Welcome, Warrior of Valhalla
The soldiers who had fled returned not long after the crisis was over.
"Young master—!"
"Young master!"
At the head of the returning soldiers were Zeke and Milo.
Zeke came back to the scene with guilt written plain across his face. He took stock of the situation, then dropped to one knee before me at once.
"I am sorry."
"Pardon?"
Seems he's apologizing for running off on his own.
Ah. So that was it.
He hung his head, too ashamed to meet my eyes.
"I surrendered to fear. I swore I would serve you, young master, and yet I was of no help at all."
"I—I'm sorry."
I glanced at Milo, who was bowing his head a beat late, then fixed my gaze on Zeke.
My body still hadn't shaken off the battle-fever or the flood of adrenaline still coursing through me.
Maybe that was why.
From somewhere deep in my chest, a grand and magnanimous spirit came boiling up.
That was the reason I so readily told the two of them I forgave them.
"It's all right. I don't blame either of you."
"But…"
"Ah-ah!"
I cut Zeke off before he could say more.
Honestly, blaming Zeke here would have been pure idiocy.
Anyone who saw that thing and didn't run would be the strange one.
More than that — hadn't I already seen Zeke's true heart?
Back in the fog zone, when we faced the shadow demon, Zeke had thrown himself in front of me without a second thought. It was that loyal heart of his that won us the victory.
This time had simply been a situation beyond all reasonable measure.
"Sir Zeke."
"Yes, young master."
"A warrior of Valhalla does not dwell on what is past. And remember this well: the battlefields we have yet to cross outnumber those we have already survived."
"Young master…"
"Kh-hhk."
Zeke and Milo shuddered with emotion.
Nailed it. This was exactly the kind of thing that made knights melt.
But what does that even mean? How does 'more battlefields ahead than behind' have anything to do with the current situation…
Gah!
They could just take it as "let's do better going forward" and leave it at that.
This was the limit of fantasy types who'd never finished a secondary education.
For the record, secondary education means middle and high school.
Anyway.
"Everyone's back, I see. As the young master said, there will be no charges for desertion. You survived well. Now — clean up the field."
Sir Valt soothed the soldiers with practiced ease and set them to work. They fanned out across the area, gathering cores and other spoils of war, and recovering the weapons they'd thrown down in their flight.
The cores they collected came to a considerable amount.
Even the ones no bigger than a pinky nail numbered in the hundreds.
But the greatest prize of all was the core that had belonged to the Mouth of Targis.
What kind of size is that…
It was as big as a grown man's head.
A truly staggering haul.
And yet — why?
"I don't feel happy about it."
Why not?
"I don't know."
I stared quietly at the spoils, lost in thought.
Why couldn't I savor the joy of victory?
It was probably… because of one man's end.
—Ah, aah—! E-everyone, run, run—!
—I will not run—! I won't run! The coward Myuhan is dead! He died the day he abandoned his brothers and fled—!
The final moments of that cowardly demon hunter, whose will had been so fierce and whose death had come so emptily, so easily.
Perhaps sensing what was in my heart, the Ancestor spoke.
Dwelling on it too much does no good — but don't forget that feeling, either. Every victory comes with a sacrifice.
"Yes."
I only nodded in silence.
It was then.
Golgol!
Golgol held something out to me.
"This is…"
Myuhan's mace.
But why?
Was I supposed to use it?
I took the mace without thinking — and an inspiration flashed through my mind.
Just like when I had created Golgol and Tiktak.
"Huh…"
What is it?
"I might be able to see Myuhan again."
What?
Before I put the inspiration in my head into practice, I went looking for Brother James first.
"Brother."
"Yes, Brother Khtun."
Perhaps from overtaxing his holy power, Brother James looked far more haggard than before.
His physical condition couldn't have been good either.
The result of spamming self-sacrifice spells. Not just anyone can do that… He might be a bigger deal than we thought.
Is that so.
I set Brother James's true identity aside for now.
That wasn't what mattered at the moment.
"There's something I'd like to discuss. Would you take a look at this first?"
"That's… the mace Brother Myuhan used."
"Yes."
"But why…"
I told him about the inspiration that had come to me.
More precisely — about what I could do with it.
When I finished, a strange light kindled in Brother James's eyes.
"So what you're saying, Brother Khtun, is… that you can raise Brother Myuhan as an undead?"
"Yes. In terms of the result, that's correct."
"Heavens…"
Brother James looked at the mace with complicated eyes.
He seemed to wrestle with it for a moment, then spoke.
"From our perspective… Brother Myuhan's true soul has ascended to the heavens and entered its rest."
"Yes. Necromantically speaking, it's similar. Even if I create an undead through this mace, it wouldn't be Brother Myuhan himself — only a residual soul."
I'd said it more than once already, but the same was true of our Ancestor.
What stood at my side now was not his true soul, but the residual soul said to have been left behind at the moment of his death.
"And still you mean to raise Brother Myuhan?"
"That's what I wanted to discuss with you."
"Mm."
Honestly, raising Myuhan as an undead was a complicated matter.
I worried the act might end up desecrating his death.
Then Brother James spoke.
