Chapter 369: Southern Tomb (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 369: Southern Tomb (3)
The atmosphere froze in an instant.
His statement just now...
It was pure arrogance.
Telling the warriors of the Valhalla Empire that they could all rush him at once was a blatant provocation that stung their pride. Yet, not a single person stepped forward. Those who had challenged him relentlessly just a day ago were now only exchanging hesitant glances, not daring to utter a word.
When he had first shown mercy to Valderas, the crowd secretly felt relieved.
If Roman Dmitry wasn't going to kill his challengers, the burden of taking on an impossible fight naturally became much lighter. They turned a blind eye to their own cowardice. They told themselves they were risking their lives for Valhalla as true warriors, but in reality, the sight of Valderas surviving had merely banished the fear of death from their hearts.
But now, the situation had changed.
The price of a challenge was death.
Just how many would have to die to bring Roman Dmitry down?
A hundred?
A thousand?
Ten thousand?
No number could guarantee victory.
Tales of his exploits—slaughtering ten thousand troops alone or displaying overwhelming martial prowess against an army of three hundred thousand—failed to fully capture the monster that was Roman Dmitry. Those numbers were merely the aftermath of his victories. Without ever revealing his true limits, he had consistently produced absurd results that left the world in absolute shock.
Thus, his limits remained an abyss.
How many people would it take to defeat him?
Was such a thing even possible?
While they clung to the baseless belief that this week-long bloody battle would ultimately end in Valhalla's victory, they were absolutely certain of one thing: the warriors who challenged him first would die. It wasn't a guess; it was a guarantee. No matter how eager Valhalla's warriors were to risk their lives for pride, they couldn't help but hesitate in the face of certain death.
Fear spread.
Everyone hesitated.
Despite having an overwhelming advantage in numbers, no one could bring themselves to step forward and issue a challenge.
It was then.
"We will challenge him."
A path opened.
As the crowd parted like the sea, hundreds of uniquely garbed men strode forward.
The significance of their appearance was clear.
Wild, overgrown hair and beards, bare chests covered in dense tattoos, and a bizarre array of uncommon weapons. It was a sight rare even within Valhalla. The matching tattoos engraved across the backs of dozens of men proved that those sharing the mark were sworn brothers, ready to die for one another.
They were the minority tribes.
The very foundation of Valhalla.
They were the origin of the empire that had sprouted from the southern jungle. Even after Valhalla had risen to imperial status, these tribes refused to follow the flow of civilization. They remained in the jungle to preserve Valhalla's roots; their very existence was the living history of the empire.
Their leader stepped forward.
His name was Ger.
A warrior of the Black Wolf clan, he swept his gaze over the crowd and spoke.
"You weak city bastards. Since when did Valhalla become a nation that avoids challenges out of the fear of death? The essence of Valhalla lies in never backing down, even when we know the odds are impossible. No matter how great a swordsman Roman Dmitry may be, he cannot deny the foundation of Valhalla."
The atmosphere turned chilling.
Hundreds of warriors surrounded Roman Dmitry.
Ger spun two hand axes as he locked eyes with him.
"Roman Dmitry. We are truly grateful to you for saving Valhalla. But if you understand our hearts, I hope you can comprehend why we must go to such lengths to stop you. You know it well. All of this is happening because your strength defies reason."
Crack.
Crack, craaaack.
A bizarre sound echoed.
Starting with Ger, their bodies began to twist and expand, coarse dark fur sprouting across their skin. The other warriors underwent different transformations. The minority tribes were not merely wildmen. Some tribes transformed into beasts, others spat fire, and some cloaked themselves in darkness to specialize in stealth. The diverse, bizarre powers of these minority tribes were infamous throughout Valhalla.
Every single one of them was putting their life on the line.
Even knowing this was a place of death, they stepped forward to reignite the pride of Valhalla.
"Grrr, grrrrrr."
It was a touch-and-go situation.
Roman Dmitry calmly raised his sword.
It was a stance that accepted the overwhelming numerical disadvantage head-on.
However, contrary to the wishes of the crowd waiting for the clash, the Emperor of Valhalla lowered the flag he was holding and roared,
"Stop! The Warrior's Trial ends here!"
*
This series of events left the Emperor of Valhalla feeling wretched.
He, too, had wanted to step forward.
As a warrior of Valhalla before he was an emperor, it disgusted him to be the only one watching from the sidelines.
It was the irony of life.
He had raised his sword for the romance of Valhalla, but once he ascended to the throne, he could no longer exist as a mere warrior. If he died fighting Roman Dmitry, there would be no way to handle the aftermath. Having only just overthrown a tyrant, Valhalla desperately needed an unwavering focal point.
He swallowed his bitter disgust.
