Imperial Domain
Imperial Domain
Rebuilding was no simple task. It was a truth everyone understood without needing to say it aloud.
A city of just over four thousand people. Asan, the City of Pleasure. With travelers matching its permanent residents, the number of dead from the Tormule disaster exceeded the city's actual population.
Countless dead. Countless wounded—those who had not died but had become part of Tormule and melted away, the injured, the maimed. Aslan's party bore no responsibility for the calamity, yet they did not leave the city.
The reason was simple. Aslan wished it, and his companions did not object.
There was, of course, one more reason, but no one pressed the matter.
Most of the guards had survived, but they could not rebuild the city by themselves.
Among the dead were the Emperor's vassals who should have handled critical decisions, as well as many of the engineers.
They did not know the city's future, where to begin rebuilding, or where to commit what resources. Protecting the city was all they could manage.
The best course was to send a dispatch rider to the Emperor as swiftly as possible, request reinforcements, and keep the city defended.
That was the context in which Aslan's party stayed.
The returning dispatch rider reported that His Majesty the Emperor was coming in person and wished for the Master of Combat and his trusted companions to remain and receive his commendation.
So Aslan stayed. But he did not simply sit idle and rest.
Geladrion was, by nature, a continent teeming with monsters and evil gods, and monsters abounded accordingly.
On such a land, it went without saying that a city whose walls and even defensive installations were compromised could not hold out for long.
Thus Aslan remained.
Instead, he led his party to the city's outermost edge, hunted monsters, and guarded the city.
It was not a long time, but soon there was no one in the city who did not know of it.
Aslan took the lead in confronting monsters, taught the guards how to fight them, and strove to keep the citizens' spirits up.
Because of that, when the mayor of the City of Mages and archmage Anna Heleminus absented herself, citing discomfort with the Emperor's impending visit, no one criticized her.
The citizens even shared their own suppers as a gesture of gratitude.
Aslan and his party filled their bellies with the citizens' shared meals and passed the time in relative comfort while guarding the city.
Until yesterday.
They were essentially refugees. No matter how grateful they felt, sharing supper every day inevitably became a burden. And so, by today, no one came to offer the party food.
It could not be helped. It was surprising they had shared for as long as they had. Aslan, without complaint, took out the preserved rations.
Jerky and dried bread—crumbly, long-dried, tough to chew, utterly tasteless or with the texture of boiled leather. Preserved rations that were a chore to eat even without a sense of taste.
So Aslan put that bread, which was more like dried flour, into a pot with water and set it over the campfire. Boiled over a fire long enough, it would at least become easier to swallow.
Aslan had just placed the pot of water and dried rations beside the fire and dripped a few drops of oil onto the firewood.
"...Lord Aslan?"
Rumel approached with the look of someone who had witnessed something unseemly. Aslan looked up at her.
Having removed her cuirass, the woman whose imposing chest was nearly indecently full folded her arms under her breasts and approached, staring vacantly at the pot Aslan had set down.
"What... are you doing?"
She asked. Aslan blinked as if the question were unfamiliar.
"I am preparing a meal. We cannot keep imposing on the citizens every time, and today no one came to share, so I am making it myself."
Aslan answered with a good-natured smile. Rumel's face hardened.
"Is that all? You are not adding anything else...?"
Rumel's pupils quivered slightly. Aslan met her eyes with growing puzzlement and tilted his head. Watching his reaction, Rumel pressed a hand to her mouth and wiped it.
"Yes, clearly."
What could be the problem? Aslan answered with another blink, and Rumel, looking somber, stroked her chin and glanced at the pot.
Inside, only the dried rations Aslan had dumped in and the water he had filled it with swirled about.
"You really eat just this?"
"Yes."
Rumel's reaction suggested something was very wrong. Aslan looked back into the pot. Nothing but rations and water.
Since he had not added anything poisonous, Aslan only grew more puzzled and asked again.
"Is this not enough?"
That guileless response. Rumel shot a troubled look at the rest of the party.
Everywhere her gaze landed, the others showed similar reactions.
"...Ah."
They genuinely believed there was nothing wrong with this diet.
