Baramunz
Baramunz
One problem remained.
Even if Aslan wanted to free the Master of the Bow, the crime itself would stay. Tiyamal Clo had shot at the sacred mountain venerated by the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom. If Aslan did nothing, the Dragon-kin would die a gruesome death.
Defiling a holy mountain in the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom was a capital offense. Even under the best circumstances, it meant beheading.
Breaking him out quietly wouldn't go well either. Aslan was far too notorious for stealth, and Tiyamal Clo was a Dragon-kin who stood out no matter who looked at him.
So the plan was to bring Tiyamal Clo into the fold while forming an alliance with the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom.
At first glance it seemed impossible, but Aslan had a method.
He walked out of the outpost. No concealment, no muffled steps. Just walked out.
"Huh?"
Lantern in hand, Aslan gazed up at the watchtower. The warriors on duty, who had been scanning the perimeter, let out startled noises.
They descended from the tower in unison. Drawn steel glinted coldly beneath the moonlight. Aslan watched the approaching warriors without expression.
Where did he come from? No one saw him go in.
Why isn't he running?
Baffled and uneasy, the warriors hesitated. Aslan stood in plain sight, lantern raised. He had clearly infiltrated the place, yet he made no attempt to flee. It was eerie.
Is he a priest...?
They encircled him, their eyes tinged with dread. Those icy teal eyes and that melancholy impression made him look like a man with hidden designs.
Only after Aslan confirmed every last warrior had surrounded him did he sweep his cloak aside.
When the cloak opened, the warriors' eyes flew wide at the two longswords hanging from his belt.
Before anyone could bark at him to drop his weapons or demand who he was, Aslan unbuckled the belt and let both scabbards fall to the ground with a soft thud.
None of it made sense.
He had walked out openly, lantern in hand, waited to be surrounded, and then disarmed himself. Unable to grasp the purpose behind any of it, the warriors held their silence and stared. Aslan stared back, face blank.
"...I am Aslan, Master of Combat."
He spoke without expression. The absurd declaration sent a ripple of bewilderment through the silent warriors.
"The Emperor-Slayer...?"
One voice rose from the heart of that bewilderment, calm as the eye of a storm within the settling night. It belonged to the outpost commander, the warrior chief who led these men.
Aslan gave a slight nod at the mention of his other title. The warrior chief composed himself with an unreadable look.
The man before him had introduced himself as the Master of Combat, and he certainly looked the part. But he had not stated his purpose. He had said nothing else—only declared his identity.
Still frowning at the inexplicable behavior, the warrior chief asked at last, "Why are you here? Why did you come out of there? What did you do inside?"
A press for answers. Aslan stayed quiet, fixing the warrior chief with those still, deep-set eyes. Confronted by the somber weight in that gaze, the chief found the man suspicious—but closed his mouth all the same.
When he did, Aslan spoke at his leisure.
"The 'how' and 'why' aren't what matters. What matters is that I infiltrated this place and spoke with the blasphemer you have locked inside."
Blunt words. The warrior chief flinched.
"Are you in league with him? Trying to spring the lizard—"
"No, nothing like that."
A dry, wheezing laugh crossed Aslan's cold features. Something disarming in it made the warriors feel their tension ease despite themselves. Glances and shrugged shoulders passed among them; an innate presence or force of personality had surfaced in his manner.
"I didn't come to help that Dragon-kin. You could say I came to help you."
"Help...?"
The warrior chief seized on the word. Aslan let his gentle smile fade and schooled his expression into something harder, a shift so chilling the chief swallowed dryly.
"What you have in there isn't just any Dragon-kin. He's the Master of the Bow."
"What?!"
The declaration sent a shock through the warriors. The title of Master was known across the Northern Continent, and naturally it carried weight here in the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom, so near the continent's heart. Murmurs of old tall tales—a single Master slaughtering hundreds of warriors—drained the color from their faces. The warrior chief fixed his eyes on Aslan.
Because now he remembered: the man in front of him was also a Master.
The swords lay on the ground, but a closer look showed a dagger still sheathed at Aslan's flank. If he chose, he could hurl it and kill at least one man before they reacted. And if he did, it wouldn't be a gambit to claim only one life. Fear was one way an individual could tilt a mass battle in his favor. The Master of Combat seemed more than capable.
As the warrior chief's hand crept toward his axe, Aslan lifted his once-lowered gaze and held the chief's eyes.
"A bow Master is still a Master. If that Dragon-kin decides to come out, can you stop him? Can you and your men subdue him by yourselves?"
He gave no room to answer. His measured, commanding tone drew cold sweat from the warriors.
"Let me be plain: it's impossible. As I just proved by walking in here, you have no way to stop him."
"What are you getting at, Emperor-Slayer?"
