Descending the Mountain
Havel had never cared much for influence, factions, or tribal acclaim.
Rather than wasting his breath on that sort of nonsense, his nature was better suited to hunting wild beasts or swinging his blade one more time. But raw might alone was not going to bring back his brother, who had been framed and cast out into the freezing wilderness.
Once that realization took root, Havel had spent the past three years single-mindedly cementing his standing within the tribe.
Those years had not been in vain.
The green pup who had merely been fortunate enough to have a great father had transformed into the leading candidate for the mantle of Great Chieftain.
Insolent, snot-nosed brat.
The High Priest spat curses under his breath as he stared up at Havel towering before him.
"What brings the future Great Chieftain to my humble quarters?"
"Shameless as ever. You know damn well there's only one reason I would come looking for you."
Havel glared down at the old shaman with murderous intensity.
"Give me your answer now. My brother has waited more than long enough."
The High Priest's withered face twisted in irritation.
"Why must you keep dredging up an affair that was settled three full years ago? At this point, it is high time you let it—"
"Bullshit. Did you take me for the kind of faithless coward who abandons his own brother?"
"...That is not what I meant."
A thick, suffocating aura of killing intent flooded the tent. The High Priest hastily amended his tone.
Havel drove the point home, his voice flat and cutting.
"This is the last time I offer to settle this with words. Throw this chance away... and there will not be another."
The Great Chieftain judged men by a single metric: whether they were necessary to the tribe's survival. When weighing the two on the scales, the balance still tipped ever so slightly toward the venerable High Priest. Yet that fragile equilibrium would not hold for long. The shaman was withering with age, while Havel was the rising pillar destined to shoulder the tribe's future.
Just as Havel had warned, this was the High Priest's final opportunity to negotiate.
In that fleeting heartbeat, the old man felt as though he had aged several winters. He let out a ragged, defeated breath.
"...Very well. I will do as you ask. I shall personally step forward to clear that friend's name. But in exchange, will you promise me one thing?"
"Speak."
"Persuade Ivan not to slit my throat. Surely you, of all people, can manage that much."
"I make no such promise. Whether he chooses vengeance is Ivan's right, and Ivan's alone."
Cornered, the High Priest shrieked in venomous panic.
"...Then what in the world am I supposed to do?!"
"What else? Pray that my brother is far more merciful than you give him credit for."
Mercy? Frame a warrior and leave him to rot in the frozen woods for three years, and hatred would sprout from the heart of a saint. The High Priest felt the cold terror of death more vividly than ever before.
He had only two moves left to play: sit idle and wait for the blade to find his neck, or...
"You speak the truth," the High Priest murmured, softening his posture. "It was my doing, so it is only right that I bear the weight of it."
"Look at you, actually making sense for once. Must mean you're about ready to drop dead."
Damned insolent whelp. The High Priest ground his molars to swallow his fury.
"...Now that I think on it, you are riding out on a hunt today, are you not? As fortune would have it, I have something exquisite on hand. Consider it a token of reconciliation."
Reaching into his robes, the shaman produced a small glass phial filled with a viscous, crimson liquid.
"What is that?"
"A draught steeped in spiritual mysteries. Come closer, lad."
Though an edge of suspicion lingered in his eyes, Havel bowed his head. The High Priest uncorked the phial and poured its contents directly over the warrior's brow.
A surge of fierce vigor ignited through Havel's veins, snapping his senses to a razor's edge. He let out a low whistle of genuine admiration.
"This... is remarkable. To be frank, I wondered if you were scheming something foul."
"Why would I dare play tricks on the next Great Chieftain? May the hunt bring you glory."
The moment Havel stepped outside, the High Priest's lips curled into a crooked, mocking sneer.
That draught was unquestionably the crowning masterpiece of his life's work. ...Barring one very minor, negligible side effect, of course.
He had skirted mortal danger countless times throughout his long life, yet he had outlived every fool who had tried to bury him. Today would be no different.
Turning toward the shadowy corner of the lodge, the High Priest barked, "By the way, girl—I have asked you countless times where you wandered off to without my leave, yet you refuse to utter a single word."
"......"
"Hmph. It matters not. In the end, you have no choice but to bend to my command anyway."
He scoffed openly, sneering down at Elena.
Coming across this girl before her mystical talents had bloomed had been the greatest stroke of fortune in his miserable existence. Had he not bound her with a spiritual leash back then, she would have usurped his seat as high shaman before his hair had even turned gray.
Elena said nothing, offering no hint that the wretched leash around her soul had already shattered into dust. In truth, she sincerely hoped the foolish old man would drown in his own delusions just a little longer.
Only then would the vengeance waiting for him taste sweet enough to savor.
Even after Elena's departure, Ivan's daily routine had not changed all that drastically.
At most, the empty side of the bed felt a bit colder at night, and a smelly old vagrant had barged in and claimed the floor... On second thought, quite a lot had changed.
"The hell's with that look in your eye? You cursing me out in your head, boy?"
"...As if I'd ever dare disparage my revered master, whose grace reaches the heavens."
"I was only taking a wild guess, but seeing that guilty mug proves it. Insolent little shit. Looks like you need another lesson in basic discipline today."
The old bastard's instincts are terrifyingly sharp only when it comes to useless crap. Ivan clicked his tongue, drawing his blade.
A moment later, steel crashed against steel, scattering a brilliant shower of sparks.
The old man danced across the clearing, shifting through wildly varied styles of swordcraft. At one moment, his strike fell heavy as a collapsing mountain. The next, it whipped forward like a crack of lightning, only to suddenly flow as supple and weightless as a stray feather.
Ivan did not merely deflect the mercurial onslaught—he adapted to it, absorbing the intricate forms into his own muscles with staggering speed.
