Chapter 58
Chapter 58
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 58
Chapter Title: 20. Even in the Winter of Piercing Winds, Buds Sprout (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"No way... all the other sword chants are like this too?"
I asked just in case, but sure enough, it was true. Antoine nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The others' chants were similar, he said, differing only in efficiency.
"This is insane."
My head throbbed painfully.
Where had those beautiful verses gone that sang of glorious martial feats? Where had the lofty aspirations of ascetics striving for transcendence vanished to?
To think that crude, clumsy scraps of doggerel were the sole legacy of that brilliant age of glory—it was beyond absurd; it was downright tragic.
I sat in the chair, clutching my pounding head, when Antoine glanced around cautiously and asked,
"Is something not to Your Highness's liking?"
I didn't answer. What wasn't to my liking wasn't just one or two things.
For now, I asked about the origins of his sword chant.
His response was truly something to behold.
He'd learned it from one of the senior mercenaries in his youth, he'd said. And not just learned it—he'd handed over his entire fortune for it.
I was speechless.
I'd never even imagined there could be people in this world who bought and sold accomplishments like commodities.
Yet here was one, right in front of my eyes.
Truly, these were end times.
Of course, even in the past, there had been rare cases of borrowing others' accomplishments. Lords sometimes shared poems with their knights as rewards for devotion and service.
But those were exceptional, and even then, there were conditions. The recipient had to contribute significantly to building upon the poem's accomplishment.
That was the only way to pass down a poem to someone outside the bloodline without damaging it too much.
Naturally, no knight ever traded poems for money under any circumstances. That was the surest way to cheapen a poem's dignity.
And right before my eyes was the proof.
"A blade that cuts the sword."
This grotesque, unheard-of verse must have originally been a proper poem.
Passed down through the mouths of the unqualified, it had lost its pure lines and suffered damage to its dignity and power, arriving in its current state.
The fact that even a sliver of power remained was likely because the verse was so exceedingly simple and easy to grasp.
I clicked my tongue.
"I chased him down for half a year to learn it. I invested my entire fortune, but it saved my life countless times after that, so it wasn't a bad deal."
To learn that pathetic excuse for a poem, he'd chased after it for half a year. He'd poured his life savings—earned at the risk of his neck—into memorizing a string of vapid words that lacked even a hint of dignity.
The moment I heard that, I realized something.
I'd nearly wasted it all.
Ignorance would have been one thing, but now that I knew, I couldn't bring myself to use it.
"I'm changing the contract terms."
Antoine, who'd been chattering away, widened his eyes.
"Twenty years."
The original contract had been until I ascended the throne. I changed it to twenty years of service.
"Twenty years is too much. That's practically a lifetime contract. No mercenary band in the world would agree to that." Antoine protested, and I snorted.
We were at the point where a contract of lifelong servitude wouldn't even suffice.
I drew my sword.
"Y-Your Highness?"
Startled, Antoine took a step back.
"You said you chased him for half a year."
I asked him, watching his reaction.
"You said you invested your entire fortune from your youth."
Antoine's face stiffened.
"How much of your life did you devote to that pathetic scrap of doggerel?"
He looked uncomfortable, his prized chant being mocked as crude.
I gazed at him and softly recited the soul-soothing poem.
"Piles of green corpses formed a mountain, and beneath it, a red pond emerged." "And I stand before it, honoring your soul."
⟨ Soul-Soothing Chant ⟩
A blue flame erupted at once.
"How much value does this verse hold?"
I swung the sword. The banner depicting a silver fox burned in the blue flames.
"How much are your twenty years worth?"
I thrust the sword forward again. Antoine gulped dryly, staring at the blade at his throat.
"I'll give you time to think."
I sheathed it.
"But I won't wait forever."
I turned and left.
Even as I stepped out of the tent, Antoine said nothing. But I didn't hesitate, having clearly seen the longing in his eyes upon witnessing the soul-soothing flames.
His prized treasure had turned out to be worth less than a roadside pebble, and the real treasure was right before him. Sooner or later, Antoine would come to me.
"Hm."
I looked toward the walls. I pictured the mountains beyond and gauged the presence there.
It was a colossal aura that dwarfed the combined life forces of every creature in the vicinity.
The Warlord had been stationary for nearly two months now. It occasionally roared to assert its existence, but it never left its spot.
I had no idea why the beast, which had moved relentlessly if slowly before, had suddenly hunkered down there.
All I could do was be grateful for the time it had bought us.
But that time wasn't infinite.
The creature was a tyrant that trampled and conquered, not a ruler who stayed put to foster a kingdom's prosperity. I didn't know when, but it would surely start moving again.
And eventually, it would reach us.
I had to prepare as much as possible before then.
**
At dawn, I went to Vincent and asked to borrow some men.
Three rangers familiar with the mountains' terrain, three skilled in tracking.
"You're not taking the usual men who accompany Your Highness?"
