Cheering Them On
In the bitter cold of the northern territories, May is the month when warmth brushes past only for a fleeting moment.
Thick white snow melts away to bare brown earth, streams frozen solid through the long winter begin to flow once more, and the trees that wore white caps all season finally take them off. May is the month when a world of pure white is briefly draped in every color of the rainbow.
It is a fine month for activity, the month when animals roused from hibernation roam the foothills to fill their empty bellies. And so it is also the month when the hunters of the north climb the snowy mountains without rest.
An hour’s hard ride north from the Grand Ducal Castle brought them to one such snowy mountain. Ordinary in terrain, yet rich in forage for a winter peak, it drew beasts often—and it belonged to the Winterfell Grand Ducal house. Only members of the family were permitted to hunt there. Wooden palisades carved with the ducal crest ringed the slopes, barring outsiders. Entry was allowed solely during family affairs such as the betrothal tournament.
Lumiang stood there looking down at the four final candidates. No—more precisely, her eyes were fixed on Elden Raphelion. On that nonchalant, expressionless man.
…What is he thinking?
Last night a confession note meant as sure encouragement had been delivered. This morning Young Lady Ariel would have reinforced it once more. Even though the trump-card hypothesis of Love had failed, the encouragement and persuasion had activated properly; there ought to have been some reaction.
Yet Elden remained utterly unmoved. He knew her gaze was locked on him and still refused to spare her even a glance.
She felt anxious. Sullen. Irritated.
…….
She had not slept a wink, praying that at least this final evaluation match before the face-to-face meeting would unfold according to plan.
Death Tag.
Everyone needed to understand how terrible, how merciless that terror had been—the one she had endured countless times at the Academy. They needed to know the despair of having every hope of escape ripped away.
After Elden’s declaration of forfeit she had erected countless hypotheses and premises, investigated and verified without end, tearing through ancient texts and her own memories alike. Research schedules slipped, experiments tangled, her mind became a knotted mess and everything fell into chaos—yet the hunger to uncover the truth behind that forfeit never faded. The crack Elden’s surrender had opened only widened by the day, and with no clever seal in sight she was going out of her mind. The world felt hazy with exhaustion; more than once she had wanted simply to confess everything to her father and finish the revenge in one stroke.
But a nightmare that arrived without warning stirred the old resentment buried deep in her heart and made every scar throb. For the sake of liberation, every plan she had built around the betrothal tournament had to succeed.
At first she had sworn she would not obsess over vengeance. She had resolved to lead them to repentance through guidance and enlightenment. When the face-to-face meeting came, she wanted the four to look upon her face and feel regret. She wanted sincere apologies. She wanted them to denounce how wrong every evil they had done to her had been. That was why she had prepared the food tortures and the games of tag they themselves had inflicted so many times.
Yet already the first round had gone wrong—thanks to Elden, who had turned food torture into gourmet pleasure. Therefore the second round, at least, had to succeed no matter what.
“Well then, we shall commence the second evaluation match: the hunting tournament. Everyone, please take your places at the starting line.”
“On this snowy mountain there are four caves in total. In only one of them waits a quarry bearing the crest of the Winterfell Grand Ducal house.”
“Whoever claims that crest and returns shall be the victor of the hunt.”
“Use the weapons provided and prove your bravery.”
“Her Grace the Grand Duke’s daughter has declared she will bestow especially high marks upon the brave. I wish all candidates the best of fortune.”
The hunting tournament began. From where Lumiang stood she could see only Elden Raphelion’s back as he waited at the line.
Please.
Please.
Please.
She prayed he would head northeast. And when Elden set off northeast the instant the signal was given, Lumiang finally allowed herself a single spoonful of relief for her clenched heart.
She did not notice that her old vow—not to obsess over revenge—was already fraying, that while she tried to seal the crack Elden had made, a crack was opening in her own resolve. She simply let out a long sigh of relief and hoped, with everything she had, that this time the plan would succeed: that he would bring back both the terror of death and the ducal crest, so the bitterness of the first defeat might finally fade.
Crunch, crunch.
Crunch-crunch.
As expected, the sound of snow underfoot never gets old.
Listening to that oddly thrilling noise—nothing special, yet somehow exciting—I walked northeast with the issued bow slung casually over one shoulder.
“Hooo~ haaa~”
It was a rare outing. The first time since transmigrating that I had tasted the scenery of a snowy mountain and its pure air. I opened my chest wide, drew a deep breath, and let it out. Refreshing. It felt as though my whole chest had cleared. The open vista of the snow peaks pampered my eyes, the clean air my lungs, the soft crunching my ears—almost as if I had finally achieved the dream of escape.
Just out of curiosity—
Crunch.
—I scooped up a handful of snow and ate it. Somehow I had expected it to taste sweet. It tasted exactly like modern snow.
Anyway, where did the trio go?
