Baramunz

Flames blazed. An iron rod glowed red-hot inside a steel brazier, and the woman seated before it lifted the tool free.

Sssss.

She plunged the glowing iron into a metal canister placed right beside the brazier. The superheated metal cooled rapidly in the liquid, sending up plumes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of smoke and steam, the vapor tinted a vivid blue.

Once azure smoke had filled the room, the woman silently withdrew the iron. The metal, which should have been hot enough to radiate a crimson glow, was now thoroughly saturated in blue.

The substance coating the iron was a metal called blue iron.

A metal with extremely high mana conductivity and minimal harm to the human body. A metal created by one of the ancient gods who once held dominion.

It was the primary ingredient for mana tattoos, and on the Northern Continent it was found only in the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom.

The woman methodically spread the molten blue metal across a metal plate. The pattern stamped into it resembled a blazing flame, or perhaps the roots of some ancient tree.

She waited until the blue iron smeared on the plate had cooled, then lifted the entire plate and pressed it firmly against the bare back of a man lying prone before her.

A searing hiss split the air, followed by the acrid reek of seared flesh. The man gritted his teeth, enduring the agony, and only when the plate was finally pulled away did he exhale a shuddering sigh of relief.

On his back, a strange patterned tattoo designed to channel mana had been seared into his skin.

"Thank you, Great Chieftain."

"Yes."

The newly tattooed man steadied his breathing, pushed himself upright, and strode outside, draping his open coat over his raw shoulders.

The woman watching him in silence was covered in tattoos herself. They crawled up from both wrists to brush her shoulders, and more ink lay hidden beneath her clothing across her chest and back. Even her blind right eye was encircled by them; her entire body was a dense canvas of living ink. Yet there was a fierce, wild allure to her heavily tattooed form. She was still young, but possessed a peculiar gravitas.

Her name was Frida. Chieftain of the Crown Tribe, and sovereign of the Mountain Kingdom. People called her the Queen of the Mountains.

Left alone in the workshop, the Queen of the Mountains smothered the brazier's fire and returned the leftover blue iron to the canister. As she tidied up, the awning was pulled back and someone stepped inside.

"Your Highness. A guest has arrived."

The newcomer was garmented in a manner uncommon for the Mountain Kingdom. He was a man clad head-to-toe in blue-tinted armor, a matching blue longsword hanging from his hip. He looked more like an imperial knight than a son of the mountains, and he spoke only after seeing the queen thrust the iron rod into the dead brazier.

"It is a guest Your Highness knows."

A guest she knew. Frida's one remaining eye, her left, blinked as her pupil shifted. Her gaze, fixed on her outlander subordinate, gleamed with a faint blue light.

"Who?"

"The Master of Combat."

Frida's brow furrowed. A name she recognized, and one she found far from welcome. Her voice was final. "Tell him to leave."

As if to declare the discussion over, she snatched up a vest discarded in the corner of the workshop and threw it over her shirt, her bound hair spilling free as she moved. Between the swaying strands of her blonde hair, blue tattoos glimmered faintly.

"That... may prove difficult. The warriors have reported that he assisted in transporting the Desecrator of the Holy Mountain."

The Desecrator of the Holy Mountain. Frida recalled the boom of impact and the destruction that had speared into a mountain peak days before, and her sour expression deepened. The knight kept his head bowed, awaiting her answer.

"Speak plainly," she commanded.

"The Desecrator is said to be the Master of the Bow. Our warriors therefore accepted assistance from the Master of Combat, and made a promise that he would be granted an audience with Your Highness..."

The knight trailed off, his tone almost diffident. Frida let out a sigh. A promise made was a promise bound. As chieftain, she was obligated to honor her kin's word. Given that the promise wasn't unreasonably burdensome, she gave a short nod.

"Bring him here."

Aslan encountered the warriors not long after entering Bersothof. They informed him that the Queen had ordered him to be brought before her, and he agreed without hesitation.

