Artist
Artist
By the time Ereta and Aslan made it back late, dumped a load of white iron that just barely cleared the quota, and rejoined the rest of the group, everyone had already gathered and was waiting for them.
The party looked none the worse for wear.
Angie and Fay, at least.
Rumel had been staring down at her own hands, but her head snapped up the moment she heard Aslan approaching.
Something sharp flickered in her eyes and was gone.
"Lord Aslan... I think I may have... a surprising talent for mining."
"...Excuse me?"
She blurted it out the instant he got close. When Aslan failed to make sense of it, Tiyamal shrugged.
"Would you believe this young lady filled a two-week quota meant for other men—in a single day? And only worked a short shift to do it."
"What?"
A two-week quota?
Aslan stared at her, full of questions, and Rumel met his eyes with the same expression she had been aiming at her own hands, like they belonged to some kind of monster.
"I didn't even notice... I just came to my senses, and it was already done."
She trailed off, but Aslan had already run out of words.
Considering how many prisoners barely scraped by—enduring agony just to survive because they couldn't meet their quotas—this was unmistakably an extraordinary talent.
'So it was never just a gift for the spear.'
Still, the first time he had seen her, she had cut down Kal Tormule with a strike to the throat. None of this ought to be surprising anymore, so Aslan simply accepted it.
Learning proper mining technique was, after all, far easier than learning the spiral spear from watching it once.
"It's because she's a prodigy."
"Ah—is... is that what it is?"
Aslan gave the still-flustered Rumel a pat on the shoulder and then took a slow look around the party before he spoke.
What he had to say was simple.
The Artist had revealed himself, and the Artist's objective overlapped with the party's own.
There was a real possibility the Artist would reach that objective first.
If they dragged their feet, everything would go sideways, so dragging their feet wasn't an option.
But rushing underground with half-baked preparations would end in blood just as surely.
The full explanation wasn't short, and it wasn't immediate. It needed a great deal of context.
The party listened in silence or asked about the parts they didn't grasp, and by the time Aslan finished, every face was clouded with deep concern.
After all that, the subject Aslan raised was straightforward.
"Now what do we do?"
It was rare for him to ask the party's opinion instead of deciding. Normally the circumstances might have prompted a little delight, but the gravity of the situation kept anyone from feeling it.
Instead, they frowned as if troubled or tapped the stone floor irritably with their bare feet.
As the sound of tapping dragged on, Angie suddenly spoke through her scowl.
"Why don't we just... flip the whole nest?"
The words came out so abruptly that Aslan didn't catch her meaning at first.
Only after working out who she meant to flip did he realize.
"Olpasbet?"
"Yeah."
Angie folded her arms with a hint of a sullen look and nodded toward the outside.
"We beat the shit out of all of them, then we take our time and prep before heading down."
All of them. That probably meant the guards and wardens, every last one. Aslan managed a helpless grin, but he couldn't dismiss the weight her words carried.
Angie and her 8 Strength. Her brute power had long since crossed into superhuman territory. Considering she was on the verge of a perk evolution, her argument had teeth.
Even if Angie faced every guard in this city alone, she wouldn't take so much as a scratch.
And if a scratch did somehow land, her regeneration would make it a non-issue.
It was risk-free monsterization in practice. Aslan saw a very high chance her plan would succeed—
'But it's a scorched-earth plan.'
If they did that, the aftermath would be unmanageable. Aslan was about to shake his head and say so when—
"Angge is stupid."
"What'd you say?"
"Angge only ever thinks of stupid things."
"Are you trying to start a fight?"
"...But Fay was thinking the same thing as Angge just now."
"Huh?"
Fay spoke before Aslan could. He shut his mouth and looked at the elf, whose expressionless face somehow radiated indignation.
The elf girl met his gaze, folded her arms exactly like Angie, and explained.
"Right now, the biggest obstacle to Aslan's plan is this prison's rules. So the simplest solution is to break those rules. Far easier than a direct confrontation with a high priest whose strength we can't even estimate."
She wasn't wrong. Except for a single assumption. Aslan shook his head with a bitter smile.
"Dealing with nobles isn't that simple. It looks easy in the moment, but the fallout will be a nightmare later."
Which meant they couldn't just topple Olpasbet. At Aslan's confident assertion, Fay fell silent, but Angie, uncharacteristically, grumbled.
"Is someone who's killed two Emperors really allowed to say that?"
"...Killed Emperors?"
Rumel's voice hitched a ride on that grumble. Her eyes flew wide and she stared at Aslan with open shock.
"Two of them? Were they—were they two different empires..."
"No, same empire. Twice."
"Good heavens."
Rumel looked aghast at Angie's added detail. Unlike her, Tiyamal acted as if this was old news.
"Right, he gets called Emperor Slayer, doesn't he?"
If anything, he poured fuel on the fire by dragging out the title. Ereta, whose eyes had reddened at the edges, chimed in.
"When I first saw him... he was on his way back from killing an Emperor."
Every pair of eyes in the party converged on Aslan. A silence that couldn't simply be brushed aside.
Aslan scratched his head, embarrassed.
