Chapter 39
Chapter: 39
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>Translator: penny
>Chapter: 039
>Chapter Title: Predator (3)
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>Freed from the cliff, they raced toward Aslan's cabin. Even if they were just fleeing for now, it made sense to grab some basic weapons and food.
Above all, since all the bandits who'd been with them were out cold, it would take a while for their escape to reach Jerome's ears.
As he stuffed dried rations, grain flour, flint, various herbs, a few traps, and weapons into his bag, Aslan's mind was a whirlwind.
Jerome's men would soon block every path down the mountain. They were probably in cahoots with the village guards too, so Plendor was out.
Then maybe head for Carthago? It meant taking a longer route through the mountains, but if they could cross safely, it might be the best option.
But if the border guards found out they'd come from Plendor, they'd be treated as spies there too. Carthago and Plendor were still at war, even if it was in a lull right now.
'...In the end, is the Asein Principality the only third-country option?'
No. For now, surviving Jerome by fleeing into the mountains came first. They should hide deep in the western ranges, beyond the reach of any search parties.
How long until the borders loosened? A week? A month? Could it take a whole season?
Bart watched Aslan packing for a moment before casually dropping a hint.
"You won't need that much baggage. Even at the longest, the escape won't take more than three days. Best to travel light."
"......?"
Aslan paused, his face stiffening as he stared at Bart. Words Bart had let slip before now resurfaced in his cluttered mind.
- Time seems short, so how about heading down the mountain now?
- Things are about to get hectic, so rest up and save your strength.
Had he known this was coming?
Bart caught the suspicion on Aslan's face and glanced out the door before adding,
"I don't know this place well, but from the chaos, I have a hunch. A subjugation force will form soon."
...Huh? Why does it suddenly jump to that?
But without further explanation, Bart stepped out of the cabin.
"We've delayed too long. Time to go."
Aslan pulled out a few grain sacks and heavy traps, tied up his bag roughly, and followed.
He hadn't known Bart long, but from what he'd seen, the man's words weren't empty talk. Escaping as far as possible assuming a subjugation force was coming didn't sound like a bad idea.
Still, the mention of a subjugation force brought one face to mind—the blacksmith old man Max, with whom he'd kept a shallow friendship since arriving.
A quiet drinker with a surprisingly kind side. At the very least, Aslan wanted to get him out.
"I don't know much about Max's past, but since coming here, he's just been hammering iron."
Would a charging subjugation force care about that?
Remembering how the innocent Seymour and Gustav, held by the old bandit gang, had been brutally killed by Rohan's subjugation force, Aslan figured the old man's chances of surviving if left behind were slim to none.
Of course, there were countless reasons not to take him.
Jerome had likely already sent men into the mountains to hunt spies. Escaping with an extra lump in that situation was nearly impossible.
Max was too slow on his feet and couldn't handle rough mountain paths. The old drunk might even be passed out in his forge right now, bottle in hand.
Jerome's men were prime-age bruisers skilled in slaughter and pillage.
Their side? One half-baked young aura user and a shackled prisoner. Sure, the prisoner's fighting prowess was unexpectedly high.
But instead of all that, Bart simply met Aslan's eyes steadily and asked,
"...No regrets?"
"...."
Aslan hesitated. He knew his answer could endanger not just himself, but Bart too. Logically, it was as good as declaring he wanted to die.
Yet from some point on, Aslan had developed an unfounded trust in Bart. A strange feeling that if he truly wanted it, Bart would make it happen somehow.
Plus, if Bart thought it utterly impossible, wouldn't he have said so outright?
Aslan had once told Bart that even if death loomed, he wanted to live honorably until then. Abandoning a kind, helpless old man he could save would haunt him forever.
The boy met Bart's gaze squarely and nodded vigorously.
"Yeah, no regrets."
For a fleeting moment, that familiar faint smile seemed to flicker across Bart's face.
Thwack. He lightly tapped Aslan's head and turned away without another word.
By the time they hurried to the forge, unfortunately, old Max was thoroughly drunk.
Snore, snore. With half-lidded eyes that didn't even recognize his visitors, Aslan's face fell in dismay.
'...Guess it's hopeless.'
But Bart strode past him, placed a hand firmly on the old man's shiny bald head. A brilliant light leaked from his palm, instantly enveloping Max's entire body.
Fwaaah.
"Wha... Mother?"
The old man's bloodshot eyes snapped clear and wide.
