Civil War
Civil War
"...So that's the place?"
Aslan gave a short nod at the casual question.
The darkness was so thick you could barely make out what lay a hand's breadth ahead, and even the stray moonlight was scarce. Two masters stood staring into the ruins.
"What was it called again?"
"The Tomb of the Erased One. Or sometimes the Nameless Tomb."
"...Calling it the Erased One's tomb sort of gives it a name, doesn't it?"
The words almost landed like mockery, but there was no ill intent behind them. The cheerful-looking young man with his spear propped against his shoulder spoke with a faint lift at the corner of his mouth.
"Young lady, care to explain?"
"Ahem. Is it my turn to step up?"
The corner of her mouth tugged upward. The girl who had scouted the tomb earlier answered in a tone unmistakably influenced by Tiyamal.
Catching that, the man with the spear on his shoulder—Tormule—smiled faintly.
"They say it's the tomb of some big-shot mage. Originally it had a name and was incredibly famous, but after he died they uncovered the bastard's dirty work, so the Emperor and his house erased his name and sealed the tomb."
"Dirty work such as?"
"What was it... he was trying to do something."
Angie scratched at her head, letting her hair fall messy, then glanced sideways. Aslan smiled and picked up the thread.
"He combined Restoration and Transmutation Schools to corrupt souls into observable states, intending to map the direction human souls take to locate the exact position of the netherworld."
Tormule's expression hardened at that. Corrupting souls. Making them observable. In other words, he had killed people and directly tampered with their souls.
Those details, alongside having his records erased. And the epithet attached to his tomb—the Erased One.
In Geladrion, where life was already held cheap, how many had he butchered to warrant having his very memory expunged?
Tormule grimaced as the implication sank in.
"Horrifying."
"True. Though how horrifying can a dead bastard really be?"
The agreement came from Tiyamal, who had already stripped off his upper garment and slung it over his shoulder.
"Nobody inside. Probably... like the kid said, the tomb's sealed tight."
"They haven't arrived yet, it seems."
Tiyamal nodded at Aslan's words, and the figures behind them rose from the undergrowth.
Weapons clattered as they stood, and freshly lit torches blazed to life. The sudden flood of firelight and the press of human presence filling the forest revealed a considerable force.
They were here to end the civil war.
To negotiate with Count Sholukund and secure an agreement to bring it to a close.
The pivotal role fell to Aslan. He rose to his feet, adjusted his cloak, and everyone behind him moved in unison. They advanced on the tomb.
The living stirred atop a grave that had slumbered for centuries, carving through the silent night. The dead below voiced no complaint. Aslan signaled to Tiyamal as he walked.
"Tiyamal, keep watch outside. If anything seems off... use your own judgment. Smash through the walls, intercept anyone who tries to enter."
"Right. This old-timer will handle it."
Tiyamal laughed low and plucked the string of the massive bow braced against his shoulder.
Behind him, a woman slipped into view and drew close to Aslan, leaning in to ask. Her upturned gaze was dewy.
"What should I do?"
"Ereta... the tattoos—are they settling into your body?"
"Yes, thanks to you looking after me, Aslan."
It didn't exactly seem that way, but Aslan accepted the pleasantry with a faint smile. The hammer resting on her shoulder gleamed in the moonlight.
"Then you come inside with me. A fight inside a tomb calls for a master who thrives in close quarters."
"Yes."
As Ereta grinned, Fay—expressionless—glanced at her and then stepped up to Aslan. Soldiers and mercenaries moved in chaotic order toward the looming tomb.
"And Fay?"
"Fay... outside perimeter. The interior is too awkward for you to shine."
Going by Angie's earlier scouting—what she'd called an "adventure"—the tomb wasn't particularly cramped. Perhaps because it belonged to a former house head, or because it was built before his crimes came to light, or because he'd used it as a personal workshop. No one could say for certain.
But Fay would clearly struggle to bring her full strength to bear inside.
