The Last Strike of the Chieftain
Grand General Asgar Leroy, the supreme commander of the expedition to subjugate the barbarians, shut his mouth in irritation. Contrary to his expectations, the war was not going smoothly. At this rate, complaints from the high command would inevitably boil over.
He was an 8th-tier transcendent. Hailing from one of the Empire's most prestigious swordsmanship families, he was a genius who had reached the realm of a 'transcendent' just after turning forty. He was one of the few who had walked the path of a true, orthodox elite within the Empire. Yet, here he was, struggling in a war he had personally volunteered to lead. If he dragged this out any longer without results, he would inevitably be branded as incompetent.
He swung his sword once, as if brushing off fatigue and dust, and surveyed his surroundings. Was this truly a war against mere humans? It had been ten days and ten nights. A narrow valley, a cramped strip of land. Even if the terrain favored the enemy, he had fought on with absolute confidence. What was a force of barely over a thousand men against tens of thousands of imperial soldiers? He possessed the raw power to completely disregard such environmental disadvantages.
They should have crumbled like a sandcastle before a tidal wave of men. That was how it should have been. In the beginning, their momentum had indeed begun to break, just as he had predicted. But then, the barbarians, whose spirits should have been crushed, threw themselves back into the fray, their fighting spirit burning hotter than ever. They charged more recklessly, more desperately than before.
The Second Army was annihilated. Of the First Army, only the main force under his direct command remained. He had never imagined the Baba tribe would be this strong. Every single one of them was an out-of-bounds monster. Even with arrows, swords, and spears impaling their bodies, they kept standing. The reason they finally fell was not because they were defeated in combat. It was blood loss and sheer exhaustion. It was utterly absurd.
Wasn't it laughable? After fighting against thousands, tens of thousands of soldiers, the cause of their death was merely excessive blood loss. Asgar thought to himself: if news of this battlefield reached the Empire, it would cause a massive uproar. Therefore, he could not allow a single soul to survive. If we cannot have them, we crush them before they can even sprout. That was the Empire's creed. And he was a man who followed that creed more ruthlessly than anyone.
Just then, an old man spitting blood while kneeling caught his eye. The chieftain. The very man who had dragged Asgar's ankles throughout this entire war. Asgar looked down at him and spoke.
"Surrender to the Empire, and I shall guarantee your honor."
The words were entirely hollow. He had absolutely no intention of letting the man live. This was merely a game. Watching them crumble hideously at the end of their lives, begging for mercy, and then killing them anyway—it was one of his oldest, most elegant, and refined hobbies.
"Has Dancing-with-Pigs departed?"
The old man's gaze did not turn toward the imperial commander. His eyes were fixed solely on the fallen young man. A tribesman who had stood by his side to block the imperial commander throughout the war. Though the young man had been born outside the tribe, the chieftain had never once considered him an outsider. He was a son of his heart.
A man who never lost the smile on his face. Because the way he danced while holding a pig was so amusing, the chieftain had personally named him 'Dancing-with-Pigs'. But after the war began, that smile had vanished. Ever since the day he lost his family.
The old man had tried to stop him. He had told him to stay behind, but the youth would not listen. Instead, he had branded his own face with fire to declare his resolve—a vow to fight until death. I should have stopped him. Only now did regret wash over the chieftain. The youth's past words of persuasion echoed in his mind.
"Father... not once have I ever regretted following you here that day."
"Do not try to shoulder this burden alone. Everyone knows how much you have sacrificed for the tribe." His voice had trembled, yet it remained firm.
"And... now I understand. I finally understand what it was that I used to call old-fashioned." He had raised his hand and beat his chest three times.
"A Baba must live and die like a Baba!" After saying those words, he had grinned widely.
"...You stubborn boy."
The words the old man had once spoken to a crying child had been returned to him exactly as they were. At that memory, a smile finally graced the chieftain's stiffened face. It was his first smile since the deaths of his wife and son.
His face was hideous. His skin was melted from fire, his nose crushed, and his entire body drenched in blood. Yet, somehow, that smile looked more noble than any other.
The old man raised his axe. At that action, the imperial commander smiled mockingly.
"Foolish. I suppose that is all one can expect from Noire beasts. And here I was, willing to show mercy and let you live."