"The circumstances lined up. The first time... Baramunz and the Kallus Empire were at war, and a priest crashed into the fight halfway through. The chaos scattered everyone, and that's what made it possible."
And in the midst of it, the Emperor had fled in a blind panic, shaken off even his own guards, taken a hostage right in front of Aslan, and let his guard down.
Aslan still remembered the instant the Knight Slayer arrow punched through the Emperor's heart. He smiled an awkward smile.
"The second time was similar. Several conditions aligned perfectly. The Emperor didn't have much intelligence on me, and he was careless. I knew his intentions, so I could strike where he didn't expect. But... right now is different."
Rumel still hadn't recovered from her horrified expression, so Aslan turned slightly to look at the others.
"Normally, a noble, an Emperor, a king—these aren't beings you can just kill. Without circumstances that favor it, it's impossible."
"Then what if we don't kill him—just beat him and shove him out of the way?"
"That's probably not as easy as you're imagining. Every guard in this city is the Baron of Olpasbet's soldier. It won't resolve that simply unless we kill them all."
And if they did that, they would make an enemy of the Kallus Empire. They'd lose one of the critical alliances they would need to achieve their goal.
Aslan added that thought and then let out a breath.
"More than anything... I don't want to kill people like that. I'll do it if I have to, but if the only option is killing, I'd rather not."
If it was unavoidable, he would. But if it wasn't absolutely necessary, he wanted to avoid it. Most of the party wore expressions that said they wondered why he was bothering with that now.
Regardless, Aslan wanted to hold the ambiguous line he had drawn for himself.
Once he had made his stance clear, Rumel spoke after a moment's thought, twisting a braided lock of hair around her finger as she slowly raised her downcast eyes.
"...Then I believe there won't be a problem. The Baron of Olpasbet is a noble, yes, but he isn't an ordinary one."
Not an ordinary noble. Aslan and the others looked at Rumel, waiting for her to elaborate.
"The Baron of Olpasbet's authority and title were granted by the Count of Sholukund. The count didn't want to wage a pointless war of attrition against the barony's founder, who already held this land. Ever since, the baron has acted more like the owner of a territory inside the county than a true vassal."
As Aslan listened to a slice of history he hadn't known, Rumel met his eyes and smiled gently. Her voice was clear, almost like a recitation.
"For that reason, the House of Sholukund and the House of Olpasbet are not on good terms. In truth, I suspect the count would seize the barony the moment he had an excuse. So even if something happened to the Baron of Olpasbet, Sholukund would most likely not care. Besides..."
"Besides?"
"The Count of Sholukund was assassinated, and the county is currently in chaos. They probably don't have the resources to spare for this kind of matter. And even if they did, they wouldn't use them here. So I believe there will be no issue. Who owns Olpasbet doesn't matter to the empire."
An explanation with no room for rebuttal. It was an explanation that fit Geladrion, and specifically the Kallus Empire of the Northern Continent.
Aslan found himself unable to refute her. Instead, he thought.
He kept his mouth shut and turned the idea over, and the result was that Rumel might be right.
Even without those reasons, the plan appealed to him.
Setting aside memories built up through the game, Olpasbet was never a place Aslan could have liked.
And above all, with the Artist's presence in play, there was no time to drag their feet or be picky about methods.
Aslan's thoughts settled. When he spoke, his tone carried a heavy note of discomfort.
"So... a revolt, then?"
"That would be it, yes."
Rumel's reply was dispassionate. Angie glanced back and forth between them, then tilted her head.
"Can't we just beat everyone up?"
"Angge is stupid, so she probably doesn't realize this, but what Angge is describing is a revolt. We're prisoners."
As Fay put it, the party was currently imprisoned.
They could snap their restraints with Angie's strength and become free at any moment, but for now, that was their status.
And plotting the overthrow of Olpasbet from that status—that was a revolt.
What was the gain from a revolt?
Originally, gathering equipment and resupplying would have eaten up quite a bit of time. But if the revolt succeeded and they no longer had to do everything in secret, that time could be drastically reduced.
Half a day at most, and they could finish preparations and descend underground.
And Maria and Catherine could provide the help needed for the revolt itself.
He conceded that a revolt was ultimately the best plan. Aslan nodded slowly to himself.
Maybe this was the only way.
*
The catch was the Artist.
The Artist's strength was currently an unknown variable.
He almost certainly wasn't as strong as the Dragon-king, but even a level just shy of the Dragon-king was a significant threat.
If they were discovered in the middle of the revolt, it would escalate into a major crisis.
An enemy of unknown strength meant they couldn't afford a careless move.
One misstep could render all their preparations worthless.
So Aslan's plan was this: wait until the Artist had set off underground, then execute the revolt and complete all preparations within a single day.
A one-day head start was a gap they could close—enough to catch up, defeat him, or locate Verdict first.
Because Aslan knew every enemy and every trap on the path to Verdict, the place where it was embedded, all the way to the final chamber.
In that case, what needed to be prepared?
A faction.
A force that would join the revolt, seize control of Olpasbet, and promise support while Aslan descended underground.
