Chapter 206
Chapter 206
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 206
Chapter Title: Dispatch Mission Report: Smelt Fishing
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The acrid stench of ashes stung his nostrils. Cold droplets fell one by one onto his forehead and cheeks.
*Is it raining?*
Fernandez grimaced at the water dripping onto his face. Returning to reality from the tangled realm of the mind, where his sense of time had unraveled, was never pleasant—it felt like his body was being shredded by knives.
And now rain on top of it all. Perfect. Fernandez scowled and opened his eyes.
A field of wheat stretched before him. Golden hair, radiant like midsummer fields under the sun, filled his vision. From eyes shining like clear skies, rain was falling.
"Abel."
"You've... worked hard."
Abel caressed Fernandez's cheek with trembling hands. He pushed himself up unsteadily and looked around. Flames swirled in every direction around him. This colossal sacred tree, which had stood through ages alongside Yggdrasil and Asgard, was now burning itself to herald the end of a world.
"Benefactor!"
Kirhas grabbed his arm and helped him up, grinning. Her clothes and skin were stained with wounds and dirt. The marks of hardship were evident on her body. He slowly raised a hand and stroked her hair.
"Let's go home."
"Yes, Benefactor!"
Climbing down the blazing trunk of Yggdrasil, the three began their descent to the ground. Stumbling, occasionally slipping dangerously. Supporting and leading each other, without pause.
Like human nature itself, even when falling, never stopping.
* * *
Loft lounged on a massive throne woven from bones and skulls, spinning lazily with a grin. Beside him stood Freyja in pristine ceremonial white armor, intricately embossed with flowers and leaves. They sat at the highest tier of the vast tent, overlooking the interior.
"Friends. It's great to see you all after so long. Ah, Father too."
"Loki."
Utgarth, king of the giants. Ruler of the Jotun, arms crossed, eyed Loft suspiciously. Between his steel armor adorned with leather and beast horns, his solid muscles bulged prominently.
In a grim voice echoing from beneath his helm, he spoke.
"Withdraw your forces. It's time to end this."
"Does more blood need to flow on such a fine day, Father?"
"Isn't it time to avenge your humiliation?"
"My humiliation? Hahaha! Father. Utgarth! You, saying that to me? My humiliation? You were the one who handed me over to the Aesir!"
Loft's eyes blazed with fury. The skulls beneath him rattled in response to his rage. At that moment, Thor, seated at one end of the round table, slammed the desk with a thud.
[Jotun. Yes, withdraw your forces. Do you hate the Aesir? We have no intention of living under your protection!]
"Is that the consensus of the other Aesir as well?"
Freyja spoke quietly from beside Loft.
[Vana-dis!]
"I was a hostage, sure. But I didn't hate all the Aesir. How could the world have only good or only bad? I rather enjoyed Asgard's spring, in my own way, Thor. So believe me. Odin ceded half the Einherjar to me, so I'll answer with Aesir authority."
Freyja stepped forward and declared.
"The Aesir have paid for their sins, and lifelong exile awaits them. Come to Vanaheim. I can't promise eternal peace, but you'll have the right to live among the Vanir. Ragnarok is over, and today marks the end of the Fimbulvetr nightmare. No more blood needs to be shed."
The old man at the table's edge, who had been silently watching, smiled faintly at Loft. Loft chuckled and nodded toward him.
"Mimir, speak freely if you have something to say. Will we even meet again after today?"
"With the Vanadis's Einherjar and Heimdall's Bifrost in hand, great king. You've become the ruler of this era."
"Like Odin did?"
"What will you do now? Conquer thousands of worlds and harvest lives?"
"Oh, Mimir. Wise friend. No threats, please."
Loft gave a dry smile toward the lord of Helheim.
"Thor will inherit the Aesir throne. I have no such plans. As for the Aesir... let them scatter wherever—Vanaheim, Midgard, Jotunheim, or Helheim. I have no desire to tangle with them anymore."
