Master of the Spear
Master of the Spear
The Twilight Flock.
One of the two gods that had never existed in the game.
He had assumed it was a new addition to the game's pantheon, but he hadn't always believed that.
Aslan had undergone something unprecedented in human history: being pulled into a game world.
Unless all of this was some psychosis of his own, there had to be a cause, a source.
The first thing he'd suspected was the two gods who didn't exist in the game.
The Formless One and the Twilight Flock.
The more suspicious of the two was clearly the Twilight Flock.
No real activity. No sign of trying to accomplish anything. Almost no information leaked into the world.
Even the Black Witch, the boss right before the final chapter, had served that god.
Of course he'd been suspicious. He had tracked its movements, investigated what it wanted.
But nothing surfaced. He had visited its sanctuary in person, and aside from the fact that it was unexpectedly moderate, there was nothing.
Even the god's very existence was maddeningly vague. In twelve years wandering Geladrion, he had never seen a priest of it besides Rowena.
So Aslan had no choice but to set aside his suspicions. The information that did surface was so aggressively moderate he was forced to believe it.
But he had been wrong.
Aslan saw the Twilight Flock now.
When he had been cornered, with no way out, unable to advance the quest—
The moment he couldn't use the board he had laid out himself, it revealed itself.
Under ordinary circumstances he would never have known, but his Magic Tool Proficiency and Luck had let him confirm its presence.
The problem wasn't that the god had evaded his suspicion all this time.
It was that it didn't match the clue the Ancient God had left.
Sheep existed in Geladrion.
A common enough animal to appear often on dinner tables.
Even the symbolism was similar to Earth's.
A creature with a surprising temper, yet docile. Simple livestock, used as a symbol of purity.
'Why... a flock?'
Aslan was puzzled.
The Ancient God, the God of Sorrow and Death, had been clear.
That the entity's symbol was a creature that did not exist in this world.
Aslan had assumed it meant the god had taken as its symbol some animal that lived on Earth but not in Geladrion.
But that wasn't it.
The Twilight Flock used a sheep as its symbol.
That was why he had eliminated it from consideration when he heard that clue.
And so he had narrowed it down to only two gods.
The Unfalling One, whose symbol was the whale, and whose very existence was impossible to verify.
The Self-Birthing Mother, whose true form—was it even really a centipede?—no one could confirm.
He had been left with only those two uncertain possibilities.
Aslan stared at the desiccated corpse of Bolen and thought.
'Did the Ancient God lie? Was it controlled by the Twilight Flock?'
No. If that were true, it could have deceived him in far more lethal ways.
It could have led him completely astray, made him suspect some other god entirely.
'Delirium, then?'
The words had come from the fragment of a long-dead Ancient God. Delirium was not impossible.
As Aslan considered this, a thought flickered through his mind. He re-examined information he already knew but had overlooked.
The names of the gods weren't true names. They were merely epithets.
The names of the gods were nothing more than labels arbitrarily assigned by the people of Geladrion based on outward appearance.
In other words.
'The Twilight Flock isn't a sheep.'
The sheep wasn't its essence.
The creature the Twilight Flock had taken as its symbol was surely something else.
'To keep me from noticing.'
So it had hidden its true symbol behind a false one, deceiving the entire populace of Geladrion to conceal its identity.
His thoughts having reached that far, Aslan felt a moment of bewilderment.
'...But why go to such lengths?'
This was an entity powerful enough to fling Aslan into a game world. What harm could it possibly suffer if Aslan discovered its identity?
Why go out of its way to hide its symbol and conceal its nature?
A being that had trapped Aslan in Geladrion for twelve years, and only now was forcing him to undertake the main quest.
A being even the gods shunned, one that the Ancient Gods had feared.
If such a being was trying to hide its identity from Aslan, what was the reason?
Aslan lifted his head, the answer flashing through the tangled chain of his thoughts.
'Because I can discern its essence through its symbol, and if I realize its identity, its plan fails?'
It wouldn't have cast Aslan into Geladrion without cause. There had to be some plan, some objective.
And if Aslan catching on to its identity endangered that plan or objective, it would be desperate to hide its nature.
But the objective and the plan remained unknown. All he knew was that it wasn't a sheep. He had no idea what its true symbol was.
Aslan let out a low hum and closed his eyes.
A thought had struck him: what if this was the real answer, and all of it was wrong?
Aslan couldn't be certain. He doubted even his own judgment.
The entity had been meticulous all this time, and now it suddenly let slip a clue leading to its identity.
He wondered if this was deliberate.
Was he following intentionally dropped clues, his very thinking being manipulated?
Suspicion was pointless, and anxiety held no value. Aslan exhaled a sigh and rose to his feet.
"You did it...!"
As he straightened, Aslan nodded at the woman's voice and turned—then flinched.
Rumel had been wearing heavy plate armor all this time.
Because of that, Aslan had never been able to make out her figure.
But now, perhaps because it had been damaged while protecting him, she wore only a padded gambeson, the breastplate gone.
What that revealed was enough to make Aslan flinch involuntarily.
A build that carried a heavy presence. Even wrapped in the gambeson, prominent curves stood out. Not the hard muscle of the pectorals, but the softness of breasts.
Aslan quickly feigned ignorance and thought.
'I did think the breastplate looked large compared to her face and frame... so that's why.'
Rumel, oblivious to his thoughts, approached and stopped when she saw Bolen's corpse.
As if she'd been about to ask for a high-five, she lowered her raised hand furtively and glanced at Aslan.
She remembered how long Aslan had remained seated even after the tomb's attacks had ceased.
He had clearly been lamenting that his final moment with his master had to end this way.
Even she had needed a long time after bidding farewell to her family. A strong man like this would need such time too.
"Should I... give you a moment?"
Rumel asked tentatively. Aslan shook his head.
"No, I'm fine."
Rumel had meant to give him space to say goodbye to his master, but when Aslan refused, she took his demeanor as fortitude.
'He's strong.'
Rumel accepted his impassive refusal as composure and closed her eyes.
She had been a woman so consumed by vengeance that the moment she achieved her goal, she had been ready to embrace an ugly death.
Unlike her, Aslan had fulfilled his master's vengeance and dying wish, and now he rose as if it were nothing, ready to move on.
It must have been unbearably painful, but Aslan hadn't knelt.
That unbroken figure moving forward made Rumel's chest tighten.
Aslan, meanwhile, was growing bewildered as he watched her suddenly close her eyes and place a hand over her heart.
Following the hand placed there, the curve of her breast shifted. Aslan forced his eyes upward and asked.
"Lady Rumel?"
"Ah."
Rumel opened her eyes belatedly and looked at Aslan.
The impassiveness drifting in his teal eyes. Looking into them, Rumel meant to say it was nothing, then closed her mouth.
Aslan was a strong man.
What had he thought as he struck down his master, as he dominated his master's magic?
How had he felt, analyzing and surpassing all the spells he had once learned, the techniques his master had shown him?
What did it feel like to surpass your master and adorn his final moments?
She recalled a novel she had once read, where master mages exchanged silent farewells through intricately woven magic.
Perhaps Aslan's calm was because he had already said goodbye to his master within the magic.
Though that wouldn't change the fact that he was a strong man.
Rumel looked at Aslan for a moment. Aslan grew flustered under that silent gaze.
"...Can I become as strong as you, Sir Aslan?"
Rumel thought she was asking a weighty question, setting the mood, but to Aslan it came out of nowhere.
Perplexed but faithful, Aslan answered.
"You're already strong enough, Lady Rumel. One day you'll be strong enough to surpass even me."
In spearmanship, that would hold true.
That was Aslan's intent, but Rumel heard it differently.
It sounded like encouragement: you, too, can rise again and move forward.
Rumel placed a hand on her aching chest and let out a thin breath.
Aslan had shown her favor, and in keeping with that favor, he was kind.
Aslan was full of goodwill and trusted Rumel.
There hadn't been a single word of love, but Rumel, who had read many novels where romance and adventure intertwined, understood.
This was courtship.
And never in her life had she received courtship so passionate and yet so gentle.
From her days as a noble to her time as a mercenary, right up to now—no one had ever loved her like this.
The moment she realized it, Rumel could feel her heart pounding fiercely.
Her chest grew hot. The heat climbed her throat and warmed her face. Her eyes softened, an exquisite feeling washing over her as if tears might come.
So Rumel ducked her head slightly and shook it.
Placing a hand over her racing heart, she drew a deep breath. Aslan, flustered, simply watched her warily as she steadied her breathing with effort.
When she finally calmed herself, Rumel's mouth opened and closed several times as she searched for words. Then she looked at Aslan.
Gleaming teal eyes, a melancholy expression, his tall, rangy frame, a blade-sharp nose and eyes.
And despite those sharp features, an overflowing gentleness. Rumel studied his face from every angle, then stepped closer.
Abruptly closing the distance, she reached out and took his hand.
A hard hand, full of calluses that told of a lifetime handling weapons.
Rumel touched that hand, still warm despite everything, and smiled softly with a loosened expression.
All of this was simply baffling to Aslan.
Her fingers traced his, a gentle stroke. As Aslan looked down at her under that affectionate touch, Rumel suddenly lifted her head, met his eyes, and asked.
"You said you'd change the world?"
Aslan, still failing to grasp the situation, seemed to register this as a positive signal. He nodded with a faint smile.
Rumel saw that smile and smiled back.
It was a different smile from Aslan's, who hadn't expected winning over the Master of the Spear to be so easy.
Just as Aslan had finished matters with his master, Rumel could only move forward once she had brought her own family's affairs to a complete end. She still had to meet Baron Achist.
The courage to finish things. That was what her smile expressed gratitude for.
Rumel spoke with that soft smile.
"Once I've... finished what I need to do, may I join your journey?"
So the situation unfolded differently from Aslan's expectations.
He had thought she would join immediately. He blinked, eyes wide, and asked back.
"...Pardon?"
"Thank you. I'll definitely return. To your side, Sir Aslan."
Taking his echoing question as consent, Rumel wrapped both hands around his and shook them.
Aslan could only blink.