Sanchez's words were right.
He could no longer just watch his warriors die.
"Roman Dmitry is right. Throwing oneself into a pit of fire while knowing the outcome is not a warrior's bravery; it is ignorance and foolishness. Times have changed. This does not mean we should discard our pride as warriors of Valhalla, but for the future of the empire, we must avoid meaningless sacrifices. Roman Dmitry is Valhalla's benefactor. What meaning is there in risking our lives just to bring him down? Even if we do stop him, if tens of thousands of warriors die in the process, can we truly call that the right path for a warrior?"
He raised his voice.
It was agonizing for a man who had always championed the romance of Valhalla to display such a contradictory stance.
But it was the right thing to do.
It was necessary for Valhalla.
"Valhalla has recently gone through a difficult time. Many have died in the civil war, and even those we killed for the sake of what was right were our own kin, sharing Valhalla's blood. Valhalla stands at a crossroads. The empire's future will be decided by how we resolve this chaotic situation. If meaningless sacrifices continue against Roman Dmitry, we will only plunge into further suffering. Think wisely. As citizens of the empire, think coldly about what is truly right."
"But we cannot just back down like this. To a warrior, the process is more important than the result!"
It was Ger.
As he retorted with a fierce expression, the Emperor of Valhalla turned his gaze toward him.
"Why on earth is it a problem to clear the path for the strong? The great warrior Carlos passed the Warrior's Trial. He endured for a week, passed even the final gate of the Dark Elves, and entered the Southern Tomb. During that process, Valhalla's warriors stopped actively challenging him from the sixth day onward. It was not because they had abandoned their pride as warriors, but because his strength had been sufficiently proven, and they saw no need to invite further damage."
And thus, a legend was born.
For the first time, someone who was not an emperor enjoyed the honor of entering the Southern Tomb.
"The situation we face now is no different from back then. If our ancestors a hundred years ago needed six days to recognize Carlos's qualifications, we only need a single day. Ger. You know it too, don't you? Even if all the minority tribes die here today, there is no guarantee we can defeat Roman Dmitry."
"...Tch."
Ger irritably turned his head away.
He hated to admit it, but the Emperor's words were true.
If they lost countless warriors—starting with the minority tribes—Valhalla could not guarantee its future.
As one of the continent's two great pillars, its foundation was already being pushed to the edge of a cliff.
As even Ger took a step back, the Emperor of Valhalla shouted,
"In the name of the Emperor of Valhalla, I declare! Roman Dmitry has met the qualifications to pass the Warrior's Trial, and we shall clear the path for this great warrior!"
*
Now, only the final gate remained.
The trial of the Dark Elves.
The crowd held their ground.
Since he had declared his intention to enter the Southern Tomb, the Dark Elves would appear before long.
Will he be able to pass the final trial?
It was the thought shared by everyone present.
The final trial.
People called it the Trial of the Mirror.
The Dark Elves dealt with dangerous entities not permitted in the mortal realm, and one of them was the Doppelgänger—considered one of the most mysterious existences in the world. A Doppelgänger possessed the ability to absorb everything about its opponent. When facing an ordinary person, it exerted the strength of an ordinary person. But when facing an Aura Swordsman, it wielded power comparable to that Aura Swordsman.
Therefore, immense strength did not guarantee passage.
Even Carlos had struggled, and Roman Dmitry would also have to overcome the trial of facing himself.
This was why the people of Valhalla could not be certain of his success.
They knew that the stronger Roman Dmitry was, the stronger the Doppelgänger would become.
It was then.
Sliiiide.
From beyond the darkness of the jungle, a sensation of encroaching shadows crept in.
Soon, figures took shape. Unlike the Elves they had encountered before, Dark Elves with pitch-black skin revealed themselves to the crowd. They were expressionless. Meeting the gazes of the people with cold faces, they walked toward the stage of the trial with unwavering steps. They brought something along with them, bound by clanking iron chains. A formless entity, resembling thick black smoke, writhed under the restraints.
It was an uncommon sight.
Seeing Dark Elves in person was an extremely rare experience for anyone.
Thud.
They stopped in their tracks.
The Dark Elves looked at the challenger, preparing to perform their role as gatekeepers.
However...
"...?!"
In an instant, their eyes widened.
Cracks appeared in their cold, expressionless facades, replaced by looks of utter shock—as if they had encountered an existence they never should have laid eyes upon.
They fell to their knees.
Before the crowd could even grasp the situation, they raised their voices toward Roman Dmitry.
"Savior of the World Tree. The Dark Elf clan pays its respects to the Savior."
*
It was an entirely unexpected turn of events.
A savior?
While the people of Valhalla were thrown into confusion, Roman Dmitry roughly pieced together what was happening.
