Civil War
Civil War
The encampment was littered with campfires burned down to blackened soot and grey ash. In one corner, a small group rested at ease.
Their composition was peculiar.
An elf, a woman, and a single man.
An outsider might have mistaken them for non-combatants, but their fighting prowess was guaranteed. The proof sat in plain view: a massive greataxe leaned against a tree as if it weighed nothing at all.
The axe's owner lay with her head pillowed on the man's thigh, her dark lashes fluttering. Each slow blink made the white lashes brush her eyelids, leaving her eyes glistening.
The woman, who had been gazing up at the man's face, let out a soft nasal hum and closed her eyes. The man providing his leg as a makeshift pillow lifted his gaze with a mildly troubled expression.
A small elven girl was approaching.
Fay, with her riot of blood-red curls and violet-blue eyes.
She was dragging something behind her. Even at a glance, the object was unmistakably a hammer—its head shaped like a dragon's maw, forged from a single piece of steel from crown to pommel. It looked at least twice as heavy as most standard weapons.
Fay hauled the hammer over, beamed, and dropped it in front of Aslan.
"For you, Aslan!"
Aslan allowed himself a wry smile.
His weapons broke often. Even the sturdy, well-crafted arms favored by the Warrior Monks rarely survived his use for long—they tended to shatter after only a few battles. Fay's gesture was, in its own way, an act of generosity. He understood that perfectly.
But understanding didn't change the practical reality.
"Thank you. But… if I have to carry this hammer too, I doubt I'll be able to walk properly. Do you mind if I give it to Ereta instead?"
At the sound of her name, Ereta, still savoring the moment, cracked her eyes open. Her pink irises rolled slowly down, swept over the hammer, and then climbed back up.
When her gaze met Fay's violet-blue stare, Fay manufactured a sulky pout.
"Fay brought it for Aslan… Fine, then I won't give it to you at all!"
A performance of childish petulance. Ereta, well aware the act was a sham, glanced up at Aslan. Only when she saw he had decided to play along did she respond.
"Wow, I'm wounded. Do you really hate me that much?"
A faint smile ghosted across her lips as she covered her face, feigning hurt. But even with her hands hiding her features, the curve of her mouth showed beneath them. Fay, utterly devoid of pity, planted her hands on her hips.
Then again, pity had never been part of the girl's repertoire.
"Eri stole Fay's spot. So Fay doesn't like you!"
Fay's spot. Ereta lowered her hands at that, her expression genuinely puzzled.
It took her a moment. She considered it, her hair rustling softly against Aslan's leather trousers, and then understanding dawned. Fay's designated seat was Aslan's lap.
Amusement bloomed on Ereta's face. She stifled a laugh behind her fingers, then doubled down by nuzzling her cheek against Aslan's thigh. The dense warmth of his body seeped through the leather.
"But it's my spot."
Fay fumed, pretending to rage, while Ereta teased her. Their antics were interrupted by a heavy tread that seemed to shake the packed earth.
"Why are you two squabbling over someone else's leg? Leave the whelp alone."
Tiyamal.
The Dragon-kin surveyed the area as he lumbered closer.
"Where's the orange brat?"
"She said she was curious about the ruins. Went to have a look."
"Tch. Off on her own… She'll manage. She's hardy enough."
Angie was at that age where curiosity burned brightest. The girl had always stared wide-eyed at anything novel, peppering them with questions. A little independent excursion was nothing unusual for her.
And hadn't she become the sturdiest and most physically powerful member of their group?
Perhaps recalling the screams that had accompanied the sight of Angie tearing a priest's throat out with her bare hands, Tiyamal swished his tail and redirected his attention. His slit-pupil dragon eyes fixed on Aslan.
"Hey, whelp. Quit lazing around and come with me."
Aslan eased Ereta's head from his lap. She sat up reluctantly, stroking his leg with the expression of a dog whose treat had been confiscated.
Aslan fell into step beside Tiyamal as they walked through the camp.
"…Why exactly am I 'the whelp'?"
Clusters of soldiers sat around scattered cookpots and campfires. As Aslan passed, they waved or called out greetings. He answered each with a smile, absorbing the gratitude woven into their voices.
At his question, Tiyamal snorted.
"This time you only bagged one. I got two. That makes you the whelp."
Aslan frowned slightly.
"Didn't we take down the Dragon Hunter together?"
"I'm the one who took his arm and his head. That makes it my kill. Right?"
"If you say so… Then which one are you counting as my kill?"
"You helped with the Dragon Hunter, so I'm giving you credit for one."
