Belus Alpen
Belus Alpen
[Ongoing Main Quest]
[Travel to the City of Mages to Interpret the Dream]
[Completed Main Quest]
[Investigate Belus Alpen]
[̸̢̛̮̦̱̲̣̟̩̊̎͛̓͑̋̉̕͝ͅE̷̡̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛r̶̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛r̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛ơ̸̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛r̴̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛ ̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛C̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛ơ̸̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛r̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛r̵̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛ư̸̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛p̴̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛t̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛e̴̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛d̷̢̨̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛]
Messages flooded his vision. Aslan read them and understood which quests he had completed and which were approaching.
He had seen the endings alone dozens of times, and started new playthroughs by the hundreds. He had played Eternal Dominion more times than he could count.
For someone like him, this quest represented a kind of turning point.
Proof that the mid-game was beginning. The juncture where a player truly started to uncover the world's secrets and the will of the Ancient Gods.
The problem was that Aslan had no idea how he had stumbled into completing any of these quests.
The main quest tied to Belus Alpen and everything he had experienced so far were worlds apart.
Ordinarily, the protagonist would face relentless priest assaults, secure the cooperation of Bida or the Baramunz, or reach Belus Alpen through sheer grit, and there, he would have a dream.
The dream itself was simple.
A colossal dragon. A dragon vast enough to overturn mountain ranges, appearing and breathing fire.
Within the searing agony that should have been pure torment, the protagonist obtained the power of the Ancient Gods, a Fragment of their being.
He then learned that he must gather the power of the Ancient Gods, and that the Evil Gods desired that same power.
He also saw a ruin.
A vessel into which the power of the Ancient Gods had been poured, the place that had first revealed itself at the world's creation.
A site held sacred and worshipped by the savage tribes of Baramunz, guarded since the collapse of the Ancient Empire's colossal body.
The Throne of the Gods, Kehil.
The protagonist was meant to carry all the power of the Ancient Gods to that ruin, Kehil, and decide the world's fate there.
That was the story of the game called Eternal Dominion.
And that was where the problem arose.
Aslan had never had such a dream. He knew Kehil's location, but he couldn't say for certain whether he had obtained the power of the Ancient Gods.
Had he ever even picked up anything resembling a key?
Purity was not a key.
In a sense, Purity was also an object containing an Ancient God's power, but it did not seem like something that would activate that throne.
Purity's function was far too potent for such a complex purpose.
It was a sword that severed everything its edge touched, capable of cutting through divinity and even souls, things that normally defied physical force.
And, recalling what Sorrow had said, Purity's abilities would only grow as he encountered more Ancient Gods.
So Aslan did not consider Purity a key.
The key, as it had been across hundreds of playthroughs, would be held by the protagonist.
But this was not the time. Aslan shifted his gaze to the Dragon-kin facing him within the workshop, where firelight rippled across the walls.
"You've arrived. Our city's first human noble."
The Dragon-kin was a striking figure.
A body dense with muscle and scars proclaimed him a veteran warrior, while hands stripped of scales by burns and heat revealed that this Dragon-kin was also a master craftsman.
And then there was the mana flowing through his entire form.
His sheer power was enough to claim the chairmanship of the Council of Elders.
Aslan studied the flame-resistance incantations writhing across the white scales and regarded the elder with a placid expression, as if he had never frowned at all.
"I thought it was merely a nominal title."
"Nominal, my tail. You want our full support without the city rioting? Then you need a title like this."
Clang!
The sound of hammer striking metal rang out. At its center, the white-scaled elder clicked his tongue and pressed a hand down on the object atop the workbench.
He raised that hand to point at Aslan, closed one eye, and meticulously swept his gaze over Aslan's body before looking away again.
Metal sang once more. Amid the rhythmic clanging, Aslan turned his eyes to the object on the workbench that so consumed the elder's efforts.
It was armor.
Had it been ordinary armor, he would have paid it no mind. But this was no ordinary piece, nor was it unfamiliar to Aslan.
