Chapter 118
Chapter 118
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 118
Chapter Title: Wyvern Knights
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A temple emanating a holy and sacred aura.
Yet in the very heart of that temple—which felt strangely unsettling rather than sanctified, without a single blemish marring its perfection—a priest was screaming and thrashing about.
Crash!
"Aaack! Fuck, you fucking shit! My arm—the pain in my arm just won't go away!"
The priest clutched his outwardly flawless arm, howling in agony.
He hurled nearby objects and spewed vulgar curses without a shred of dignity.
Even a priest brimming with faith could hardly endure if the excruciating pain from a severed arm persisted unrelieved for months on end.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
The priest snatched a porcelain vase from the shelf, intent on smashing it.
Thud!
Unfortunately, he failed to achieve his goal.
A woman who had appeared before him had snatched the porcelain right out of his grasp.
"That's expensive, Livia."
The priest's name was Livia de Crusader.
He was a priest holding the seat of the White Sheep Palace among the Twelve Archbishops—and the man who would one day grow into the Demon Pope.
"...Third Princess..."
The woman gripping the porcelain was none other than the Holy Empire's Third Imperial Princess and future monstrous Emperor, Ivarella.
Livia's voice growled like a beast's as he glared at the Third Princess, but Ivarella remained utterly unshaken and composed.
"How long do you plan to live like some invalid? Voices calling to drag you down from the Archbishop's seat are growing louder by the day within the church."
"Kuh, heh heh. Drag this body from the Archbishop's seat...?"
Livia let out a mad cackle, choking on his own laughter.
"Hahahahaha!"
His maniacal laughter abruptly cut off as he fixed Ivarella with a glare.
It wasn't a look befitting one addressing a princess, but neither Ivarella nor Livia paid it any mind.
Everyone knew Livia's rage wasn't directed at her.
In fact, if anything, Ivarella herself was quite irritated with the true target of his fury.
"Jerome... Jerome von Carviot..."
Livia spat the name through gritted teeth. The Shield Family. That damned spawn of that wretched house had severed his arm.
The wound itself was no issue. Holy magic—Great Heal—could mend a mere amputation with ease. Hadn't he reattached it right away back then?
The problem was that no amount of healing could make the pain in his arm subside.
Jerome's hand blade hadn't been an ordinary sword edge but his hand transformed into steel.
Thus, the cut wasn't uniform like a blade's.
No matter how meticulously they healed the exterior, treating the internal cells evenly proved impossible.
"Because of that damned heretic... the pain in my arm won't fade. Even if it costs me the Archbishopric, I'll kill that bastard with my own two hands."
Crunch!
Livia's teeth ground together with a chilling screech.
But Ivarella, watching him, only frowned and scolded.
"Are you insane? Why the hell would you quit being Archbishop? Who's going to back me up if you're gone?"
Yet at her words, Livia merely flashed a self-deprecating smile.
"...Haha. Back you up. You still plan to drag me along on your dreamed path to the throne?"
Thanks to testimony from one of the Four Marquises, Marquis Luke, her involvement in the Philador Kingdom's rebellion had been laid bare for all to see, dealing a fatal political blow to Ivarella.
It gave the First and Second Imperial Princes—who had been struggling against her—the chance to catch their breath.
They had joined forces to hold her accountable for disrupting the international order with this incident.
Feeling the weight of that responsibility, Livia had withdrawn his support for the Third Princess and barricaded himself in the temple.
All while writhing daily from the agony in his arm.
"Yeah. Seeing you—the guy who always sassed me and acted all cocky—waste away like a pathetic cripple is pissing me off."
Shing!
Ivarella drew her shamshir, its ominous edge gleaming.
"Livia, remember what I told you back then about why I favor this shamshir?"
He remembered.
How much he'd mocked her when she failed to kidnap the elf princess.
"I'm the same as back then. You're the nutjob dubbed the 'madman of the Golden Lion Church,' yet you rose to become one of the Twelve Archbishops. That means your abilities are guaranteed."
She flicked the shamshir's blade, using it to reflect her face, then suddenly swung it toward Livia's arm.
Slice!
"!"
His arm—the one that had tormented him with endless pain—flew through the air.
Splash!
A second later, blood erupted from Livia's severed stump, painting the air crimson.
"......!!"
It had happened in the blink of an eye; Livia's delayed reaction gave way to a scream.
"...Aaaaaah! You crazy bitch of a princess! Great Heal!"
He scrambled to retrieve his severed arm and chanted the healing spell.
"Madman or not, if you've got the skills, you're in. That's all there is to it."
"You just hack off someone's arm like you're carving meat and call that nothing?! You rampaging sheep, lost so far off the path you're wrecking everything!"
Livia flexed his freshly reattached arm after the spell finished, glaring daggers at Ivarella—only for his eyes to widen in shock.
"...It doesn't... hurt?"
Turning his gaze in bewilderment, he saw Ivarella sheathing her shamshir.
"Quit pathetically smashing innocent shit over that measly pain and get back to work."
"H-how?!"
"What do you mean 'how'? The healing was all imbalanced, so the pain lingered. I just cut it neat and even this time."
"......"
Livia was at a loss for words.
He wasn't exactly normal himself, but this monster of a princess was on another level.
"There, your problem's fixed. Now let's get to work."
"...What work?"
Livia grumbled curtly as he inspected his arm, but his fire had considerably dimmed.
"What work."
Ivarella's lips curled into a chilling smile.
"My dear brothers are strutting around like that—time to knock 'em down a peg."
Without a backward glance after slicing off his arm, Ivarella turned and addressed him.
"Deliver it officially to Duke Camille—and leak it to my brothers on the sly. That I, Ivarella, plan to revive an ancient battle unit."
"...A battle unit?"