Vincent asked at my request.
"This isn't a scouting trip."
The dutiful eldest son of Winter Castle looked puzzled.
His face asked what I planned to do with just six men if it wasn't scouting.
"Hunting."
The mountains weren't full of just orcs. There were countless monsters of all sizes, some far fiercer than orcs.
Like ogres, called kings of the mountains,
or trolls, the immortal predators.
Monsters infamous even in the glorious era four centuries ago when great knights abounded—innately powerful beasts. I intended to hunt them.
"It's too dangerous. Especially at a time like this."
Vincent immediately objected upon hearing my plan.
"If anything happens to Your Highness, it can't be undone."
Déjà vu hit me. Vincent had said something similar in the past.
"You said the exact same thing when I said I'd handle the orc scouts."
I grinned, recalling how I'd handled it then, and Vincent sighed.
"Then I'll assign more men."
I didn't refuse that much. A few extra wouldn't change things much.
As I prepared to leave at dawn, a familiar man appeared. Erhim Klingger, who should have been at the 2nd Prince's side.
"What are you doing here?"
"His Highness the 2nd Prince sent me."
Sending a knight because his brother was heading into treacherous mountains—Erhim Klingger quipped about his sibling's benevolence with a straight face.
"I'm here too, Your Highness."
The man I'd seen enough of at Iron Lion Castle, Dunham Fahrenheit, grinned and acted friendly.
"Do as you like."
The two tightened their packs at my words.
Finally, I checked the gear. The trip might last over a month navigating the mountains, so I inspected everything meticulously.
"Hm?"
As I packed, another group appeared.
Antoine and his mercenaries.
"You coming along too?"
Antoine shook his head and gestured. The burly men behind him bowed deeply.
"Senior Mercenary Locke!"
"Senior Mercenary Jean!"
I frowned at the sudden introductions, but Antoine spoke up.
"Before becoming mercenaries, they were mountaineers. Sharp instincts—use them like dogs, and they'll be useful enough."
I checked their traits and couldn't help but laugh.
The mountaineers he'd brought all had traits suited for scouting.
His intentions were transparent.
"Like dogs, huh? Fine."
I played along, pretending not to notice.
"Let's go."
With my uncle possibly about to insist on tagging along, I hurried the departure.
Uncle and Vincent waited at the gates.
"Come back safe."
Uncle spoke as I grimaced in apprehension. Fortunately, it was just a send-off.
"Keep the castle safe while I'm gone."
"We've guarded it since before you were born."
"Please return safely, Your Highness."
They rebuked me after I'd thoughtfully said it.
"Then I'll be off."
With that, I passed through the gates.
The rangers waved from the walls. No grand farewells—just the straightforward send-off befitting northern men.
I simply waved back.
**
No sooner had we entered the mountains than the rangers sprang into action. They scouted all directions, charting a path to avoid orcs. We advanced cautiously, deep into the range without haste.
We occasionally encountered small monsters or beasts, but the rangers dispatched them swiftly, so we lost no time.
"They say Ballerhard's rangers are the best among mountain infantry, and it's true."
Erhim Klingger marveled, watching the lead rangers silently slit two goblin scouts' throats.
The rangers buried the goblins in the snow without a word and resumed their work.
We pressed deeper, ever deeper, avoiding monster migration paths with utmost care.
How many days passed like that?
Around the time the two mercenaries shadowing me grew too exhausted by the grueling march to keep watching, one of the lead rangers signaled.
Shh.
He pressed a finger to his lips, scanned around, nodded at me.
We'd reached the target.
His lips moved.
Ogre.
Immediately, an enraged roar echoed from afar.
Grroooaaar!
The rangers plugged their ears. The two mercenaries fell on their asses. Arwen and the Iron Lions scowled, and Adelia clung to me.
Her pale face showed she'd been utterly terrified by the horrific bellow.
I ignored her and signaled the ranger.
He pointed somewhere. Dragging the clingy Adelia, I moved forward.
Beyond a barren, twisted dead tree lay a wide clearing.
Suddenly, the stench of blood assaulted my nose.
A monster in mid-feast appeared before me.
But its main course was far too fresh. No, calling a live orc "food" might be a stretch.
Splurt.
The ogre tore the orc in half. Muscles that could withstand arrows ripped like paper. Crimson entrails spilled onto the white snow.
The ogre greedily shoved them into its maw.
"Krrrngh!"
Orcs growled, surrounding the giant beast.
Each could lead a small unit—elite orc warriors.
Among them loomed an orc half again as large as the warriors.
"Fear not! Warriors!"
An orc noble.
Gripping its axe-spear, it gathered its battle spirit. Red aura surged, clinging to the weapon. Emboldened, the orc warriors charged the ogre.
Bloody melee erupted.
Hm.
Watching, I let out an involuntary chuckle.
This was what they meant by reaping the fisherman's profit.