Chapter 3
Chapter 3
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Barbarian of the Plains (3)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Get up, Harald."
"B-Brother!?"
"I have no memory of ever having a warrior with such a weak mind as my brother."
I entered the tent and ruthlessly yanked the blanket away.
I'd wondered why he wasn't pestering me for a sparring match like usual. I'd thought he was busy taking over Black Tusk's duties since the old man's health had declined, but here he was, holed up in his room.
If Harald, the chieftain's son, couldn't do his part, the Stonegar Tribe could collapse. For me to focus on cultivating my Ancestral Power without worry, he had to take responsibility for the tribe's safety.
"What in the world happened? Didn't you fight the Winter Witch before I did?"
"That was from a distance. I've never been hit directly by the Ancestral Power pouring out of that thing like this time..."
"So, what did you think?"
"If I hadn't been flung away, I would've died right there. No, even now! If that witch so much as twitches a finger at me, I couldn't resist at all."
Indeed, his spirit had been broken after encountering an overwhelmingly superior foe.
What makes the warriors of the plains strong is faith.
The blind belief that by serving the War God Ishkar and dying on the battlefield, they could reach Doomhelm, the land of eternal battle he promised. What armed warriors fear is not death itself, but the hesitation that leads to it.
I have no intention of dismissing it as mere ignorance. In this barren land, such a mindset was necessary to survive.
"No matter what I do, I can never become as strong as that witch. Once I realized that, I could no longer stand against the winds blowing across the plains."
But Harald had felt the terror of death. He could no longer forgive his own weakened self.
With a sigh, I set down my axe and sat in front of Harald. If this were the modern world, I'd calmly persuade him and connect him to some counseling service, but that kind of professional help wasn't an option here.
All I could rely on was this three-inch tongue of mine. After some thought, I recalled a conversation we'd had before.
"Ivar, how are you so strong? Please tell me. If things stay like this, I feel like I'll give up everything...!"
"Harald, do you know why I haven't married even after my Coming-of-Age Rite?"
"What?"
"To find a strong mate. The women of our tribe are too weak."
In truth, they weren't frail at all. They could easily knock out a wild boar with a chokehold and butcher it on the spot.
Far from weak, the sight of their bulging biceps, like they'd been injected with steroids, made my stomach churn every time. But what did it matter? A little lie was nothing if it could boost Harald's spirits.
To begin with, I was far from the material for the stoic, honest great warrior that the tribe's kids admired. Even so, rather than shedding this role I'd been cast in, I decided to make use of it.
"You asked me before if the Winter Witch has a great ancestor too."
"D-Did I?"
"You definitely did. And I agree. The Winter Witch must have a powerful ancestor, just like her, and that's why she inherited their power. The same goes for others like her."
Taking a breath, I spoke to Harald in the most serious tone I could muster.
"So, if I take those women, wouldn't I become part of their bloodline too?"
"...!!"
"The same goes for you."
If you can't beat them, join them—no, make them family.
It was logic as worthless as dried, twisted dog shit that couldn't even serve as kindling in the winter winds, but coming from the tribe's most renowned warrior, it worked. Life slowly returned to Harald's eyes.
"Fortunately, as the chieftain's son, polygamy isn't an issue for you. Marry women from strong tribes, make their ancestors your own, and you can become stronger than even the Winter Witch."
"Is that really possible? Ancestral Power is passed down through bloodlines, sure, but that's only to descendants..."
Don't suddenly play genetics expert on me. I pulled back the tent flap, letting the cold wind rush in.
It was to replace his battlefield trauma with a positive memory. Also to divert the attention of his fragile mind and body.
"No. When you fought the Winter Witch, her ancestor was surely watching you too. Didn't your heart tingle differently than usual?"
"C-Come to think of it, maybe..."
"It was testing whether you're worthy to inherit your own power. So don't be afraid. Just facing it means you've grown one step stronger."
It was just his alveoli freezing and blood vessels contracting near his heart in the near-freezing wind, but I didn't bother explaining.
He sprang up from the bed in an instant. He coughed a bit, but unlike before, he now looked ready to head out for a fight. He'd returned to normal.
"So that's what it was... In that chaotic battlefield, it saw my potential and approached me."
"Exactly, brother."
"It's a shame, but I already have Olgen. And I don't like scrawny, skinny women like that. Hips too narrow to bear children."
"..."
Harald was a married man. By tribal rule, to prevent splitting power, the first wife had to come from within the tribe. His wife was his childhood friend they'd grown up together.
"But I understand what you mean, Ivar. Indeed, I just need to take more wives!"
For reference, Olgen was the best in the tribe at the traditional event of "bare-handed skull-crushing." Piles of pierced magic beast skulls lined up in front of her tent like trophies.
