The First Snow of the Northern Empire
The First Snow of the Northern Empire
"A duel... you mean?"
"Yes, a duel."
Rumel asked, her puzzlement plain, and Aslan answered lightly. Then, seeing her expression, he explained the history of the Northern Empire.
The Northern Empire claimed descent from the Ancient Empire.
The Ancient Empire had been a violently martial state.
It projected influence across the Northern Continent, established outposts, and devoured the entire Southern Continent. A fiercely combative disposition was only natural.
The fact that their chief deity was the God of War and Knowledge made that plain enough.
Such an empire demanded an emperor who was strong.
The ruler who sat atop that brutally martial state had to be the mightiest warrior in the empire.
The last of them, the Emperor's Sword, the Sword of the War God, was proof enough of that tradition.
So the Northern Empire, claiming that heritage, demanded strength from its emperor by custom.
That much wouldn't have changed.
Some traditions do not yield easily.
Even with the so-called Blessed Ones—those who had received the improved monsterization—the throne battle royale they waged was governed by the logic of power.
And in the midst of that, the only way to settle a power struggle without a war, with minimal bloodshed, was a duel.
That was why Aslan had said Rumel's role would be the most critical.
Unlike the standard duels of the Northern Continent, Northern Empire duels did not permit champions.
The sole exception was the general. The emperor's blade, regarded as the emperor's very martial might made flesh.
And now, the emperor's blade stood in a clearing within the inner fortress, bearing a spear that glowed gold and the heirloom sword called the Emperor's Sword.
"So that's what you meant."
"That's right."
Rumel murmured the words, her expression dignified, and Aslan acknowledged them.
Across from them stood a band of ragged warriors and a man of massive build.
That man was Red Mane.
A towering, shaggy figure whose hair blazed a strange color somewhere between scarlet and crimson.
A warrior who had repeatedly challenged Balder to duels, and kept returning despite being refused every time.
A warrior whose eyes flickered with open greed, a greatsword in his grip.
As Aslan and Rumel regarded him, the man let out a hearty laugh and hoisted the greatsword onto his shoulder.
Soldiers encircled them. Under the weight of their stares, Aslan glanced toward Rumel.
"What would you have me do?"
Rumel asked, veiled wariness beneath her dignified mask.
She was alert, grip tight on her spear, tension radiating from her.
Aslan watched Red Mane—who didn't look particularly impressive—and shrugged.
"Anything you like, as long as you don't kill him."
"And if he turns out to be a priest?"
So that was the source of her tension. Aslan studied the man called Red Mane again.
Just a big frame. No trace of mutation, no palpable divinity.
The greatsword looked ordinary too.
He hadn't yet seen the man's monsterized form, but Aslan felt no sense of a priest from Red Mane.
Of course, overconfidence served no one. Aslan considered for a moment, then spoke.
"If he is a priest, Fay and I will intervene. Don't worry."
The odds of him actually being a priest were slim. Even if he was cunning enough to fool Aslan's senses, it wouldn't matter.
Fay's speed outstripped that of most priests.
Aslan was certain he could step in before any priest could harm Rumel.
The soldiers' opinion might sour afterward, but Aslan had no intention of sending a companion into danger for the sake of public sentiment.
When he told her not to worry, Rumel shook her head, looking, if anything, more concerned.
Suppressing the faint smile that had almost surfaced, she stepped forward.
At her movement, Red Mane, who had been waiting with his greatsword on his shoulder, stepped forward as well. They closed the distance, then halted just outside each other's reach.
The clamor of the warriors died down. Red Mane regarded Rumel with greedy eyes and spoke.
"So you're the general?"
"Yes."
Rumel's answer was indifferent, but Red Mane seemed unbothered as his gaze raked over her.
A woman whose generous figure not even the cloak and Anton's enchanted dress could conceal, and whose dignified expression sat strangely with that body.
Red Mane watched her with an air of interest, then tossed out a remark.
