Olpasbet
Olpasbet
Leaning on his staff as he walked, Aslan recognized the space for what it was: the Baron of Olpasbet's mansion, or what remained of it.
The interior still bore the bloodstains of violence, broken furniture scattered through the halls.
Even in the wreckage, Aslan could trace the outlines of the opulent residence it had once been.
And as he made his way deeper inside, his suspicions hardened into certainty.
Restoration School mages were rare.
Even a dabbler in the Restoration School was hard to come by. A true physician—one who combined that magical schooling with genuine medical knowledge—was rarer still.
They named their price, and they commanded the favor of the powerful everywhere on the continent.
The Cult of the War God itself paid dearly for their services.
A man who could employ such a mage—
"Ah, Master Muhim. Your treatment is... finished, I see."
—and who could march a company of heavily armed soldiers onto another man's land, as the guard now staring at Aslan with a flustered expression proved, was not difficult to identify.
The physician, making no effort to conceal an identity Aslan had already guessed, offered the soldier an apologetic look, then beckoned Aslan forward. Aslan followed him to the study.
The study the baron would have used when conducting business from another of his estates.
The soldiers at the door stepped aside. When the door swung open, Aslan gave a quiet, unsurprised nod.
A boy sat within.
Younger, Aslan judged, than he himself had been when he was still Lee Hyun-woo—before the possession.
Fifteen, perhaps.
Modest height, a delicate face, and a deeply etched weariness that defined his features.
He bore no resemblance to his father, yet Aslan knew exactly who he was.
Aslan inclined his head slightly as he entered. The boy looked up as if only now registering the sound.
"Master of Combat Aslan, I present myself to Count Sholukund."
The son of the previous Count Sholukund—now the boy who had inherited the county.
"So you are... I believe this is our first meeting in person?"
The young voice reached for dignity. It might have sounded laughable, but Aslan's expression betrayed no amusement.
If anything, it felt familiar.
A fragile-looking face paired with an unbowed bearing.
A confident manner of speech.
Attire that balanced noble aesthetics against practical convenience.
Just as the previous Count Sholukund had been loyal and shrewd despite his cunning face, this Count Sholukund looked delicate but exuded sharp self-assurance.
No physical resemblance at all, yet Aslan could see the father in the young lord.
It almost felt like déjà vu. The boy lord grinned as if reading the thought.
"Yes, the first..."
"You were thinking I don't take after my father, but the bearing is similar. Weren't you?"
The grin, the sidelong remark. Aslan stiffened for a beat before nodding. The young count rubbed his chin, looking pleased.
"My looks come from my mother, certainly. But I pride myself on taking after my father in everything else. He was quite fond of pointing that out himself. Used to say I was 'a fine harvest—took only the good traits.'"
The setup for a wry punchline. Aslan smiled wryly, and sure enough, the next words delivered it.
"He liked to joke, whenever your name came up, that at least I'd never get called shifty-looking by Lord Aslan, since I didn't inherit his face."
The young count leaned against the study desk, speaking easily.
It sounded like a joke, but it wasn't.
It was a way of honoring the dead. Of recalling happy memories.
A eulogy, in other words.
Aslan let his awkward smile fade into something quieter. His face settled into solemnity.
"I'm sorry."
"...What is there to be sorry for? Any noble living in this age must be cautious. The late emperor—no, two emperors ago now—he died at the hands of a priest too, in practical terms. If even His Majesty could not escape such a calamity, what can any of us do."
A war going well, then one priest appears and everything burns. That was Geladrion.
"It's a pity we never recovered my father's remains... but there's nothing to be done. I hold no grudge against you. Geladrion is that sort of place."
That sort of place.
The words came out with a sigh and a complicated expression. It was a boy's voice shaped by an adult's grief, and the rawness of it left Aslan silent, focused entirely on the weight behind it.
This, he suspected, was why he had been summoned here.
"I was told you had need of me. What is the matter?"
He was right.
The young count hesitated visibly. He fidgeted with his hands like the boy he was, then let out a breath.
"Don't... take this too solemnly."
