a makeshift stage, scanning the crowd and at the same time looking to the edge of town to see if a scout was rushing in to give him an update.

It had been two weeks since he had delivered the notice to his prospective fiance, yet not a whisper of compliance had reached his ears. Not from her, not from any scouts stationed throughout the area to watch for motion, absolutely nothing. A thick coating of annoyance at her defiance festered beneath his skin, but a cold smile crossed his face at the thought of venting his frustrations. 

“She's willing to sacrifice her own father… unexpected, yet commendable. Truly, she would’ve been the perfect fit for me. Beautiful, yet willing to do whatever it takes. We could have started a lineage incomparable to anyone else in the world.” Gasteel let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head at missing out on such an ideal specimen, then tried to put her out of his mind. 

With a smile on his face, he turned to the crowd and reassured himself that this was one of three acceptable outcomes. “I’d hoped today would be a wedding celebration, but a little blood sport is always an acceptable alternative.”

In the exact center of the town square, a makeshift guillotine had been constructed for this event. Only a select few were allowed to sit with the baron on stage, giving them a perfect view of the execution, as well as being as a sign of his favor. Taking a deep breath, Gasteel shouted over the laughing, cacophonous crowd. “Bring out the traitor, and witness the king's justice!”

People moved as a wave, opening a path from the doors of the tavern at the edge of the town square, all the way to the stairs leading up to the guillotine itself. As the crowd quieted, the sound of the tavern door being thrown open violently rang through the space, echoing ever so slightly as Henri was pushed through the opening and fell to the ground with an *oof*. 

The crowd immediately began to chaotically roar with cheers and booing in equal measure, quickly reaching a fever pitch as they watched the one-legged man get lifted to his foot—as his prosthetic had been cruelly confiscated that very morning. One of Gasteel’s men flanked him on either side, their arms hooked under his shoulders so they could slowly and deliberately drag him toward the guillotine.

A few onlookers began griping that the rotten fruit they had purchased to throw at the Tinkerer would go to waste. They could only swallow their anger, as no one dared to risk hitting one of the baron’s soldiers, not even by accident. Gasteel’s ears twitched, so he made sure to quickly call out, “Don't worry! Once he is in position, I'll make sure my men step back for a few minutes, so you can vent your frustrations while his crimes are read.” 

The condemned man showed no signs of resistance and barely even flinched as the strong men pinched his arms to make him wiggle as they pulled him along. Henri’s energy had been drained by his daily raving, and in his exhaustion, he simply kept a small smile on his face—certainly not the visage expected of a man resigned to his fate, but one of quiet defiance and calm acceptance. 

The crowd’s jeers and hurled insults grew louder as they watched him seem to laugh at them, their cacophony of accusations and false charges bouncing off of him like pebbles thrown against a stout stone wall. Even when broken toys were tossed at his feet—the last remnants of his life's work now reduced to fragments scattered across the path—he only calmly hopped along as best as he could.

Finally, Henri was forced to his knees before the guillotine, and Baron Gasteel stepped forward on the elevated stage, the perfect place to see every gory detail of the execution while keeping an eye on the crowd. With a deep breath, his voice boomed over the uproarious crowd, releasing a tirade about how this man was a foreign agent. 

As rotten fruit and vegetables rained down around the old man, the baron only laughed and mimed joining in, encouraging the people to correct their aim. 

Just as he had promised, Gasteel worked hard to get every person to vent their frustration, to cast all of their anger at the feet of this man, so their issues would die with him. With his daughter out of the picture, the reclusive Tinkerer had no strong ties to the community. The baron made sure to use this fact to paint him as the scapegoat for every unsolved crime, every minor misfortune, even going so far as to blame the man for impacting the local egg economy by creating toys which would cause chickens to be too afraid to lay.

Issue after absurd issue was dropped on the man, fueling the crowd’s bloodlust. Soon they were howling for the old man to be torn apart instead of cleanly beheaded. Notably, the baker had to be physically restrained by those around him as he attempted to rush forward and beat the man to death with his rolling pin.

