Belus Alpen
Belus Alpen
The sun was sinking low when Aslan stepped out of the workshop, nameless armor encasing his frame.
The armor was singular in its construction.
Even Aslan, whose knowledge of armor was far from encyclopedic, could tell this piece was unusual.
Countless scales had been linked together, yet it gave no sense of being a crude patchwork of overlapping plates.
Rather, like certain suits fashioned from articulated metal sections, the structure was organic—dependent on the scales in a way that seemed almost deliberate.
It was as if the entirety of its defense rested upon those scales.
Oddly enough, the notion that its protection would prove shallow never entered his mind. Piercing attacks might find it less formidable, but that was a problem the Wings of Stymphalos could solve.
He drew the cloak of brass-colored metallic feathers around his shoulders, fastening it to veil the dark scales beneath. Aslan smoothed the cloak's grain, a sensation settling over him as though he were becoming some creature wrought of metal.
The feathers that made up the cloak were far fewer than they had once been—though the mantle still fell past his hips.
Across his back hung the storm sword taken from Bolen; at his waist rested Seobsaeng. His body bore both the Stymphalos cloak and the armor forged from the Dragon-king's scales.
Most of his armaments had been destroyed. These were the only pieces he had managed to salvage.
Aslan felt no regret over it.
Obsessing over weapons would not bring victory, and every piece of gear had served him faithfully before breaking.
The enemy was simply too vast to grow sentimental over equipment.
You used the tools you had. That had always been his principle.
By that standard, the armor of Dragon-king's scales was an unexpected windfall.
Clink.
Aslan curled his right hand lightly, feeling the scales graze each other. Despite the sound, the gauntlet showed not a single scratch.
His fingers moved as smoothly as if they were bare. There was no unpleasant catch, no sense that his motion was impeded.
The comfort was like wearing a second skin. Considering that Belus Alpen's metalcraft was renowned across the world, and that this had once been the Dragon-king's actual hide, it was only natural.
The thought flickered through his mind that he might even manage to equip his companions.
Sturdy boots and clothing for Angie. Solid armor for Ereta. As for Tiyamal, a generous supply of arrows would probably suffice.
Fay used her Kal blade with such economy that she needed neither spare swords nor new clothes, so she would require more thought—but Aslan felt confident he could come up with something she would like.
He was still lost in these musings when he noticed a figure leaning against the corridor wall, silently watching him.
A girl, her form wrapped in layered shadows teased out by the creeping gloom, yet her golden eyes burned with vivid clarity.
The last descendant of the ancient gods: Angela Tail.
Angie had been waiting for him in the hallway.
The shadows hid her expression, but her eyes scarcely blinked as they held him in their gaze.
Meeting those eyes, Aslan understood immediately: she had dreamed the dream.
The dream the ancient gods had left behind—the one that showed the divine throne Kehil and begged them to gather every scrap of the old gods' power to save the world from that seat.
Confirming his guess, Angie watched him in silence for a long moment, then stepped out from the shadows and stood before him.
Standing there, as if groping for the right words, she pressed her lips together and lifted the edge of the Stymphalos cloak to touch the armor beneath.
The brush of her fingers over the scales was somewhat rough, but the armor held its place as though such contact meant nothing at all.
Her hand strayed over the scales with stubborn insistence, then slid away as she raised her head.
Her mouth was shut, yet it opened slightly, then closed again. Each time, her expression tightened. Watching her, Aslan pieced together the situation.
Action came easily to her; words did not.
Angie's impulse always lunged forward first. She acted, and only afterward fumbled for speech.
So she had reached out to touch first, and now she was stumbling over what to say.
Reading her with ease, Aslan smiled gently. He offered no resistance to the hand tracing his armor.
After a long moment of that touch, Angie moved her hand to grasp his. The left hand that hung beneath the cloak was bare, ungloved.
Warm, callused. She kneaded the hand wordlessly, then closed her fingers around his index finger.
"Nice armor."
Aslan let out a soft laugh.
"That's it?"
"Yeah, well."
Dissatisfied with his reaction, she wore her embarrassment in a sullen expression. Her upturned face held a hint of color.
Aslan met her gaze and tilted his head. Angie, reading something into his silence, sighed and took his hand in both of hers, fidgeting with it.
Beneath her lowered lashes, thoughts drifted as she tried to organize her words.
"Hey, so... would you...."
"Mm."
She released his hand, exhaled heavily, and lifted her eyes. With her head still slightly dipped, she tilted only her gaze upward, looking almost as if she were peering up at him.
"Could you come with me? There's somewhere I want to go... and I feel like there's not much point if I go alone."
Aslan thought it was rather fortunate. He had been meaning to discuss the dream anyway—the core of the story and the next main quest.
He was about to agree, but before he could, Angie spoke with her face flushed with embarrassment.
"But, I mean... don't get the wrong idea. I'm just asking you to come along. I'm not after anything... lewd."
He blinked at the unexpected remark, then the corner of his mouth lifted.
Just like when Ereta had offered her lap as a pillow, Angie's reactions in these matters were particularly sharp.
