Belus Alpen
Belus Alpen
The blade in Aslan's hand had changed.
The shift wasn't dramatic. It simply appeared, like a quiet law of nature slotting into place.
The reforged sword bore a blade of platinum white.
Light bled from the edge as if it had been folded from blazing white fire—or quenched in it. Across the steel, what seemed to be dense script or intricate patterns traced the surface.
A closer look told the truth. Not letters, not glyphs—flame itself.
Beyond the pale glare of the edge hung a nimbus of weight, a halo that gave form to a blade that should not exist.
It was present, yet seemed wrought purely from radiance. That was the nature of this sword—a sword of fire shaped into purity.
To the slum-dwellers and Dragon-kin watching, the weapon felt like something out of a vision. Something intangible, unreal.
But it was here. Undeniably here.
"O great Flame..."
Only one being could forge such a blade: the God of Fire and Smithing. Dragon-kin dropped their weapons as one, voices spilling into awe and ragged exhalations of reverence.
They were Dragon-kin. Their kind never missed a trial by combat—either they attended or devoured every account of it afterward.
They were Clo. They had held the Dragon-king in profound respect, which meant the betrayal cut deep enough to carve gratitude from the wound.
They had no particular bond with the slum-dwellers. Their post happened to be the entrance to the Tail District, and the sudden surge of priests had set them on edge. That was all.
And now Purity had appeared before them.
They saw proof of the Ancient God's will, clear and undeniable, and their trust in Aslan became absolute.
The slum-dwellers knew nothing.
They could see the sword was extraordinary, but why it was extraordinary, what it meant—that eluded them. Their ignorance left them watching the Dragon-kin lords with sharp, reactive eyes.
Surely a god had sent that blade, they thought.
No one could look at it and see anything less than a divine masterwork. So they hung on the words that followed.
"This sword was granted by the Ancient God, the God of Fire and Smithing. It came to me when I was to be executed for striking down the Dragon-king who deceived this city. I am His fighter."
Into a silence so deep it almost hummed, Aslan lowered Purity and held it loosely. The sacred white greatsword blazed against the dim guard tower.
"Because of what it is, this blade cuts only those who harbor malice or doubt toward the Ancient God or His priests. It will not harm anyone else."
That was a lie. Divinity was not a convenient loaf of bread to be sliced and served, and Aslan knew perfectly well he could cut anything with this weapon.
But as Aslan understood the world, deception was among the most useful tools in a fight.
He was very good at deception.
His gaze shifted to Angie. She blinked.
"I'm going to cut Angie now. If the blade passes through her, she is no priest."
Before anyone could fully process the words, Aslan tightened his grip on Purity and turned to face her.
His expression was visible only to Angie and the vice-captain of the warrior troop, Kal.
A faint smile touched his lips. The kind that said, Trust me.
Angie raised her arm without hesitation, clearing the path to her torso.
Whether the claim was true or not didn't matter. Aslan mattered. The certainty that she mattered to him was the only thing in her mind.
With that, belief and doubt became irrelevant.
They didn't trade a single word. They only met each other's eyes, and moved.
Belatedly, Angie saw the sword's edge darken to black.
'Knight Slayer.'
The blade screamed through the air. Light poured off the steel, and within that corona, the edge that seemed unreal took on an abyssal black.
The target was Angie's waist. But the cut would not truly land. Aslan's refined swordsmanship guided the path of the blade so it passed through Angie's skin.
'Knight Slayer.'
He used the perk a second time. A single activation would leave Angie's entrails and spine severed—a fatal charade. What he needed was a full, clean pass. The illusion that she had remained untouched.
The blade swept through in a blur. A speed even Aslan's perception could barely track. The moment he felt the vertebrae part and Knight Slayer dissolve, he invoked it again in his mind.
'Knight Slayer.'
Three activations in seamless succession. Purity exited through the opposite side of Angie's skin without so much as grazing an organ.
Angie, who had some idea how Knight Slayer worked, recognized the razor-thin margin. She let out the breath she had been holding, unbothered.
Aslan pulled Purity free the instant it cleared her body and rested the blade over his shoulder.
To the oblivious slum-dwellers and Dragon-kin, the sword had simply passed through Angie's waist and come out the other side.
A tangle of stifled shock and reverent murmur ran through the crowd. Aslan turned to face them, careful not to let tension show.
His bearing was absolute. Angie's unwavering display reinforced it. Looking at them, the onlookers felt certain: Angie was no priest.
They were still absorbing the innocence proven by impossible testimony when—
"Wait!"
Gale's shout cut through the crowd.