"What a waste."
Rumel did not react.
She simply gazed at him, spear in hand. Red Mane, stroking his chin under that emotionless stare, eventually produced something like a faint smirk.
"Never understood why a fine woman like you serves under a wretch like Balder. Everyone knows that bastard can't even act like a proper man."
A provocation with an obvious aim. Words clearly meant to make Rumel lose her composure and charge in.
Rumel, who felt nothing whatsoever for Balder, remained unmoved. At her non-reaction, Red Mane clicked his tongue and added,
"Come under me, and I'll give you twice what he promised, and show you what a real man can do. What do you say?"
The phrasing wasn't crude, but the meaning was.
Rumel found no reason even to acknowledge it and stayed silent. When every goad he threw met utter stillness, Red Mane clicked his tongue again and rolled his shoulders.
"Cold, aren't you. No fun at all."
He chuckled as he loosened up, licked his lips with something like regret, and drove his greatsword into the ground.
The thought crossed Rumel's mind that perhaps part of what he'd said had been sincere. Then Red Mane began to change.
Crack. Krrk. Crunch.
The chilling sounds of flesh twisting, bones snapping, joints stretching. His long red mane slowly lengthened and spread across his entire body.
In moments, a towering beast with a truly red mane stood where the man had been.
It was a remarkable creature.
A red lion nearly three meters tall, larger than Tiyamal.
A beast with a crimson hide and four horns sprouting from its head.
A unique form blending at least two kinds of animal.
Armor sat over that form. He gripped the heavy greatsword in one hand, breath rumbling out in a growl. The hot exhalation left white trails in the air before fading.
A shape that could only be called a monster.
Rumel looked up at it, her expression cold, and adjusted her grip on her spear. Red Mane spoke, his voice resonant.
"Well, no matter. We'll see if you're still so composed once I've put you down."
Red Mane, in his lion shape, adjusted his grip on the greatsword and let out a greasy laugh.
Rumel watched him silently, then shifted only her eyes toward Aslan.
Aslan met her gaze and gave a slight shake of his head.
The gesture meant: not a priest. Rumel slowly returned her eyes to Red Mane and spun her spear.
The spear traced a brilliant arc. She caught it and settled into her stance. Red Mane looked at the impossibly slender woman and thought of what would follow.
Thought of how he would toy with her once he won the duel.
How he would savor that voluptuous body, what he would do.
Regrettably for him, none of that came to pass.
Exactly sixteen exchanges into the duel, Red Mane collapsed, his body riddled with holes.
When he regained his senses, he found himself lying in a pool of his own blood.
Amid the severed pieces of his own limbs, he met a pair of pale brown eyes looking down at him.
Utterly pitiless eyes—the kind of gaze one might give an insect.
"Will you continue?"
The voice that fell from those delicate lips was as merciless as the stare. Red Mane, without thinking, threw aside the greatsword he still clutched.
"I... I surrender."
Later, Red Mane would congratulate himself on his own wisdom.
*
In a fortress standing almost within sight of the Faraway World—the space created by the Veil of Compassion—a certain beastman sat in the infirmary, shackles on his wrists.
A few flames burned quietly in dish-shaped wall sconces, and the heat from those braziers pushed against the fortress's cold air as it rippled through the room.
He hadn't simply been sitting there.
The beastman gave his mana freely to every patient who came, healing them without hesitation.
Most of the patients were monsterized warriors, injured so badly fighting nearby factions that they could no longer regenerate.
Their bodies had diverged greatly from human norms, but the beastman treated them without prejudice or fear. The warriors he healed returned to the battlefield.
They moved as if they had never been hurt, so the warriors did not fear seeking him out.
As a result, no warrior in the fortress regarded him with suspicion.
Even the monsterized warriors who served as the inner circle of the one who had brought him here did not watch the beastman with hostile eyes.
Many addressed him as "Teacher" and approached him with familiarity.