Asgar shook his head. Nothing was more precious than one's own life. Therefore, the old man's actions could only be the result of being so consumed by fear that he had lost his mind.
"What a pity. I thought you were somewhat useful, so I was going to give you one last chance, but you've gone mad."
There was no further conversation. The last tribesman who had fought alongside the old man had already fallen. The tug-of-war of strength was over. There was no way the old man could hold out alone. Naturally, the battle was entirely one-sided.
One of his arms was severed. Deep gashes were carved into his legs. Yet, the old man never let go of the axe in his remaining hand.
"I truly cannot understand. Do you honestly believe you can inflict even a single scratch on me like this?"
As he spoke mockingly, the commander touched his cheek. A warm sensation met his fingertips. Blood. From that moment on, the commander began to tear the old man apart slowly and brutally on purpose. Dozens, hundreds of times, the blade sliced, but it never delivered a fatal blow. With every pass of the edge, flesh parted and blood spurted. Before long, the old man's body was completely dyed in crimson.
Yet, the brilliant light in the old man's eyes did not waver in the slightest. His gaze was not fixed on Asgar. He was looking far beyond the mountain ridge. And then, a resonance erupted from the depths of his chest.
"Urararara—!"
A cry that shook the mountains. The sound rippled far into the distance, reaching even the women and children who were supposed to be holding their breath in hiding. In response to that cry, everyone answered. The old man coughed up blood as he laughed. Hearing the echoing replies from afar, he smiled.
"Now that I have lived, I finally understand."
Noire. 'Pig.' 'Beast.' The derogatory terms the Empire used to mock the Baba tribe. Once, those words had made his chest burn with rage and his eyes shed tears of blood, but now, they meant nothing to him. Yes, perhaps because he finally knew. No matter how much one screamed until their throat bled, in the end, it was 'strength' that decided right and wrong. Because he hadn't known that, he had spent his entire life grasping at empty air. In his youth, he had been called 'The Awakened Mind.' Yet, he had been more foolish than anyone.
His mind grew clear. It felt as though the clouds obscuring his vision had suddenly vanished. On that day, the letter had arrived. What did they call him? The Chancellor of the Kingdom? He was certainly a man who knew how to strike a bargain. The tribe's long-cherished wish had always been to fight the Empire. For that alone, he had made a promise. He had promised the future of the tribe and the destruction of the Empire.
And a gift had accompanied that promise. The hope of food, which they had always lacked. The realization of vengeance, delivered in the form of the imperial ambassador's severed head. And the compassion to embrace a clan that no one else would accept as citizens of the Kingdom. There was no reason to refuse. Indeed, he could not refuse. He had accepted the proposal. He felt almost apologetic for having doubted it at first. Doyunes had granted every single one of his requests. At this very moment, Doyunes would be marching toward the Empire.
Knowing nothing of this, the imperial commander stood before him, triumphant and arrogant, believing everything was over. Looking at Asgar, the old man could not contain himself. And so, he let it out.
"Heh... Hehehe... Bwahahaha!"
"What is so amusing?"
"Bwahahaha! How could it not be amusing?"
Cough, cough— Heh, heh. A faint, ethereal glow began to emanate from his axe. His physical body forcibly broke through two successive limits. His body, which had already reached the peak of the 7th Tier, bypassed the 8th Tier entirely and touched the threshold of the 9th Tier. It was a realm achieved only at the very end of his life. Yet, he felt neither awe nor joy at this breakthrough. He had already witnessed a far greater miracle.
Seeing the old man's form waver like a heat haze, Asgar felt an instinctive jolt of terror. Dangerous. Just looking at him made every nerve in his body scream in warning. If this man was allowed to live, he would become a permanently fatal threat to the Empire.
Driven by pure instinct, Asgar's sword flashed. But before the blade could strike, the old man's voice rang out first.
"This time, the Empire loses."
The old man's axe swung in a slow, deliberate arc. By the time Asgar perceived it, he could only see the beginning and the end of the strike. And then, the sky he was looking up at split in half. The sword in his hand was severed. Following it, his torso. And behind him, the entire command unit of the imperial leadership was cleaved in two.
