Chapter 14
Chapter 14
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Northern Archduke (3)
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Right after, as I drew in a breath, the metallic tang of blood hit me. It was in my mouth. My back, etched with the seventh rune, felt like it was ablaze.
A lost language system manifestable only by dragons among the higher races. If unique magic circuits marked the pinnacle for those who wielded mana, then Dragon Tongue was a power utterly alien, untouched by any mysteries the magic towers had unveiled.
Just using it once felt like it had shaved years off my lifespan.
I guess I can't handle it properly yet. I shouldn't use it recklessly until I've devised a countermeasure.
"Guh...!"
"Haa, haa..."
The effect was undeniable. The elite soldiers of the 9th Legion collapsed without even resisting, and even those who clung to their swords trembled violently.
I gazed at Wagner, the only one among them who hadn't fallen. Dragon Tongue's mechanism forcibly imposed hierarchies upon living beings.
That was why his state was far graver than the others, who had either instinctively flattened themselves into the underbrush or passed out entirely. Defying an absolute command not to be challenged made every single cell scream in agony. The result was hemorrhaging so severe it wouldn't have been strange if he'd dropped dead on the spot.
Yet he'd endured to the end, sword thrust into the earth. Two reasons: my still-immature skill... and the fervor of his loyalty, born of a desire to protect his liege, more precious than his own life.
Come to think of it, he'd been the first to rush to her side when Serath collapsed below the walls. Now I remembered his face.
Wagner vomited blood. His breaths came in ragged hitches, his shoulders and neck slumping downward. Yet he raised his head once more.
"Huuk, kuh...!"
He'd endured, after all.
I approached, channeling Ancestral Power. Even against a foe on the brink of unconsciousness right before me, I never dropped my guard.
Seeing no opening whatsoever in me—realizing there was no path to victory—Wagner bellowed with seething fury. At his raw spirit, birds erupted into the sky in unison.
"I know you're strong...! I didn't expect it to this degree, but you're at least leagues beyond wretches like us, who can't even choose our own deaths...!"
A mixture of blood and tears streamed down his cheek. He was begging me to accomplish what they could not.
To protect Serath. A barbarian stronger than their own commander could surely manage it somehow.
"So please...! Any demand, I'll fulfill it—just Serath, the lady, please...!"
"No. I refuse."
"Why...!"
"No one heeds the pleas of a spineless loser. That's the law of the plains."
I picked up a soldier's sword from the ground at my feet. Karangal circled the area, kicking the fallen soldiers outward.
In the small clearing thus formed, Wagner and I faced off. The so-called honorable duel that plains warriors like Vigo had so desperately wanted with me.
"What you need to do now isn't beg. It's declare. A goal you uphold more desperately than death itself."
"What?"
"If you still haven't dropped your sword... then show me your spirit, warrior."
"...!!"
Warrior. Wagner's pupils quivered at the word. Having scoured battlefields for years as an elite of the Northern Defense Army, fighting us, he knew exactly what it signified. It meant treating him not as a cowardly rat skulking in the castle, but as an equal adversary worthy of respect.
And until now, I'd never bestowed that title on any civilized soul save Serath.
"Ha, haha... Fine."
Wagner yanked his sword from the earth. His body had long reached its limit. Mana leaked profusely from his mangled magic circuits. But he paid it no mind.
Even in this wretched state, just once. If he could prove himself to the existence before him, that would suffice.
"Come at me, barbarian—no, Ivar."
His left foot traced a semicircle. Tremors began at his toes and spread through his body, but his sword tip locked precisely on my heart.
He carved a beautiful arc like splashing spray. Then he charged at me in a blur too swift to track—
"If I defeat you, Serath...! Kuhuk!!"
...only to eat a fist squarely to the face and tumble dozens of meters. Against a warrior, I stayed even more vigilant. I gave no chance for a first strike.
In truth, if a dramatic awakening let him best a great warrior, that would be the real injustice. Since my possession, I'd rolled even more fiercely across battlefields, wagering my life harder than Wagner ever had.
Still, this was the utmost courtesy I'd afforded him. For leading his men in an ambush, he'd gotten off cheap.
Above all, the exchanged blows in a duel could hardly be called violence. Of course, I hadn't taken a single one.
"You have good subordinates."
That final strike wasn't bad, either. Nor the spirit he'd meant to show.
The soldiers, freed from Dragon Tongue's effects and able to move, rushed toward their fainted comrade.