"It really is all mountains here," Angie blurted out as they delved deeper inside, following the warrior's lead.

"We are seated in a mountain range. It's said to be a sacred mountain, so they likely maintain the natural contours as much as possible," Ereta said, rubbing at her face, which still held a lingering flush of red.

"That is correct. We built Bersothof while minimizing damage to the Holy Mountain. We rely on the mountain's grace, and so we avoid its wrath," replied the knight in blue armor who was guiding them. His helmet's visor was down, hiding his face, but every piece of metal adorning his body gleamed with that same blue sheen.

Aslan studied the knight's armor and weapon for a moment before speaking. "You don't seem like a mountain-born man, despite using 'we.' Did you come from the City of Mages?"

At the question, the knight leading them flinched. "Haha... as expected of the Master of Combat. Yes, I hail from the City of Mages. An outlander."

Outlander. The term the mountain folk used for anyone outside the Mountain Kingdom.

"But how did you know?"

"If you've forged full plate armor out of blue iron, there are limited possibilities. You'd be either a Nogin or a mage."

"You are correct. In fact, I am both."

The knight laughed wryly and lifted his visor. Only then could they see his green skin and ears longer than an ordinary human's. He had the green-tinged skin and long ears typical of the orcs of classic fantasy, but his demeanor was intellectual, far removed from any brutish stereotype. And the reality was, he couldn't be anything else.

As far as Aslan knew, the most culturally advanced of all demi-human races were the Nogin. In the era when the ancient gods walked the land, it was the Nogin who ruled the Ancient Empire and commanded the world. To this day they claim the empire's legacy on the Southern Continent, proving their prestige survived the fall of the ancient gods.

The most defining trait of the Nogin was their increased lifespan and superior physical capabilities, derived from a high mana capacity. Aslan now understood the seeming impracticality of forging heavy plate out of blue iron. They did it because they could.

"Green! How fascinating!"

Fay laughed brightly, Angie's eyes went wide at her first glimpse of a Nogin, and Ereta simply watched Aslan's expression without much visible reaction. Amidst the varied responses, the Nogin knight returned Fay's smile. The phrase "green-skinned" was no slur to them; it was the dying curse of those who feared the Ancient Empire. He gave a soft smile before lowering his visor once more.

"...But I doubt you came all this way to converse with one such as myself. Her Highness summons you. Inside."

With the aristocratic gesture of a knight, he opened the door and bowed. Aslan took note of the Nogin before stepping through. His companions followed, their footfalls and strides each distinct.

When Aslan entered the grand hall, the door closed behind him, bringing a gust of wind that whipped at his cloak. Past the fluttering hem of the garment, a woman sat upon a throne. It was a seat crafted from the bones and hide of beasts, and above the backrest loomed what looked like the skull of some gargantuan monster.

As soon as he saw her, Aslan dipped gracefully to one knee in salute. "It has been a while."

"Hmph."

His companions stood blinking as Aslan abruptly straightened from his salute. It could have been seen as disrespect, but Frida didn't rebuke him, and Aslan didn't seem to expect one. "Why have you come to me?"

The words were flat, disinterested. As she spoke, a beast slunk out from behind her throne. It resembled a bear, but its long tail and huge frame evoked the image of a wolf. It bared its teeth at Aslan, looking anything but welcoming. Even her question seemed less a query than a reprimand.

Angie couldn't understand the atmosphere. Aslan was the Master of Combat, a man held in high regard even by evil priests. Such a cold reception seemed utterly strange. Her confusion wasn't unique; Ereta watched Aslan with doubt flickering in her pink eyes.

Frida was not particularly fond of him. Anyone could see that. While the others didn't know the reason, Aslan and Frida understood it perfectly well. Aslan simply accepted her dislike, as if it were inevitable. His companions, lost, could only shift their gazes. Finally, after rolling her eyes for a while, Angie scratched her head roughly. "Ah, shit. What's going on? Do you two know each other? Why's she acting like that?"