Dark-colored scales that seemed to drink the light, scales that called the Dragon-king to mind, had been formed into a cuirass.
Those same scales from the Dragon-king's body, which had withstood countless slashes from Aslan.
As if to testify to their toughness, a collection of broken and bent tools lay scattered beside the workbench.
As Aslan stared at the armor, the white-scaled elder spoke to him.
"Aren't you curious? Why we wished to give you this, or how we anticipated you would act?"
"Not particularly curious. Rather, I want to hear the reason you felt you had to do it."
"A reason, is it?"
The elder thumped his tail against the floor with an expression that suggested the question was an odd one, letting out a soft hum.
"I am a member of the Council of Elders. The chairman, in fact. And well, I was once Warrior Chief. A craftsman, too."
Having begun, the elder kept his gaze on the armor while his hands moved busily. He assembled the gauntlet, fitted the pauldron, and carefully brushed the scales that formed the cuirass.
Armor crafted from the scales of a Dragon-kin's form might have seemed abhorrent, yet the elder's demeanor was perfectly composed.
He seemed entirely unconcerned with any such revulsion.
"I'm not the only one. Most of the council elders, like me, were once highly accomplished. Some are warriors who bested giants in contests of strength. Others suffered devastating losses against a priest, yet ultimately brought that priest down."
Aslan remained silent at the rambling words, and the elder lifted his eyes. Though one eye had gone blind, the other burned bright, carrying the weight of years.
A man at the pinnacle of those within Geladrion who had not abandoned their faith.
The Dragon-king, who had cast aside faith to become a high priest, would have called him a loser or a failure. But there was no trace of defeat in the old man's eyes.
"And every single one of them, upon seeing you, spoke the same words: that the God of Fire and Smithing has chosen you. I thought the same."
The old man said this and looked back down at the armor.
The armor, consisting of a cuirass, a single arm's vambrace, and a pauldron, was a testament to how fierce and arduous the battle had been.
Even a hammer forged of White Iron had shattered in the process of pounding these scales into armor.
And the man who had felled the Dragon-king bearing such scales clearly radiated the divinity of an Ancient God. The council had no reason to deliberate.
"Then we witnessed your resourcefulness in the trial by combat. We decided, unanimously, to aid you."
A hero with strength, qualification, and cunning. The elder gazed at the armor for a moment, then looked away.
Despite the elder's words, Aslan noticed the deep gratitude pooling in those eyes.
He could also see what lay hidden behind it. Aslan's lips parted slightly before he spoke.
"How long have you known the Dragon-king's true nature?"
"Who can say? Several generations, at least. It has been quite some time."
Aslan closed his mouth and sighed inwardly.
He could guess how many royals a high priest whose identity had remained hidden for a thousand years must have devoured.
Aslan looked at the old man with an uncomfortable expression.
Dragon-king candidates always came from the direct lineage of Heart or Head. Knowing the lore well, Aslan realized that even this old man had suffered loss.
The elder exhaled heavily, grief bleeding through his impassive facade.
"Bahamut Heart... was originally Bahamut Head. The child was my grandchild."
That, too, was something Aslan had suspected.
If the Dragon-king had ruled for over a thousand years, there would have been a method for masquerading as a new Dragon-king candidate.
A priest who wore Bahamut Head's name and skin.
What must it have felt like for those who had to offer their own flesh and blood as fodder for the priest, hoping only that the city would not be destroyed?
Aslan could not even imagine it.
The agony of knowing your kin would be devoured, that a thing wearing your family's shell would play the king, and having to sacrifice them anyway.
It was beyond Aslan's capacity to comprehend.
He could not even condemn it.
The old Dragon-kin before him was an elder responsible for an entire city.
He would have known exactly what was necessary to preserve the city from his position above it.
As such, he would have known that if he rose up to save his blood, all he would receive in return was a burning city and tens of thousands of dead Dragon-kin.