Fay's power came from leaping and stealth. Her swordsmanship would be useful regardless, but posting her on perimeter duty seemed the better use of her abilities.
Keenly aware of that herself, Fay—whom Aslan privately called a min-maxer—didn't voice any complaint, only pursed her lips quietly.
Even that vanished into a quiet smile when Aslan lightly pressed those pursed lips with his index finger.
His instructions finished, Aslan braced the hammer Fay had handed him against his shoulder and stopped before the ruins.
"Angie, Ereta, myself, Tormule, his adjutant, and a handful of mercenaries go in. Sir Grimel will wait at the entrance and join us should more strength be needed."
The knight holding a massive glaive inclined his head and lowered his visor. Behind the knight, face now solidly hidden, several heavy infantrymen fell in.
As Fay and Tiyamal slipped away into the forest to establish distance and the mercenaries swept the perimeter to secure the area, Aslan planted his hammer on the ground and looked over.
Tormule stood still, fiddling with his spear shaft, apparently waiting for his men to finish their work. A trace of unease ran through the idle movement.
Master or not, with the possibility of Warrior Monks appearing, there was little choice but to feel it.
Tormule glanced around restlessly for a moment, then spoke.
"Think Count Sholukund will actually show?"
"I have to assume he will. If he doesn't, it'll just be the same cycle—push in and watch Warrior Monks die one after another."
Humans, of course, didn't always act on pure logic. Warrior Monks might very well turn up. Tormule knew this well enough; he gave a self-deprecating laugh and tightened his grip on his spear.
"Heh. If it were just a job crawling with Warrior Monks, I wouldn't have taken it in the first place. The pay was too good."
A sum Tormule couldn't refuse.
Tormule, who fundamentally moved for coin—Aslan understood.
"You'll do most things if the money's right. Coward that you are."
"Well, that's true. With enough money, what can't you do?"
Tormule's laughter was low. Aslan watched him—the Master of the Spear—then pulled his hammer free and settled it onto his shoulder.
That was the kind of man Tormule was. Genuinely a coward, fussy about his own safety, yet once paid, he delivered exactly what he was hired for.
Tormule was a man who had even fought a dragon—something no one could sanely expect to overcome—because he'd been paid to do it.
Titles like Spiral Spear and Master of the Spear were just byproducts trailing along after that fact.
"You have to earn your pay, don't you?"
"That's also true."
So Aslan had been confident. Considering the glory and the wealth that came from slaying priests, he could hire Tormule as a companion, even if only temporarily.
The conversation died. His train of thought died with it, just as Tormule's men emerged from scouting the tomb's interior.
"Captain, the inside is clear. You can enter. No traps."
One of them, a mage, delivered the report. Tormule nodded and tipped his head toward Aslan.
Aslan returned the gesture, took the hammer in a two-handed grip, and stepped inside. As several sets of footsteps entered the silent tomb, the wind seeping in from outside wailed like a ghost's lament.
"Coming at night really changes the atmosphere... why's it making such weird sounds?"
"Perhaps it's the mage sleeping below? Crying save me, save me."
"...Not funny."
Aslan was the only one who could have answered Angie's murmur and Ereta's teasing, but now wasn't the time to explain.
Though Angie, suddenly spooked, did draw her shoulders in slightly.
Across from the entrance Aslan's party had used, there was a second entrance. And through that opposite entrance, something was approaching.
The figure walking toward them wore ornate robes and was accompanied by soldiers visibly clad in heavy armor.
The soldiers entered first, sweeping every corner. The figure in ornate robes stepped into the tomb and surveyed the surroundings.
"...I've never visited before... but it's damnably gloomy. A tomb indeed."
A middle-aged voice. Its owner, who somehow sounded sly, cast off the ornate robes and revealed himself.
A middle-aged man with dark hair shot through with brown, tied low.
A face that in his youth must have been called rather pretty now, in the grip of middle age, held none of its former appeal—only a fawning look. Knowing the man's character was anything but, he would probably feel quite wronged... but at a glance, that was the impression.