As Gasteel continued his rant, something strange caught his eye. In the midst of the seething crowd, a handful of figures were standing almost unnaturally still as they watched the proceedings. Something about the odd figures made his hackles rise, and he inspected them, even as his hands waved back and forth, keeping everyone's attention on the spectacle. Dark, heavy fabric obscured their features, and their heads were bowed with their faces hidden in shadow.

Even so… as a hunter, Gasteel had long been able to notice when there was an aura of barely restrained violence around someone. His eyes narrowed as he tried to assess the threat; these men who had appeared out of nowhere. The way they held themselves? Poised, patient, predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike—all of it set off alarms in his mind. Grinding his teeth, the baron decided it was time to act. 

“Today, we rid ourselves of a traitor who conspired against our great kingdom. Without further delay, you are sentenced to death and will pay for your crimes with your blood.” Gasteel nodded to the person who’d won the raffle and earned the right to pull the lever which would remove Henri’s head. 

Throughout all of this, the Tinkerer remained calm, seeming to have accepted the inevitability of his fate. 

This relaxed demeanor made Gasteel grind his teeth in fury—he wanted this man to be afraid. To suffer in his last moments for the annoyance his daughter had caused. But, if this was how it was going to be, it would be best to end it quickly, before people started to second guess the charges tossed at him.

A drumroll began as the bard who had been playing for Henri in the tavern offered the man one last beat, a glum expression on his face. Gasteel wasn't the only person to lean forward, his eyes fixed on the blade as he waited for it to fall.

A thrill of anticipation ran through the crowd as the local raffle winner grabbed the lever. But as the wooden handle was yanked, and the gleaming blade began to descend, a blur of motion pulled Gasteel from his enjoyment of the moment. Someone moving with inhuman speed passed through the crowd, jumping between the descending blade and its intended destination. 

*Ta~ang.*

The baron had heard that sound many times throughout his military career: it was the sound of a blade being parried by someone with great skill. Yet, it was nearly exclusively found when one swordsman was facing off with another. In this case, the unknown individual had caught the guillotine with his bare hands—stopping it dead in its tracks. 

Having already noticed the cloak-covered men, Gasteel recovered from his surprise nearly instantly. “Soldiers! Slay that person! Anyone who would rescue a traitor must be a spy or a traitor themselves!”

The crowd gasped in shock, recoiling hurriedly as the cloaked figure lifted and threw the entire mechanism to the side with a single powerful motion. The festival mood shattered instantly as panic spread through the crowd like wildfire. Civilians began screaming, running for their life as the massive implement of death began falling toward them. The baker, who had been so eager to extract his own form of justice, now stumbled backward, his rolling pin clattering to the ground from nerveless fingers as he tried to flee. 

The soldiers nearest Henri were all conscripts, and though they pulled out their swords and fearlessly threw themselves forward, the cloaked man danced around them easily, avoiding their attacks while *thumping* them with precise strikes to send them crashing to the ground, unconscious.

For his part, Gasteel had already launched himself toward the tavern, rushing to grab his weapons and hunt down these interlopers. He kept an eye on this situation as he ran, watching as five similarly cloaked figures appeared, swooping in, scooping up Henri, and dashing away. Still weaponless himself, the baron saw red as he bellowed with all his might, “Stop them! Whoever brings one of them down gets leave for a month!”

Across the square, every soldier unsheathed their weapons and descended on the intruders who had ruined their event. Unfortunately, no weapon could touch the hidden individuals. They moved with a fluid grace, each swift and merciless blow a masterclass in combat efficiency. Upon drawing their weapons, they fought with an economy of motion where every slash, punch, and kick was delivered with a specific intent. Anyone who tried their luck against them stood no chance, being outmatched, outmaneuvered, and overwhelmed in moments. 

Watching in stunned disbelief as his men were systematically felled, the baron’s mind whirled with the implications of what he was witnessing. “I’ve only ever seen Swordmasters at the Breakthrough skill level able to casually avoid attacks like this, especially en masse… did I actually manage to find a foreign agent? Can there be any other explanation?”