Spurt! The old man looked up at the sky. The smile on his lips did not fade. It was blindingly bright. Ah, I see. There, his family, his son, and his comrades were waiting. The land of warriors that the Empire had so thoroughly despised and looked down upon truly existed.
Others often misunderstood. They believed the land of warriors was merely a barbarian afterlife—a cursed land where one had to fight and bleed for eternity. They were wrong. The land of warriors was... a place where one was respected even without holding a sword. A place where one spoke with wisdom rather than scars. A land where sorrow was washed away, anger was laid to rest, and the remaining days were lived in memory and laughter. A life of protecting, letting go, and leaving a legacy. It was the final destination for those who dreamed not of fighting, but of a world where they would never have to fight again.
Smiling, the old man took his steps into that land.
"Excuse me."
A strange voice. It was the language of the Kingdom.
"What...?" As the old man turned his head, a glowing red bottle appeared before his eyes.
"This is..."
"An order from the Prophet. He instructed me to deliver this bottle to you should you fall."
The old man shook his head. "No need. Whatever it is, do not waste it on an old man whose time has come. Give it to the young instead."
"This is an item delivered by the Prophet. I was told to hand it to you in case of an emergency."
"...Are you even listening to me?"
"This is an item delivered by the Prophet. I was told to hand it to you in case of an emergency."
"..."
"This is an item delivered by the Prophet. I was told to hand it to you in case of an emergency."
A repetition. A mechanical response that showed no signs of stopping. The old man shut his mouth. The tone suggested that if he did not accept it, the man would repeat it for eternity. After a moment's hesitation, he finally took the bottle. It was a life already lost anyway. He simply did not want to leave an unnecessary blemish on those heading toward the Kingdom. With only that thought in mind, the old man uncorked the bottle and drank it down without hesitation.
"Are you satisfied now? You may leave. I need to put my affairs in order for the last time—?!"
Before he could even finish his sentence, Barbatus, the land of warriors that had felt close enough to touch just moments ago, began to recede. The sky retreated. The warm energy vanished. His entire body sank heavily once more. And then—a hand ruthlessly pulled him upright.
"Yes. Now, let us go. To the Elium Kingdom."
"...What?" The old man's eyes widened.
"Wh-What...?" Flesh was returning to his legs. His torn body was regenerating on its own. Leaving the bewildered old man behind, the messenger approached his fallen son.
Pop—
"Time to wake up."
Soon after, a familiar voice groaned. A bewildered, "Huh?"
Black smoke rising over the mountains. Countless shadows pouring in through the castle's main gates. I could see everything. I knew exactly what would happen next, down to the very progression of events.
The Empire would soon launch a massive propaganda campaign. It wasn't for profit. They would thoroughly package and process the narrative, shouting that their actions were done not for self-interest, but for the public good. After all, demonizing the barbarians was precisely what they had designed this for.
People clad in rags. Among them were those whose eyes still burned with an unquenchable light. Eyes filled with a mixture of rage and resolve. And within that crowd, a familiar figure caught my eye.
A small child. Pink hair. Crimson eyes. A highly distinct appearance. It was a look I had seen somewhere before. Somehow, if she grew a bit taller and her eyes became sharper...
The Pink Madwoman. A hero NPC who would be known as 'The Butcher' in the future. In terms of pure physical stats, she was a woman rated as semi-legendary. Regardless of whether they belonged to the Empire or a Kingdom, anyone who caught her eye was torn to shreds. To capture her, the Empire would have to sacrifice tens of thousands of soldiers over several years.
...Could it be? I chuckled and shook my head. What, so the Baba tribe was actually her home tribe, and she was the sole survivor of the imperial massacre? And that rage is what turned her into a madwoman? If the narrative forced a coincidence that absurd, the author would get torn apart by the readers.
For a moment, it felt as though our eyes met, but I shook my head. Given the distance between us, it had to be an illusion. Besides, I was viewing this through a magic tool. It was enough to see that they had arrived safely. I turned around.
"...Now, let us begin."
Behind me, the countless men who had been kneeling on one knee rose in unison.
"Glory to Doyunes!"
They moved like highly disciplined soldiers.
"March."
After today, Elium would change. From an ultra-weak, tiny nation... to a kingdom that finally boasted a three-digit rank.