Tiyamal, a former warrior, was used to field rations. Angie, born poor, was not picky about food. She ate a lot and ate often.
Ereta and Fay were peculiar cases. Fay was an elf who did not require food, and Ereta had only recently ceased being a high priestess, so she had no need to eat.
Thus, unlike Tiyamal and Angie, who seemed to say, 'So what?', the woman and the girl gave off an air of utter indifference.
Seeing that no one had a single complaint, Rumel slowly turned her head to Aslan.
Rumel did not know it, but Aslan had no sense of taste, so he had no reason to care about flavor.
So Aslan tilted his head, still puzzled.
"Could you possibly have been eating like this all along?"
Rumel asked. Aslan nodded lightly. No matter how he thought about it, he could not see what the problem was.
"...Give me the ladle."
Rumel made up her mind: this was wrong. She snatched the wooden ladle from Aslan's hand and let out a heavy sigh.
"I will do it."
Could you go fetch other ingredients? At Rumel's request, Aslan gathered the party's preserved rations and brought them. The woman inspected the rations herself, then began to cook.
Rumel, once a noble and unable to abandon her former eating habits even after becoming a mercenary, could not be satisfied with field rations and bland fare. That was how she had eventually taken up cooking.
'Rather than eat like this... I would sooner do it myself.'
Now that her skills had finally reached the point where she could prepare a satisfying meal, she could not give it up now. It was better to put in the effort herself.
So Rumel took the ladle, and salted meat, tomatoes, onions, potatoes she had obtained some time ago, mushrooms gathered during patrol, a purplish root vegetable—all disappeared into the pot in succession. After simmering gently for twenty minutes, what emerged was a stew.
It was a simple home-cooked dish, neither difficult nor particularly varied in ingredients. It had not taken much effort, yet the cooking process felt like magic to the rest of the party.
Especially since each step seemed to lack any understandable purpose.
The stew, made in a quantity fit for six, had more broth than solid ingredients and not much meat.
"Delicious."
It was so good that the word slipped from Fay's mouth the instant she tasted it.
The seasoning was just right, and the salted meat, which normally reeked of gamy odors, was oddly palatable.
Even Fay, who normally ate only lightly unless the food was exceptional, emptied her bowl. Angie was wolfing down the stew slightly faster than usual.
"Well, this old-timer eats well enough without such fuss... But since you made it, I will eat it...."
"Quit your bullshit and eat. If you do not, I will take it and eat it."
Whether Tiyamal was too embarrassed to praise it honestly, or just regretful that a 'fine warrior who can stomach field rations' had succumbed to this stew, he muttered his excuses. After receiving a sharp retort from Angie, he silently moved his spoon.
"This... is delicious?"
Ereta's reaction was beyond the human norm, but considering she had only recently ceased to be a high priestess, it was understandable.
"Eating is not a struggle, and it is enjoyable... amazing."
It was the first proper meal she had eaten since ceasing to be a high priestess. Ereta murmured as if moved by her 'first meal.' Rumel, relieved at the party's reactions, swept a hand over her chest.
Since none of the party disparaged her cooking, she ate a few spoonfuls of stew in peace, then glanced over at Aslan.
Unlike the others, who at least said 'it is delicious,' Aslan was eating his stew with an utterly expressionless face.
His face betrayed no emotion—not joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure. It was a void-like expression, as if all emotion had been erased.
"Lord Aslan... is it not to your taste?"
Could it be flavorless? Rumel felt a twinge of regret at the taste lingering on her own tongue.
Granted, the shortage of ingredients was to blame, but she thought she could have made it even better if she had tried harder.
Thus, she watched Aslan's silence and blank face with unease.
Aslan reacted belatedly to Rumel's question. Emotion returned to his features, and light kindled in his eyes, which had been sunken as if lost in thought.
"...Ah. No. It is good. It has been a long time since I have had a proper meal."
Belatedly realizing his mistake, he forced a smile. Rumel, who had drawn up her knees and hugged them, her breasts crushed against her thighs, looked at Aslan with eyes full of anxiety and doubt.
"Ah, well... It is a comforting taste. Yes, like something my mother used to make."
Only then did Rumel's expression relax, and Aslan smiled bitterly.
