The Khan of the Nomadic Elves, Battle at the Salt Plateau
The strongest warrior across the entire prairie charged forward like a chariot in full gallop, his hooves striking the ground with each thunderous stride. Arrows and spears whistled past him as he closed the distance without slowing.
Even when struck by the impacts, he showed no sign of halting. KOONG!
The patriarch’s heel slammed into the earth, shaking the ground itself with the force of his powerful strike.
He looked ready to trample the orc warriors beneath his hooves and crush them to death.
With a mighty heave, the patriarch raised his flail high. An aura of absolute destruction clung to the weapon.
Woo-woong!
THWACK!
“...!”
Yet the patriarch’s strike failed to land its deadly blow.
“What kind of fool dares to interfere?”
A newcomer had intercepted the flail mid-swing.
Seeing a centaur warrior—especially one of the patriarch’s caliber—meet the newcomer’s strength head-on left no doubt that the intruder was no ordinary opponent.
If the blocker had been a human warrior, his skull would have exploded on impact.
The one who had stepped in front of the patriarch was a centaur.
Curiosity rippled through the crowd as they tried to identify the warrior who had dared to block the patriarch.
A centaur of overwhelmingly massive stature, with hooves that gleamed like polished obsidian.
Vesta recognized the man instantly.
“Atilia.”
Why had he appeared on this battlefield?
Atilia was not here to assist the orcs.
He did not care much for the orcs; after all, the money he had used to expand his operations had come from selling orc captives.
Would the orcs have a place in the future he envisions for the centaurs?
Probably not.
Why would he stand before the patriarch, a man who valued his position in centaur society so highly?
Vesta’s mind filled with questions, but the patriarch was the one most desperate to know the answer.
The patriarch’s voice trembled with barely contained rage.
“Who are you? Why do you stand in my way?”
He was clearly itching to charge at the orcs after crushing Atilia to death.
His hand shook slightly—not from fear of Atilia, but from the overwhelming fury he was barely managing to control.
“Are you acquainted with that orc? Then forget about him starting today. He will die at my hands before nightfall.”
“We have never met.”
“Get lost. If you don’t want to be trampled alongside the orcs.”
Despite the patriarch’s savage threat, Atilia did not flinch.
As one would expect, he had always been like this—someone whose fearlessness bordered on the legendary.
“That is impossible, Patriarch. Are you attempting to crush your son’s honor into the dirt?”
“Are you... daring to speak of the honor of my son... who is already dead?”
The words came out in fragments because his teeth were clenching so tightly that his voice shook. Veins bulged across the patriarch’s body.
“You dare—!”
Atilia answered with an expression as calm and ordinary as ever.
“Some honors take precedence over life itself.”
The crowd fell silent in the face of such audacity. The only one untouched by the tension was Ashtien. She remained apart from the gathering, her own sharp judgment cutting through the chaos.
In the heavy silence that followed, Atilia continued.
“Everyone here has heard me. If I win in combat and take the life of my opponent, I will grant the winner his freedom.”
He had spoken aloud a truth the crowd had almost forgotten.
Atilia pointed with his chin toward the orc.
“That ‘warrior’ has accepted my terms and shall suffer the consequences.”
He deliberately referred to the orc not as a member of his species, but as a warrior. The distinction mattered deeply—even to Vesta.
“You... surely you’re not—”
“The time for promises has come. Live up to your word, Patriarch.”
Atilia spoke with solemn gravity. The patriarch’s rage finally surpassed its breaking point, and his voice cracked into a coarse, mocking laugh.
“You’ve gone completely mad over a promise that doesn’t even make sense...”
“This land is our land.”
“What?”
“This is the Ainuwail of the high summer. Our season. Our land. Anyone who has set foot here, and especially anyone who has declared it so in front of all, cannot claim there are no empty promises.”
Atilia declared it with absolute solemnity.
“I will not turn the warrior who fell in battle into a liar, nor will I soil his honor. Patriarch, I implore you to understand this and protect the honor of your son.”
“Why on earth should I listen to a demand from someone like you? What do you think you are? Who do you think you are?!”
“A centaur.”
“-Patriarch, what do you think?”
Atilia had not revealed his name or his status.
He was simply a centaur here, among a gathering of the most fierce, most manly, and most honor-bound warriors the race produced.
“If you are determined to make my son’s death meaningless...”
Atilia drew his weapon.
“Then I will protect the honor of that death.”