Ever since the Mana Record incident (of sorts), the three regret-route characters had not so much as glanced my way. They were keeping their distance to secure victory in the betrothal tournament, and thanks to that I was free to savor this peace and healing to the fullest.
So I headed northeast alone. The reason was simple: I wanted to know why this hunting tournament had been named “tag.”
Sir Gelwood had announced that of the four caves, only one held a quarry wearing the Winterfell crest. Last night’s sealed note had contained the phrase “800 meters northeast.” That had to be where the prize that would decide this match was waiting.
The three regret-route characters had moved together from the starting line as though cementing their sticky solidarity. They must have struck some deal. The heroine herself had removed the evaluation team’s shackles for that very purpose. Their path differed from mine, yet it was a foregone conclusion that they would reach the cave 800 meters to the northeast.
And so—
Hmm. About here should do.
I reached a hill that overlooked the cave. Under today’s unusually clear sky I chose a sturdy tree close enough for a good view yet thick enough for concealment.
“Heave-ho.”
A few leaps carried me high. I settled on a thick, flat branch, leaned comfortably against the trunk, and took out one of the fruits I had gathered earlier. I scooped snow from the branch, scrubbed the fruit clean, then wiped the last bits of grit on my clothes.
Wonder what it tastes like.
It looked like an apple, yet its color was deep and lustrous as a tomato, and its stem was long. Father had warned that picking random things would land me with a stomachache, but how was I supposed to resist something that looked so mouth-wateringly radiant?
Whoosh—
A cool wind swept the hill, cooling the heat of the climb as if congratulating me on the effort. I swept my hair back and bit into the fruit.
Crunch!
Sweet-and-sour juice. Flesh a little softer than apple. Mm. Delicious after all.
“This is pure immortal leisure.”
I crossed my outstretched legs, waggled my toes, and closed my eyes. The hunting hat’s chin strap had been lengthened so I could hang it over the back of my neck; I pulled the brim down over my face. The three regret-route characters seemed a little late, so I figured I might as well catch a short nap in the warm sunlight—
“That bastard definitely came this way.”
“Can’t see him now, but the footprints headed right here.”
Voices reached me. I pushed the hat aside and opened my eyes. The trio was approaching the cave, arrows already nocked, faces tight with caution. They had followed almost on my heels; clearly they had tailed the leisurely traitor who wandered off alone.
Just in case, before climbing the hill I had erased every footprint in the snow and ascended by the dirt path instead. I had not truly expected a tail, yet the lifelong habit of Lee Junuw—always preparing for the unexpected—shone through once more.
“Tsk. That son of a bitch. Where’d he vanish to?”
“Maybe he noticed and ran?”
“Snake-like bastard, as always.”
……Wait a second.
Don’t tell me they chose me as the quarry of this hunting tournament. Were those arrowheads meant for me before any real game?
You guys really are something else. You haven’t changed one bit, have you?
“Hey—there’s a cave over there!”
“What? Oh, damn, there is.”
“Hurry up and get inside.”
After a quick sweep of the area they spotted the cave and entered with Deron in the lead. From the looks of it Blund and Kyle had officially decided to back him. If Deron became the Grand Ducal son-in-law they could at least snatch a few scraps. None of my business, so I simply waggled my toes and waited to see what would happen inside—
BOOM!
A sudden tremor rolled through the mountain. Birds exploded into the air; snow cascaded from every twig.
“Wh-what the—?”
The source was unmistakably the cave, and the force was no joke—strong enough to make me wonder if a landslide had begun. At the same time my heart began to pound. Not with fear or dread. This was the pulse of something long buried inside a man: the absolute awe of facing a vast, alien power; the light tension of stumbling onto an interesting incident; and the pure thrill of knowing something special was about to unfold.
It was a vibration that spoke straight to the heart of anyone who had ever longed for a medieval fantasy world. I rose to my feet, face alight with excitement, and took a big bite of the fruit.
Crunch!
BOOM!
Another shock. Stone chips rattled down over the cave mouth. Just what was going on in there? Judging by the intensity, something enormous was waiting inside.
BOOM!
Yet again. My fingertips trembled; the heartbeat grew fiercer. And then, at last, the true form of the vibration revealed itself—together with the three regret-route characters.
“Aaaargh!! Stop pushing me, you bastards!!”
“Shit—! Don’t grab me—!”
“K-Kyle, you son of a bitch, you dare shove me?!”
“I’m about to die here, so who cares?! Move! Fuck!”
The three of them fled for their lives. Hot on their heels came a Wild Big Boar—a massive monster of the boar family, body the size of two elephants put together.
“Kuaaaah!!”
Clang-clang-clang!
A gigantic iron chain stretched from the cave and bound its hind leg, so its range and speed were limited. Still, the beast swung enormous tusks right at their backs. Watching them sprint as if their lives depended on it—which they did—I finally understood why Lumiang had named this event Tag.
I took another generous bite of the fruit.
Someone once said life is a tragedy up close and a comedy from a distance.
Crunch!
……Hang in there, you guys!