Frida gestured to the beast. The creature, a seamless blend of bear and wolf, settled down beside the throne, growling under her touch. "I'll tell you," Frida said, and the group's attention focused on her at last.

"This bastard Aslan was nominated by my father as his successor over me. But he threw that right away and ran. He even refused my challenge to a duel."

Aslan just laughed quietly. Frida crossed her legs and continued. "To reclaim what was mine, I needed to defeat him. Even if I lost, I was ready to accept it lightly. But that damned bastard ignored the Great Chieftain's command and simply fled."

"Great Chieftain? Wait... this isn't about the position of Great Chieftain?" Ereta asked, puzzled.

Frida gave a cold snort. "The title of Great Chieftain is passed down through blood. Do you honestly think an outlander like him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could become Great Chieftain? Of course not. What I am speaking of is nothing so trivial."

Any position that could make the ruler of a nation seem trivial... Ereta's brow furrowed at the heavy implication. Aslan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠held a faint smile. "I have no interest in such a position."

"Even when it is the will of the master who taught you how to speak, how to hold yourself, how to fight, and how to survive?"

"Yes. My master gave his consent."

Frida let out a derisive "Hmph," her hand gripping the armrest of the throne. Watching her, Ereta frowned. Frida's demeanor seemed strangely familiar. It wasn't because she'd met the woman before, but because she had seen someone similar.

Racking her memory for a moment, Ereta's eyes widened as she finally grasped it.

Budongong.

The previous Master of Combat, and the figure now holding back the Abyss, one of the Evil Gods on the Southern Continent. Budongong, Astak. He was the former king of Baramunz... and Frida's father. Ereta turned to stare at Aslan, the word "master" echoing in her mind.

Now that she recalled it, Aslan's stance came into sharp focus. The way he stood firm, his two weapons hanging low, was a mirror of the one-legged Budongong. That distinctive posture, unshakeable in its balance, was ideal for wielding two weapons simultaneously.

'Why didn't I realize sooner?'

As Ereta's eyes widened with the revelation, Frida rose from her throne. Her body was a dense canvas of mana tattoos as she approached slowly.

Ereta now understood exactly what was meant by 'successor.' They were talking about the legacy of Budongong. The Baramunz Mountain Kingdom was the progeny of those who had fought back the Abyss when the Ancient Empire fell. And the kingdom held a custom rooted in its very foundation: the retiring monarch—either the greatest warrior of the age or the king themselves—would take up the mantle of Budongong and guard the seal against the Abyss.

The right Frida felt so bitterly robbed of was precisely that: the right to become Budongong. That was why she concealed such razor-sharp fury beneath her impassive expression. These were people who lived by tradition.

"Now, speak. Is there any reason I should set aside all those feelings and exchange words with you?"

Aslan listened to her sharp tone with a smile, then let the curve of his lips straighten. A dim turbulence stirred beneath his eyes. He felt the reality of finally moving forward. He took a single step closer. "The world is going to end."

"...What?"

The abrupt declaration made Frida scowl. "You've noticed the priests are multiplying. The gods' activities are growing more powerful, and monsters are swarming across the lands. Am I wrong?"

Frida didn't answer, but Aslan hadn't come for confirmation. He'd witnessed this pattern of destruction hundreds of times. The world never changed its course.

"The gods are doing this because they're searching for something. A small but vital ingredient they need to shatter the barrier blocking them and devour Geladrion."

"An ingredient...?"

It was Angie, not Frida, who spoke. Instinctively, she knew the ingredient was her. Aslan gestured to her, and she stepped forward, rubbing her cheek in slight embarrassment.

"The 'ingredient' the gods seek is this Last Descendant of the Ancient God. Angela Tail."

Aslan gauged that Frida was already aware of this. While she might lag behind Duke Hilsinger in the subtleties of information warfare, her capabilities were just as formidable. In Geladrion, no one who held a position of real power could afford to be incompetent. The incompetent ones had long since been culled.

