Tail
Tail
Aslan turned the thought over.
If his Luck was reacting, it meant someone here harbored hostile intent.
He didn't know why, or even who—but one thing was certain: an enemy was present.
Most likely a priest.
But who had triggered the reaction?
He swept the room without making his survey obvious. A few guards. The king.
His gaze naturally went to the Dragon-king first.
Black scales, yellow pupils. The Dragon-king wore his wings—the emblem of his kind—on his back and was draped in ornate robes.
A Dragon-kin's prominently muscled build, paired with an incongruously gentle face.
And this Dragon-king was no mere monarch.
A Dragon-king inherited the divinity of an Ancient God. Not much, perhaps, but he carried the blessing bestowed by the God of Fire and Smithing. He could even be called one of the Ancient God's chosen.
So Aslan had no reason to think the Dragon-king himself was a priest or a threat on that level.
His judgment veered momentarily toward the possibility of a hidden assassin.
'Aslan, trust nothing until your eyes confirm it. Doubt and examine. Don't let fixed ideas cage you—judge with a wide gaze.'
The words of his old master, Budongong, checked his train of thought.
More of his teacher's lessons surfaced one after another.
'Think for yourself, and prepare for the worst.'
His master hadn't taught him only how to fight. There had been lessons on how to survive.
Those teachings were why Aslan had endured twelve years in Geladrion and come out victorious.
This time was no different. So long as he didn't abandon the fundamentals, he would not lose.
He began moving, factoring in the possibility that the Dragon-king was a priest.
If he was a priest—how had he become one?
Was there a way to circumvent an Ancient God's divinity?
Unlikely. If such a method existed, they would have used it to pierce the Veil and descend directly into Geladrion long ago.
Then had they slain the original Dragon-king and simply borrowed his shell?
That felt closer to the truth.
Aslan watched the Dragon-king without a flicker of change in his expression. A gentle gold gaze met a pair of teal eyes that revealed no bloodlust.
"Is something the matter?"
the Dragon-king asked. Aslan gave a slight shake of his head.
"Nothing important. I only realized I didn't leave my weapons behind. I was worried it might feel... burdensome to sit with a fully armed Master."
"Hm? Ah, I see. Do not trouble yourself over it. If you were to kill me, that too would be the path the God of Fire and Smithing has chosen. It would simply mean my own time had run its course."
The easy, unhurried laugh that accompanied the words made Aslan mentally inventory his own armaments.
The hammer Fay had given him. Gobil's old scale shield. Seobsaeng and his blood sword. The Dragon Hunter's twin spears. The storm sword in its two-handed form. Even the Wings of Stymphalos.
He was carrying everything. Heavy enough that anyone ought to find it difficult to ignore, and yet the Dragon-king had let it pass without a ripple.
Was that trust in Aslan? Or the confidence of someone who believed they could not die?
If he was a priest, it would be the latter. If not, the former.
Either way, it wasn't a normal mindset. Aslan put on a sheepish smile.
"How could I ever? If anything, I truly would have preferred to meet you alone."
"Hmm, I had heard the Master of Combat could best a hundred men on his own... Are you telling me a handful of guards could stop you?"
"Those are all baseless rumors. Under the right conditions and circumstances, perhaps I could cut down a hundred. But without them—without any environmental advantage—it's far harder."
"Oh? What sort of conditions?"
"For instance..."
Still smiling, Aslan spoke of tight spaces, open fields where enemies tangled together, hills, forests, rivers—all manner of environmental edges—and then layered on the scrolls and tools one could use for further advantage.
The Dragon-king listened with apparent interest, but his gold eyes betrayed almost no emotion.
Was that the look of a man probing an opponent's capabilities? Or simply the natural blankness of a Dragon-kin's features? Still impossible to tell.
How could he sound him out—force the truth to the surface?
Weighing the question, Aslan turned to the purpose that had brought him into Belus Alpen today.
"Ah, and here I've set aside my business to boast. Forgive me. You were such an attentive listener, Your Majesty, I ended up getting carried away."
"Ho-ho, think nothing of it. We can begin now if you like. So—what is your business? I was told you came to represent the Kallus Empire."