Aslan narrowed his eyes at the logic. By that math, the Dragon Hunter had died at Tiyamal's hands and Aslan's hands simultaneously.
"Your math is a disaster."
"Kekeke. Worrying about stuff like that is why you're not popular, whelp."
Aslan shrugged it off, and Tiyamal chuckled.
They reached a large tent, pushed aside the canvas flap, and stepped inside.
A gathering of figures clustered around a table greeted Aslan and Tiyamal.
At the center stood the commander of this battlefield, a close aide to the Emperor who led the soldiers personally. He was a bald, middle-aged man.
Flanking him were knights clad in plate armor. Most were the Emperor's own bannerets, men who managed farmlands in the Imperial direct territories, but among them was a familiar face: Sir Milton.
There was also the new lord of the Ashuld Viscounty, along with several figures who appeared to be mercenaries.
One mercenary in particular caught Aslan's eye.
He was a man with unruly brown hair grown to the nape of his neck, a rugged but finely-made steel spear resting against his shoulder. His mouth was curled into a grin that blended confidence and levity. He wore a leather cuirass, a plate vambrace and pauldron on one arm, and greaves on his legs. Beside him stood a figure in meticulous heavy armor—a spearman so thoroughly encased that not a sliver of skin was visible.
The man's face lit up when he spotted Aslan.
"Well now, if it isn't the Priest Slayer himself!"
His name was Tormule. A Master of the Spear, and a mercenary who had stood on the same battlefields as Aslan on several occasions. His manner was somewhat flippant, but his skill was beyond question.
Aslan raised a hand in a casual greeting. Tormule bobbed his head. The bald general finally turned his attention to Aslan.
"Ah, welcome. I trust you rested well?"
"Yes, thank you. Your hospitality was appreciated."
True rest had long since become a distant luxury for Aslan, but courtesy was necessary. The others straightened from where they had been leaning over the table. Their discussion of strategy, tactics, and supply lines fell silent.
"That's good to hear. First… we are grateful for your work against the Warrior Monk. Without Lord Aslan's efforts, our camp's casualties would have been far worse."
"It was nothing extraordinary. If anything, we were fortunate it was a Warrior Monk."
The bald general's eyes widened at that, and Aslan allowed himself a faint smile.
Over twelve years of survival, the priests who had attacked him most frequently were Warrior Monks. They came in droves, demanding his head as tribute, seeking the skull of the Master of Combat. Each time, Aslan had killed them. With every kill, he learned their methods.
To Aslan now, a Warrior Monk was hardly a threat. A wily veteran like the Collector might have posed a danger, but no such monk was present on this battlefield.
"The War God is on the lower end of the divine hierarchy when it comes to raw power. Among gods, its strength is negligible. Moreover… the sheer number of Warrior Monk priests is absurd, so even among them, the variance in power is vast."
His words didn't seem to land with much conviction. The faces around the table remained skeptical, so Aslan elaborated.
"Gods who retain humanity and reason tend to be weaker. The War God is rare in that it can even sustain a conversation. Its priests, the Warrior Monks, are generally not that troublesome. If we had been up against a priest of the Veil of Compassion… it wouldn't have been this easy."
The skepticism didn't entirely fade, but the Master of the Spear, Tormule, stiffened in contrast.
"He's right. I once managed to survive an encounter with a Veil of Compassion priest, and the nature of its power was profoundly difficult to deal with. I think what Aslan is describing is a matter of compatibility."
Only then did a few of the listeners seem grudgingly convinced. After all, this was the Master of Combat—a man who had reached the pinnacle of martial arts. It stood to reason he would describe fighting a Warrior Monk as easy.
But that wasn't the whole story.
Aslan's assessment was precise, and that precision reached horizons he should not have been able to see. It was an inference grounded in game data he had absorbed long ago—back when he was still Lee Hyun-woo, before he had become Aslan.
Gods that possessed reason had relatively lower "stats." Gods that lacked reason or personality had higher ones. The frequency of a priest's appearances was inversely proportional to their strength. The rarer the priest, the stronger; the more common, the weaker.
Hence, Warrior Monks were weak, and the War God itself was weak.
But that weakness was purely relative.
Aslan knew very well that this same weak War God had once devoured the God of War and Knowledge—said to be the strongest of the Ancient Gods—in an instant.
The power of gods only matters in rankings among gods. It isn't something that can be measured on a human scale. Any such distinction was, in the end, almost meaningless.
"—It seems Lord Aslan's assessment was correct."