"Next time we meet, call me brother, brother."
A brother's request, rather than a loser's cry—I couldn't refuse that.
I left those words—first since Harald—for the unconscious Wagner and departed the forest.
Thuk!
An arrow whistled through the air and lodged in the ice wall. Through the translucent barrier, Serath Icefern glared at Marquis Marcus standing in the direction it had come from.
Even after she'd widened the distance, he'd followed anyway. That leering smirk made her skin crawl.
"Sorry about that. The prey bolted your way, so I took a shot—must've missed."
"Does it look like a miss to you? That was a straight shot."
A countess and a marquis. Though their stations were worlds apart, the exchange lacked any deference. Entirely because Marcus refused honorifics. She had no inclination to call him out on it now.
"I said I'm sorry. Strictly speaking, I didn't hit you, did I? Blame this guy."
Marcus gestured to the ironclad knight beside him. But it wasn't human.
Ironclad Golem. A creation born of the Shratma family's secret magic.
These steel soldiers, animated solely by the mana of family members, had been instrumental in the Shratmas pioneering the harsh, sparsely populated north. Marcus, gifted with even greater talent than his predecessor Marquis Marcus, could command as many as an entire company.
Perhaps because they were puppets obeying his every command without question, he'd scorned human life since childhood. And believed he could acquire anything he desired like a toy.
"Quick reflexes, though. Looks like you can hold out a while longer, eh?"
Marcus drew near and yanked out the embedded arrow. Even through the ice wall, his eyes raking her face and figure felt excessively vile.
"I haven't the foggiest what you're on about."
"If you went to such lengths to steal that barbarian from me, you should've made your choice swiftly. Leaving him off-leash like this just leads nowhere. Don't tell me you've grown fond of him in the meantime?"
Paradoxically, if Marcus had taken Ivar instead, everything might've gone according to plan. He never would've tolerated such insolence.
But Serath chafed at the military enforcing the Imperial Edict of Isolation, pitting her against Ivar once more. All the more since she'd come to know him. That was the source of her turmoil.
Ppak—!
A sharp clash echoed from afar. Had someone on horseback met with an accident?
Come to think of it, quite some time had passed since Ivar left to retrieve the birds. Her scouts hadn't returned either.
I should go check what's happening. Marcus ignored Serath's order to depart.
"No business? Then scram. I'm busy."
"Oh, I have business. Was going to tell you the venue for tomorrow's knighting ceremony."
"Isn't it the grand hall in Winterfall?"
"Roads are a mess from that recent typhoon. Too hard to cart the candidates there by carriage, so we're doing it at our mansion instead."
An obvious lie. Typhoons didn't strike the early summer tundra. But the ceremony was a Shratma domain event for selecting family vassals. The 9th Legion had no grounds to meddle with a venue change.
"So I'd appreciate minimizing observers. Our place isn't as spacious as the grand hall. Ah, bring the barbarian, of course—imperial orders."
"Why not speak plainly? You're up to something."
Marcus wasn't just arrogant; he wasn't a fool. His genius shone through in the effortless brilliance of his magic.
His brazen confidence stemmed from certainty that even if his scheme were exposed, it couldn't be stopped. At Serath's words, he pressed a hand to the ice wall, eyeing her like a doll in a display case.
Moisture beaded on the surface. Normally, the arrow would've bounced off before embedding.
"Then plainly: doll yourself up prettily. No matter how you squirm, by tomorrow's end, I'll be master of the north."
"Ha!"
Her self-esteem surging, Serath let out a mocking laugh. Unrelated to her disgust, she'd always deemed herself the north's fairest beauty.
Proof enough: even the north's would-be ruler, scheming her downfall, couldn't hide his lust.
"Regrettably, this is my sole outfit. When I left my family for this place, I swore off dresses forever."
She'd discarded all save the one from her social debut. Naturally, that was nearly a decade ago—the gown wouldn't fit her current figure. She'd kept it only because her father had bought it.
Unlike her icy precision in devising battlefield strategies and tactics, Serath knew full well that every time she flaunted excessive confidence, the exact opposite ensued.
Ivar had nearly rubbed dirt in her eyes; at the social soiree, she'd gritted her teeth watching him strut amid a gaggle of noble ladies.
"Better crushed beneath a barbarian's belly than strung up like a puppet in your mansion."
But this time, she meant it.
She flashed a razor-sharp smile brimming with conviction and declared:
"Of course, such an absurd future won't come even if the world itself ends."