A stepping stone that could, in the long run, pull even the County of Sholukund into an alliance.
The most useful faction in Olpasbet was obvious from the start.
The Northern Imperials.
On the Northern Continent, there existed a state that was neither truly northern nor properly imperial—something vaguely like a Holy Roman Empire.
They called themselves an empire because they claimed descent from the old Ancient Empire, and the Northern Empire because they lay to the north of that fallen power.
These were a people with a jagged coastline and harsh territory.
The Northern Imperials, whose lands barely clung to the far end of the continent beyond the sea.
They had chosen plunder to survive that barren, unforgiving land.
They sailed across the sea to reach the Kallus Empire, and they raided.
Those captured during those raids, or caught while failing to flee, ended up here in Olpasbet.
Most of the prisoners in Olpasbet were those very Northern Imperials.
And from everything Aslan had seen and experienced inside and outside Geladrion, he expected those Northern Imperials would have banded together, forming some kind of faction.
Considering they were the ones who needed to be won over for this revolt, that was genuinely fortunate.
They might be able to recruit them all at once. With that in mind, Aslan chose to tail someone.
He assumed there was a hideout or meeting place somewhere. He picked a likely target and followed.
Having met his quota and been granted a brief pass into the city, Aslan left the party at a discreet distance and shadowed a single figure alone.
A young man with scarlet hair like Angie's and green eyes. Gaunt from poor meals, but carrying something blade-like tucked inside his clothes—a prisoner.
That scarlet hair was practically the symbol of the Northern Imperials.
'...Maybe Angie really does have some Northern Imperial blood.'
Golden eyes were also occasionally seen in Northern Imperial bloodlines, so the possibility was decent.
As he tailed his mark, Aslan glanced back. Angie was hiding a little way off, shoulders hunched. She caught his eye and gave a small wave.
Vivid scarlet hair scattering around her waving hand, golden eyes curving into a soft arc. Now that he thought about it, he had seen those two colors plenty of times while working in the Northern Empire.
He wasn't one to put much stock in racial or national personalities, but Angie was spirited regardless.
Like the harsh climate of the Northern Empire.
His suspicion deepened, and the thought crossed his mind that she might genuinely share that blood.
'Someday we should go to the Northern Empire together and check.'
Maybe they could dig up information there about Angie's lineage.
Though the chance that her bloodline held any secrets was slim.
While Aslan let those idle thoughts drift, he followed the young Northern Imperial into increasingly shadowed alleys until the man slipped into a lane lined with warehouses.
In the swaying scarlet glow of lanterns, his hair seemed to bleed out in all directions.
The spreading color halted at one particular lane, and the man ducked hurriedly into a warehouse.
A warehouse built with a foundation dug into the stone hill. Neither large nor small—an odd scale—but with considerable height.
An adequate space to gather a number of people. Certain of it, Aslan surged forward from his lowered stance.
'Found it.'
Likely the hideout of the Northern Imperials. Aslan raised a hand to signal the party following behind, and they quickly closed the distance.
Once they were lined up single file, Aslan approached the warehouse and stepped inside without hesitation.
Bang!
The door slammed open, and the people beyond it jolted, spinning to face him.
"What the—?!"
"Wha— how did you find this place?"
"Who the hell are you, you bastard! Do you have any idea where you are?!"
Panic bled thickly through the outbursts. The moment he burst in, Aslan's eyes widened, and he blinked.
There were a lot of people.
A slightly overwhelming number.
And they weren't just numerous. The composition was varied.
Dark skin, pale skin, black hair, scarlet hair—men and women.
A diverse mix, seated in a broad circle.
As if they were holding some kind of council.
"...That's a fair few people."
Behind him, Tiyamal's flustered voice. From among the startled crowd, a deep voice edged with metal cut through.
"Mel, you son of a bitch... did you sell us out?"
"Ah—uh, m-me? N-no! There's no way I'd betray—!"
"Then you got yourself tailed, you fucking moron!"
The owner of that deep voice was a burly middle-aged man, standing roughly Aslan's own height.
Likely the leader of the Northern Imperial faction.
As the man snarled and glared at Aslan, Aslan's gaze swept the warehouse in a rapid arc.
There were stockpiled weapons.
Several among them had already drawn crude daggers forged from broken pickaxes and were staring down the party.
These people were ready to fight.
And stitched into their rags, they wore rough armor made from crudely worked white iron. As if they had been preparing for battle.
They weren't all Northern Imperials, either. Common criminals, people of different ethnicities, all mixed in.
And each group, distinct by race or origin, occupied its own separate space within the gathering.
Aslan took it all in and knew with certainty.
These people were already preparing a revolt.
And he was in trouble.
In this situation, Aslan and his party would look like nothing more than the Baron of Olpasbet's informants.
Once he had processed everything, a groan slipped from Aslan's lips.
"This is insane."
There was no time to explain. They probably wouldn't listen anyway. Aslan settled into a stance with a resigned air, and the burly middle-aged man leveled his freshly drawn dagger at the party and bellowed.
"What're you standing around for, you useless shits! Gut those bastards!"
The dagger-wielding crowd surged toward Aslan and his party.