"What an irresponsible king."
"Are there any subjects left for me to be responsible for? These are my people."
Loft patted the skulls propping him up. One snapped its jaw shut with a click.
"The Einherjar, and all the dead. Don't they deserve a beacon to light their path? If the only choices after death are those cold heavenly hypocrites or mad demons, that's too pitiful. For the afterlife, longer than their mortal lives, wouldn't one 'friend' be nice?"
"Will you become the god of death?"
"If anything, more like a companion than a god. Don't elevate me like that, friend. We're comrades who rode the same ship."
Loft bellowed with laughter. Mimir, the strategist who devised and delivered the Ragnarok plan to Loft. The two schemers who used each other to achieve one goal exchanged smiles.
"Long live the great king. You've grown well, Loft."
"Spare the flattery. Now, everyone. Great lords of a thousand worlds. Pay attention."
Loft clapped his hands and stood.
"It's time for all to return home. The play is over, the curtain fallen. The actors must go back to their stages and start new lives. Even if they've averted the world's end and slain their foes. Life goes on. Utgarth."
"Hmph."
"Withdraw your forces. Why not go melt some snow in Jotunheim?"
"And if I refuse?"
"Well, the Einherjar, Helheim, and grieving Asgard refugees will unite in condemnation. Maybe wield a sword or two?"
Utgarth slowly closed his eyes and turned away. Loft smirked at the sight, then looked to Thor.
"Thor. My friend."
[...Do as you will.]
"That was the plan! I'll take Bifrost. You take the throne."
[I'll take Jormungandr's corpse too.]
"No idea what for, but sure. So be it. Now, Freyja?"
"I'm going to Midgard."
Freyja stepped back from the table with a smile. Loft tilted his head at the unexpected words.
"Midgard?"
"It's been ages since I left Vanaheim—what point is there in starting anew there? I'll accept the Aesir exiles. But I have no interest in Vanaheim's throne struggles. It doesn't suit me anyway."
"Fine then. Do that. And you, Mimir? Anything else you want?"
Mimir rose slowly and said.
"Promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't use Bifrost for conquest."
Their gazes locked briefly. Loft nodded gravely.
"I stake my soul on it."
"That suffices. Long life to you, king."
Mimir waved his hand, and with a pop, small fireworks burst above the tent. The giants around the round table sat motionless, eyeing each other.
Loft chuckled. Such stiff fellows. Time to wrap up. He stood slowly.
"Well, I'll take my leave here."
"Where to?"
"To welcome the friends who suffered most in this affair. Can't hold a feast with Asgard in ruins anyway."
"I'll come too."
Freyja followed behind Loft. They parted the tent flaps and stepped outside.
* * *
The nights at Inquisition Keep are brighter than the days. Not figuratively, but literally. The inquisitors' days consist of quiet meditation, personal training, penance, and prayer—most of which continue into the night.
Thus, the nights beneath the flaming torchlit walls are inevitably brighter than the dim days of Inquisition Keep. But tonight—no, these past few nights—were a touch brighter still.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the torchlit corridor.
"Abbot. The forces are assembled."
"And the Reverse Cross Relief Knights?"
The soft rustle of turning report pages accompanied the Enmagicka brother's voice, calm as prayer.
"Deploying to the northern border. All positions will be set within five days, entering combat readiness."
"Where's the Radiant Martyrs now?"
The questions came almost simultaneously with the responses. In truth, Beorn walked while calculating complex political and diplomatic entanglements, force dispositions, and supply lines in his head.
"The dispatch rider two days ago said they're preparing to march, so they should reach the Widowmaker Coast within ten days at latest."
"And the Eastern Kingdoms Alliance?"
The most delicate issue. A plea for aid from secular kingdoms. A matter of extending influence beyond religious spheres into secular society. Fortunately, the Beitasser Church held sufficient justification and sway over the Eastern Kingdoms Alliance.
