Chapter 395
Chapter 395
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>Translator: Ryuma
>Chapter: 395
>Chapter Title: Connect, or Conclude
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Early dawn.
Yurubuke rose from his bed and blinked.
Having spent the night staring wide-eyed into the darkness, the sleep demon held no sway over him. Nor was he fatigued. His mind was sharper than ever, every detail in his vision crystal clear.
In that vivid world, Yurubuke moved slowly. The first place he stopped was by the fire.
Crackle, pop...
The flames danced as embers leaped, swelling and shrinking in a rhythmic display of their presence.
Yurubuke stared at the campfire for a moment, blinked twice, and resumed his steps.
He halted before the shelf holding his clothes and armor, closing his eyes briefly.
A faint trace of blood lingered at the edge of his senses, mingling with the incense to stir memories in his mind.
The tactile thrill of slicing through flesh and bone, the eerie sound of rupture, the warm splash of blood on his face.
‘...Battlefield.’
His heart pounded.
The sharp world warped. Likely the uncanny magic of the blood's scent at work. The aroma of death dulled reason and roused the warrior's spirit.
‘...Warrior.’
Yes, Yurubuke was a warrior.
He had been destined for it from birth, and he had grown into one.
Not raised, but grown.
Warriors weren't forged by nurture or sheer will alone.
They simply emerged, as naturally as the seasons.
He couldn't speak for others, but Yurubuke believed he had become a warrior through his own natural unfolding.
Yet he wasn't merely a warrior.
A warrior...
And...
‘...Driman.’
The one who bore responsibility and led.
So, what was he responsible for? What exactly fell under the Driman's duty?
A simple question any three-year-old child of the plains could answer.
The Driman's charges were the tribesfolk. More precisely, everything that existed under the tribe's name lay under the Driman's purview.
Then, where should he lead all of them?
“...”
Yurubuke opened his eyes and began donning his clothes and armor piece by piece from the shelf. He pulled on his undergarments, then his shirt. Over that, another layer, followed by armor stitched from beast hides. Arm warmers, scarf, hat... and finally, a massive cloak of wolf pelt.
Even as he dressed, the Driman's deliberations continued.
He asked himself.
‘Where exactly...’
Where to lead them.
From his days as a young warrior, through great warrior, and up to becoming Driman, Yurubuke had wrestled endlessly with the question, enduring countless sleepless nights.
But.
‘...I don't know.’
Where, truly, should the Driman—no, he himself—lead the Pushk tribe?
There had been a time when he thought he knew.
That he was guiding Pushk down the right path, like a wise shepherd herding sheep to proper pastures, leading everything under Pushk's name to righteousness.
...Arrogance.
In the lush green season, fattening the flock was no great feat. But a truly wise shepherd found grazing even when the plains withered.
Amid Oukan's pressure and the empire's incursions, where should he lead Pushk?
Some might say:
Lead Pushk to glory.
Then...
‘...Is standing at Oukan's side the way?’
No, it wasn't.
The glory to be gained at Oukan's side was like snow in springtime. A fleeting mirage, destined to melt in the warm winds.
Then...
‘...Should he lead them down the path of life?’
That was the path Yurubuke had chosen for now. Yet even so, he couldn't be certain it was right.
The Maharpat Great Plains.
The land of his ancestors.
To abandon this place—where else was there to go?
He had heard they would gladly settle anywhere habitable, but conviction eluded him. The notion that his chosen path aligned with what Pushk truly desired never crossed his mind.
...All things of the plains were born from the earth and faded into the wind.
Yet he had forsaken the earth.
‘...Then where will Pushk be born from henceforth?’
Flesh and blood came from parents, but the root of the soul—from what?
And moreover...
‘...Where will that soul depart to?’
The body dissolved with the plains wind, the soul following its guidance to the rightful place.
But would the plains wind reach those distant lands? Could a soul borne on foreign breezes ever return to the plains?
“...”
Yurubuke stepped toward the weapon rack. His gaze settled on the greatsword positioned at the very top.
He had perhaps...
‘...Cast aside the roots.’
And also...
‘...Even their repose.’
Simply...
‘...Led them to mere survival.’
Nothing more than hungry wolves, driven by greed to wander the plains meaninglessly—was that the fate he had imposed on Pushk?
...Clunk.
As he lifted the greatsword, its hefty weight settled across both arms. A one-meter handle, a one-and-a-half-meter blade. Too long in the hilt to be a proper sword, too broad in the edge for a spear... it was grotesque, verging on monstrous.
His cherished companion since his young warrior days, it hadn't started out so enormous.
At first, it was an ordinary greatsword, like those wielded by other warriors. So why had it grown to this size?
The catalyst had been trivial.
