The Kar Tribunal
Grashikhal.
The sacred high plateau, capital, and central stronghold of the Kar tribe—where every tradition of the Karu people had been accumulated and refined.
More savage and relentless than any other region in the north, the barren plateau was mercilessly battered by eternal cold winds and blizzards. At its very center lay the great hall.
Inside the grand hall, the complete assembly of Karu Taman had gathered.
Brakzor’s gaze was as frozen and unyielding as the ice that blanketed the plateau itself.
Before him, on one knee, sat Halkanzor, the Chief Administrator managing Grashikhal.
“Preldior,” Brakzor’s voice was low and commanding. “The number of troops—how many exactly?”
“The Imperial forces gathered at Preldior number… a full fifty thousand troops. Far more than those that assembled at Belikezel before.”
Belikezel.
The moment the name left Halkanzor’s lips, a cruel gleam ignited in Brakzor’s eyes.
Three years ago, the very land that had belonged to the Karu people—Belikezel—had been stolen by the Empire. That shameful humiliation had carved itself deep into the collective memory of northern history, an event so unprecedented that it still burned like fresh blood.
“Belikezel… Belikezel…”
Brakzor’s voice carried the bitter, almost mournful ring of grief.
The Taman who had once managed that land…
“Krelmuk, was it?”
“Yes, Taman.”
Brakzor narrowed his eyes.
“Where is the man now?”
“For the crime of losing Belikezel, he has been imprisoned in the northern prison for one full year.”
A Karu prison was nothing short of a living hell of ice and endless torment.
“…And afterward, he went to seek out Bargentoh.”
Brakzor’s eyes flashed with sudden, living interest.
“Bargentoh?”
A low, rumbling laugh echoed through the ice-veiled halls of Grashikhal.
“Kkrrkrrkrk… And?”
Unable to contain himself, Brakzor laughed outright, the sound fierce and triumphant.
Halkanzor answered calmly.
“I have heard nothing beyond the report that he still remains there.”
“Hm…”
Brakzor’s fingers stroked his jaw, curiosity sharp and dangerous.
Bargentoh.
The greatest training master in the entire Kar tribe. Warriors trained beneath him emerged as monsters, their power terrifying and absolute. Yet the methods were so brutal, so unimaginable for a human body, that most could not survive even three months and fled in terror. Those who endured, however, gained strength beyond anything the Karu could name. Everyone knew that truth—even Brakzor himself had once spent ten years under the master’s brutal guidance.
The scars remained, etched deep into his body as permanent reminders.
“…A truly terrible idea comes to mind.”
“You did not receive training beneath him?”
“Ten years.”
Halkanzor’s words were casual, but his eyes flickered with shock. Ten years beneath that infamous master… had he really endured it?
Brakzor continued without missing a beat.
“Remaining beneath him to this day means he endured two full years, does it not?”
“…That appears to be the case.”
“Haha… he must have suffered greatly.”
To walk willingly into such a hell on his own.
Brakzor’s voice dropped once more.
“Send Krelmuk to the Preldior battlefield.”
Halkanzor’s head snapped up in surprise.
“Him… as Supreme Taman?”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
Brakzor snorted.
“But a razor-sharp axe like him will do well enough on this field.”
Krelmuk had once worn only six feather tattoos. After two years beneath Bargentoh, however…
How much had he truly changed?
Cold resolve settled in Brakzor’s eyes.
He made his decision at once.
“As Supreme Taman of Preldior… send Barg Sravan.”
“…!”
Halkanzor’s eyes widened in shock, breath catching.
“Barg Sravan…!”
The most stubborn and powerful bloodline in the Karu, and the only nine living bearers of the seven feather tattoos in the entire tribe.
To appoint such a warrior as Supreme Taman of Preldior was no small matter.
Preldior is no longer merely a defensive line.
With this battlefield as the starting point, they would crush the Empire’s army and drive straight to the heart of the Empire itself.
Halkanzor asked cautiously.
“Are you… planning to march southward?”
Brakzor said nothing.
He simply stared out the window at the frozen cliffs and the storm clouds gathering beyond.
The silence was heavier than any words.
And then a voice tore through the long quiet.
“After this war…”
A ruthless glint crossed Brakzor’s face.
“I will march straight to the Empire’s capital.”
His declaration of conquest fell like a hammer.
Leaving the bitter cold of Ranyor behind, three men stood before a worn, creaking door that looked ancient and stubborn.
Yet it opened smoothly, far softer than expected.
The biting wind vanished, replaced by warm, inviting air that wrapped around their faces like a blanket.