"I'll help you."
Aslan answered with his chin raised. The arrogance read less as haughtiness than absolute confidence.
"You're planning to transport him to Bersothof, I take it?"
Bersothof. The capital of the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom—the largest city in the tribal lands where Aslan now stood.
The warrior chief nodded. "...Yes."
"Then I'll provide an escort for the journey. To make sure the Master of the Bow, Tiyamal Clo, does not escape—and at the same time, to ensure no one tries to break him out."
The warrior chief could not make a clean decision. He was being swept along. Perhaps because the proposal came from a man who had already breached his outpost, he found he had no grounds to object. The only thing that nagged at him was the man's willingness to help. A sudden thought surfaced: He wants something.
Even that was within Aslan's palm.
"What do you want?"
Aslan's smile turned affable, his eyes curving into crescents.
"I want to meet the Great Chieftain."
"...The Great Chieftain?"
The warrior chief broke off, a realization dawning.
The Great Chieftain and king—the chief of the Crown Tribe—did not care for Aslan. Under normal circumstances, a visit would likely be refused.
"The king does not welcome you. So you want me to arrange the audience."
"Yes. I need to see him. I have a proposal."
The warrior chief nodded, believing he finally understood. He mistook Aslan's plan for the simple desire to meet the king. He never saw the true objective hidden behind the lie, and so the lie satisfied him.
"Fine. I'll accept your offer. I'll get you an audience with the chieftain."
"Thank you."
Looking at the warrior chief, who seemed to suspect nothing at all, Aslan sighed beneath his smile.
I don't know if a man who'd risk death just to woo a woman is worth saving to this extent, but...
*
"A woman?"
Ereta asked. Her soft voice rippled through the clatter of the uphill road.
"Yeah, a woman."
Aslan answered, shifting his gaze ahead. The men walking before them were part of the outpost garrison that had guarded Tiyamal Clo, now serving as escorts for the wagon transporting him to Bersothof.
Ereta tilted her head at Aslan's answer.
"He shot at the sacred mountain over a woman?"
"...Yes. Over a woman."
Ereta furrowed her smooth brow. She couldn't make sense of it.
"Was she a priestess?"
"No. When I asked him if he took me for a Warrior Monk, he didn't seem to be one either."
More than that— Aslan broke off and rolled his eyes toward Fay, who had been walking in silence. Fay met his gaze with a questioning "Hm?"
"If it were a priest, either Fay or I would have known."
"That's right! Fay's really good at spotting priests!"
At her triumphant declaration, the warrior driving the wagon glanced back at the group before facing forward again. He seemed to have dismissed her as a mere child. Fay wore a cool little smile beneath her face, satisfied by the reaction. Deception was one of her most effective weapons, after all.
"If she wasn't a priest, why would he do something like that... Did he have a way out?"
"Now I'm curious too. Why did he do it? Did he have some confidence?"
Ereta and Angie asked about the man who might become their companion. As they asked, Ereta wondered if Tiyamal Clo was hiding some trump card, and Angie—to borrow her own way of thinking—wondered if he was hiding some "backup." If he had confidence or allies, doing something so bizarre might not pose a problem.
The problem was that he didn't.
"No. He didn't seem to have any intention of escaping."
"...Ugh. Well, he probably didn't want to die. He's got nothing?"
"Nothing, he said. All he told me was that a good woman is worth risking your life for."
Angie's face crumpled in distaste. The image clashed heavily with the Dragon-kin she knew. In Belus Alpen, Dragon-kin were nobles who wielded absolute power. As such, they acted with pride, arrogance, gravity, and dignity.
"...Are we sure he's a Dragon-kin?"
Frivolity was the opposite of their nature.
Angie eyed Tiyamal Clo, docile in the wagon, with open skepticism. Aslan nodded as though he understood her doubt.
"He's a very unusual Dragon-kin. And I'd say... the possibility of him becoming a priest is basically zero. He uses the skills he's built up just for showing off."
Priests were usually born from tragedy, or from the relentless pursuit of power. Occasionally someone like Kornil Ashud was swept into a greater scheme and became a priest, or earned it through public achievements, but typically the mantle fell on those who craved strength. In that sense, Tiyamal Clo was safe. Using power for show meant he treated it lightly.
Angie folded her arms, expression unhappy.
"I don't like it. Using that kind of strength just to pick up women—it's shameless."
It seemed more likely that she disliked him for being a Dragon-kin, but for now she held to the line that she disliked his shamelessness.
"Mm, I think I get it, though!"
Fay, on the other hand, had no aversion to Tiyamal Clo. When Angie's eyes went to her, Fay grinned mischievously and latched onto Aslan's arm.
"Fay feels good when Aslan praises her! And when I show off my skills, you praise me even more, so I think he just wants to show off a whole bunch!"