Is it the influence of the World Tree?
Arcadia.
While handling the affairs there, the Flame Demon's Flames had melted the frozen World Tree. Even back then, the Elves had expressed their deep gratitude to Roman Dmitry. Calling him the Savior who saved the World Tree, they had promised to grant whatever he wished of the Elf race in the future.
The same applied to the Dark Elves.
Although their characteristics differed from ordinary Elves, they too could feel the power of the World Tree.
Roman Dmitry.
The World Tree had bestowed its blessing upon him.
Overwhelmed with emotion just by facing him, the lofty pride of the Dark Elves instantly crumbled.
"Savior. We do not dare presume to have the right to test you. If you wish, please pass us and enter the Southern Tomb. No one shall obstruct the Savior's will."
It was an extraordinary development.
The Dark Elves, whom everyone assumed would be the final gatekeepers, were instead volunteering to escort Roman Dmitry.
The crowd was dumbfounded.
What on earth was happening?
However...
"No, the trial will proceed as scheduled."
Roman declined their favor.
Thanks to the Emperor of Valhalla's declaration, Roman Dmitry had reached the final gate in just two days. This alone was an unprecedented pace. Though some of Valhalla's warriors were dissatisfied, they had followed the general consensus. For the future of Valhalla, they knew they had to swallow their pride.
But if Roman Dmitry accepted the Dark Elves' favor here, the people of Valhalla would undoubtedly harbor discontent. Clearing the path was one thing, but bypassing the final trial so easily would inevitably invite gossip.
And above all...
An existence that absorbs the opponent's power. Can a Doppelgänger truly mimic my power perfectly? If it does, can I defeat an opponent who is exactly like me?
His curiosity was piqued.
Regardless of victory or defeat, simply to resolve the question burning in his mind, Roman Dmitry could not just bypass the final gate.
"Dark Elves. If you truly consider me your Savior, proceed with the trial as scheduled."
*
The Savior's command.
The Dark Elves could not refuse.
The one who appeared to be their leader rose and released the heavy iron chains he had been holding.
"Please, be careful."
Sliiiide.
The darkness spread out.
The entity that had been bound by the chains hovered around Roman Dmitry, writhing as it sucked in the surrounding mana. Then, returning to its original position, it began to fluctuate violently. What was initially a gaseous form suddenly transformed into a viscous, liquid-like mass, undulating in all directions as it became deeply stained with darkness.
Gurgle.
Gurgle, gurgle.
It was a bizarre sight.
Everyone held their breath.
The liquid shape gradually shifted.
As if molding clay, it formed a figure—one that looked remarkably similar to Roman Dmitry.
Shape-shifting.
It was the Doppelgänger's innate ability.
Once the transformation was fully complete, the entity would wield Roman Dmitry's exact power.
However...
Creak, creeeeak.
The Doppelgänger suddenly began to convulse violently.
Having almost finished its transformation, it collapsed back into a grotesque, clay-like mush and thrashed about frantically. Even the Dark Elves could not hide their bewilderment. They had conducted countless trials using the Doppelgänger in accordance with their covenant, but it had never once shown a reaction like this.
It was an incomprehensible situation.
Limbs sprouted once more.
It formed a new face, and a thick, long beard—something that Roman Dmitry definitely did not have—grew out.
"W-What is that...?"
"What on earth is happening?"
It was an old man.
A massive build with a thick beard.
An existence that exuded an immense aura of intimidation, completely incongruous with his advanced age.
The crowd could not recognize who the figure was, but Roman Dmitry recognized him instantly.
It is my past self.
The Heavenly Demon, Baek Joong-hyuk.
It was none other than him.
The Doppelgänger's shape-shifting did not merely copy outward appearances.
It absorbed the pure energy residing within the soul, taking on the fundamental essence of the being. Outwardly, Roman Dmitry was the eldest son of the Dmitry family, but his core lay in his past life. As the form of Baek Joong-hyuk—the absolute ruler of the Murim—manifested in this world, the Doppelgänger attempted to raise its massive body with infinite power.
It was then.
Aaaaargh!
Its mouth tore open grotesquely.
The Doppelgänger shrieked.
Clutching its head with both hands, it fell to its knees, its body thrashing wildly as if unable to endure the sheer agony of containing that power.
This, too, was a sight the Dark Elves had never witnessed.
Or rather, to be precise, they had only heard of a similar reaction in ancient legends passed down through generations.
Before long...
Crack.
Burst!
The Doppelgänger shattered.
Torn to shreds, the human-like body reverted into a dark mass of liquid and splattered in all directions.
At that sight, the Dark Elves stared blankly, looking back and forth between Roman Dmitry and the remnants of what had once been the Doppelgänger's body.