Aslan had been half-listening, lost in his own thoughts. The sound of his name pulled him back.
"Pardon?"
"Count Sholukund and Count Warpol. As you predicted, the two of them are still at odds."
Ah, that. Aslan nodded. The bald general scratched at his bushy beard in place of the hair he lacked.
"It's likely just as Lord Aslan foresaw. The Warrior Monks have thrown themselves so aggressively into this campaign because the War God's influence is waning on both the Sholukund and Warpol fronts, and the War God isn't pleased about it. Word is he struck deals with both counts to expand his reach."
At this rate, Count Sholukund would be forced to abandon his current feud.
Aslan had anticipated this.
The perception that the Warrior Monks were obsolete was already spreading.
They were undeniably powerful, and they had once been invaluable in civil conflicts—but those days were behind them.
The lord of the Sholukund domain, a region heavy with rugged terrain, craved new lands. Yet the negotiations to acquire that land had not gone well. When all he'd won was humiliation instead of territory, Count Sholukund had little choice but to reconsider his arrangements.
The situation wasn't without its complications, though.
Aslan voiced that complication, leaning over the map-strewn table.
"If the Sword of the War God stays out of this, everything will proceed according to plan."
The Sword of the War God.
A high priest of the War God and an overwhelming asset capable of turning the tide single-handedly.
In Aslan's estimation, the chances of the Sword appearing were slim—but if it did, every battlefield gain they had worked for would be wiped out.
Whether it was the weight of his words or the shift in his tone, the men inside the tent fell silent at once.
"Lord Aslan can handle it! What's there to fret about?"
Save for one knight.
The knight let out a booming laugh as he spoke.
"Even if the Sword of the War God shows up, can't you just kill it? Honestly, if you managed that, the War God's faction would be crippled, and we could…"
"No."
In stark contrast to the knight's grin, Aslan's expression was dead serious.
"If the Sword of the War God arrives, this civil war ends."
A matter-of-fact declaration. Silence settled in, carrying the unspoken certainty about which side would lose. Under the weight of that pause, the laughing knight glanced at those around him and let his smile fade.
"A colossal centipede wielding 'Victory'—the War God's cherished blade—alongside an arsenal of rare longswords and greatswords… that is the Sword of the War God. It ranks among the three most powerful high priests in existence."
What was more, the swordsmanship it wielded was the very first martial art the War God had ever absorbed—the swordsmanship of the God of War and Knowledge himself.
A wily monster thousands of years old, executing the sword art of the ancient gods' king with a body of terrifying power.
Aslan knew the Sword of the War God had once slain twenty lesser deities in a single battle.
The information came from the game, of course. But now that Geladrion was his reality, he doubted the creature's strength had faded in the slightest.
It was a genuine monster.
The knight who'd laughed first seemed to finally grasp what kind of being they were discussing. His face went stiff, cold sweat beading on his brow.
"Then… why hasn't it come? If it could end this conflict, why hasn't the War God sent it here?"
Aslan considered the question before answering.
"One of two reasons. Either he fears another high priest will move against the Sword while it's occupied…"
He had been leaning on the table, studying the map. Now Aslan lifted his head, and his teal eyes glinted with a foreboding light.
"Or he's afraid the Sword of the War God and I will destroy each other."
The knight closed his mouth and did not open it again.
The bald commander picked up the thread instead.
"…Then let us pray it never appears. In any case, matters are advancing as Lord Aslan directed."
His burn-scarred finger tapped the map, and every gaze in the tent followed it.
"Count Sholukund has requested a meeting here, at the Tomb of the Erased One. It's some distance from the front, but… it's worth the journey."
Eyes turned to him, laden with expectation. Aslan met the bald commander's gaze.
"Count Sholukund has indicated he'll consider negotiations if the Master of Combat is present."
Aslan understood what that implied.
In truth, it was practically by his own design. He had known all along that the quickest way to end this civil war was to push Sholukund into betrayal. So he'd arranged the contact, opened the door to negotiation.
What remained now depended on him.
*
Aslan had no real need for the meeting that followed.
Once the tent's occupants dwindled, their voices reduced to wrangling over supply lines, strategy, front-line maintenance, and morale, he stepped outside.
He wasn't alone.
Tiyamal came with him, and so did the Master of the Spear Tormule, accompanied by his subordinate—a spear-wielder clad in full plate armor.
"Boy, this old-timer's going to catch a nap. Come find me if you need something."
"Fine."
Tiyamal let out a long yawn, the sun warm on his scales, and wandered off. Aslan watched him go for a moment before turning.