Twelve years ago, when Aslan had first dropped into Geladrion, this was the magnate who had already ruled over the County of Sholukund.
Count Sholukund stood in this tomb wearing that fawning face.
The middle-aged man, dressed in fine leather befitting his station, stroked his chin and then regarded Aslan.
"It has been a long time. Lord Aslan."
"The honor is mine."
"Spare me the pleasantries. You've already thought I look like a rat or that I have a conniving face, no doubt."
"...That's."
As Aslan's expression turned awkward, Count Sholukund smiled and lifted the corner of his mouth.
Ereta's eyes widened, surprised to see Aslan flustered.
Those words—the things Aslan, once a guest at a banquet the Count had hosted, had blurted out honestly when asked to speak his mind after too much wine.
The Count said he didn't mind, and indeed it never caused any ill effect, but he never missed a chance to tease Aslan about it whenever they met.
Even if Aslan did still privately think the man looked conniving, some things were better left unsaid.
"It was a slip of the tongue."
"I know, I know. Teasing aside... let's talk business. Who knows how much longer we can deceive the War God's eyes."
The Count's playful expression smoothed back into seriousness as he spoke.
"First, your presence here... I take it His Majesty the Emperor also intends to put an end to this pointless civil war?"
"That is correct."
"Excellent. And you know, I trust, that if I throw my support behind you, this civil war will end so quickly it'll be almost boring?"
"Of course."
At Aslan's immediate answer, the Count stroked his beard with a satisfied look.
"My terms are simple. Half of the Ashuld Barony... give me the land up to these ruins. Then I shall stand at His Majesty's side."
Tormule frowned at the condition, but Aslan nodded.
"Agreed."
"Aslan... is that right?"
"Yes. This is right."
Tormule clearly didn't grasp the reasoning, but from Aslan's perspective, this was the best option.
The Ashuld Barony had already lost much of its strength. Most of the monsters it once bound to service, much of its mage corps—gone. Internal succession disputes were growing frequent.
Could a house like Ashuld still fulfill its role going forward?
Aslan thought not.
Though he had no political acumen himself, he judged that securing the Faiza Jungle and the Tarea River in exchange for ending the civil war and pulling Sholukund to their side was a cheap price to pay.
The Count likely knew that too and had set it as his bargaining chip. Knowing Aslan's martial prowess and character, he hadn't bothered with posturing or testing—just named what he needed immediately.
"Good. Then here and now, the County of Sholukund declares its opposition to this foolish civil war and swears its undying loyalty to Her Majesty the Emperor Ileina."
And the intent worked beautifully. Aslan agreed without hesitation, and no one present had grounds to object.
The Count, satisfied, extended his hand. A handshake—a gesture of peace that existed even in Geladrion.
"Then let us shake on..."
Just as Aslan stepped forward to clasp hands, a crimson stain bloomed across Count Sholukund's chest.
The leather garment, lavishly embroidered with gold thread, split apart. A long blade burst through, cleaving his breast.
"...Guh..."
Before the Count could even notice and reach for his belt, the blade carved through his chest and ripped free sideways.
A wet crack.
His ribcage split. The Count collapsed, retching blood from ruptured lungs, twitching and shuddering on the floor. Aslan drew a dagger from his cloak and hurled it.
Clang!
The assassin angled a sword and parried. The deflected dagger spun away in a clean arc. The clatter of metal rolling across the floor did not distract Aslan; he gripped his hammer tight.
Standing there was a Warrior Monk.
Specifically, an armored one.
The men they'd assumed were the Count's aides and bodyguards writhed, their forms distorting into insectile shapes as they drew their blades.
"Aslan..."
"When did they pull this trick..."
As Ereta and Angie spoke, Aslan settled into his stance.
He'd anticipated a trap, but not this. His face twisted with displeasure.
Count Sholukund wasn't a bad man. Not exactly good, but by Geladrion's standards, he was moderate. Greedy for land, yes, and damnably calculating, but... to lead in Geladrion, you had to be at least that.