The gentle smile. Not a single shift in expression. Aslan returned a light smile and broached the not-quite-true business.
"Do you know that a civil war is currently raging within the Kallus Empire?"
"Of course. How could I not? A ruler must keep abreast of such weighty matters."
"That speeds things along. We intend to put an end to that civil war. To do so, we originally sought an alliance with Count Sholukund, but... events took a complicated turn. If Belus Alpen—a neutral power whose name shakes the world—were to voice support for a ceasefire agreement, things would be greatly simplified."
"Hm. And what would you offer in return for Belus Alpen's public support?"
A predictable question. Aslan presented the terms promised in the letter from Emperor Ileina: five years of tax exemptions on trade.
For the mere resolution of a civil war, the terms were exceptionally generous. Even so, the Dragon-king agreed without any particular comment.
When Aslan asked why, the Dragon-king answered freely.
"You have your advantages, and we have ours. There is no loss for Belus Alpen in this. Why would I object? Especially given the difficulties the Count of Sholukund's border blockade has been causing us."
It was a plausible reason. Aslan smiled, lowered his head, and said, "Thank you." The Dragon-king motioned for him to raise his head again and called for a scribe.
As one of the guards stepped outside to fetch the scribe, Dragon-king Bahamul spoke.
"By the by, I heard you had gone missing?"
"Ah, word reached Your Majesty as well. Yes, it's true. I was missing for nearly two days. Trapped in the Tomb of the Nameless."
The Tomb of the Nameless. The Dragon-king's eyes flashed with interest.
"A tomb? How did that come about?"
"The gathering where we were to secure Count Sholukund's cooperation was attacked by a Warrior Monk. In the fighting, the place collapsed. I was caught in it and fell into the tomb myself."
"Heh... And? If it isn't your ghost standing before me now, how did you escape?"
Genuine-seeming curiosity. Aslan bit down on a smile at the question, so innocently asked.
"I reshaped the tomb with magic. Fortunately, I have mana, and my mana tattoo was exactly suited to the task. It wasn't difficult."
He bared the tattoo as he answered. The Dragon-king nodded appreciatively.
"Without even going through the tomb's owner? That is... in...triguing."
The words halted.
The Dragon-king's mouth stilled. His hand, which had been stroking the scales along his jaw, came to rest.
Aslan's teal eyes met the Dragon-king's gold.
The conversation about the tomb had been a gambit on Aslan's part.
Among the common populace, no information about the fearless Bolen had ever spread widely. Even if one knew of him, the finer details should remain out of reach. Not even a king of a nation ought to know them.
But a priest—
A priest who touched his god and received whispered knowledge would know whose tomb the Tomb of the Nameless was. Would know the thing inside it still lived.
He would not reveal it easily, of course. So Aslan had made a point to chat idly. He had scattered useless information piece by piece to slowly wear down the Dragon-king's attention, and then he had laid out the bait.
Waiting, intently, for him to bite.
Their eyes met. At the sudden halt in conversation, the guards began to show traces of confusion.
Aslan's hand slid toward his cloak—and in that instant, his Luck convulsed.
A reaction more violent than he had ever felt. A searing danger signal, as though his brain had caught fire. As if scorched by the warning, Aslan tore his hand free, snatched a dagger, and threw it.
'Heart Piercing.'
The property imbued in the faintly bluish dagger was penetration. A technique usable only by one who had reached the utmost pinnacle of martial arts.
The dagger flew. At such close range—no sound of wind even reached the ear—it could not be dodged from a seated position.
It was aimed at the heart. A single blow to destroy it. Even as Aslan reached back for the hammer behind him—
Crunch...!
The dagger stopped.
It penetrated perhaps an inch into the scales of his chest, and then it stopped.
Aslan's expression twisted at the sight.
The dagger hadn't merely stopped; it had crumpled. As though it had struck something impossibly hard, it folded in on itself and snapped.
Scattered fragments of brass-hued metal. Only then did Aslan realize.
Those were not scales.
It was a fortress shaped like scales.
And that fortress wore a gentle smile as it murmured.
"Ah. So you have seen through me."