They brought smoked fish or meat, sometimes even vegetables that looked freshly picked, and offered them to him. The beastman could feel that his treatment here was remarkably good.
Considering that the beastman was, in truth, a Watcher, this hospitality was not a wise choice on their part.
But he was not so good-natured as to point that out.
Unrivaled in the empire in the Restoration School, and one of the three finest swordsmen the empire had ever produced.
Watcher Lesham gathered intelligence and waited for his opportunity.
Now, roughly four weeks since his abduction, Lesham was healing as usual while keeping his ears open for information.
He was stitching the severed arm of a monsterized warrior—an arm that refused to reattach on its own—using mana to fuse the tissue, when the warrior addressed another monsterized fighter in front of him.
The conversation began with a question about whether he'd heard of the new "upstarts" pushing into the region, and continued, mentioning a certain name.
"I hear they're part of Balder's faction. Word is, he suddenly took on a bunch of advisors who look like outsiders, and his force swelled. Apparently, he's got some beautiful woman who fights with a golden spear serving as his general."
"Hah, but they're still outsiders, aren't they? A whelp who hasn't received the Blessing, strutting around calling herself a general..."
The speaker was the warrior whose arm Lesham had just finished stitching—a sneer in his voice. He had the head of a bull, and his snort made his clothes flutter.
The wolf-like monsterized warrior across from him shook his head and added,
"Seems that's not the case. That general must be something out of the ordinary. Not a single Blessing, but they say she's beaten several Blessed Ones in duels and folded them under their banner."
Lesham listened closely, his hands still busy sewing the thick hide of the arm with his needle.
Rapid faction growth wasn't particularly noteworthy in itself, but Lesham knew that those under the influence of this Authority were not easily brought down.
Anyone defeating them was certainly out of the ordinary.
As Lesham began using a light restoration spell to knit the flesh, the wolf-like warrior furrowed his face and continued.
"They're getting as big as the Monster of Kravrig or the Knight of Lelanda. There are some famous names over there too. Not the kind you can just ignore."
"Famous names?"
"Red Mane, Bloodstained Axe, Bear Tamer, Lucky One, Lightning-struck Fisher... You know them. Most of the coastal lot."
Lesham found the names familiar.
Warlord titles, rendered in the Northern Empire style.
All warriors grown strong under the influence of the Authority, most having expanded their forces explosively.
If all of them had been brought to their knees in duels, they were indeed not to be dismissed.
Perhaps a path of escape lay here. Lesham was considering that possibility, but the bull-headed warrior remained unimpressed.
Until the next name came.
"And besides... they say General-slayer Aslan is with them too."
"...General-slayer? That madman? They actually managed to bring that lunatic in."
In an instant, the bull-headed warrior's expression turned grim.
At the gravity on his face, the wolf-like warrior grinned with a hint of pride and opened his mouth to continue—
"...Mage?"
Lesham had withdrawn while still in the middle of stitching the arm, and the warrior turned his head to look at him.
"Why did you stop? I don't think it's done..."
What the wolf-warrior saw as he turned was the beastman, a severe expression on his face, silver light kindling in his eyes.
In the beastman's hand was the sword that had been hanging at the wolf-warrior's waist.
Faintly glowing tattoos, gleaming eyes, and the longsword catching the brazier-light with an eerie sheen.
The pressure was exerted without a single overt threat, and the wolf-warrior closed his mouth. The bull-headed warrior, without thinking, laid a hand on the weapon at his own hip.
The motion was pure instinct.
It was a mistake.
The hand he placed on his weapon was the arm Lesham had just healed.
Lesham's silver eyes swept over the weapon-hand. A moment later, the hand dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
The limb had been severed without a single drop of blood spilled.
The two warriors stared at their own arm rolling on the ground with bewildered expressions. When they raised their heads, Lesham asked them a question.
"Did you say Aslan?"
Watcher Lesham had glimpsed an opportunity in the long-unheard name of the Master.