Kornil Ashuld
Kornil Ashuld
Kornil Ashuld chewed his nails, a nervous habit he couldn't shake.
The mages around him wore equally anxious expressions, but the column's mood was surprisingly steady.
Most of the column were soldiers who couldn't begin to guess why Kornil Ashuld was so on edge. And then there was Aslan.
Kornil Ashuld glanced toward Aslan, walking near the center of the formation, then went back to gnawing his nails.
'Damn it, when are they going to get here?'
The source of his anxiety lay outside the column.
Kornil Ashuld believed there was no way to control Aslan.
Aslan's martial strength was overwhelming, and compounding the problem, he was also a Last Descendant of the Ancient God.
At this point, trying to subdue him with just troops and mages—without a Warrior Monk—would end exactly one way.
Rather than risk a premature betrayal, Kornil Ashuld intended to strike when the odds were certain. He'd sent messenger after messenger to the Imperial Palace, requesting Warrior Monk support at every opportunity.
Twelve messages in total. Not a single Warrior Monk had come.
Meanwhile, Aslan was grappling with the same question, though his mood was irritation rather than fear.
'At least one or two Warrior Monks should've shown up by now. It's uncanny that none have.'
Aslan had made predictions based on the game and everything he'd experienced since falling into Geladrion. He'd foreseen a confrontation with the Warrior Monks and prepared contingencies.
Those plans were now pointless. No Warrior Monk had appeared.
He felt no rush of impatience. Miscalculations fell within the bounds of any plan.
The absence of Warrior Monks pointed to a single conclusion.
'Other priests are on the move. Faster than I expected.'
Other priests and their gods were maneuvering, keeping the War God in check. They might even be locked in direct, bloody conflict.
That was why Aslan felt no urgency, even though things had deviated from the original plan.
Fewer priests was always better. If they killed each other, so much the better.
If they were too busy fighting among themselves to pay attention to Aslan, his freedom of movement only increased—hardly a downside.
Minor adjustments would be necessary, but the situation had its advantages. He could exploit this.
Aslan was lost in thought, resting his wrist on Kal's hilt, when a soldier hauling a rattling cart beside him called out.
"Master!"
Aslan surfaced from his thoughts. Awareness flowed through his body like water, pulling him upright.
He turned his head a beat late, finally fixing his gaze on the soldier.
The soldier smiled, unfazed by the pause.
"You look weary, Master. There's room in the cart if you'd like to ride!"
"Ah, I'm fine. Walking keeps you sharp. Ride, and you get soft. Your vigilance slips."
Aslan waved him off, and the soldier grinned sheepishly.
Seeing the man's faint disappointment, Aslan turned to Angie, who walked beside him.
"What about you? Looks like he'd love to give you a ride."
"Me?"
Angie blinked her golden eyes through her bangs, then shook her head.
"Don't need that kind of thing."
Her curt refusal carried a trace of childish bravado—the pride of someone insisting they were grown.
Aslan snorted softly at her self-satisfied expression. The soldier picked up on it too, grinning as he spoke.
"That's a shame! If you ever change your mind, just say the word!"
Angie gave him a small nod, and the soldier, unfazed, quickened his pace. He moved toward the front of the column and disappeared among the sea of shoulders.
As the formation shifted, Aslan caught the glances of the mages—thinly veiled hostility mixed with something else.
Their looks swept over him and the soldiers alike.
When Aslan's eyes met theirs, the glares faltered. Fear swallowed the resentment.
He could feel the two opposing currents of emotion flowing through the column.
His efforts to win the soldiers' goodwill hadn't been wasted.
Not all of it had been a calculated act, but the soldiers couldn't distinguish between Aslan's genuine moments and his strategy. They'd started to see him favorably.
Even the meaning of the title "Emperor-slayer" was shifting among the troops.
They knew the rough outline of what had happened.
He'd killed an emperor to protect a child.
To nobles, that was a horrifying crime. To the soldiers, most of them commoners, it didn't quite land the same way.
Whether emperor or noble, to a commoner, they were all distant lords high above.