I wondered what she'd do if she found out I'd told her husband to take other women. One thing was certain: come next winter, I wouldn't be manning the walls—I'd be crow food, my eyeballs pecked out.
"Brother, everything we've talked about here is a secret."
"Huh?"
I hurriedly made Harald swear to secrecy. I planned to bury what happened here come spring, among the sprouting grasses.
He wouldn't want to see the tribe's promising future warrior die a screaming death either. After repeated warnings, Harald pondered deeply and nodded.
"If you've got your energy back, I'll be going."
"Thanks, brother. And don't worry—I'll keep Ivar's secret safe."
My secret?
I doubted if he'd fully grasped my intent, but since he'd recovered, the village would be fine.
Leaving the tent, I headed straight to the place the Raggedfoot Brothers had mentioned. The ravine where I'd met them was quite far from the tribe's borders, so I had to hurry.
About a month later.
I successfully hunted the Crawling Fire by luring it into the lake. When I returned to the tribe with its flaming hide...
I overheard Grak, on guard at the entrance, telling the kids playing nearby with a ball.
"The moment Ivar saw the Winter Witch, he fell for her at first sight. He vowed to one day capture her and make her his wife."
"That's why he couldn't kill her!?"
"Chieftain Harald, for the sake of his one true friend, gave up on claiming the Winter Witch's Ancestral Power. It was a choice for eternal friendship."
He hadn't understood, hadn't kept the secret, and had even embellished it wildly.
After that day, the persistent courtship from the tribe's women completely stopped. In its place, I got strange looks for supposedly preferring "civilized" women.
And several years passed from then.
The Imperial Edict of Isolation, decreed by the founding emperor to ban exchanges with the uncivilized lands beyond the empire. And at the margrave's request, citing the birth of an "intelligent magic beast" near the border disrupting public order, the Imperial 9th Legion—the Northern Defense Army—had been stationed at Winterfall Fortress decades ago.
The undefeated soldiers, who fought wars every autumn when the barbarians came to trample their homeland, donned their white armor and spears again this year. It was like an annual event, but their expressions were darker than usual.
There were two reasons.
One was the death of Marquis Marcus, the margrave who had ruled the vast frozen wastes of the empire's north, Shratma, from old age. And his son Marcus, who inherited the position.
The 9th Legion was the imperial army, but the villages and fortresses they garrisoned belonged to the margrave. Most field commanders were retainers of the Shratma family, and central dispatches came only once every few years—usually officers demoted from the capital for scandals or fresh graduates from the officer academy lacking real combat experience.
In recent years, the commanders Marcus sent were utterly incompetent. This year was no different; word came that a low-ranking noble, who got his helmet through ties to the lord, was arbitrarily reorganizing the unit's structure.
Arrogant and ignorant fools. She knew ignoring them would sap the soldiers' morale, but clashing with Marcus over every subordinate unit was a burden even for Serath, supreme commander of the Northern Defense Army.
Even as one of the empire's three great wielders of unique magic swords. The second reason the soldiers trembled in fear and despair.
No, it was because of one particular existence.
"Lady Serath!"
"It's wartime—call me Supreme Commander. What is it?"
"He's appeared. At the 3rd camp of the 1st gate."
"He shows up every year without dying, huh."
The adjutant's hand trembled as he held the report. That paper detailed all the damage inflicted by a certain barbarian who had suddenly appeared years ago and become the terror of every soldier.
With seven layers of vast walls ringing the mountains, no one could predict where he'd strike next. So Serath, who had been holding position, headed straight to the report site.
As she drew nearer the battlefield, the soldiers' frantic shouts grew louder.
"He's coming this way! Block him by any means!"
"Pour the holy oil! Even if the gate burns, don't leave a drop behind!"
"The Black Tower's mage battalion has arrived!"
"Everyone, hold your breath! Inhale even a bit of that smoke, and your lungs will burn!"
A robed man climbed the wall and sliced his wrist with a dagger. When the black wizard's dark blood met the oil blessed by the church, violet purgatory flames erupted in an instant.
Ta-Cheon's Fire, said to annihilate even 1st-grade magic beasts resistant to flames. The soldiers' faces brightened, but Serath, knowing this alone wouldn't kill him, quietly drew up her mana.
"Did it burn to death...?"
"Wait, something's moving?"
A massive figure silently rose amid the purgatory flames that made even the earth groan. His upper body, revealed as his clothes burned away, bore five rune-like patterns etched in blood.
"The Red Ghost of the North..."
"It's the demon...! The demon's alive!"
"He's got an axe! No way..."
"Get off the wall!"
One soldier, seeing the red glow emanating from one of them, unwittingly uttered the barbarian's moniker. And soon after.
Kwang—!
As he swung the blood-soaked axe blade, cracks began to spiderweb across the gate.