Chapter 0
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 0
Chapter Title: Northern Great Mountains
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In the biting cold wind, the sharp peaks encircling the basin were blanketed in eternal snow.
“Huff, huff.”
Defying the frigid gale, hundreds of men pressed forward in formation, their hot breaths billowing as they ran.
Clad in crudely stitched beast hides for savage garb, wielding rough-hewn weapons that were brutally efficient for killing.
Their faces, caked in bloodstains and grimy mud from who knew how long without washing, gleamed only with tense, murderous glares.
Like nimble predators, they bounded over rugged mountain paths and ravines until they reached the vast basin where faint wisps of black smoke rose. There, they halted.
“……”
Dran, chieftain of the Maltar Tribe of the Northern Great Mountains, led the way gripping axes in both hands. He scanned the basin with icy eyes.
The air reeked of fresh blood. Hundreds of corpses lay strewn about haphazardly, picked over by starving mountain beasts in a gruesome feast.
Grrrrowl!
The beasts spotted the men and bared fangs dripping with flesh and gore, going on the defensive.
“Damn beasts…”
Dran muttered low, then gave a signal with his eyes. Those behind him nocked arrows and drew their bowstrings taut.
Twang! Thwip!
In an instant, over a dozen beasts crumpled. The survivors fled in panic.
With the beasts cleared, Dran took a few warriors and advanced slowly.
The corpses, dressed like them, had met horrible ends.
Some had been stabbed by blades or felled by arrows, but half were too gruesome to behold.
Bodies cleaved in two, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, some even split lengthwise from crown to groin, spilling crimson entrails.
“Kargo…”
“It’s Black Giant…”
The warriors began to murmur.
Black Giant.
In their tongue, it meant just that.
And in these Northern Great Mountains, only one being bore that name and could wreak such havoc.
“Black Giant, Black Giant…”
Gazing down at the corpse-filled basin, Dran whispered softly.
But it soon erupted into a roar of fury.
“You cursed bastard! Why is it always you! Why?!”
His eyes bloodshot, Dran bellowed at the heavens, stomping the ground and swinging his axes wildly at an unseen foe.
“I’ll kill you! One day I’ll rip open your chest, strip your bones, and chew your heart! I’ll drink from your skull to honor our fallen kin! Raaargh!”
“……”
Hundreds of warriors silently watched their chieftain’s raw anguish.
But they knew.
As much as they hated to admit it, Black Giant was unbeatable…
Just like the other tribes of the Northern Great Mountains over the past decade, they too would be driven from here to even harsher, colder lands by him and his pack of black-leather-clad fiends.
“Huh…?”
Then one warrior squinted.
Something had suddenly emerged at the far end of the basin.
“Wha—gah?!”
The warrior’s eyes bulged.
A massive black shape like a bear led the way, followed by dark figures rising one by one until they filled one side of the broad basin.
“B-Black… Black Giant…!”
As a scream-like cry threw the warriors into chaos, a horn blast echoed long and low.
Bwooooom!
“Chieftain, enemies! Northernrocks’ beasts!”
“Grrraaah!”
Dran whipped his head around, eyes blazing with predatory fury.
Roughly two hundred foes had formed a semicircle ahead, closing in slowly.
And in their center, striding forward at the forefront, was a figure that ignited yellow flames in Dran’s pupils.
“Black Giant…”
Fierce eyes that could devour him on the spot.
Yet Dran had to admit his voice trembled slightly.
For the one approaching—with wolf heads draped over both shoulders—wasn’t human, nor were his men, in their eyes.
Taller by a head or two than those flanking him, this giant wore a cloak of three whole black wolf pelts stitched together. Slung across his back was a colossal sword like a wide plank. For the past ten years, he had been a devil to every tribe in the Northern Great Mountains.
“Kill him! Kill that bastard!”
Dran roared.
He’d brought over three hundred warriors. Even with Black Giant, their numbers gave them the edge—they could fight.
“Raaargh!”
The Maltar Tribe warriors charged across the basin they’d roamed since birth, howling like wolves as they crouched low and surged forward like starving predators.
A gale-force assault.
The distance between the forces shrank to about a hundred meters in moments.
“Raaargh!”
The Northernrocks soldiers facing the wolf-pack charge of the Maltar warriors fixed their tense gazes on one spot.
A man over 190 centimeters tall threw back the cloak hood that had masked his face below the eyes.
Gloomy blue eyes swept over the roaring Maltar warriors.
A cold glint flickered briefly in his emotionless gaze, then vanished.
“Throw.”
With that curt word, he raised his hand.
As it fell, several soldiers hurled their torches forward.
Whoosh!
Flames erupted on both flanks ahead of the soldiers, racing forward over the strewn corpses for over ten meters.
“Gah!”
Dran’s eyes widened.
The semicircular charge of his warriors was rendered useless by the soaring blaze.
Not only that—their extended formation splintered as flames licked left and right, forcing them into a tight wedge converging at the center.
And in the sole path amid the licking red tongues stood Black Giant, holding something in one hand like a statue.
“Hngh!”
Dran’s eyes nearly popped out.
In the impassive Black Giant’s grip was a human head.
His nephew Mutai’s—the one he’d cherished like a son, his heir since Dran had no children of his own.
Thud.
The head dropped from the man’s hand.
Crunch.
Dran’s bulging eyes burned with the image of Mutai’s head crushed under a massive boot.
“RAAAAARGH!”