The image-making had worked. The soldiers treated Aslan with unguarded familiarity.
'Word will spread in the Imperial Capital too.'
Two weeks had passed since they'd left Count Sholukund's territory and crossed Ashuld Barony.
He was beginning to gauge the effectiveness of the groundwork he'd laid for the capital.
The effect wouldn't be dramatic, but it would do its job.
Everything was proceeding as planned. Aslan set his thoughts aside and focused. The front of the column was growing noisy.
"What's going on?"
Angie scrunched her face in visible irritation, but no one answered her. The column slowed, then halted. Beyond the formation, something was approaching.
Cavalry.
Just over twenty riders surged forward, splitting around the column's flanks and closing in on Aslan.
'So this is how you want to play it.'
Aslan's eyes found the emblems on their armor, and a sardonic smile touched his lips.
The soldiers stammered in confusion as the cavalry encircled Aslan.
They stopped at a precise distance—perfect for a cavalry charge, but well beyond the reach of any infantry.
Aslan had anticipated something like this would happen sooner or later. He let the smile fade and watched the riders in silence.
A knight pushed through the circle.
His armor gleamed deep violet, and the spear in his hand shone with the same dark hue.
A black eyepatch crossed his left eye. Deep lines carved his face, marking long years of service.
The knight urged his horse forward with a heavy tread and addressed Aslan.
"Master of Combat, Aslan. His Majesty the Emperor summons you. Come quietly. Cooperate, and nothing will happen."
His voice was steeped in contempt and a faint, simmering rage. Aslan let his gaze wander over a man who was no stranger to him, though the knight was acting as if they'd never met.
His teal eyes swept toward the soldiers—confused, but nursing some inarticulate resentment of their own.
Reading their faces told Aslan exactly how to play this.
He shifted his weight, tilted his chin up, and answered.
"No."
*
"Why not?"
Everything was burning.
Nothing was spared. The flames rose as if to swallow the earth, and even the smoke billowing from scorched trees was stained red.
Sparks twisted wildly through the drifting haze—a truly apocalyptic landscape. And in the midst of it, someone sat watching in silence.
A woman.
Average height, a slender waist, long, well-proportioned limbs wrapped in a silk nun's habit.
Her short white hair looked almost mystical, and her soft pink eyes brimmed with apparent goodwill.
Despite that gentle, pitiable appearance, she was perched on a massive greataxe like a stool, calmly observing the figure kneeling before her.
"It's about time for my nap, you know. What's all this about? I'm tired."
At her petulant complaint, the kneeling figure vomited blood.
Unlike the woman—immaculate, entirely human in appearance—the creature on its knees was clearly inhuman.
Its large, insectile head bore charred antennae, and its lower jaw hung shattered and tattered.
The classic form of a Warrior Monk. But this one was missing its left arm, and cracks spiderwebbed across its entire carapace.
The Warrior Monk clattered what remained of its jaw.
"I m-might tell you... if you offer up your head."
The woman made a sad face at that. Then she reached out, gently, and brought her hand to the kneeling creature's face.
Crunch!
"Gyaaaaagh!"
She pressed her finger into its compound eye. A wet, bursting sound, and the eye ruptured. The Warrior Monk's remaining good hand shot up and clamped around her wrist.
"Why say such cruel things? You make me feel like an idiot for asking politely."
Without the slightest sign of exertion, she ground deeper into the eye socket and twisted her finger, tearing the eye free.
The Warrior Monk gasped, blood and ichor streaming down its face.
"It wasn't a hard question. Just tell me where the Last Descendant of the Ancient God is going, what he's doing. That's all I asked."
The woman pouted. The Warrior Monk clattered its jaw in a bitter laugh.
"Politely...? Don't make me laugh..."
It spat the words out and rolled its one remaining compound eye.
Fire in every direction. Among the flames lay faces it recognized.
They all wore the same insectile visages and bodies. Split apart in death, yet their carapaces were hard, their weapons still close at hand.
Six Warrior Monks in total. Depending on their composition, that was a force that could fight an entire noble's army without taking a scratch.