This is why I despise natural-born geniuses. The old man offered a crooked, lopsided smirk.
"That's enough for today."
"Already?"
"A man's entitled to take it easy once in a while. I've got an errand to run, so head back inside and wait."
What's got into that stubborn old mule? Ivan found it strange, but shrugged and let it slide.
He was resting back inside the hut when the wooden door was violently kicked open.
"You've got two working hands, so why the hell do you always kick the... Wait, is that liquor?"
Ivan froze mid-sentence, his gaze fixing on the stout wooden keg slung over the old man's shoulder. A familiar, intoxicatingly rich aroma drifted through the room.
"Look at those eyes light up. Grab a pair of cups and follow me out. We're drinking today."
A freeloading vagabond with nowhere else to sleep had managed to get his hands on liquor like this? Ivan squinted, thick suspicion dripping from his gaze.
"You didn't steal that, did you?"
"Steal? The absolute nerve of this brat! I go out of my way to treat you, and you bitch and moan. Fine, don't drink it then. Suit yourself."
"Did I ever say I wouldn't drink it?"
Ivan promptly tucked his conscience away. Minor moral dilemmas paled in comparison to genuine alcohol sitting right in front of him.
The old man slammed the keg down beside a broad tree stump and collapsed onto the dirt.
"Why drag us out here when we have a perfectly good roof over our heads?"
"Where's the taste in drinking cooped up inside? Quit running your mouth, sit your ass down, and pour."
Without another complaint, Ivan filled the wooden cup to the brim and handed it across. His master knocked it back in a single swallow, letting out a satisfied roar.
Refusing to back down from the challenge, Ivan tipped his own cup back and emptied it in one go.
His eyes instantly bugged out.
A streak of liquid fire blazed down his gullet, searing his chest as if he had swallowed molten iron. In all his past life and present existence, he had never tasted liquor this insanely potent. The old man cackled wildly, watching Ivan wage a desperate, red-faced battle against a coughing fit.
"How's that for a kick? Wakes you right the hell up, doesn't it?"
"...It's, uh, pretty drinkable."
Ivan forced out the words with a stony poker face, driven purely by the pointless, stubborn pride of a hardened male.
Neither willing to show weakness, the two men continued to empty cup after cup in quick succession.
"Not bad. For a greenhorn, you can actually hold your liquor."
"You're not doing too poorly yourself, for an old fossil."
The drunkenness rushed straight to the crown of his skull. Ivan wobbled, a loose, dopey grin spreading across his face.
By the time the keg was scraping bottom, the old man, his weathered cheeks flushed beet-red, slurred out a question.
"Come to think of it... what kind of mess did a young pup like you get dragged into to crawl all the way out into these godforsaken woods?"
Loosened by the potent brew, Ivan's tongue slipped free of its usual reserve. Without much hesitation, he spilled the tale of everything he had endured—leaving out only the inconvenient detail of his soul possessing another man's body.
"...And that's how it all went down. Felt like the end of the world back then, but looking back now, it wasn't even that big of a deal."
"The hell you mean it wasn't a big deal? Surviving out here all alone in the freezing wild is lonely enough to hollow a man out. ...You suffered a lot, kid."
A sudden, unbidden tightness gripped Ivan's throat. He had strutted around pretending none of it bothered him, but perhaps it had been harder on him than he cared to admit. He forced out a chuckle, brushing it off. Breaking down in tears over a drink would be entirely too humiliating.
"Are you actually trying to comfort me? That really doesn't suit your face."
"Look at you playing tough. So, what're you gonna do once you go back?"
Ivan pondered the question for a quiet beat before answering.
"Well, first, I'm going to beat the absolute shit out of the bastard who had me thrown out. Haven't really thought about what comes after that... but something'll work out, won't it?"
"Aye. No need to map out every damn step. It's not like life comes with a bloody answer sheet anyway. Live however the hell you want, and that'll be enough."
The old man reached over and gave Ivan's shoulder a heavy, reassuring thud.
In that fleeting silence, a sudden, piercing premonition washed over Ivan. This moment—this drunken night beneath the canopy—would be the final hour he would ever share with his master.
"...Let me ask you one thing before we wrap this up. As your disciple, shouldn't I at least know my own master's name?"
The old man's weathered lips curled into a deep, enigmatic smile.
"Nothing difficult about that. I am..."
Suddenly, the world spun out of control.
His name... I have to hear his name...
Ivan's chin dropped to his chest, and he collapsed forward onto the mossy earth, tumbling into a bottomless sleep.
How much time had passed?
Ivan slowly opened his eyes, clutching his violently throbbing temple as he pieced together the final whisper that had echoed through his fading consciousness.
"...Baldr."
The War God revered above all others by the warriors of the North.
That crazy old bastard. No wonder he kept dodging the question every time I asked.
Ivan ground his teeth, swearing to himself that if their paths ever crossed again, he would plant a fist straight into that wrinkled jaw before uttering a single greeting.
His gaze fell upon the tree stump where they had shared their drinks.
Driven deep into the aged wood stood a greatsword, its edge radiating a faint, blood-red luminescence.
"Leaving this behind so I'll shut up and take the hint? Unbelievable..."
Ivan reached out and took the hilt, pulling the blade free with a fluid tug. The balance was peerless; it was indisputably a masterwork among divine steel.
As he held the sword and settled his breathing, his sharpened senses caught vibrations that had previously eluded him.
Frantic, overlapping footsteps. The musky reek of feral beasts. The wet, violent tearing of steel carving through muscle and fat. And... the sharp, coppery stench of fresh blood carried on the wind.
It was not far from here.
Without wasting a second thought, Ivan stepped forward into the snow.