Exactly as he said, Atilia showed no intention of backing down.
Vesta knew Atilia well enough to know he feared nothing—not even a rival centaur patriarch.
The man was one who counted the Empire as his equal. What could scare a warrior of such caliber?
Since Atilia had taken up the cause of the fallen warrior’s honor, he would not retreat even if he himself died in the process.
This is absurd.
Vesta watched Atilia’s back and felt a wave of disbelief wash over him.
A total stranger would step forward to uphold a promise, for the sake of honor, standing before a man like this?
Ahor knew the face of the Kairan patriarch. If his name and appearance were known, the scale of his force could not be insignificant.
He is no ordinary hunter.
Vesta had already assessed his power.
His thoughts grew increasingly tangled.
The situation had taken a strange turn. Moments ago it had seemed the orc and the patriarch would clash, yet now the patriarch and Atilia were facing off instead.
Murmurs rose from the crowd.
“Who is that man? His build is no small thing.”
“But can he stop the Kairan patriarch?”
“We should stop them!”
“No, we can’t.”
The patriarch’s strength was something the centaurs themselves understood.
And Atilia’s strength Vesta could personally guarantee.
Two true powerhouses who had no equal across the entire steppe stared each other down, their auras clashing with brutal intensity.
A violent whirlwind seemed to gather around them.
“Think carefully before you speak, Patriarch.”
“......”
The patriarch did not answer Atilia’s words. He had stopped relying on rage and was now calculating how to kill him.
At that moment.
“Enough.”
He’s stepping in...
A man pushed through the crowd and emerged.
The newcomer’s face seemed to glow with an inner light. A strikingly handsome centaur warrior.
Vesta had never seen him before, yet he immediately recognized the man’s origin.
“Ahor, that person...”
“Yes. He is from the same family as Bia.”
What Vesta had noticed at a glance was the man’s mane, shining with the unmistakable golden brilliance.
That vivid hue revealed his identity to everyone present.
The golden mane was the color of the Altangerel clan—the color of nobility and pride.
“Bia’s brother?”
“Yes.”
Upon closer inspection, the man’s handsome features did indeed carry traces of Bia’s own face. Blood called to blood; the resemblance was unmistakable.
He was Bia’s older brother. The kind of man who deserved the title “gentleman.”
His reputation as a renowned figure drew every eye in the crowd at once.
The patriarch bared his teeth in a low, rumbling growl—closer to an animal’s snarl than a human voice.
“The Altangerel clan has no need to intervene. Unless my longtime friends have chosen the Kairan as their enemies.”
Despite the patriarch’s cruel warning, the man refused to retreat.
“Patriarch, it would be wise to withdraw.”
The tone of his voice carried an unmistakable refinement—purely the mark of someone with Bia’s blood in their veins.
It did not reach the patriarch’s ears and calm his fury, however.
“You insist on picking a fight with me?”
“Your anger has clouded your judgment. Think carefully before you act.”
“What?”
“You must be impatient. I understand. Yet I am not certain whether your anger is truly justified.”
His words were direct, yet the politeness in them made them feel even more resolute.
“My successor has fallen in battle. Since there is no way to turn back time, we must accept it.”
“I am not trying to deny my son’s death.”
The patriarch sounded almost desperate.
“Yes, I understand. But simply killing the orc will not bring my successor back.”
“Revenge is what is needed. Has anything ever been more important to a centaur than revenge?”
The Altangerel young lord shook his head.
“What would you gain through revenge?”
“What did you say?”
“I asked what you would gain.”
“Blood compensation. I must collect it.”
His words were wrong. The patriarch could not demand blood compensation from the orc. The blood he was willing to spill was innocent blood.
The patriarch had to know that.
“Will the weight of the blood you extract from that orc outweigh the weight of everything you will lose by killing him?”
It would not. If the patriarch succeeded in shaking off Atilia and crushing the orc, he would lose the trust of everyone present.
The patriarch answered in a hollow voice.
“Are you trying to say the same thing as that fool? A reckless promise spoken in a fit of anger must be kept?”
“Patriarch, remember every person gathered here.”
The Altangerel young lord spoke with conviction. The patriarch narrowed his brows, then suddenly widened his eyes.
In the centaur society, the highest positions belonged to the chief patriarchs who commanded immense power.
He stood on equal footing with them—yet there was one person he could not ignore.
He turned his gaze toward Ashtien. She had not spoken a word; she simply watched the patriarch, her stance steady and resolute.
“......”