So praise me more! she added, clinging to his arm. Aslan smiled a helpless smile and stroked Fay's hair. Red strands drifted loose under the gentle motion. Fay beamed, clearly enjoying it—a laugh as artless as a child's.
But Aslan and Angie didn't seem to share the sentiment on showing off. Aslan had always been a man of muted desires, and Angie, raised in poverty where survival came first, believed strength existed to keep you alive, not to preen.
Only Ereta, who had never lacked for power, understood Fay's words.
I think I understand.
Ereta loved Aslan's cold eyes—eyes that seeped a faint killing intent, always ready to take a life. They stirred something deep inside her, made her feel as though her heart slammed roughly against her ribs. Even the underlying reluctance toward slaughter fascinated her. She liked it when Aslan treated her harshly, struck her, let his killing intent brush against her.
But being praised is nice too.
She hadn't received much of it, but the moments Aslan praised her brought a different kind of churning emotion. A comfortable, buoyant feeling, nothing like being cursed at or threatened with death.
So she understood showing off one's skills. If she showed off enough, and if she carried out Aslan's orders well—
Could I be praised like that too?
Watching Fay receive those gentle strokes, Ereta even felt a private jealousy. She imagined herself in that place. Aslan's large, thick, rough hand stroking her hair, brushing her cheek, grazing her lips, cupping her face with unsettling tenderness. If she followed his touch upward, she would see his kind smile. That gentle warmth lodged in his melancholy eyes would be right before her.
She imagined that natural kindness—faded but never erased by long years fighting priests, humans, and monsters—poured wholly onto her. Her heart raced. A strange tightening coiled deep in her abdomen. A sticky, heated buoyancy tangled through her, and without realizing it, she let out a shaky breath.
Ah, that's it.
The sensation was familiar. It was akin to when Aslan had sealed her wounds after she defeated the Formless One's priest. The only difference was that now he wasn't even touching her.
He's not even touching me... why am I like this...
Her face reddened, her breath grew hot. Ereta was bewildered by her own reaction; she couldn't fathom the cause. She hadn't been struck, and their skin wasn't touching. She had no answer.
As if clutching her pounding heart, she laid a hand over the swell of her chest beneath her leather cuirass, willing her heart to quiet.
Aslan noticed and came closer.
"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"
He approached and asked gently. His face was so near. Ereta startled once at the whole party turning to look at her, and a second time at the proximity of Aslan's face. Her already pale complexion flooded deep crimson.
"You said yesterday you were feeling stiff and needed rest. Are you all right?"
"Y-yes, I'm... I'm fine."
She tried to mask her fluster with a smiling squint of her eyes, but Aslan reached out a hand. For a split second she half-expected—half-hoped—he might strike her, but what he did completely defied her expectations. His warm hand brushed the hair from her forehead and pressed lightly against her skin. At that touch, her heart slammed against her ribs.
Ereta flinched, then shut her eyes. Since she couldn't avoid it, she resolved to savor it. With her eyes closed, all she could hear was Aslan's breathing close by and the roar of her own pulse.
I have to... get my breathing under control. He'll be put off.
She steadied her ragged breaths, eyes still shut. Aslan kept his palm against her forehead for a long moment before withdrawing it.
"No fever, it seems... Still, let me know if you're feeling unwell. It might be your wounds from the fight opening up again."
When Ereta finally exhaled and looked at him, his eyes were gentle. So gentle that she bit down hard on her lip. Her heart throbbed until it ached.
"O-okay...."
The answer came out in a loosened voice. Aslan nodded and turned to lead the party onward, catching up to the wagon. The road ahead stretched smooth and level now. Unaware that Ereta's heated gaze was fixed on his back, as warm and clinging as damp silk, Aslan looked ahead to the city at the road's end.
Bersothof.
Known by another name: the Jade Throne of the Mountain Range.
Situated mid-slope in the Baramunz Mountains, it was a mountain city through and through. Watchtowers and outposts packed the sheer cliffs. The city's walls were carved from the living rock of the mountain itself, standing at the boundary where hills met highlands. The hills that cradled it made for decent living conditions, while the fortress-like mountain carving gave it an edge in defensive warfare.
Every peak within the city bore symbols and tribal trophies hewn from stone. Aslan studied the peculiar, eye-catching landscape, then let out a long sigh at the message flickering at the edge of his vision.
[Main Quest in Progress]
[ ! Repel the Priest Assaulting the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom]
[Time remaining: 27 hours 16 minutes]
It was a sigh of relief. Aslan's plan for Tiyamal's escape had been premised on the next main quest triggering exactly like this. He burned the remaining time into his retina and let certainty settle in. There was only one way to free Tiyamal while also securing an alliance with the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom.