Bersotthof
Bersotthof
Mana tattoos.
The technique was far from common.
Only two nations in all of Geladrion possessed it—one on the northern continent, one on the southern—and it ranked among the rarest arts in the world.
Its power matched its scarcity.
After all, the tattoo carved into Aslan's own arm was a mana tattoo.
Aslan believed Ereta needed one.
She was a woman who could not fight properly, her body and skills perpetually at odds.
Ereta knew it. Even Frida had recognized it at a glance.
That was why Ereta did not try to stop him, though the fact that he was intervening weighed on her.
Aslan did not offer her comfort. He spoke instead.
He had come to this place to accomplish two things.
One was to secure an answer on the alliance. The other was to have Ereta receive a mana tattoo.
"You say you have a reason? What is it?"
Frida asked. Aslan nodded.
"Because Ereta is my companion."
The answer was not particularly logical. He had not intended it to be.
It was simply his position.
Frida's brow furrowed, as if she had failed to grasp the situation.
"If we form an alliance, Ereta will become your companion as well, Your Highness. Is cultivating effective fighting strength not basic sense?"
Aslan spoke while glancing at the beast prowling near Frida's feet—a bear still walking on all fours because it bore no tattoos.
"As a Master of Blunt Weapons, Ereta lacks only one thing: raw strength. With sufficient strength to back her skills, she will be more than capable in battle. A mana tattoo will provide that."
"...A fair point, but why exactly should I be the one to provide it?"
Frida twisted her curved swords. Small sparks scattered across the Wings of Stymphalos.
"You and I are not yet allies, are we?"
Aslan let a faint smile surface.
"Is that truly the case?"
He answered her question with one of his own.
Frida's expression shifted. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, trying to gauge what he knew.
The moment was entirely the product of Aslan's situational judgment.
He could guess at the conversations and deliberations Frida must have had with the elders.
By their nature, priests did not frequent the vicinity of cities.
Even if people did not understand the reason, they had grasped the pattern, and so they believed priests did not appear near cities.
That had been true—until Angie revealed herself to the world.
Two priests had attacked a city. One had been thwarted before succeeding, but the intent had been unmistakable; the other had forced entry and struck from within.
Frida, as Great Chieftain, and the other elders and chieftains would surely have discussed what they had witnessed.
The old certainties no longer held.
And in that discussion, they would have thought of Aslan.
They would have remembered the Master of Combat who had told them the world was changing—dying.
Recalling the words of the man they had heard through Frida's account, they would have looked favorably upon an alliance.
The Baramunz Mountain Kingdom was never close to the priests, or even the Evil Gods themselves. An alliance with Aslan was the only natural direction to consider.
But they would not have reached a decision.
Their enemy was the Evil Gods—transcendent beings of immense power who twisted the world and scattered beings no different from demigods across the land.
Against such beings stood mere humans.
Their martial prowess and techniques might touch the limits of human potential, but that was all.
Favorable consideration did not guarantee a favorable conclusion.
And so, here and now, Aslan needed to give Frida certainty.
He had to deliver both things at once: the despair of knowing they could not resist this vast current, and the hope that they could oppose the Evil Gods.
What was needed was not ambition—it was concrete proof.
Fortunately, Aslan had a single word for that.
"Kehil. The Throne of Gods."
Frida flinched and went still. The slender, almost contemptuous gaze she had worn a moment ago vanished, replaced by a hard stare fixed on Aslan.
What filled her eyes was not bloodlust or irritation—it was surprise and bewilderment.
Aslan met that gaze and continued.
"I am not acting out of reckless bravado. I am the Master of Combat, the avatar of Victory. I do not fight battles without a chance of winning."
"...Where did you learn that name?"
"That is irrelevant. What matters is this: the odds exist, but they remain only odds. To turn those odds into certainty, I must travel the northern and southern continents and gather people. I must unite every human and collect every scrap of the Ancient Gods' power."
Frida's pupils wavered faintly as Aslan spoke.
"And when all of humanity has gathered to oppose the Evil Gods, when my friend has succeeded in shaking even the Veil that separates the Evil Gods from Geladrion..."
His voice was calm, but within it lay the path he had envisioned through tens, hundreds, thousands of repetitions—the path to Victory.
Aslan pictured the future that hung at the end of that path.
"On that day, I will kill every Evil God at Kehil."
He offered no specifics. Yet Frida regarded him with an expression that suggested she either had some guess as to the method, or that the method did not matter so long as the possibility existed.
Even Ereta, confounded by a name she had never heard before, could only watch as the man and woman faced each other.
"...What do you want?"
"Grant Ereta a mana tattoo. For the sake of that day, I need strength."
He did not even raise the matter of the alliance. The moment the name Kehil had left Aslan's lips, the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom had no choice left but to stand with him.
Frida regarded Ereta with eyes that had gone still and deep, a shade of blue that held its silence. Her ruined right eye and her whole left eye gleamed with different colors, and Ereta swallowed hard under that gaze.
The emotion in those eyes was anything but kind.
"The blood on those hands won't be from just one or two people. The dead who bear grudges against those hands would be beyond counting. As you know, mana tattoos are passed down only to our own. And this is Baramunz. We do not welcome outsiders."
"The situation is changing. And besides—Ereta has already died once."
When Frida shifted her gaze to him, Aslan pressed his sword aside and continued.
"The Saintess of Slaughter is dead. The person standing here is Ereta, Master of Blunt Weapons. Ereta the human, who has not yet committed evil."
"Are you trying to play word games with me?"
The words came barbed. Aslan, anticipating that they might sound that way, shook his head calmly.
"I mean it. Ereta died once. You know I don't deal in word games, sister."
Frida seemed to accept that. She studied Aslan for a moment, then turned her glare back to Ereta.
Under that smoldering gaze, Ereta swallowed involuntarily.
Frida could not fathom how someone could die and yet stand here alive, but she supposed there was something behind it.
"So, having died once, you mean to say her debt is paid?"
A sneer curled in Frida's voice as she angled her sword more sharply. Another cascade of sparks shivered down the Wings of Stymphalos, scattering as though to divide them.
"No. A sin remains a sin."
"And the grudges of those she killed—do you discount those?"
"I do not discount them. I could not possibly ignore them."
Their voices were low, filling the hall, when Aslan spoke again.
"Ereta has already been abandoned by her god. In the process of discarding her, that god damaged its own divinity. The three Evil Gods are no longer three. The balance has broken. No god will extend a hand to Ereta now—they fear the same fate."
A companion who would never become a priest. That is the kind of companion I need.
At Aslan's words, Frida glanced at Ereta. But Aslan's desire to keep Ereta as a companion did not resolve everything. As Frida had said, the grudges remained.
Aslan spoke as if measuring the weight of those grudges.
"Of course, I acknowledge and respect the value of vengeance. I understand well that retributive justice can hold. In Geladrion, it is the common form of justice."
He understood. He understood that retribution had its place. Yet he wanted Ereta to receive a mana tattoo. Unable to comprehend it, Frida asked.
"Then why stand in the way? Why keep that damned woman alive?"
"Because that is not the justice I pursue."
Frida's brow twitched. Aslan pushed the sword aside entirely and spoke.
"The justice I want is not retribution—it is justice that actually saves and protects people. Retribution does not save anyone. It only adds one more corpse to the tally."
With a rasping scrape, Aslan drew the curved sword back with his feathered cloak and adjusted it around himself.
"I killed the Saintess of Slaughter and took her divinity. As a result, Ereta weakened and became a target for the brethren who serve the same god. She no longer has the leisure to harm others, nor the strength. I stopped the evils she could have committed—the evils she would have committed. I made certain no one else would be hurt or killed because of her."
Frida stared at Aslan, sword still in hand. That stare did not make him shrink.
"Retributive justice does not save people. Killing Ereta a second time would have changed nothing. Instead, I took her as a companion—so that through her, I might save others."
Before Frida could open her mouth, Aslan spoke again.
"I need Ereta. If you wish her to pay her debt, if you wish to punish her... then do so at least after I am dead, or after every Evil God is slain. Until then, Ereta is my companion under my protection. I will use her to save people."
Frida listened and kept her eyes fixed on him. But there was no malice in them. What she carried in that gaze were memories.
She remembered the first time she had seen Aslan.
The day Budongong lost his left leg—Aslan had worn that exact same look as he shielded others.
A hollow laugh escaped Frida. She sheathed both her curved swords at her waist.
"Do as you please, you damned little brother."
"Thank you, sister."
Aslan smiled gently. Frida bared her teeth in a savage grin.
"That doesn't mean I'm going to give that wench a mana tattoo."
"Sister—!"
"Quiet, you wretched fool. You only call me 'sister' when it suits you. Hear me out."
As Aslan moved to protest, Frida cut him off with a jerk of her chin toward the long corridor leading to the workshop.
"I said I wouldn't do it. I never said you couldn't use the workshop. Besides... your skill exceeds mine. Why insist on me doing it? She's your companion. You should tend to her yourself."
"...Forgive me."
Under Frida's scolding, Aslan turned to Ereta with an awkward smile.
Ereta had been watching the exchange between the two with pensive eyes. The emotion swimming in them remained indistinct, and Frida gave a derisive snort.
"What, does the prospect frighten you? Understandable. I doubt a woman like you can endure the procedure. It's no ordinary pain."
Frida's mockery made Aslan flinch, and Ereta blinked.
Even through her deep pensiveness, the corners of Ereta's mouth quivered faintly with anticipation.
*
The workshop. Aslan had never entered one before, but he grasped its layout and function immediately.
He was, after all, a man whose Magic Tool Proficiency had reached its absolute limit. There was no way he wouldn't know.
"First time inscribing in a proper facility."
Even so, it felt unfamiliar. Aslan ran a hand over the tattoos etched into his own arm and gestured toward Ereta, her body draped only in a cloth wrap.
"First... time?"
She lowered herself onto the treatment bed under Aslan's guidance and asked. Aslan gave her a faint smile as she lay down.
"I did my own tattoos myself. In the woods."
He turned his hand over, and Ereta, recognizing the gesture, rolled onto her stomach. The soft curve of compressed breast was briefly visible between the folds of the cloth. Clad in nothing but a single wrap, she was nearly naked.
"You did them yourself?"
"Yes. Myself."
He picked up a needle gleaming with a bluish cast.
He dipped the needle into a jar filled with molten Blue Iron, stirred it, and withdrew it. The needle emerged heavy with the metal, leaking azure light.
It was with this needle that molten Blue Iron was driven into the skin and etched. Ereta flinched as a sudden spike of pain lanced up her spine.
Distinct and undeniable, the pain crawled tingling along her vertebrae, rang sharply through her brain, then descended to settle low in her abdomen.
This art, made possible only by high Magic Tool Proficiency and Aslan's expansive magical knowledge, slowly bloomed across the exposed canvas of Ereta's back.
Each time the acute pain swept through her body, Ereta unknowingly let out a honeyed sound, pressing her thighs together and breathing a damp sigh at the moisture welling between them.
It felt as though some organ deep in her belly pulsed in sympathy with the pain. Clenching her increasingly restless core, Ereta fought the languid pleasure creeping over her and spoke.
"Why... nn... did you do such a thing?"
"...Hm?"
Aslan, focused on etching the tattoo, took a moment to process her question.
The memory was old and dim, but it surfaced quickly.
"I nearly died. I needed magic. I had scrolls, but their activation rates were low and the side effects were severe. I needed a tattoo that could force the spells to activate while suppressing the backlash."
The recollection was still vivid. He moved the needle as he turned the memory over in his mind. With each glide of the needle across smooth skin, a soft moan escaped Ereta.
Her breath heated, her eyes unfocused, she asked before she knew she was speaking.
"Did it... hurt?"
"...Yes. It hurt. But it was better than dying."
Ereta detected the faint indifference in his voice. It stirred in her both wonder and concern at how numb Aslan had become to his own suffering.
She could not decide whether being numb to pain was truly a good thing.
Stifling a breath, Ereta's hips gave a small, involuntary tremor. The cloth slipped, baring a curve of hip before Aslan reached out and drew the fabric back into place.
To shift the mood, he spoke.
"Why did you want a mana tattoo?"
Breathing a soft sigh, Ereta was slow to respond.
"Could you... not ask such a sensitive question?"
It meant she was embarrassed and wished he wouldn't. Aslan did not oblige.
Under the silent pressure, Ereta clutched her lower belly and answered.
"I didn't want... to be discarded."
"...Discarded?"
"Yes."
Her pink eyes blinked slowly.
She had already been abandoned once by a god.