He hitched himself up to sit on the desk, legs dangling.
"My father... the previous Count Sholukund told me this. If anything ever happened—something beyond human strength to resolve—I should go to Aslan without hesitation."
Aslan raised an eyebrow. The boy pressed on.
"He said if it was work for the sake of humanity—work that struck down evil—you might fleece me on the fees, but the job itself would be done flawlessly."
So that was how the man had seen him. Aslan's expression flickered toward a frown. The boy watched it happen and smiled faintly.
"He also said you'd never demand an outrageous sum. That if anyone tried to force extra coin on you, they'd just earn a tongue-lashing about looking shifty. He told me to place my trust in you."
"...Then."
"Yes. I've asked you here for one of those 'fleece-worthy' jobs."
For humanity. To strike down evil. Aslan stared, unable to guess what the specifics might be. The young lord sighed again.
"Count Warpol is dead."
"...Pardon?"
He had known from the sighing that this was no small matter, but this was beyond expectation.
Men like Count Warpol did not simply die.
Especially not a man whose paranoia ran as deep as Warpol's.
Aslan's brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. The young count nodded as if he understood perfectly.
"You're wondering how Count Warpol could possibly be dead. I wondered the same."
The boy lord slid off the desk and moved to the window.
Outside, his soldiers worked busily to restore order. Prisoners who appeared to have succeeded in their revolt were assisting them under the new regime.
Those were the soldiers a count's resources could command. Gazing down at them, the boy spoke.
"Count Warpol commanded a larger force than my father ever did. He contracted several excellent mercenary companies. Recently, he even drew in Northern Empire remnants. He maintained multiple magic towers and trained numerous mages. I found the fact of his death... difficult to accept."
He's tactically brilliant too—whenever territorial conflict loomed, my father used to grumble that his hair was falling out.
As Aslan filled in those unspoken asides himself, the young count offered him a crooked smile.
"At least, until recently."
Meaning he had accepted it now. Aslan could piece together what must have happened.
Only one kind of being could kill a great noble like that through raw force—no tricks, no schemes like the ones Aslan would have needed.
"A priest."
"Well, yes, but... no."
Yes but no. The odd phrasing made Aslan pause. The count's hand drifted to the sword hilt at his waist.
"A high priest. The Sword of the War God. He killed Count Warpol."
Aslan's face hardened. The boy spoke on, his voice carrying the unease of a child forced into a man's role.
"I don't know the reason or the circumstances. What I do know is this—forty percent of Warpol County was obliterated. Count Warpol is dead. Every notable mage and warrior under him died in the process. Refugees are pouring out. And ugly rumors are spreading fast. They say Count Sholukund is next."
"...That."
"Yes. Probably not just rumors."
The boy's hand tightened on the hilt. The knuckles went white. He met Aslan's eyes with that same crooked smile.
"The world is changing. It seems we humans are no longer such useful pawns to the War God. That's why I sought your help. No—more accurately... I intended to seek it."
Past tense.
Aslan felt the boy's gaze run over his body and answered it with a bitter smile.
"I've heard about your lifespan. The test results from before you woke... since Muhim isn't correcting them, I take it they haven't changed."
The physician—Muhim, a Restoration mage as well—bowed slightly at the count's glance. No further confirmation was needed.
"Five years at most."
Another sigh. The sigh of a ruler who had come looking for a way to ease his burdens and found himself deeper in the mire.
The gaze that followed rested squarely on Aslan.
A man who was missing an ankle and could neither run nor stand unassisted.
A man missing one arm, the other barely functional.
Hardly fit to fight. The count spoke with a complicated look.
"Tell me how to oppose the Sword of the War God. Help me train my soldiers to face him."
A snap judgment that Aslan could not fight personally.
"I am the lord of this land. I have to protect its people. My father would have wanted that."
And a sense of responsibility that would not let go regardless.
Aslan watched all of it, thinking.
The Sword of the War God.
The mightiest Warrior Monk who had thrown that name away.
Among all the foes Aslan had ever crossed blades with, only the Dragon-king rivaled him.
