The Veteran of the Northern Front
The Northern Frontline. A colossal wall located at the northernmost edge of the Valteirion Empire. Amid snow-swept mountains and frozen plains where bone-chilling blizzards howled without mercy, a massive fortress rose alongside towering ramparts.
Deep trenches had been carved into the earth, and watchtowers stood in unbroken lines, their sentries scanning the surroundings without rest.
This was no mere military outpost. It was the reason the Hartvalt Duchy reigned supreme as the ruler of the North. It was the very birthplace of the Hartvalt family itself.
While the central nobles drowned in luxury and arrogance within their warm palaces, this was the frontline that had blocked the invasions of northern monsters, demi-humans, and barbarians with nothing but blood and iron. A true hell where survival alone was considered truth.
The man responsible for this frontline was none other than the commander-in-chief of the Northern Army, Volkrik Ironside.
“Hoo…”
An elderly man stood atop the ramparts, facing the fierce blizzard head-on. Volkrik was a veteran with a long, bushy white beard. Already past seventy this year, yet his massive frame showed no sign of frailty.
Beneath his thick fur coat and armor lay a body covered in scars—dozens of them torn open by monster claws over decades of war. There were also wounds earned from brutal clashes with barbarians and demi-humans.
Ten years ago, when the former Duke Valgrim had appointed him commander-in-chief, Volkrik had sworn never to yield this wall to the enemy. His philosophy of command was crystal clear.
He had no interest in flashy offensives. He despised the childish heroics of charging into enemy lines to claim a general’s head. What he valued had not changed in ten years.
Do not be defeated. Hold the line.
Never lose. Protect this wall at all costs. Meticulously manage supplies of food and weapons. Repair and inspect damaged sections of the wall immediately.
Reduce fatalities by quickly evacuating and treating the wounded. Maintain flawless vigilance and precise shift rotations to guard against surprise attacks.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t exciting. But he was the kind of commander who clung only to what truly mattered on the battlefield and never broke his principles. That was Volkrik Ironside.
Yet lately, there was one existence that had begun to disturb the unshakable old commander’s peace of mind.
Caron Hartvalt.
Volkrik chewed the name silently and clicked his tongue. The second son of the current Duke Roderick Hartvalt. A man blessed with sculptural features, elegant yet razor-sharp swordsmanship, and martial prowess far beyond his years. Since joining the frontline, countless young knights had begun to revere him as the next Duke.
Whatever Caron’s true nature or intentions might be, his talent and skill were genuine. Even Volkrik acknowledged that much. His mastery of blue aura was nearly unmatched among his peers, and his swordplay was refined and precise. His dignified bearing and gentle smile in front of the troops possessed a magnetic charm that drew people in.
That was precisely the problem.
Too perfect. He’s showing exactly the kind of image the central nobles adore.
A faint sneer crossed the deep wrinkles on Volkrik’s face. Caron was meticulously presenting himself as the ideal hero that young knights dreamed of. The immaculate uniform. The noble, elegant sword style. Refined speech and manners befitting aristocracy. A confident smile.
To Volkrik’s sharp eyes, it was obvious. Caron was acting. He was deliberately displaying the perfect form they all desired. But none of it was truly for the Northern Frontline.
There’s something else.
Caron did not genuinely wish to protect the North. Everything—including the ducal seat itself—seemed to be nothing more than a tool for his true objective. He wanted something else entirely. At least, that was how Volkrik felt.
That bastard is using this frontline. Using it as a tool to obtain what he desires.
It would have been better if he were simply a spoiled brat obsessed with playing hero. But Caron was not. He knew exactly what image made the young knights cheer, and he exploited it without mercy.
Of course, if that were all, Volkrik would have simply ignored it. A young noble building achievements on the frontline to use in the succession race was common political maneuvering in noble society.
But he’s being such a damn nuisance.
The real problem went further. The current Duke, Roderick Hartvalt, had begun subtly pressuring Volkrik regarding supplies sent to the Northern Frontline.
“Would it not be wise, Commander, to lend your support to Caron, who shall lead our family’s future?”
Clever persuasion through letters, with thinly veiled threats hidden beneath. If he did not support Caron, the supply of materials to the Northern Frontline might be “delayed.”
“Crazy bastard.”
Volkrik unconsciously spat out a low curse. Using the frontline’s food and weapons as hostages in a power struggle filled him with utter disgust. Of course, Roderick would not actually be foolish enough to cut off supplies. Not while the former Duke Valgrim still lived, eyes sharp as ever.
But Valgrim had already passed eighty. No one could say how much longer he would last. Volkrik himself was already an old man well past seventy.
To think I must witness such filth at my age.
