Chapter 179
Chapter 179
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 179
Chapter Title: Counting the Stars
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*
Rustle.
In the dense coniferous forest atop a snowy mountain blanketed by last night's gentle snowfall, men cloaked in white mantles moved silently, their footsteps muffled. They advanced cautiously, ever vigilant against any noise that might betray their presence.
Caw, caw.
A crow called out. Since ancient times, crows had been regarded by warriors as auspicious creatures, harbingers of Bhotan. A good omen. The lead warrior nodded and gazed ahead.
He smeared snow over his axe to dull its reflective gleam, then slowly raised it. Beyond the underbrush, several cabins came into view, far in the distance.
"Count to three and charge."
"Yes, Captain."
Around the cabins, tree stumps from recent logging lay exposed. The cabins were impeccably maintained; aside from the snow cover, there were no signs of age. These buildings were newly constructed.
"One."
And this pursuit itself had been conducted with meticulous precision, backtracking every possible escape route the survivors of Hazat Devan could have taken, leading them finally here.
Thus, the warrior of Hazat Kazal had no doubt that today would bring glorious slaughter.
"Two, three. Charge."
"For Sadarkelia!!"
"For Bhotan! Die, you losers!!"
The men hidden in the brush leaped out in unison, weapons raised high. One could easily imagine the enemy panicking in disarray, flesh and blood scattering in the chaos.
...?
But there was no reaction. Throwing axes and daggers shattered the cabin windows with a clamor, embedding themselves inside, and oil-soaked fire arrows pierced the roofs—yet in this tense moment, the area remained utterly silent.
"Tear down the door!!"
The warrior gnashed his teeth and shouted. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible! Excluding this place, there were no other hideouts they could have reached. Other suitable hiding spots were uninhabitable.
Simple elimination. A hideout easy to conceal in, easy to flee from, abundant in nearby wilderness resources to sustain them for months. The warrior was counted among the sharpest minds in his clan, and this operation was mere routine drudgery that could not fail.
Crack, boom!
The warriors smashed the door with two-handed axes, finally revealing the interior. Amid shattered furniture and embedded throwing axes in disarray... there was no one. Absolutely no one.
"Damn it!"
Boom!
The warrior lashed out in frustration at a nearby tree stump. Snow cascaded down from above, showering his head.
"Damn it, again! Again! You rat bastards!!"
He should have calmly searched the cabin for signs of habitation or tracked the traces that had to be nearby, but the warrior had lost his reason. Not just days of grueling pursuit, but every result of that pursuit had ended like this.
Seven raids in total, and all seven had failed. The warrior swept snow from his face and sighed heavily.
"I'll be killed by Yarl."
Above the warrior's head, on the branch of a massive, dense conifer, a small mistletoe poked its head out, budding into flower.
*
Plop!
A red rose burst forth amid white mist flowers. Freya, seated in meditation with eyes closed, spoke quietly from across the table where the flowers had bloomed.
"Hazat Devan totals 342. Combat-capable personnel: 127. They will join in three days."
That over half of roughly 350 refugees could be thrown into battle was absurd—and a stark symbol of the northerners' belligerence. Kirhas felt a delightful confusion amid her established force calculations.
For over a millennium—perhaps nearly two—the Asir divine kin had projected vast influence across the north. To entrench a culture beyond martial reverence, verging on paranoid fanaticism.
Constant mobilization of all personnel. Strong-eat-weak hierarchy. Worship of warriors in religion. Though it began against demons, whatever the current situation. Northerners, be they farmers or water-fetching housewives, became elite-level troops the moment you handed them weapons.
She quickly scanned other regions on the map. Yellow forsythia dots marked potential allies. Remnants and refugees fleeing Hazat Kazal's massacre war were scattered across the southern front.
Plop!
A single blue iris joined the forsythia. Soon both withered together, replaced by blooming mist flowers. It meant allies had contacted other refugees and attempted merger.
Crunch.
On the vast table, the carpet of blooming flowers shifted constantly into others. Irises, snow primroses, chrysanthemums, yellow plum blossoms, sunflowers, hawkweed. Cosmos, balloon flowers, foxtails, snow primroses... Vibrant buds bloomed, wilted, rebloomed, releasing a dizzying array of fragrances.
This map of tangled leaves and branches, wilted flowers as foundation for new buds emerging—the north as viewed by the gods...
"Benefactor..."
A somber blue cat's claw crept slowly across the table. Its movement on the map meant impossibly high-speed maneuvering, considering the scale.
Among the blue flower piles signifying allies, one so deep navy it appeared black: the flower for Fernandez.
"May you be safe."
Beyond the red flower graveyard slicing through the map's center, ceaselessly heading north to her master—Kirhas closed her eyes briefly in prayer.
Then she opened them again. Checking Fernandez's position occasionally was rest enough for her.
"Arne. Take twelve warriors and head straight east for two days, ignoring obstacles. Search the valley on the north ridge from the seventh hill you encounter and rescue the refugees, then rejoin the main force. You must follow the south ridge straight for one day first, then turn toward the main force."
"Yes, Commander."
A warrior behind her, awaiting orders, heard the interpreter's relay, bowed, and departed. Kirhas didn't bother turning to watch.