Every eye snapped to him. He scanned the faces around him.
"That sword—is it really an Ancient God's blade? Or just a fake dressed up to look like one? For all we know, you could be a priest yourself! Putting on a noble show to shield your comrade—this could all be a fraud!"
He bellowed with bullheaded recklessness. Aslan regarded him in silence, then walked toward him.
The crowd parted. Some flinched away from the blade, afraid a touch would wound them. Others stepped aside to let Aslan pass.
The sea of bodies split for different reasons, leaving Gale alone. Aslan extended Purity before him.
"W-wait, hold on—!"
No slash this time. Aslan simply pressed the flat of the blade against Gale's palm. Flesh split with a sensation of parting meat, pain flaring—Gale yanked his hand back as if burned.
"Gah!"
Blood welled and dripped from the torn palm. Gale stared at Aslan with bewildered eyes.
Aslan's expression remained as blank as when he had approached.
"Do you see? That happened because your faith was insufficient. Had you held true belief in the Ancient God, you would not have been cut. I can test this on anyone who wishes."
A few Dragon-kin stirred, eager to volunteer themselves, but Gale said nothing. He only clamped his mouth shut and clutched his hand.
Aslan studied the man's silence, then spoke.
"Angie is chosen by the Ancient God. She is a mighty being who has inherited His will and divinity, and like me, she is a fighter who serves the gods."
The parted crowd watched him as he delivered the flat explanation. Aslan planted Purity's tip into the ground.
"But Gale, you scorned Angie—your own daughter—and sought to frame her as a priest. You rashly incited others to threaten her. Worse, you tried to deceive the proud and noble Dragon-kin. The offense runs deep."
Gomul Clo! At Aslan's call, one of the Dragon-kin flinched.
"Yes!"
"What punishment does one face for falsely accusing the innocent to serve selfish ends?"
The green-scaled Dragon-kin named Gomul Clo rolled his eyes briefly toward Gale, a flicker of contempt crossing his face.
"...The tongue is torn out."
"So it is."
Only then did Gale grasp the situation. The blood drained from his face.
Terrified of what was to come, he clenched his jaw and fought not to tremble.
He looked wretched. Anyone could see it.
Angie felt it most keenly.
She had always feared her father.
She had been sickened with terror when Gale caved in her mother's skull. She had bowed her head every time he raised his fist.
Back then, her father had loomed so large, so terrifying.
And now that same father was being pushed back by Aslan without a single effective retort, as if he were nothing at all.
He couldn't overwhelm with force. He couldn't twist the situation with lies. Stripped of those, Gale was a small, shrunken creature.
To borrow Angie's own vocabulary, he was a 'little bitch.'
"...Let's not take his tongue."
So Angie spoke.
It was pity.
Left alone, the man could do no real harm. Forgotten, he would cause no trouble. The realization that she had once lived in fear of such a figure left only a faint, lingering shame.
Angie closed her mouth and looked at Aslan. He waited a beat, then answered with careful reluctance.
"Gale, at the victim Angie's plea... your punishment will be reduced. You will face one month of confinement instead."
No mercy touched his blank expression.
Angie felt a jolt of surprise that her wish had been accepted so readily. Gale was equally stunned—and relieved—that the sentence had been reduced to something so light.
Even the Dragon-kin offered no objection. Gale rolled his eyes to gauge the crowd, then let out a shaky breath of relief.
A month's confinement wasn't bad. At least, it didn't look bad right now. He'd weasel his way out soon enough and plan his next move—Gale shut his eyes with that thought, then opened them again when a jarring unease pricked at him.
Something was off.
He looked at Aslan's face to pin down the source of that unease, and his eyes flew wide, mouth falling open.
Aslan was smiling. Faintly.
The satisfaction in that smile was thick.
It was the expression of a hunter watching a stag step into the snare.
Gale understood.
A month.
That was no short span of time.
It was more than enough for a leaderless organization to crumble. Enough, and then some.
In the month Gale was absent, the Tail Warrior Troop could thoroughly secure the slums. Even if they didn't take full control, sweeping away Gale's organization would be nothing.
Matters inside the Tail District tended to stay inside the Tail District unless a priest got tangled in them—and that, as everyone here knew, rarely happened.
The gathering of every slum faction right now was proof enough: Gale's faction was the dominant power.
And Gale had maintained that dominance by keeping his organization firmly inside his own grip, perfectly managed.
He did not imagine that his absence would simply be overlooked.
That was Aslan's true aim.
Gale reeled as the full picture hit him. If he was taken away now, he would walk out of confinement as nothing—a vagrant with no power and no assets.