Bursting into the tavern, the baron found Lefroupe already standing there, holding his sword and musket. Gasteel held up a hand, turning in a practiced motion as his scribe reared back. “Now!”

Then his weapons were flying through the air with all the force Lefroupe could muster, which frankly wasn't much. Still, it was enough for the baron to return outside nearly three seconds faster than if they’d exchanged the items normally. Once more standing in the light of day, he looked for the cloaked figures and found—with a deep sense of disbelief—that to a man, every single soldier who had stood in the path of one of the cloaked figures had been left on the ground behind them as they made their escape. 

Worst of all, Henri was being whisked away.

“No! I will have at least one of my good outcomes!” Gasteel shouted as he sprinted over and leaped onto the stage, discarding his sword and swinging his musket into position. Though they were moving fast, he had taken down trophies at a far greater distance. Carefully aiming for center mass, he lifted his musket slightly… making sure his projectile would strike his target in the head. Then he invoked his highest-level skills, one after another. “Aim and Strike… Compress and Spark!”

As he said the final word, his self-created weapon practically exploded, held in place only by his immensely muscled form. A lead ball spun through the air, ever so slightly off course. Instead of killing the traitor, the person holding him took the projectile dead-center to the back of their head… but somehow kept running. “What? What Witchery is this? Abyss, that was a perfect shot! What kind of monster can lose their head and not even be bothered?”

As he watched in stunned disbelief, another of the cloaked figures turned toward him. Though he couldn't see the man's face, the baron could feel the weight of that cold gaze. Under his breath, Gasteel quietly muttered, “That's right. Get mad. Stay angry. Stay in range.” 

Quickly adding a second lead ball bearing to his weapon, he lifted the tube once more… but his target had already entered the tree line. Swinging the musket back and forth, Gasteel realized all of the cloaked figures had already vanished. Letting out a roar of frustration, he cast the weapon to the side, grabbed his sword, and began to give chase. “Find them and bring them down! The spy dies this day! Horses! Men! Charge!” 

Following the path Henri had been dragged away on, the baron nearly stumbled as his foot kicked a large, solid object. Glaring down at the offending article, his eyes went wide, and he skid to a stop. “What is—a helmet? I knew I hit him. How did this manage to stop my…?”

Grasping the metal object, he could see clearly where his musket ball had put a hole through the thick armor. He spun it slightly, eyes narrowing as he found a face looking back at him. 

A face cut directly into the material of the helmet itself.

“So that’s it… the system-forsaken battle beast has broken his oath to remain under house arrest.” His fury quickly drained away, turning into calculation as he tossed the head into the air and caught it, lost in thought. He looked into the forest, “I suppose it might be a good thing I didn't accidentally hit my future father-in-law. Thank you, Comte. You've given me a delightful wedding present this day.”

He returned to the town, shouting for his soldiers to stand down and prepare to break camp instead of going on a wild chase. “Lefroupe? Celestial feces, man! Why can I never find you when I need you?”

“Here, my lord!” The weaselly man pushed through the crowd, his eyes cautious as he closed in on the baron, who was shaking with excitement. The scribe had only ever seen the baron act like this directly after a wonderful battle, and he could only hope there was something productive for the huge man to channel his energies into. 

“Prepare a dispatch to the king. Inform him of the Comte’s breach of his oath and request immediate support for my conscription of the man.” He casually tossed the metal head over. “Send this along as proof of his oath-breaking ways.”

As everyone in the town hurried to carry out his orders, Gasteel took a long inhale, letting loose a satisfied sigh. His thoughts drifted to the Enchantress, imagining how she’d react to the news that she had played directly into his hand, serving him a bride and an Artificer on a silver platter. 

Remembering the metal head, he let out a soft chuckle. 

“Silver for certain, but perhaps not a platter. No execution yet, but two of my three good outcomes instead. Today smells like a career move.”