Chapter 35
Chapter: 35
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>Translator: penny
>Chapter: 35
>Chapter Title: Aslan of the Western Mountains (2)
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>The prisoner meekly followed Aslan's lead. There was so little resistance that it almost made one suspect he was pretending to comply only to escape later.
Aslan glanced up at him, but his face was utterly impassive, impossible to read. There wasn't the slightest hint of relief at having his life spared or anxiety about his future treatment. He'd supposedly undergone that infamous heresy trial—had it addled his brain a bit?
"Hey. You know you just barely survived, right? Jerome doesn't usually let drifters like you live. For all his looks, he's a very suspicious guy."
The prisoner glanced at him sideways before replying.
"Yeah, thanks."
He seemed to understand that Aslan had willingly gone out of his way for him.
But what was with this casual tone?
"Anyway, you've passed the worst of it, so as long as you do what you're told, you won't die easily. Since we're stuck together now, how about we introduce ourselves? I'm Aslan."
"Nay..."
Nay?
"They call me Bart."
A fake name, huh.
Clank, clank. Every step he took echoed loudly with the sound of metal clashing.
The prisoner wore thick manacles on both wrists, connected by a short chain that severely restricted his movements.
"For starters, we need to figure out what to do about these..."
Aslan pondered briefly if it was safe to remove them, then shook his head. Even if he bolted from here, what good would it do? A prisoner branded a devil worshiper wouldn't find solid footing anywhere on this continent.
They headed to the blacksmith shop in the corner of the slash-and-burn village. It was questionable whether the place—with just a single small forge and a battered anvil—could even be called a smithy.
"Can't remove these."
Old Man Max, who had crawled out reeking of daytime drinking, rubbed his reddened nose and declared.
"These aren't manacles meant to be unlocked. They weld the heated metal right onto you."
He then tilted his head at the prisoner's smooth wrists.
"They put these on you, and not a single scar? Huh, that's something."
Aslan scowled. Dragging a shackled guy around the notoriously rough Western Mountains? Who was he planning to kill?
"Can't you do anything about them? I have to go herb-picking in the mountains starting tomorrow."
"Well, if I heat 'em good in the forge, I could maybe hammer them off..."
Old Man Max shrugged, lifting his bottle.
"But will that hand of his still be attached by then?"
Fair point. He wanted to work together, but losing the hands needed for work would be a problem.
While Aslan mulled over a backup plan, the prisoner—Bart—stared at his wrists as if seeing them anew.
"Playing games like this..."
Even though he'd been wearing them until now, he acted like it was his first real look at the manacles.
His mind really was a bit off-kilter. The thought of having to drag this guy around like a limp made Aslan feel a migraine coming on, one he'd never had before.
For now, they agreed with Old Man Max to at least cut the chain connecting the manacles. The old man soon fetched a heavy hammer from the corner of the smithy, wedged it against the chain, and began hammering.
Clang, clang, clang.
But the work from this thoroughly drunk fellow was hardly reassuring. After a couple of near-misses where his hands slipped perilously close to smashing the prisoner's, Aslan couldn't stand watching and snatched the hammer away.
Better I do it myself—too nerve-wracking.
Bart calmly placed his hands on the anvil and watched their efforts with a composed expression. He was the type with zero sense of danger.
Gripping the hammer and aiming at the chain, Aslan focused his mind. The chain looked tough enough not to snap after a few hits, so despite his inexperience, he planned to use aura to finish it quickly.
He'd never had proper training and thus hadn't formally entered the path, but by concentrating, he could temporarily channel the aura accumulated in his dantian into his arms and weapons. For something self-taught, it was decent talent.
Steadying his breath, he swung hard on the exhale.
Kiiiing. A sound worlds apart from Old Man Max's rang through the smithy.
Kiiiing, king.
Two more strikes with the same technique, and with a snap, one link shattered.
Ho. Old Man Max, who'd downed a swig in the meantime, gulped and let out an admiring whistle.
"You used it, huh?"
Aslan nodded. Since he often botched channeling aura into weapons and broke them, Old Man Max—who fixed them—already knew of his special knack.
And surprisingly, Old Man Max wasn't the only one who'd noticed.
"Didn't expect an aura user out here."
Bart stood, rotated his wrists once, and addressed Aslan. It was the first time he'd looked Aslan straight in the eye. Aslan absentmindedly thought those eyes felt oddly chilling, then replied a bit awkwardly.
"Not quite an aura user."
"Just swinging a hammer, and you spotted it?"
Old Man Max asked in wonder, but he merely nodded without a word.