"Huh? The hangover's gone? Huh? My back? The chronic knee arthritis?"
Bart pushed on toward the mountain path without waiting for the still-befuddled old man to catch up. Aslan grabbed Max's arm and urged quickly,
"I'll explain later—just follow us for now. We're out of time."
"Wh-whoa, hold on! Let me grab my booze...."
Max fumbled, but Aslan ignored him and yanked his arm hard. This wasn't the time to worry about the old man's liquor.
Luckily, sensing the gravity from their demeanor, Max followed without protest. His steps weren't as slow as expected—proof the arthritis cure wasn't lip service.
Bart would occasionally halt, peer into empty space, then pick a direction and press on swiftly. Movements far too assured for someone new to the village.
They managed to slip into a forest trail without encountering bandits.
Preeet.
A horn blared from behind—the village's emergency signal for major trouble. Their escape had been discovered.
Soon the whole village erupted in clamor.
Shouts. Murmurs. More horns.
The group held their breath and quick-marched away.
After some time on the trail, a searcher burst from the brush, sword drawn—their first enemy.
"Ah! There you are! Where do you think you're—"
But his words cut off. As if sensing him in advance, Bart swung a fist without even looking.
Thud. A clean shackle-print stamped on the bandit's nose bridge; his body crumpled limply into the undergrowth.
Bart paused again, eyed the void, then veered off the path into trackless terrain. He seemed to be gauging something, but Aslan couldn't fathom what those eyes saw.
Soon they ran into a two-man search team, but it ended before they could speak—Bart lunged and smashed their skulls with his cuffs in a flash.
Thump, smack. Utterly efficient, no motion wasted.
Old Max's jaw dropped.
"Mother? So what exactly is that guy?"
Ex-priest and devil worshiper turned pharmacist, but honestly, who knows anymore.
Bart changed course again.
From then on, they climbed without meeting another bandit until late evening—a miracle with searchers blanketing the mountains.
They munched rations on the move. Whenever weary Max dragged his feet, Bart would infuse him with holy power, perking him right up.
"Ooh, my gout that's plagued me for years?"
The old man's face flushed with vitality. His perpetually hunched back straightened.
He even looked a bit younger—nah, must be imagination.
Bart shared holy power with Aslan a couple times too; the day's muscle strain melted away, energy surging through him.
Aslan broke into a cold sweat. Was holy power always this broken? No cost, pure cheat?
Far below on the slope, tiny torchlights flickered—searching in earnest as dusk fell.
Thankfully distant enough; cresting one ridge hid them completely. Darkness swallowed everything.
They followed Bart a bit farther into unknown depths Aslan had never seen.
Abruptly, a small cave appeared like magic. Bart finally stopped, exhaustion plain on his face.
"Rest here tonight."
Aslan quickly set camp—scraping leaves and dry moss for bedding, laying out their thin blanket.
The three huddled on it. Mountain nights chilled, but fugitives couldn't risk fire.
Fortunately, bolstered by generous holy power, Aslan and Max felt better than ever lately. Aslan draped the one thick blanket over Bart without hesitation.
After thrashing bandits all day, he looked utterly drained, his aura-less frame still scrawny. He wrapped it silently, shut his eyes, and plunged into dead sleep.
"...What in blazes is going on? Subjugation force out of nowhere?"
Fearing to wake Bart, Max whispered. Aslan had followed blindly too, so he had little to say.
"I don't know much. But rumors lately about Grand Duke Asein forming a subjugation force, right?"
Max tilted his head.
"Wasn't that just Rodrigo blabbing at first? Month ago, yapping about Asein's force and spies—next thing, whole village's buzzing. That have real basis?"
Rodrigo started it?
Aslan frowned at the unexpected info, deep in thought.
Rodrigo, an Ortona refugee, had settled here first then joined Jerome's crew late. Lately the most gung-ho on raiding Asein caravans—yet worrying about subjugation?
If Asein's force was baseless rumor, whose was Bart talking about?
Aslan glanced at the man with all the answers, but he slept soundlessly. The boy scratched his head.
"Who knows? But pushing this way should hit Carthago border eventually. Not sure about the pass, but if we make it, we're free of the bandits for good."
"...I see."
The old man nodded.
"Finally escaping this place."
"...."
In the pitch-black cave, Aslan couldn't see Max's face, but the faint regret in his voice tugged at his chest.
Huddling closer for warmth, the old man and boy soon drifted off side by side.