- Young warrior, your ‘aoul’ is ‘knot.’
- What's a knot?
- Connect, or conclude.
‘Aoul’ could be glossed as fate or mission, sometimes duty.
Most interpreted it as ‘mission.’ Every warrior received theirs from the great shaman after their first hunt.
Truth be told, Yurubuke didn't believe in aoul. Or rather, he didn't want to.
- Connect or conclude? That can't be right. What does a warrior have to connect or conclude...?
His peers' aouls were things like struggle or guardianship—what kind of warrior's aoul was this?
- Do it again. You must've seen wrong.
- Tsk tsk. If you could just redo it because you're unsatisfied, it wouldn't be an aoul. I'm only humoring you for your father's sake—fix that attitude.
- Ah, I'll handle my own attitude. Just one more look, please.
- I said no! You insolent colt!
For a while, he was too ashamed to mention it to anyone.
When his great warrior father asked, he stayed silent. When peers pried, he answered with fists.
In truth, aoul wasn't absolute.
There was the famous tale of a warrior whose aoul was ‘struggle,’ who declared he'd test it by leaping from a cliff—only to meet his end.
Afterward, the elders advised the young ones that aoul was merely a life compass, not an ironclad decree. Even so, Yurubuke couldn't shake his dissatisfaction with such an unwarrior-like aoul.
So he pondered.
How to interpret it in a way befitting a warrior.
But.
- I don't know.
As a young warrior, Yurubuke was brutish, his thoughts shallow and fleeting. Yet his own shortcomings weren't the issue.
- I know I'm brutish. For what I lack, I'll seek help.
Yurubuke roamed from elder warrior to great warrior, begging counsel. Of course, when peers came sniffing, he planted fists in their faces.
How long did he wander asking?
By the time word had spread through the tribe that Yurubuke's aoul was utterly unwarrior-like, the Driman returned from a hunt and presented him with the sword of a warrior lost to accident.
- Warrior Shtara's dying words: ‘Eunuch won't carry on the line, so at least pass on a warrior's soul.’
- A warrior's soul... you mean?
- Aye. Souls ride the wind, but a warrior's soul lingers in their weapons.
- So I should wield this sword?
- That's your call. Though...
- ...?
- You really a eunuch? If so, your aoul's ‘conclude’ is as good as done...
- Cut the crap.
The Driman remarked on Yurubuke's cheek, saying to thrash him soundly—likely a family issue, so deal with the kin too... but since the Driman was close kin himself, he took a beating from the great warriors.
In any case.
It was after that his greatsword ballooned to its current size.
To connect the warriors' souls, he melted down their blades and fused them in.
- Yurubuke, take my soul...
- Please, Yuru...
Yurubuke never refused their pleas. With each warrior's passing, the blade grew larger. When it could hold no more, he carried them all in his heart.
Thus, what had been an unwarrior-like aoul for the unwarrior-like Yurubuke became more profoundly warrior than any other.
But.
The reason this notion stirred now...
‘...Perhaps.’
Lately, doubts had crept in.
Had he misinterpreted his own aoul? Was what he truly needed to ‘connect’ or ‘conclude’ not warrior souls at all, but something else?
...That was why.
- Anywhere we can settle will do.
Despite the lack of certainty, he had chosen to ‘connect’ because his aoul permitted only that or ‘conclude.’
And because Yurubuke had lived his life as the ‘connector.’
Yet still...
‘...What path does the Driman tread?’
The question lingered.
He couldn't discern right from wrong.
But to let anguish squander the season was the way of the feeble warrior. A true warrior pressed forward through torment to seize answers.
‘I'm still a brute.’
So, better to act on what he could do now than dwell in thought.
Unable to craft a fitting sheath, he slung the naked, menacing greatsword across his back and stepped from the tent.
“Prepare my horse. It's time to depart.”
“So soon...? Shall I send word to the great warriors...?”
“No need. We've said all there is to say. Meeting Oukan requires only me. Tell the great warriors to fulfill their duties well.”
After the foreigner who called himself ‘magitower lord’ departed, Yurubuke had summoned the great warriors, shared counsel, and assigned tasks.
In his absence, they would carry out the plan laid with the foreigner.
“...They're sharp enough. They'll manage.”
So saying, Yurubuke closed his eyes. White breath bloomed into the air.
The ‘magitower lord’ had already set the plan in motion. No worries there for the great warriors. Which left...
‘...Me.’
To connect.
As a warrior, he connected warrior souls.
And...
‘...To connect Pushk.’
No more fretting over right or wrong.
“...Driman.”
“Rest easy.”
Yurubuke gripped the reins handed by a warrior and rode out from camp.
Still before sunrise.
...The Driman, yet warrior, Yurubuke raced alone across the vast plain.