And so, though Aslan could not fathom the depth and breadth of that pain, he could understand how tormenting the choice must have been.
The elder, his expression heavy with grief, let out a deep sigh.
"...I am grateful to you. In a way... you have avenged me."
With that, the elder fell silent. His tail lay limp and still on the floor.
Watching the elder's somber figure, Aslan quietly observed the work.
When the conversation lapsed again, the elder hammered at the armor, and Aslan simply watched the scene.
The Dragon-king had been powerful. Not so powerful that Aslan could guarantee victory in a rematch.
Since he had only barely won through luck and a miracle, Aslan recognized the considerable value of the Dragon-king's body.
But even a cursory glance at the armor being made made it clear who it was intended for.
"Which hand do you use?"
"Both."
"I crafted this for the right. That's fortunate."
The elder glanced at Aslan's arm and adjusted the gauntlet and pauldron.
"Do you wear any other protective gear over it?"
"I have a Feather Cloak... if I'm to name it."
"Good thing I didn't make it bulky."
Following Aslan's words, the elder reduced the space so the armor would fit snugly against Aslan's body, allowing him to move his arm freely even with a cloak worn over it.
The work was finished as the forge's heat began to cool and a somber black light seeped through the low-set window, filling the space.
The elder set the armor aside and dropped the broken hammer to the floor.
"The surname I gave you, Flametongue—that is no mere nominal title. We have recognized you as a fighter and as one of our Dragon-kin. The view you behold will become our goal. The path you advance upon, we will walk together."
The words carried no particular emotion. They were far too dispassionate for words spoken to the warrior who had slain the priest that had devoured his blood.
But thinking about it, that made sense. He was an elder, the head of the vast city of Belus Alpen.
The head had to remain cold.
He seemed to have spent all his lingering resentment hammering the armor, striving for composure, but his hand, as it stroked the finished piece, exuded a deep sense of longing and grief.
Yet that lasted only a moment. As Aslan approached the workbench, the elder stepped back to allow him to inspect the armor.
The armor was an outstanding piece of work.
It might not fully replicate the Dragon-king's tough scales and impact absorption, but it would offer defensive power surpassing most plate armor.
The scales were joined so densely that the seams were nearly invisible, rippling smoothly as Aslan's hand lifted and examined them.
As Aslan was quietly looking over the armor, the elder spoke.
"I haven't given the armor a name. I simply couldn't bring myself to."
The question of whether Aslan would name it carried more than a request; it bore the elder's fervent plea not to leave the task to him.
The elder could not name a suit of armor that was likely intermingled with traces of his own flesh and blood.
Sensing this, Aslan listened to the soft rustle of the scales shifting in his grasp.
Seeing the elder's shoulders flinch slightly at the sound, Aslan smiled, a gentle warmth in his expression.
"A name... perhaps it doesn't need one."
Aslan said this and turned back to the elder, who was watching him with a sunken gaze.
Their eyes met, and Aslan offered a faint smile.
It was the look of a man who understood that no name would ever satisfy the elder.
A name that erased his dead grandchild, or a name that enshrined him—either way, the elder would grieve every time he heard it.
If that was the case, simply leaving it nameless was enough.
Aslan looked at the scales, running his hands over them, then looked back at the elder.
"Whenever you feel inclined to name it someday, Chairman, you can give it one then."
The elder could sense Aslan's kindness. His slumped shoulders sagged further, and he stroked his chin.
Letting out a breath heavy with grief, the elder turned and walked toward the workshop door. His tail dragged limply with each step.
Just as he grasped the door handle, the elder suddenly turned his head and looked at Aslan.
There was no more grief in those eyes. At least, not right now.
"You mentioned needing this city's help for a ceasefire agreement. You are now one of us, so that business will be carried out as you desire."
"Thank you."
"...No. It is I who thanks you."
As if finally shaking off the lingering attachment, the elder left the workshop. Only Aslan and the armor remained inside.