Of course, if he had a sense of taste, there was a good chance he would have honestly felt that way, so he convinced himself it was not a lie.
"I am glad...."
At the mention of his mother, the others instinctively glanced at Aslan, but he only lowered his gaze with a gentle smile.
The gesture said he would not answer even if asked. Given that Aslan never spoke about his family, it was to be expected. The party returned their focus to the meal.
All except Rumel.
Rumel recognized the bitter smile that accompanied the mention of his mother. Unlike the others, who noticed but let it pass, Rumel could not help but dwell on it.
What could have made him smile like that?
It was a sad smile, as if he would never see her again.
Rumel let her imagination wander, as if tracing the source of that smile.
"Rumel, are you having strange thoughts again?"
Fay poked her side and spoke, and Rumel, snapping back to herself, blushed.
"Ah, no. I, I was not thinking anything."
"Rumel, you liar."
With a giggle, Fay teased her, and Rumel, her braid twirling around her finger, turned red. The others smiled wryly or sent guarded glances their way as they finished their meal.
Only when the stew they had been devouring finally hit bottom did Tiyamal set down his bowl and turn.
"Aslan."
"...Yeah."
Tiyamal tidied his bowl and rose; Fay was already gone. The two with the sharpest senses among the party had reacted, and the others moved into action.
Aslan grabbed the two-handed sword Storm Caller leaning against a tree and halted at the edge of the campfire's light. The party each gathered their weapons or readied their stances, preparing themselves.
The camp was filled with the tension of imminent combat, yet their faces held no strain.
It seemed more like a ritual alertness than any display of confidence.
It was not reckless bravado that they could defeat whoever approached; it was closer to a conviction that whoever came would not be hostile.
And it was true. Soon, from the distant shadows untouched by the campfire's light, the silhouettes of approaching riders and horses flickered under torchlight.
When the group of riders halted, Aslan thrust the greatsword he held in both hands into the ground and rested a hand on the pommel, watching the approaching figure.
A figure dismounted and strode unhesitatingly toward Aslan. Though only a shadow, he was a warrior of towering stature. The dark-hued armor and spear that seemed to repel the faint moonlight left a strong impression.
The giant stopped before Aslan, and the darkness thickened with presence. Aslan gazed at him and spoke.
"It has been a while, Reynald."
The reply was a stubborn old man's snort.
Then came a formal, dry response.
As if he were reciting it for his own benefit.
"By His Majesty the Emperor's will, fifty guards of Her Majesty Ileina of the great Ma'kel, one hundred engineers, and two hundred house soldiers led by Baron Dvork have arrived to support the Master of Combat Aslan and his party."
His words ceased, and the wind blew. The campfire flickered, and beyond the wavering light, the old knight's form became clearly visible.
A one-eyed old knight in dark plate armor, spear in hand, his height nearly matching Aslan's. He wore a stubborn scowl and was glaring at Aslan.
Anyone could see the old man detested Aslan. The party looked slightly puzzled, but Aslan did not bother to explain.
After all, compared to what it could have been, this old man's hostility was practically cordial.
The old man's name was Reynold van Darus.
Known as the Dark Spear, he was a master of the spear, a knight who had served as the Emperor's personal guard since two generations ago, and the captain of the Imperial Guard.
He was also the knight who, having been defeated by Aslan, had lost his liege.
In other words, to this old man, the Emperor-slayer was an archenemy.
Though it was obvious he wanted nothing more than to kill him with that spear then and there, the old knight only glared, never raised his weapon. He did not even utter a reprimand. He simply extended his hand.
Regardless of Reynald's hatred, this was why Aslan could not bring himself to hate Reynald.
He could only see the man in a favorable light.
Because Reynald was that kind of man.
A man who could set aside personal feelings for duty, and set aside private gain for the common good.
Such a man was impossible for Aslan to dislike.
"Master of Combat Aslan. I am deeply grateful for His Majesty's merciful decision and generous support."
And so Aslan meekly clasped the old man's hand and shook it. Reynald withdrew his hand with a displeased expression but took no further action.
"I look forward to working with you."
Of course, Reynald snorted at that, but all things considered, that was mild.