The Warrior Monk's true strength lay in his overwhelming mass—a presence that made single combat feel like fighting a war.
With techniques absorbed from War and Knowledge alike, wielding hundreds of blades at once, he had earned the title "Avatar of Destruction."
Even in the game, players had praised him as a brilliantly designed boss—one who suddenly made the scale of the fight feel different, in the best way.
That was the Sword of the War God.
And in terms of matchups, the Sword of the War God was especially lethal against armies.
His sheer size alone was equivalent to a military force.
A priest could not be brought down by soldiers in the first place. Aslan could imagine all too clearly how a subjugation attempt without him would unfold.
"How many do you think would die if you faced the Sword of the War God without the Master of Combat?"
So he laid the bait.
The count bit down on it and gave him a bleak smile.
"Countless."
Hearing the answer he had wanted, Aslan smiled back. It was a gentle smile.
Without the slightest hesitation.
"Then I suppose I'll have to face him."
"What?"
The count's voice cracked with shock. Aslan kept smiling.
"But I won't fight alone. My companions will be with me. My alliance will be with me. All of Baramunz, the Duchy of Hilsinger, the Kallus Empire, and the City of Mages—they will all join this subjugation."
The alliance. The great coalition Aslan was building to destroy the evil gods and liberate Geladrion. The count looked blindsided by the revelation. Aslan added,
"This is precisely the kind of moment the alliance exists for."
The count recovered his composure with visible effort and fixed Aslan with a troubled stare. His eyes still held unease.
"...An alliance would certainly help, but... are you in any condition to fight? In that body?"
"I'll use Equalization."
"What?"
"Equalization? On a person? Well, I suppose it's technically possible, but..."
Both the count and Muhim looked deeply alarmed.
Of course they were. No one used Equalization on a human being. It simply wasn't done.
The rule didn't apply to Aslan, so he remained unbothered.
"Now I understand why your lifespan is what it is. The side effects of Equalization... you could die doing that, Lord Aslan."
At the physician's warning, Aslan answered as if it were a minor concern.
"I suppose I could. But if I refuse to fight for that reason, a great many people will die."
And I have no wish to watch people die in vain.
The voice was resolute. The words that followed were even more so, steeped in will.
"If I decline now—if I turn around and walk out of this room to save my own skin—perhaps I might survive. But countless people would die because of my choice."
Neither the count nor the physician could deny it.
"You've already made the proposal. You've already told me how many will die. Their lives now rest on my decision. A single choice from me will determine whether they live or perish. Given that, my choice is already made."
A clear resolve ran through that unyielding voice. The count swallowed reflexively. Aslan turned on his staff to face him squarely.
"I will not stand idle while death approaches. I will not throw away the lives that fall into my hands."
That is my choice.
Teal eyes that seemed to burn. The gaze, always so cold, now held a smoldering heat. The count's words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Why go so far...?"
His eyes fell again to Aslan's body.
Aslan looked down at himself as well, thinking.
Five years left, at best. One year, at worst. Equalization would eat away what remained.
His left eye was already blind. His right eye was dimming—whether from age or his terminal condition, he could not say.
His sense of pain was dulled. He could feel himself dying.
His sense of taste had been dead for years. No flavor reached him anymore.
Home was distant and blurred. Even the memory of that landscape had faded into a hazy dream.
Hope was thin, naturally.
But it was still there.
And so long as hope endured, Aslan would not look away from the duty before him.
So long as even one life rested in his hands, Aslan would not stop fighting.
That was who Aslan was.
It was the life he had clung to for twelve years.
And it was what he shared with the monk from his dream.
Why go so far?
The answer had never changed.
The mana tattoo clinging precariously above his shoulder blade began to glow. A blue radiance. Aslan murmured,
"Equalization."
The magic that brought nothing but risk—the magic no one should ever cast on a human being.
The magic that had let Aslan rise again, time after time.
A blaze of phantom light. Beyond it, his limbs were returning.
A week of rest and Restoration School magic had rebuilt his strength. Equalization finished the work and restored him whole.
His staff clattered to the floor. Past the sound, Aslan spoke.
"Because I am the only one who can."