He was not someone who deserved to die here.
Aslan turned his thoughts to the source of this betrayal.
In truth, the answer required no deep thought. It was obvious.
Count Warpol.
And—
Aslan's eyes flicked sideways as the heavily armored spearman moved.
From his lowered stance, the man accelerated. His trajectory slid toward Aslan.
That intention was likewise plain to see.
Aslan saw through it instantly. He shortened his grip on the hammer, which he'd been holding long, and pulled it back to thrust. The hammerhead swung up and hovered above him.
From the very moment Tormule's adjutant had first shown hostility, Aslan had not dropped his guard for a single instant.
If an attack came, he would knock it aside with the hammer, drive the man back hard, and break his arm. Then a shadow flip would destroy the legs and subdue him—capture him alive to spill information.
Thought crystallized first; Aslan moved. He readied himself to slam the hammer into the spear's trajectory and fixed his gaze on the armored spearman.
And then the spearman blatantly ignored Aslan.
No hostile focus, no attempt to attack. He killed his sliding footwork, stopped dead, and vaulted past with his spear shaft like a pole-jumper clearing an obstacle.
Aslan's eyes widened. The spearman who had ignored him landed and exhaled low.
Shhhk!
Then he lunged.
Aslan was never the target.
He had only feinted to make Aslan think he was, in case Aslan tried to intervene.
A clever tactic. The real objective was not Aslan.
"Tormule!"
The Master of the Spear.
At Aslan's shout, Tormule settled into his stance. Wide-footed, he gripped the spear braced at his side broadly and twisted his body. Rotation fed the thrust. This was no ordinary lunge—a technique imbued with the spear art Tormule had spent his life mastering, a technique capable of shattering even plate armor.
The technique that had made him the Master of the Spear.
Spiral Spear.
Despite the rotation, the attack was astonishingly precise, aimed dead-center at the chest—where the heart would be.
Tormule was undeniably the greatest spearman in the world. Among all who wielded the spear, none could match his skill.
Gr-r-rind!
Aslan believed it. Tormule believed it too.
Right until the thrust was stopped.
The spearpoint met resistance, locked, and ground to a halt in the space between them, leaving a trail of sparks. Tormule's eyes flew wide.
"He rotated his spear in the opposite direction...?"
Both Tormule and Aslan stared in shock. What they saw defied reason.
The moment Tormule's spiraling spear surged forward, the armored spearman had thrust his own spear with a counter-rotation, perfectly canceling the force.
A precision and technique beyond common sense. Aslan saw it and lunged to intervene—
"Gah...!"
—but Tormule and the spearman moved at the same instant. The hands gripping the spear shafts shifted with lethal speed, retracting and then whipping through savage rotations. The rotations halted, then drove toward each other. The counter-rotations converged at the spearpoint.
A flash that would tear through plate steel and pierce even the thickest monster hide.
That flash pierced through Tormule's chest, and Tormule's spear tore the helmet from the spearman's head.
Clang—a wet crack.
The helmet shattered and Tormule's chest split almost simultaneously, but the armored spearman's strike had been slightly faster.
Tormule realized it as he coughed blood, eyes bulging.
"You... ghk...!"
A master, by definition, is one who possesses a talent or skill coveted by the War God. A master is replaced only when the current one dies or when someone emerges with superior skill and talent.
And so Aslan understood.
"The Master of the Spear—has changed!"
The Warrior Monks shouted it in unison. Amid the cry, the spearman's helmet shattered completely and fell away.
As the scattered fragments of plate clattered down, the face revealed beneath was that of a woman.
A thick, single braid of brown hair hung down her back. Gentle eyes forced into a harsh glare, a face framed by large chestnut eyes and doll-like features. At first glance she could have been a noble lady. This woman gripped her spear and fixed Tormule with eyes burning with hatred.
At that fathomless hate, Tormule spat blood. The woman whispered low.
"Do you recognize me?"
Tormule's eyes, capturing that woman, quivered with horrified recognition.