"I think it best to leave the choice to him."
"To him?"
"Yes. Even as a residual soul, he will retain the memories of his life. His choice will be as good as the true soul's choice. If you honor that will, he will be content."
"Mm."
Is that so.
Well — that was the right answer.
And if he refused?
Then I'll just say a final goodbye and let him go.
Thanks to Brother James, a learned man who could deliver a clear answer, I settled my heart with ease.
"Then I'd like to begin right here…"
"Yes. I will bear witness."
"Yes."
Bolstered by Brother James's words, I performed the necromancy.
No ritual, no procedure — necromancy guided purely by instinct and sensation.
And so.
Tss, zzz-zzz.
How long did I focus my mind on the feeling of calling Myuhan, who lingered within the mace?
Before long, a pale, translucent form of Brother Myuhan appeared before me.
I… will not di— huh? Wh-what is…
"Lord Myuhan, are you conscious?"
Young Master Khtun? Father James? What is going on? The demon—?
"Well…"
I explained everything to Myuhan in careful detail — the moment of his death, and everything that had followed.
With each part of the story, Myuhan's expression darkened and brightened by turns.
When the whole account was finished, Myuhan spoke.
So in the end, you dealt with the Mouth of Targis. I am truly glad. My death was not in vain.
"Is that so."
Yes. I cannot tell you how long I dreamed of a day like this. I was tormented every day — hating my own cowardice, thrashing through nightmares. And to think my death became the spark that killed a demon…
Myuhan looked genuinely unburdened.
As if he had no regrets left.
But only for a moment.
If you've woken me like this… do you need my strength?
"I mean to leave that to your choice, Lord Myuhan."
Hmm.
Myuhan fell into thought for a while.
His expression was quite serious, quite grave.
Then, Young Master Khtun — if you will promise me a few things, I will lend you my strength.
"Please, speak."
First.
The conditions Myuhan asked for were simple.
I would not have my strength used for unjust ends. I never received ordination as a priest, but I am still a follower of the Lord of the Twelve Hour Church.
In other words — he would not act against his convictions.
An easy condition.
"I'll grant you free will on that point."
Thank you. Second — whenever I wish to enter my rest, accept it.
That, too, was fine.
"I give you my word."
I had no desire to keep someone at my side against their will either.
Beyond that, Myuhan asked for freedom of faith, and a guarantee that he would be allowed to hunt demons, and so on.
In the end, to sum it up…
He means to keep hunting demons even in death.
"Seems that way."
None of the conditions were bad ones, so I accepted them all without hesitation.
"I accept every condition."
Good.
At my clean, straightforward answer, the demon hunter Myuhan held out his hand to me.
Then I place myself in your care, young master.
"Yes. And I in yours."
I clasped that hand.
What came next was immediate.
Tss, tss-zzz-zzz—!
Myuhan's spirit form began to take shape and materialize.
It was similar to when I had created Golgol and Tiktak, but the principle at work was far more advanced — of a higher order entirely.
When the transformation was complete, Myuhan had become a skeleton.
His voice, too, was no longer the spectral one from before — it was a physical voice.
"Oh. So this is my new body. I look forward to working with you."
But how does a skeleton produce a voice?
Well — that wasn't what mattered.
I greeted him with a smile.
"Welcome as a warrior of Valhalla."
"Val…halla?"
"Yes."
If this place where a valiant warrior arrives after death isn't Valhalla, then what is it?
And so, in the very moment we were blessing the birth of a brave warrior of Valhalla—
"Young Master Bilheim!"
"You've returned!"
Bilheim, whom I'd completely forgotten about, came back.
Except.
What… is that?
He was dangling someone's arm in one hand.
Bilheim came straight over to me.
"Picked this up on the way."
Excuse me? Picked up what?
An arm?
And I'm supposed to take it?
"Ah — wrong one. This one. Take it. It'll be useful."
Fortunately, what Bilheim held out to me was not the unidentified person's arm, but a small box in his other hand.
That is…
You know it?
A spatial pouch. Something you couldn't buy even if you had the money.
As of this very moment, I hereby declare:
Bilheim is my one and only elder brother, and by the tenets of K-Confucian ideology, a man fully deserving of my respect.
This is a fact even depicted in the ancient Watermelon Codex.
And so the Hamstone village incident came to its end.
Meanwhile, at that same hour, on the outskirts of the Falaon domain.
"Hmm. So this is Falaon. Nothing much to look at, is it."
A man was leading a company into Falaon.
Judging by the emblem of a roaring lion on their chests, they were knights of House Merlin.
And at the head of those knights rode none other than the eldest son of Count Merlin — Aehentar.
The greatest prodigy among the current direct line of House Merlin, a genius born with unmatched talent.
As he surveyed the landscape of Falaon, his adjutant approached.
"Young master, traces of demons have been found in the vicinity…"
At those words, Aehentar smiled as if there were nothing to deliberate.
"We'll take care of them on the way. Falaon isn't a stranger's land anymore."
"Th-the political marriage hasn't been finalized yet…"
"Go on ahead."
Aehentar dismounted and moved like lightning.
Their final destination was the town of Palatus, where Falaon Castle stood.