"King Vicente of the Dane royal house is leading the muster personally. The Fairn royals are committing the Royal Griffin Knights. The Dallas house pledged ships, and other supply lines are well-provisioned."
There. Preparations complete. Ready to claim the great demon's head. Beorn strode on, mentally composing his address for the brothers burning to charge out.
Soon, the corridor's end. The cloister entrance appeared. At Beorn's gesture, attendants shoved open the heavy iron doors. They creaked as they swung wide.
Before them, in Inquisition Keep's inner courtyard, fully armed inquisitors stood silently, watching him. Beorn advanced with dry steps, face impassive.
"Macto. Brothers."
"Macto Superaudo."
The inquisitors echoed softly in unison. Each voice wasn't loud, but their heavy, resonant tones filled the courtyard low and deep.
"We stand at the crossroads of the end times, brothers. The brink of the world's demise—that thrilling edge some call the ravings of mad zealots. We always advance toward that forefront."
Beorn stood at the podium, speaking calmly. The hall was deathly still.
"It is the age when myths awaken. Not the happy, hopeful myths promised by our gods. But apocalyptic visions of doom and hell, the stuff of children's nightmares. Hell draws near, evil surges, and the righteous wither."
Thud. A dry strike on the stone floor. An inquisitor in the crowd raised his sword and struck the ground. Soon, thud. Thud. Others followed.
"But shall we retreat? Lament that human strength avails nothing? We swore to bring the flame, a conviction enduring until we are wholly consumed. We are inquisitors, and our end will not be peaceful."
"Seek not peace. I bring not peace, but a sword."
Amid the crowd's response, Beorn slowly raised his arm.
"Go forth, not for your peace, but for the world's. Brothers. Mourn not a brother's death. Rage instead—at the world, at the evil blooming therein. And... at ourselves, for indulging that evil."
"Macto."
"Macto Superaudo. Brothers. By the authority guaranteed by the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods..."
At that moment, the courtyard entrance burst open noisily as a man dashed in panting. He flinched under the inquisitors' stern gazes, threading cautiously through them toward the podium.
"Abbot!"
"What is it."
One of the Torchmen handling external communications. Beorn frowned down at him. No need for excessive gravity, but this was the eve of their final crusade against the great demon's revival.
Zephys had returned immediately after mission failure, submitting a grand report on the northern apocalypse: brothers' deaths in combat, the saint's sacrifice, the gateway to hell opening. The massive corruption engulfing the north.
Upon review, Beorn had requested a crusade declaration from the Papal See. It proceeded swiftly. Military forces from Holy Pantheon churches mobilized, secular kingdoms' aid poured in.
Even the Pantheon, long silent, had issued a revelation. Demons were appearing. Indeed, demon incidents reported to the Inquisition had spiked dozens-fold since the great demon's revival.
Amid this, all inquisitors were summoned. From those on operations to raw recruits.
And now, as the muster concluded, a single envelope from the north lay before Beorn.
Beorn glanced at the assembled inquisitors, then carefully tore open the report's outer seal. The coarse parchment envelope bore a familiar wax stamp at the end.
"Brother Fernandez...?"
Slowly, Beorn drew the documents from within.
[Dispatch Mission Report: Smelt Fishing.]
[Urgent Notice No. 221. Access and approval restricted to vice-archbishops or higher.]
The moment he read the first line in that all-too-familiar script, Beorn slowly—ever so slowly—set the report down. Clutching his forehead, he let out a deep sigh.
"Trouble just landed."
He didn't need to read it to know the contents. Zephys's prior report noted the great demon's seal broken, the saint sacrificing himself by hurling his body as the seal.
And if Fernandez's report now sat pristine before him, only one conclusion: the great demon was dead, or Fernandez had fallen.
Either way, a massive incident. Especially now, with forces mobilized across factions at their behest. He couldn't tell if the saint's return warranted joy or sorrow.
"Lord Beitasser, show us the path."
Foreseeing the political fallout ahead, Beorn simply closed his eyes and prayed in silence.