Having experienced it, she saw no reason it couldn't happen again.
She had been searching, almost obsessively, for her own usefulness.
Watching Aslan, who showed no mercy to evil gods or their priests, she feared that if she ever became useless, she would meet the same end.
A faint constriction tightened her throat. Swallowing, she spoke.
"I didn't want Aslan... to throw me away. I couldn't bear it."
The words emerged on a scalding breath, and Aslan's hand paused. His gaze traced over the mana tattoo taking shape on her skin, then lifted to glance at her.
The bare expanse of her back, the subtle trembling that coursed down the frail ridge of her spine. He studied every physical sign, then reached out. He stroked the back of her head gently, soothingly.
At his touch, Ereta grew calmer. Only when the faint trembling ceased did Aslan resume his work.
As the tattoo bloomed steadily into its final form, silence settled between them. Ereta flushed to the tips of her ears, whether from the lingering shame of baring her skin or something else, and each brush of Aslan's hand or the needle drew a breathy, whisper-like gasp.
The silence stretched on before breaking, a moment later.
Near the end of the procedure, Ereta spoke.
"Am I... someone like me... truly allowed to stay at Aslan's side?"
He couldn't see her face. Couldn't read her expression. Yet he felt certain he knew what it was—a deep, sorrowful look.
Aslan etched the tattoo onto the vertebra near her tailbone and replied.
"What do you mean, 'someone like me'?"
The counter-question flustered her.
Even flustered, her thoughts turned.
A person who was gentle and considerate to everyone.
A solid man who never knelt to any tragedy.
A fighter who ran tirelessly toward his goal.
A consummate master without a single gap.
Summing it all into a single word, it was this.
"A remarkable... person."
Ereta's voice sank deeper into melancholy.
Because thinking on it only made her feel more certain she had no right to remain at his side.
Ereta and Aslan were far too different.
That truth wounded her, and she murmured without thinking.
"Is it truly... all right for me to be at your side?"
Aslan noted the peculiar fact that she was asking him this about herself. Even so, he answered without reproach.
"Well, I don't see why it wouldn't be."
"...What?"
"Whether I'm remarkable or not doesn't matter. You are a companion I chose. A companion I deemed necessary. That's enough."
Necessary. Her lips parted at the word.
Ereta flinched at the pain spreading across her back but turned his words over in her mind.
As she did, a question surfaced naturally.
A question about the end.
"If... when everything is over, and I don't wish to be punished... if I grow greedy and wish to stay with Aslan... what should I do?"
The end.
It was a topic Aslan himself pondered deeply.
His hand stopped. Ereta's eyes shifted at the sudden absence of the sharp pain at her back.
"Does that mean... I can't?"
The despondent voice escaped before she could stop it. Aslan did not answer.
"That's... something I'll know when I get there."
More precisely, he could not answer.
Aslan was still Lee Hyun-woo, and he was someone who would one day have to return.
At his reply, Ereta quietly closed her eyes. The moist pink irises vanished beneath their lids.
Aslan watched her, then spoke, careful to suppress any hint of a sigh.
"Still, how you act on the journey ahead, and how people come to see you... that is entirely up to you. I am only your companion. Your future is something you must see with your own eyes and choose."
With those words, the procedure ended. As Aslan withdrew the needle, the tattoo that traced Ereta's spine—like spreading roots—flickered briefly.
Ereta sensed the mana and power flowing along the new markings. A breath overwhelmed with sensation escaped her.
"It's done. Rise."
Ereta squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, and moved to get up. She adjusted the cloth around her body, her sticky thighs pressing and sliding against each other.
Ignoring the wet, sticky sound that rose from her legs, she was about to stand when her gaze fell on Aslan, who was setting down the slightly blunted needle and putting the tools in order.
Before she knew it, her hand reached out and caught his collar.
"Ereta?"
She herself didn't know why she had grabbed hold.
She only felt that something was... regrettable. Lacking.
But what exactly she regretted, what she wanted, she could not say.
As though swallowing down a vague, formless pleasure, she gulped and forced an excuse.
"Thank you, Aslan."
Unlike Ereta, who had no name for the words she swallowed, Aslan felt the scalding warmth of that breath.
Even so, he made himself smile.
"It was nothing."
A pitying smile crossed Ereta's lips at his words. A smile she herself did not understand.