His last thread of reason snapped. Roaring like a beast, Dran shoved through his warriors and charged into the flames.
“Ch-Chief!”
A warrior cried out desperately, then glanced around and bellowed.
“Follow the chieftain! Charge!”
“Raaargh!”
Hundreds of savage warriors surged into the inferno.
“……”
The giant watched silently, then shed his thick wolf-pelt cloak and reached back.
It was a demonic greatsword over 1.5 meters long, its blade broader than a handspan—too vast to call a mere sword.
Swish!
A casual swing bowed the surrounding flames low, then sent red embers scattering as they flared up.
Gulp.
The soldiers swallowed dryly, staring at the giant’s broad back amid the dancing sparks, greatsword in hand.
They could barely wield it two-handed—a weapon several times heavier than a normal sword—yet he swung it one-handed like a toy as he advanced. Even to his allies, he was terrifying.
But on this battlefield of life and death, he was their god, a living legend.
“GRRROOOH!”
Staring down the Maltar warriors now just twenty meters away, the man growled low.
“Phalanx. Draw them in, then shatter.”
Clack!
Before his words finished, the soldiers stacked round shields three deep into formation.
Centered on him, they formed a concave semicircle like an embrace, glaring murderously through shield gaps at the foe.
Boom boom boom!
The Maltar warriors flooded the narrow path like a torrent.
Skin blistering, clothes aflame from the flanking fires, they charged the man like demons, heedless.
“Kyaaah!”
“Urgh!”
Three vanguard warriors lunged beast-like with axes at his ankles; three more vaulted over, swinging short curved sickle-swords.
In that instant.
“Huuuh!”
The man inhaled deeply, then exploded his breath.
Shreeek!
A razor-sharp whistle like an overstrung arrow in flight.
No sound a man-sized greatsword should make.
Yet the air-splitting whoosh, stirring even the flames, came unmistakably from its sweep.
Like an illusion, two gray sword-trails slashed the air, and blood misted into a red fog.
Splat splat.
Amid the geyser of blood, limbs and organs rained down.
Shreek!
The greatsword danced on relentlessly.
Whether from its sheer power or the eerie aura and heat radiating from the man, the flames shrank back along the path.
“Gaaahk!”
“Kek!”
Blood and screams echoed ceaselessly in rhythm with the greatsword’s deadly dance.
Shreek! Shk!
Standing firm, the man impassively dealt death to the Maltar warriors one after another.
Tough beast-hide armor, oak shields—whatever the greatsword touched tore like paper.
Dozens fell in seconds, limbs severed in horrific sprays.
“Kill himmm!”
As he cleaved through the front-line soldiers, more warriors burst through the dying flank flames.
Boom!
They split around him, slamming into the solid shield wall.
More followed, pressing the phalanx.
But the wide formation and narrow path funneled them toward his immediate shields.
Crunch!
Splitting four more in half, his roar burst forth.
“Encircle and crush!”
Boom boom boom!
The waiting shield line surged forward like a wave, enveloping the warriors.
“Captain!”
Someone shouted; he cleaved a few charging foes and slipped into the briefly parted shields.
“Volley!”
Shwick shwick!
Long spears thrust from shield gaps at the tangled Maltar warriors fixated on the front.
“Krahk!”
“Guhk!”
They crumpled like wheat before the mechanical spear thrusts.
“Break through! Break through, I said!”
Eyes red with rage, Dran screamed furiously.
“Aaaah!”
“Kraaahk!”
But his voice drowned in the screams ringing everywhere.
Rooooar!
Clang! Clang!
Amid soaring black smoke and flames, a brutal dirge of metal and agony wailed for the last Maltar warriors of the Northern Great Mountains.
In a room where a hearth roared against the piercing northern chill.
Clack!
A piece moved across a polished stone chessboard.
“Sir.”
A sharp-eyed knight entered without knocking. The lone chess player looked up.
“Results?”
A middle-aged man with disheveled long hair and piercing eyes from beneath asked curtly. The knight bowed.
“Sixteen dead, seven severe wounds, thirty minor. Enemy annihilated. All Northern Great Mountains savages have retreated north of Karan Peak. Blake did splendidly again.”
“……”
The man nodded silently and returned to the board.
Even playing alone, he pondered moves before sliding another piece.
Standing, the sharp-faced knight watched with a faint smile.
“Five moves to checkmate, sir.”
“Reading the board well is one of your strengths.”
The middle-aged man rose slowly, his voice low.
He approached a large table spread with a detailed map of the Northern Great Mountains and toppled a small red flag marked “Maltar” with his baton.
“That finishes our business here.”
“Then now…”
“We take the main road south.”
“…!”
The knight clenched his fist at the low but forceful words.
“But first, someone should clear the path.”
“Meaning…?”
Staring intently at the puzzled knight, the man licked his cracked lips.
“A knight from the recruit convoy system arrives soon, right?”
“Yes.”
“Discharge Blake and send him with the man.”
“Hm!”
“Go ahead and scout what kind of fool he is.”
A thin groan escaped the knight’s lips.
But he quickly regained his cold, sharp gaze and bowed deeply.
“Understood.”
Saluting crisply, the knight strode out.
Alone again, the middle-aged man—commander of Northernrocks Fortress—stared at the board, then picked up a pawn.
“Well now, the real game’s about to begin. Let’s play for keeps, Blake.”
A thin smile crossed his face as he lifted the pawn.
(To be continued)