The Master of the Spear, Tormule. Their eyes met, and Tormule extended a hand. Aslan took it without hesitation and gave it a brief shake.
"Tormule. It's been a while."
"Aye, a year or so? You haven't changed a bit."
Aslan answered with a rueful smile. Tormule stood at a slouch, a brash grin on his face.
"Our first meeting since that wingless dragon hunt last year."
"A tricky piece of prey, that thing. We'd never have taken it so cleanly without you."
Tormule let out an easy laugh, and Aslan smiled back, releasing the handshake.
Aslan drew his hand back and studied the man before him, the brash smile still in place.
Truth be told, Tormule wasn't overwhelmingly strong among the Masters. His skill earned him the title, certainly, but he wasn't a force of nature like Tiyamal or Fay.
Still, a Master was a Master. His strength was guaranteed. And since he commanded a mercenary company besides, Aslan saw no reason not to recruit him.
He might be lacking as a companion in some ways, but there was no disqualifying flaw.
"So, you looked like you had something to say to me… am I right?"
Tormule rested his spear across his shoulder as he spoke. Snapped out of his thoughts, Aslan offered a faint smile.
"Once this civil war is wrapped up, there's something I want to discuss. More precisely, a commission."
"A commission, eh?"
"One unlike anything you've taken on before. Dangerous. A good chance you'll die."
At this sudden proposal, Tormule raised an eyebrow. Aslan watched the brashness slowly fade from his expression.
"Fail, and you lose everything. Succeed, and you earn honor, glory, and quite possibly wealth and influence that spans the continent. You'll be remembered in history."
The crucial thing was not to reveal his intent to overthrow an evil god just yet.
Aslan knew Tormule well. The man wasn't the type to throw himself into danger for glory alone. He was a mercenary through and through, motivated by gold.
And Tormule knew Aslan just as well. Anyone else making that claim would've been dismissed as joking, but Tormule rubbed his chin in genuine consideration.
"You're not telling me what the commission is… which means you'll tell me after I decide?"
"Obviously. You might bolt if you hear it now."
"Oh-ho."
Tormule possessed a streak of competitiveness and a taste for battle, but both paled to insignificance before a handful of gold coins. His attention had snagged on wealth and influence that spanned the continent.
The brashness crept back into his face, accompanied by encouraging signs one after another. The corners of his mouth tugging upward. His hand moving faster over his chin. A covetous gleam kindling in his eyes.
Aslan knew Tormule would come around. And Tormule knew he knew it.
It was in the midst of this promising atmosphere that it happened.
Abruptly, Aslan felt a sensation like the skin on his scalp being pierced. A sharp needle driving through bone into marrow—an illusion, but a vivid one.
Ever since he'd leveled up, this sense had flared at irregular intervals, delivering grim premonitions and directional awareness.
A mercenary in heavy armor. Short, around 170 centimeters. Armed with a spear.
The figure, not a sliver of skin exposed, was radiating murderous intent.
That killing intent had taken on an edge, shaped and sharpened, aimed directly at Aslan. Before he knew it, his hand had closed around the dagger hidden beneath his cloak.
A motion so subtle even a first-rate assassin wouldn't have caught it. Veiled in that concealment, Aslan shifted his eyes. The armored spear-wielder stood placid, as though nothing had happened.
"…Aslan? What's wrong?"
It could have been a mistake. But the Luck stat, elevated to a near-precognitive realm, had never failed him yet. That didn't mean it was infallible—but Aslan had seen what he had seen.
The mercenary's spear shaft had shifted, just barely.
A stance widened to thrust at any instant.
Aslan held the dagger in silence for a moment longer before returning it to its place under his cloak and gesturing with his chin.
"…Who's this mercenary?"
"Ah, him. My new adjutant. His spear work's tepid at best—nothing special—but the man knows how to stay alive. I keep him close."
Only after hearing those words did Aslan fix his gaze fully on the armored spear-wielder.
Within the dark slot of the helmet, a pair of chestnut eyes gleamed with an almost unnerving clarity.
"…Is that so."
What had triggered Aslan's Luck. That sensation.
It had been unmistakable killing intent.
Precise and razor-sharp—the kind of intent that manifests when an attack is being readied.
Which was why Tormule's words made Aslan narrow his eyes.
'Tepid spear work…?'
The killing intent he'd felt moments ago was of a caliber that only someone whose skill surpassed the Master of the Spear could produce.
The chestnut eyes met Aslan's wary gaze and gave no answer at all.