Next, next. And next. As long as Fernandez didn't stop, she wouldn't either. Taking meals and rest right there before the map, issuing only orders. And the next orders to follow.
Fernandez's parting incantation: Secure maximum allies with minimal losses. Nothing more. And his words the night before.
'I trust you.'
To repay that trust. To repay the warmth of his hand stroking her. Kirhas gazed at the map and continued issuing commands.
*
From the tree, Fernandez slowly caught his breath. He had sprinted at full speed for two straight days while evading detection. Even for a Demonica, it was no easy march.
For one in a commoner's body, it was outright brutal. He gazed at pale-faced, panting Abel.
Considering backlash after spell use, Abel was the ideal companion. Rune glyph use burned his nerves, leaving him greatly weakened in direct combat afterward. He needed reliable physical support over magic or other aids.
From that view, he couldn't leave behind Abel, who held the edge in swordsmanship and close quarters even against Demonica. Yet without her draconic form, her stamina was merely mortal.
"Are you all right?"
"Romance... huff, sorry. Just a bit winded. Hmm. Isn't it romantic?"
Abel leaned against a thick branch, regulating her breath as she looked at Fernandez. The thick coniferous forest, this horrific tree-leaping march demanded not just raw strength and endurance, but immense focus to avoid slipping on snow-slick bark.
Yet amid it all, she smiled softly, eyes sparkling.
"Romantic?"
"Yes. The air is crisp, the forest pure. If it were fire-season, maybe not—but now, this scenery as is... No. I can feel it through human eyes, human senses... This is the world as you see it."
Abel stretched with a deep breath. Her straight back shuddered as muscles relaxed.
"Sharing the same view, tasting the same air, making the same memories. Fernandez. I find this moment utterly romantic. Do you?"
Fernandez chose his words carefully. She was always direct, yet never lost her grace in approaching him. A hasty answer would be improper.
But... he recalled first meeting Freya. She had called it 'the face of the one I love most.' It was Aria's face, and the anger and regret it stirred were no mere memories.
Life in the Moomto hallucinations of the great wasteland resurfaced. Not mere illusions or distorted recollections—moments beyond such labels. The trigger to escape that space had been memories of Abel...
Even if mere phantasm. Even if hallucination built on his past life memories... Would a master's canvas depicting the world be simple mimicry of reality?
Feizashi had affirmed, 'We are no longer the same person.' Yet his past life remained his foundation. He could neither deny it nor wished to. Regret fueled him; remorse was his justification.
"I know what you're thinking."
Abel smiled warmly. Her blue eyes seemed tinged with sorrow, yet sparkling with joy. In truth, she felt both opposing emotions at once.
Resentment and sadness toward the man thinking of another woman in this moment. And joy that his purity and longing went unhidden—proof of his sincerity.
"I have no desire to paint your thoughts with my colors, Fernandez. Nor to demand only me from you."
Dragons were long-lived, closer to still life than living beings. In ancient times, they simply existed like natural landscapes. Their gaze on life's joys and sorrows differed from mortals' fleeting sparks.
Humans called it the languidness of the long-lived, but that was false. Dragons merely steeped and savored their emotions more deeply, more intensely.
"The night sky is beautiful."
"...Indeed."
Abel turned her gaze skyward. She pointed to a corner of the night sky—the constellation she had once shown him in the wasteland nights, not long past.
Abelthas seat. She traced a line of golden and blue stars beautifully adorned.
"So many stars. Do you know? Northern constellations differ from the continent's."
"I know. Celestial spheres shift with latitude."
"Not quite that complex... You sometimes use such unromantic words."
Abel grumbled softly. Fernandez chuckled at the sight. She waved her open palm over the night sky like adding paint.
"Long ago, gazing at the sky, it struck me. The farther north I went, the more unknown stars. South, the same. How many new stars in that night sky? How many new constellations drawn?"
Abel's hair fell, brushing her cheek. She tucked it back gently and turned to Fernandez. Her wheat-field hair swayed in the night breeze; sky-blue eyes gleamed in the dark.
"You're knowledgeable—can you tell me?"
"...Impossible to count."
From modern astronomy—no, near-future astronomy's view. Night sky stars outnumbered the visible. In Feizashi's magic-advanced era, tools surpassed naked eyes.
Thus, Fernandez knew counting was meaningless. A single star might be three merged, or mere dust cloud.
As Fernandez sought another reply, Abel's finger stroked his temple hair.
"I know another occupies your heart. And you lack time for private feelings. I know. But Fernandez...... Just the stars in that night sky—one canvas's count, half at least. No, too much? A quarter then......"
Or even just an eighth.
"Just think of me that much."
"Abel..."
"No answer. You scoundrel. I was first, yet must I beg the man who stole it so boldly?"
Abel turned away to the sky again. Wind blew. Her hair fanned like an awning. Demonica keen sight caught a tear glimmering through strands.
What to say? By the time words formed, it felt too late. Silence enveloped them—not awkward or uncomfortable, but the sweet hush of a midnight dream.
Night deepened. A meteor traced a long line, sliding across the sky.
A northern winter night.