He could not resist teasing her.
"What kind of lewd things?"
The response was immediate. Angie's face flooded with red, she squeezed her eyes shut, and shouted.
Her fist tapped lightly against his stomach—thump, thump—gentle blows that held no real force.
"Ah, you too? I'll really get mad!"
Considering the girl's transcendent strength, the control was astonishing.
Aslan moved before her face could redden any further and combust.
He grinned disarmingly and caught her wrist. Angie let out a small, strangled sound and clamped her mouth shut.
"Alright, alright. I'll come. Where do you want to go?"
Only then did she calm somewhat. She scrubbed at her flushed face and said,
"The Tail District."
*
Aslan and Angie made their way toward the Tail District. Like the city's other districts, it lay beneath the anatomical feature that gave it its name.
As a result, the Tail District might as well have been outside the city proper.
It sat within the walls, but its conditions and environment were far worse than those of the neighboring Torso District.
And within that Tail District, factions thrived.
Any newcomer who was neither a fool nor completely ignorant of the culture of the poor would notice them at once.
The factions divided the tail into sections.
From the parts closest to the torso all the way to the tip, rival factions warred over the scraps of their shared poverty.
What drove that poverty forward and pitted them against each other was punishment—or rather, its absence.
When the poor of the Tail District committed crimes against outsiders, the response was harsh. But crimes turned inward, from the district against itself, were treated with leniency.
And so war and bloodshed between factions were common.
This was the place where Angie had been born and raised.
It was better than a priest-ruled territory, better than Olpasbet—at least the fear of dying homeless and alone was not overwhelming. But it was no place where one could be said to live like a human being.
Aslan saw that truth with his own eyes as they walked.
The poor, bellies empty, fixed Aslan and Angie with gazes brimming with malice. Others huddled together, sharing a handful of warmth around a fire.
By Geladrion's standards, a place where sudden death was uncommon ranked fairly high. Yet these people looked anything but content.
Some left, as Angie had, joining outside mercenary companies to escape the city. Others stayed and formed bandit gangs, raiding under Count Sholukund's jurisdiction.
Unsurprisingly, internal order was poor.
The covert stares were dark and murky, as if revealing that grim reality. Amid those stares, Angie could feel greed brushing against Aslan's weapons and gear.
The girl rolled her eyes, her own thoughts holding a different kind of hunger. Everywhere she looked bore the heavy decay of the slums, and in the midst of that decay, she and Aslan stood out starkly.
Angie glanced back at Aslan, then looked at the slum-dwellers.
Her mind was tangled.
She had never been a girl of great knowledge.
Yet suddenly, a crushing responsibility had descended upon her.
Save the world. Change the world.
More than that—an inexplicable being from another world, the kind you'd never hear of in any story, had led her and even saved her.
And most recently, she had dreamed.
The dream was too alien to dismiss as a simple nightmare.
Inside that alien dream, the girl had learned the responsibility laid upon her.
A responsibility befitting the power to change the world.
And that responsibility was terribly heavy.
She was still young. She had not seen even half of what the world contained.
The burden was far too vast for such a girl to shoulder. She had become the last descendant of the ancient gods without any choice of her own.
She could not pretend the thought of abusing this power had never crossed her mind.
Screw responsibility—what if she just ran away, or used it all for herself?
Of course she had entertained the idea. She would only grow stronger, and even now she was stronger than most humans.
But she could not throw it all away and flee.
She had the premonition that Aslan's words would follow her for the rest of her life.
When she had asked him why he did such things, he had answered: because he believed it was right.
When she had asked him why he fought, he had answered: because I am the only one who can.
She still did not fully understand that conviction, but she had grasped a few things.
That Aslan was special—and she was not.
That the girl called Angela Tail had become special purely through the power she had acquired.
The truly special ones were those who stood against the world and refused to break, even without extraordinary power.
She had not been born with that kind of specialness.
That power could have settled on anyone of the Tail bloodline. If it had chosen another, Angie would likely never have escaped being a prisoner of Olpasbet.
She had no choice but to become special.
She had been chosen. She had been given this power. So she had to become someone worthy of it.
At the sight of the poor scattered everywhere she looked, the girl silently recalled her past.
A beast's life—abject, clawing only to survive, lived without distinction between good and evil.
She told herself she had to be different from that now, and she made her feet carry her forward.
With Aslan behind her, drawing courage and inspiration from his presence, she thought: I have to change.
Holding that thought, she adjusted her cloak and faced forward. Beyond her coldly steady golden eyes stood a little over twenty slum-dwellers.
That was the backdrop when Angie, who had been walking in silence, came to a halt.
The figures arrayed before her were armed, and their faces were familiar.
"It's been a while, Angie."
The most familiar face among them spoke. Angie exhaled a long breath and glanced back at Aslan.
His expression was blank as he looked between her and the man. Then he smiled faintly, and seeing that expression, Angie turned to face forward again.
Scarlet hair, green eyes. A tall, heavy frame. She knew the man well.
"It's been a while, Father."