"What else."
Ivarella grinned wickedly at his question.
"Wyvern Knights."
The northwestern reaches of the Dragon Mountains, Death Valley.
Unlike the south's vast flatlands blanketed in dense forests or the perpetually sweltering northeast heated by volcanic geothermal activity, the northwest was a rugged expanse of sheer cliffs and jagged stone peaks.
With no volcanoes like the northeast, it boasted the continent's highest latitude and a biting cold climate to match.
Whoooo!
"Ugh!"
Cyclops unaccustomed to the chill huddled their massive frames pathetically.
"This weather... wasn't on the forecast."
Though northern dwellers, they came from volcanic regions always warm to hot; they shivered, stroking their exposed skin.
"Tch! Weaklings. True warriors unleash unyielding strength anywhere, like us orcs."
Hatan sneered at the Cyclops.
"...Take off that leather you're wearing and say it again, Hatan."
Brontes shot him a glare and jabbed back.
"Tch! Preparedness is a warrior's virtue. Tch!"
Hatan thrust out his thickly padded leather garb with shameless pride.
"...Damn it."
Brontes turned away, fresh out of retorts.
"Hatan, how'd you know the northwest was this frigid?"
Before heading to Death Valley, Hatan had ordered his old orc unit to pad up thoroughly with hides from their hunts.
It was cooler than expected, but the overpreparation had seemed excessive—turns out he'd foreseen it all.
This confirmed it.
'That eerie killing intent when wyverns came up last time... This guy's been in wyvern territory before.'
"...Tch!"
But as expected, Hatan merely snorted and fell silent.
Assuming some backstory, they were about to let it drop when Hatan finally spoke.
"...Tch! Before I unified the orcs, there was a tribe that devoured the central mountains."
"......?"
They turned at the sudden voice, catching the complex emotions etched on Hatan's face.
No trace of that previous chilling aura, but another sentiment oozed thickly from his expression.
Resentment.
Nothing but the bitter anguish of reminiscing on a painful past.
"Tch! That tribe never yielded to any foe, holding the center and becoming the spiritual pillar for all mountain orcs."
By now, not just Brontes—everyone around Hatan had fallen silent.
They all knew.
This was the tale of Hatan's tribe.
"Tch! One day, an unparalleled warrior was born in that mighty tribe. Exceptional even among the valiant—he was appointed leader of the Wolf Riders, the tribe's core force, at a young age."
"No way that warrior was you... Mmph!"
"Shh, quiet down, young master."
Socially oblivious Saladin started to butt in, but Beskin swiftly clamped his mouth shut—averting disaster, the story pressed on.
"The warrior fought solely for the tribe. Victory upon victory, convinced he could elevate their proud name to greater heights. Tch! But to the chieftain, that warrior was nothing more than an obstacle threatening his throne."
Crunch!
Veins bulged on Hatan's hand gripping the wolf's reins.
"Tch! Blind to the chieftain's trap, the warrior plunged into wyvern habitat. Hearing wyverns had snatched our young orcs, we charged in without hesitation to rescue them."
Hatan's eyes turned bloodshot.
"Tch! What awaited was an ambush of wyverns."
He spoke of how every Wolf Rider who had shared life and death with him became wyvern fodder.
Bodies rent by claws, heads shattered by fangs, limbs crushed under colossal bulk.
The sole survivor of that slaughter: Hatan.
"Tchii! I still can't forget it. That one-eyed wyvern toying with my subordinates' corpses."
A gloomy, viscous killing intent seeped from Hatan's body.
"Tch! Do whatever with the other wyverns. Harvest parts, forge weapons, raise 'em—don't care. But."
A single tear trickled from Hatan's crimson-rimmed eyes.
From the bloodshot glare? It resembled blood-tinged tears.
"That one-eyed wyvern... I won't yield an inch. Tch! Flesh, bones, scales, that damned eyeball—I'll scrape every last bit and offer it to console the souls who departed for Valhalla ahead."
The Holy Empire lies in the continent's far north, where winter arrives swifter than in the south.
And its northernmost port, Laurent Harbor, boasts a cold unmatched by any other.
A chill rivaled only by the Dragon Mountains' Death Valley across the continent.
Yet despite this, Laurent Harbor ranked among the Empire's premier ports.
Its unique climate yielded rare fish species unseen in other harbors.
When catches were good, the capital's high nobility snapped them up without haggling, drawing endless adventurers chasing overnight fortunes.
The Grand Maria Fleet specialized in such voyages, sailing via the North Sea toward the waters off the Dragon Mountains to amass vast wealth.
Flutter!
Today, the Cimaria—the fleet's signature vessel—raised sails praying for a full hold.
One difference from the usual: more passengers aboard than normal.
"All present?"
An extraordinary aura emanated from the group seated in a circle.
Overkill for mere sea monsters, yet none batted an eye.
It was a presence familiar to them all.
"Re-briefing the mission. The Third Princess—that sly wench—pitched reviving the Wyvern Knights to His Majesty. Duke Camille, one of the Three Dukes, says he'll personally head into the mountains come spring."
"Hah!"
"Ivarella... that mad bitch is finally...!"
Even mention of Ivarella—one of the Empire's most noble bloodlines—drew no deference.
"Well, that reckless one pulls surprises all the time. No need to dwell."
As talk veered off, another reined it in; the first speaker gave a curt nod of thanks and continued.
"Our objective is clear: infiltrate the wyvern nests before Ivarella, secure eggs, and return home. Questions?"
"None."
The leader nodded in satisfaction at their crisp responses.
"Listen up. This mission bolsters the Princes' standing while paving the way for Princess Ivarella's downfall. If anything—or anyone—gets in our way."
His eyes gleamed coldly.
"We erase them all."