Indeed, Frida acknowledged her understanding with a slight lift of her chin. Aslan pressed on. "Angela is the key the gods want, but she is also the one who can save Geladrion. If she is taken, the world will end. But if she can reach the end without being captured, she might just force the gods back."

Frida folded her arms and studied Angie. The emotion flickering in her single eye was faint, but it was closest to interest. She quickly calculated the situation. The recent explosion of priests and the gods' unsettling movements had already warned her that something was coming. Never in history had the gods moved with such urgent desperation. The world was definitely changing.

Sensing the central figure of that change was standing right before her, Frida let out a slow breath.

"Frida, you are the Great Chieftain. Protecting the tribes is your role. If you just stand by and watch, everyone will die. And that includes your own people."

"Hm."

With a soft huff, Frida turned and walked back toward her throne. She sat down heavily, her beast circling the base of the seat.

She looked silently over Aslan and his companions. Her one-eyed gaze was steady and sharp. "I know you stopped at Duke Hilsinger. You could have made the same proposal to him, yet you didn't. Instead, you came to me. To me, who bears a grudge against you."

Aslan allowed himself a faint smile, and seeing it, Frida sank back into her throne. "Why?"

Why choose Baramunz over Duke Hilsinger, with his vaster territories, greater wealth, and superior intelligence network? That was her question.

"Because I have no intention of settling for Baramunz alone."

"...What?"

"What do you think my goal is?"

Frida's brow furrowed. She had dealt with Aslan before, but she could never grasp his true intentions. He never showed what was in his heart, so it was impossible to know. His actions were consistent, but the scale of his purpose never seemed grand enough to account for them. She couldn't answer. Aslan provided the answer for her.

"I intend to kill every last god."

Angie, Ereta, and Fay already knew this goal. Nothing about it surprised them, so they remained silent. Frida was taken aback twice over: once by the sheer enormity of the ambition, and again by the fact that his companions already knew it. Before her shock could fade, Aslan spoke again.

"To achieve that, I need both your military strength and Duke Hilsinger's capabilities."

He stepped closer. The beast at Frida's feet let out a low, rumbling growl. Aslan ignored the animal entirely, his eyes blazing with a focused light.

"This is not the time to be divided by mere nations or ideologies. The world has entered its terminal phase. Compared to what is coming, every petty notion humanity holds is useless."

It should have been a ridiculous thing to say. No matter how much Geladrion was overrun by Evil Gods, humans were still human. Telling them to cast aside countries and ideals was profoundly unrealistic.

"I will ask for help from every kingdom and federation. I will beg them to stand on my side and fight the gods with me. From the Kallus Empire in the north, to the descendants of the old empire at the far edges of the Southern Continent... I will drag every last one of them into this."

But the coming apocalypse was just as unrealistic, and that made his impossible speech ring with a grim kind of truth.

"The hour of the end is approaching. The Evil Gods are coming. What they seek is this world, and there will be no compromise, no negotiation. They will mercilessly consume this world and rip humanity apart."

His voice was almost feverish, his teal-green eyes glowing as he spoke. "If you want to survive, we must stand together. Your Highness, Frida."

Fight, or die. Aslan stood before Frida, presenting this stark binary choice, so close that she could have reached out and touched him. Frida stared ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up at him, her expression sour. "Then what do we get out of it? What will we gain by supporting you?"

Aslan answered immediately. "Freedom, survival, dignity, glory, fate... choose whichever you like."

Frida let out a dry, humorless laugh. Aslan returned it with the upturned corner of his lips. "When every last Evil God has fallen, even fate itself will be within humanity's grasp. Please, stand with us."

Frida looked into his fiercely gleaming eyes and laughed. That clear, untainted madness... she had never been able to understand it. People call those who envision an incomprehensible future by two names.

A madman. Or a prophet.

"You lunatic."

Frida laughed, sounding entirely astounded. Aslan just laughed with her.