And they'd been annihilated without so much as grazing a single hem.
Even accounting for the ambush, it should have been impossible.
Under normal circumstances.
The Warrior Monk laughed through its ragged breathing. The raging inferno made every breath agony.
"Hm, I'd say this is quite polite, wouldn't you?"
The woman propped her chin on her hand, responding to the Warrior Monk's laughter.
"Everyone knows the War God has the Ancient God's descendant in tow. That's why we're all urgently dispatching priests. We just happen to live right next door to your territory, so we got here first."
"You... won't get through to me. Who was it... who threw an axe the moment she saw us?"
The Warrior Monk's tone was sharp, but the woman only reached out again, stroking its cheek. The bristly hairs covering its rough carapace singed under her heat-laden touch.
"Gkkkh..."
"That's why I said this is polite. If you had him, wouldn't you have sent the Sword of the War God against us?"
The Sword of the War God. Even through its insectoid features, the Warrior Monk's face visibly twisted.
"And anyway, we sent a high priest, didn't we?"
The woman placed a hand on her chest as she said it.
The Warrior Monk laughed hollowly.
The casual way she invoked the Sword of the War God was absurd—and yet, it made perfect sense.
A high priest was that kind of existence.
Priests were humans who had transcended humanity. Superhumans who wielded divine power, with monstrously powerful bodies and divine authorities.
And a high priest was, in a sense, a priest above priests.
A being with physical abilities beyond any ordinary priest's comparison, commanding divine authority that could rightfully be called the god's right hand.
Each god could have only one.
You could call them demigods.
The only difference was that their origin lay in Geladrion.
One god, one high priest. The sole exception to that rule was the gods served by the being before him.
The Cosmic Inevitable.
The three great evils ordained to mark the universe's end.
And among them, the high priest of the Fire-weaving Spider. The Master of Blunt Weapons.
"Saintess of Slaughter, Ereta."
"Oh my, you've only just figured it out? Would you like a prize?"
The woman—Ereta—laughed softly, whether tickled by the flames licking at her skin or amused that he'd finally spoken her name. She stroked the Warrior Monk's head.
The Warrior Monk lifted its head and sneered despite everything.
"Ridiculous. You, a mere Master of Blunt Weapons and saint to vermin—do you think you can reach the realm where the Sword of the War God stands?"
The woman's hand stilled. The Warrior Monk growled.
"A bitch who exalts insects couldn't possibly fathom the will of a god. Comparing yourself to the Sword of the War God—that is arrogance itself..."
The Warrior Monk continued its contemptuous tirade as if stating simple facts. The woman pouted, then reached out again. With her thumb, she pressed into the remaining compound eye and pushed until it burst.
"Gyaaaaagh!"
"Honestly, you have no idea how a woman's heart works. It's basic manners to pretend not to notice the things that bother her."
"Khh... Right to the heart, isn't it...? Three Evil Gods, you boast... but your god... unless all three unite... you've got no chance..."
"Are you going to say more nasty things?"
Chzzzt. The chitin in her grip sizzled, and the Warrior Monk screamed.
"If you won't talk, then I'm done here. I'll find him myself."
Blinded in both eyes, consciousness fading under the surge of heat, the Warrior Monk lifted its head one last time and laughed.
"Someday... the Sword of the War God... will claim your head."
The woman called Ereta fell silent, watching. The Warrior Monk's expression slowly hardened at that strange stillness, and then she spoke.
"You never realized, did you? That I've been following you this whole time. That I knew you were heading for the Imperial Capital—all of it was exposed."
"...Why would you..."
The moment the Warrior Monk's sneer froze, the massive greataxe came down on its head.
It split the chitin with ease, searing through flesh as flames cleaved the body in two.
The bisected halves twitched violently, then collapsed to either side. The woman smiled at the corpse as she answered.
"I don't know—because I wanted to?"
Deep in the burning Sizdinal Mountains, the woman laughed amid the firestorm.
Everything around her was ablaze. Only she remained whole.