Volkrik lightly struck the cold rampart with his fist. Caron’s faction might grow even larger. Those flashy, superficial knights could erode the North’s true defensive line.
Yet Volkrik emptied his mind.
That will be a problem for after I’m dead.
It would be the Hartvalt Duchy’s burden to bear. All he needed to do was guard this place until the day he died. That was all.
In truth, he had already given up on the future of the Hartvalt family.
Then, a few days ago, a military letter had arrived from the main house.
The eldest son, Kyle Hartvalt, is heading to the Northern Frontline.
When Volkrik read that sentence, he had scoffed. Kyle Hartvalt—the infamous eldest son who supposedly spent his days drowning in alcohol and committing every kind of atrocity. The idea of such a wretch coming to the frontline was absurd.
The young knights of Caron’s faction were already sharpening their blades, eager to humiliate him the moment he arrived. Yet Volkrik could not tear his eyes away from the final line of the letter.
Kyle will personally carry a letter from His Grace the former Duke.
From His Grace the former Duke?
Volkrik’s brow furrowed. The Valgrim Hartvalt he knew was a cold lord befitting the North. The only thing he had utterly failed at was raising his own children. Even if they shared blood, he was not the kind of man to entrust a military letter for the commander-in-chief to a drunken, good-for-nothing wretch.
Something must have happened at the main castle…
That was Volkrik’s conclusion. Yet he showed nothing on the surface. He simply continued guarding the frontline in silence, spending his days as usual.
And two days later—
“Commander!”
A messenger from the watchtower came running through the blizzard that had just begun to rage.
“A party from the main house is approaching from four kilometers south!”
They had finally arrived. Volkrik cast his gaze across the blizzard toward the southern snowfields. Before long, black specks appeared on the white expanse.
Only three riders led the way. A short distance behind them followed an escort force bearing Graham Berk’s banner.
“So that is the eldest son.”
Volkrik carefully observed the three mounted knights approaching the base of the wall. The young man at the very front, guiding his horse with steady hands—Kyle Hartvalt. Flanking him on either side were two others.
One was clearly Reina Garyen, the genius female knight once called the greatest beauty of the Northern Continent. Volkrik knew of her. She had proven herself as a middle-grade knight or higher despite being a woman.
Some even claimed her swordsmanship surpassed that of most upper-grade knights. Yet because of her beauty, she had been treated as little more than an ornament.
The other was a heavily built man with vacant, unfocused eyes and a deep scar running across his face—Wulfran Gecht. Two years ago he had suffered catastrophic injuries on this very frontline, losing both his eyes and his manhood before retiring in misery. Yet here he was, riding as if he were a perfectly healthy knight.
Quite the strange trio.
A notorious wastrel of an eldest son. A genius female knight cast out of the order. And a blind, retired knight who had been discarded. Three people who seemed to have nothing in common.
Yet what instantly captured Volkrik’s attention was not their identities. It was the armor and cold-weather gear they wore.
“Hoh…”
A low exclamation escaped Volkrik’s lips along with a thick puff of white breath. The armor the three wore was no ordinary steel. It was a dark, dull metal that refused to collect frost even in the middle of a blizzard—practical armor forged from the North’s special mineral, Black Ice Iron.
Black Ice Iron blocked the North’s extreme cold, prevented flesh from freezing, and kept the metal from becoming brittle and shattering. It was perfectly optimized for the Northern battlefield.
However, the young knights of the North—those influenced by central nobility and obsessed with appearances—despised Black Ice Iron. The reason was simple: it simply didn’t look good. The color was murky and crude.
It lacked the mystical sheen of obsidian and the brilliant luster of gold or silver. It was merely dark, plain, and offered no other distinction beyond its ability to ward off cold.
That was why they called it vulgar scrap metal. Caron and his followers appeared on the battlefield in flashy uniforms adorned with meaningless decorations.
Yet these three were all wearing armor made of that very Black Ice Iron.
Clank. Clank.
They rode across the blizzard-swept snowfield without the slightest difficulty. Snow from the North settled on their crude Black Ice Iron armor, but their upright posture and chilling presence were far more intense than any knight dressed in gaudy uniforms.
Watching them, Volkrik Ironside felt his heart stir for the first time in years. He knew it was a foolish hope. He had confirmed nothing yet. He did not know what kind of people they truly were.
Even so.
The moment he saw that practical Black Ice Iron armor, Volkrik recalled the North of his youth—the days he had raced through blood and blizzards alongside Valgrim.
“……”
A faint smile appeared on the old commander’s lips.
Heh, have I grown senile in my old age? What a strange thought. It might be nothing but empty expectation. I still know nothing. None at all.
But at the very least, these three knew exactly what one should wear when coming to this frontline.