He drew breath to shout something—incitement, curses, begging, submission. Anything. Everything he could think of.
He didn't manage a word.
Because of the teal eyes looking down at him. The pitiless cold in those eyes.
Meeting that gaze, Gale realized the being in front of him was something from an entirely different order of existence.
His nerve failed before he could voice it. He swallowed quietly.
"Gomul Clo, take him away."
"Yes!"
The subdued Gale stared blankly at Aslan as the Dragon-kin seized his arms and began to drag him. He looked utterly pathetic, hauled along like that.
"Ah, hold on."
Before they could pull Gale past the district boundary, Angie stopped them.
She approached the Dragon-kin without hesitation, and they halted without a trace of wariness—she was Aslan's companion.
Gale, who had been dragged half-collapsed, lifted his head as Angie stopped in front of him.
"We're not exactly on open-hearted, forgiving terms, but I can understand how you think, Father."
Gale's face twisted. Angie smiled slightly.
"Yeah, someone shows up out of nowhere with monster strength and changes overnight—I'd suspect a priest too. That's normal. If you'd genuinely believed I was a priest and wanted me dead for it, I'd have let it go."
Angie held his glare without flinching, calmly studying her father's eyes. Crouched down, she was nearly level with him.
"But I know you. My father Gale isn't that kind of man."
Angie spoke in a dry, flat tone. Gale looked at her without speaking for a moment, then asked,
"You... are you really Angie?"
The Angie Gale knew wasn't like this.
The Angie Gale knew was rough, distrustful, hot-headed, and incapable of seeing anything through. A callow, nervous girl with no composure.
The girl in front of him now was poised and self-possessed, even if she hadn't managed all of this on her own.
She was not the girl who flinched and wept every time he raised a fist.
Gale couldn't comprehend any of it.
Angie didn't answer the genuine bewilderment in his voice.
She just grinned.
It was the same kind of unhurried smile Aslan wore. She rose to her feet.
The Dragon-kin resumed dragging Gale away. He stared back at Angie, pulled along in a daze.
Angie left all of it behind and walked to Aslan.
Her expression as she approached was like a puppy expecting praise.
At that swaggering posture and proud face, Aslan let a faint smile surface. Angie beamed.
*
A broad corridor. The long passage was honed to a sharp meeting point between savagery and advanced metallurgy.
Like a droplet falling from an anvil, a girl's eyes gleamed blue within a hallway forged entirely of grey steel.
The anticipation in those eyes was so vivid that the attendants trailing her could hardly fault her quick pace.
Not that they could have spoken up even without it.
The girl was the sovereign of the largest empire on the Northern Continent. That alone commanded silence.
They only wished she would slow down, even a little, as they half-jogged to keep up with her rapid steps.
Her name was Ileina. Ileina of Ma'kel.
She was the ruler of the Kallus Empire, and an honored guest who had come to Belus Alpen for the ceasefire agreement.
With the armistice splendidly concluded and the pointless civil war brought to an end, nothing stood in her way.
Just as the attending Dragon-kin were growing genuinely flustered, she found her target and stopped.
She had spotted a woman walking at the far end of the corridor.
A striking woman with golden hair, one eye lost to the past, and tattoos covering her head and body.
Even the cloth wraps she wore couldn't conceal her muscular build. She took in the girl emperor's expectant face and made a rueful expression.
The woman's name was Frida. For all practical purposes, Aslan's sister.
Frida started to offer a greeting, but the girl emperor spoke first, words tumbling out—greetings and business tangled together—and Frida, seasoned by countless battles, found herself momentarily at a loss.
Once Ileina had steadied her excitement, Frida was able to give her a few simple answers.
The girl emperor's hopes crumpled.
"...You're saying Aslan has already left?"
"He has."
Ileina let her disappointment show openly. The corners of her mouth dropped. Her gaze fell to the floor.
Frida watched the pitiful sight, unable to decide between offering comfort or moving past it. She stayed in place until the girl spoke again.
Ileina clung to one tenacious goal: at least find out where he had gone. Frida hid her discomfort and answered.
"Did he mention where?"
"They said he was heading to the City of Mages."
The reply was immediate.
Ileina's eyes widened. The surprise was at the destination itself.
The City of Mages was that kind of place. A powerful city that asserted its independence even with an imperial territory right next to it. One of the few functioning city-states on the Northern Continent. And above all, a city where most inhabitants were mages.
Ileina wondered why Aslan had gone there, what his purpose was.
Unfortunately, Frida didn't know the answer. Deeply disappointed, Ileina trudged away.