"Impressive. The kid pulls off these tricks now and then, but you're the first in the village to figure out what he's doing."
He then whispered to Aslan.
"What kind of guy is this fellow?"
"A former priest and pharmacist who worshiped devils, apparently."
Only then did the old man notice the brand on Bart's nape and click his tongue.
"Divine punishment, eh? Won't be an easy life ahead for you."
He patted Bart's back consolingly, shook his bottle, and vanished into the smithy.
After that, the two wandered around the slash-and-burn village. It was too late to start other work, and Aslan figured it was better to familiarize Bart—whom he'd be living with—on the village layout.
They also needed to show some faces to the villagers. In a place full of rough bandits, better prevent Bart wandering alone and getting stabbed as suspicious.
The villagers lounged in groups, boozing or tossing daggers, chitchatting. Some loudly boasted about soon raiding the Asinbal merchant caravan.
They shot Bart sharp, challenging glares as he passed, but upon seeing Aslan beside him, they quickly lost interest and turned away. They knew leader Jerome valued the young boy's skills.
"See that high cliff over there? That's the village boundary."
Having lived alone since leaving Rohan, Aslan found explaining things a chore, yet oddly exhilarating.
Bart proved an easy conversation partner. He didn't react much to Aslan's words, but his unique aura made it feel like he was listening intently.
"Follow that path up, and you'll hit the abandoned fields. They farmed there two years ago, but when Jerome's gang took over last year, it all went to waste. I tried to salvage some, but clearing the mountain by fire alone? No way. Oh, ever farmed before, Bart?"
Bart shook his head.
Figures. Despite the soot smudges, his skin was pristine, like he'd never seen the sun. His hair stuck out messily but had a strangely well-kept texture.
Even his shabby robe couldn't hide an underlying refinement, leading Aslan to guess pre-trial Bart might've been a high-ranking cleric.
"Want to try farming?"
Yeah. Above all, his speech was weighty. Didn't look that old, either.
Aslan shrugged.
"Eh, less 'want to' and more 'tired of thieving for a living.' Truth is, it's shaky here—the village has grown too big, raids are getting too frequent. Eventually, the subjugation force will come."
"..."
"But I think it over, yet have no clue how to live differently. Grew up in the bandit gang, so I don't know alternatives. As a kid, I learned hunting and herb-picking to try other things, but the more I learned, the deeper I sank into bandit life."
"...I see."
"Plus, I hate the looting and killing. Bandits say it's payback since the world takes from us. But think about it—those dead merchants never wronged us personally, right? Stings the conscience. Gustav always said to live by it."
"..."
"Oh, Gustav was a priest I knew before. Died in a subjugation raid."
Thinking of Gustav made Aslan's nose tingle. He rubbed it, wondering why he was spilling all this.
But Bart's face, listening silently, grew serious.
"Whatever's unfamiliar, you adapt when push comes to shove. Time seems short—why not head down the mountain now?"
Huh? Time?
Aslan tilted his head.
"Not that I haven't thought about it, but with Jerome here, it's tough. Last year, some original villagers fled down the mountain with families."
"..."
"Plendor guards caught and summarily executed them."
Yeah. Simple folk who'd only ever scratched dirt couldn't instantly turn bandit on order from outsiders. Some rebelled and sneaked off.
Jerome showed no reaction upon learning of their flight—just a sly grin.
Shockingly, they were nabbed by waiting guards near the village and beheaded on the spot as heinous criminals—even the thumb-sucking kids.
No chance to identify themselves or speak on the bandits occupying their village.
So Aslan suspected Jerome had an inside man in Plendor's guards. That's why he could brazenly raid caravans unchecked.
"Guess I'm stuck for life now. Haven't joined raids directly since coming here, though. Jerome seems miffed, but he doesn't need kid hands like mine—he's got enough men. I hunt well, too."
"I see."
"Yeah, hard to quit clean, and I'll die to subjugators someday. But till then, I want to live upright."
Ahaha. Spouting nonsense to a stranger.
Embarrassed, Aslan scratched his head and looked up at Bart—then flinched. The cold-faced prisoner was gazing down, lips slightly curved.
Faint warmth, but definitely a smile.
"Young as you are, that's quite admirable."
A light hand then rested on Aslan's crown.
Pat, pat.
"Uh..."
Aslan didn't know what to say. Felt like being treated as a clueless kid, yet the praise felt good enough not to mind.
More than that—when had an adult last treated him so purely like a child?
Aslan let the touch linger, sunk in odd sentiment.
Then the dangling chain from the manacles smacked his forehead.