“Hm…”
Inside, a deep, rich leather scent filled their nostrils.
Kairon scanned the shop curiously, eyes wide.
Thick fur coats, heavy felt hats, and reinforced coats with gloves lined the walls, creating an atmosphere of solid, unbreakable protection.
Then a man emerged from the back, greeting them with a broad smile.
“Welcome. We have been waiting.”
He was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his weathered yet callused hands steady and his eyes deep with quiet wisdom.
The owner stepped forward.
“Have you prepared the ordered items?”
“Just a moment.”
The man disappeared inside and soon returned carrying two large boxes with great care.
“Only the final adjustments remain. We must measure each of you personally and finish.”
Kairon tilted his head, glancing around.
“What exactly is this place?”
Thick leather outerwear, fur-lined coats, and fortress-like garments filled every inch of the shop—clothes so heavy and durable that their weight was immediately apparent.
Arteon spoke.
“You go first. To head north, you need clothing that can withstand the cold.”
Yet these were no ordinary garments—specialized, movement-friendly uniforms designed for battle. Layered with wind-proofing magic and far tougher than ordinary leather, they also boasted reinforced armor plating that could withstand blades and spears. Arteon wore an armband that boosted cold resistance, but even that would not be enough for the frozen north. Besides, his own clothes had been reduced to rags by years of training and were beyond repair.
Following Arteon’s cue, Kairon stepped forward hesitantly.
He had trained only under Rionhart for so long that this was his first experience with such garments.
“Stand here, please.”
The tailor moved his measuring tape with expert precision, tracing lines from shoulder to arm, waist, and back as if drawing a perfect picture.
Kairon stiffened awkwardly, rolling his eyes.
“O… you’re incredibly skilled.”
This man has been working at this for over thirty years. He has no choice but to be this good.
He swallowed the thought.
Eventually the owner called Arteon over.
“I’m counting on you.”
Arteon bowed politely.
The owner drew a line with a smile and began measuring Arteon’s body with swift accuracy.
The tailor’s eyes flickered once as the tape followed every contour. He had sold countless uniforms to northern warriors, and this body was no ordinary one.
…A perfect human frame.
Something in his bones and balance gave him chills—solid, flawless, with nothing missing.
When Arteon’s fitting was complete, the owner announced:
“Both of you may change behind the curtain.”
After receiving their clothes, the pair disappeared into the changing room.
Kairon, new to this, emerged first with the tailor’s help.
When he stepped out, the owner gasped in admiration.
“Ooh! You look excellent!”
Deep navy fabric, with vivid red flame-like patterns on the chest, sides, and sleeves that danced like rising fire—patterns that perfectly complemented Kairon’s fiery red hair. A reinforced shoulder pauldron, a heavy brass buckle at the waist, and an overall air of mature soldierly grace replaced the rough mercenary vibe he had worn before.
The owner said proudly:
“You suit it well, Sir Kairon.”
“Ahaha… really? Okay.”
Kairon scratched his head, still feeling awkward.
Then—
Clack!
Arteon pulled back the curtain and stepped into the light.
The owner and Kairon turned to him.
“Ooooooh!”
“O… you actually look good?”
Standing before the full-length mirror, Arteon cut a striking figure. Thick fur with silver-gray tones cascaded down his right shoulder in a staircase pattern, making his frame look even larger and more solid. A deep crimson-black coat hugged his body perfectly, embroidered with intricate gold-silk patterns along the edges, sleeves, and chest. The lighting caught a subtle sheen that spoke of luxurious, heirloom-quality fabric. A buckle shaped like a dragon’s claw gleamed at his waist, and the inner lining was treated ogre hide—strong enough to resist blades and spears. Added to that were wind-proofing and weight-reducing magic, making the entire ensemble feel as if it had been crafted solely for him from the beginning.
The owner could not hide his awe.
“You look truly magnificent. I have worked here nearly thirty years, yet this is the most beautiful uniform I have ever made. Of course, the previous customer was also quite handsome.”
Though he tried to sound casual, it was obvious he was genuinely impressed.
Arteon bowed respectfully.
“Thank you. It feels… wonderful.”
“Heh heh, that is wonderful to hear.”
The three men emerged once more, ready to leave for Preldior.
“Wow, I’m not cold at all?”
“The wind-proofing magic is active. It will not be perfect farther up, but it’s effective.”
“The clothes are surprisingly light.”
Kairon, now fully dressed, smiled happily and waved his arms, testing the freedom of movement.
Arteon reminded him:
“Remember, these are borrowed. You will have to pay them back later.”
“How much?”
“250 gold.”
“…?”
Kairon froze for a moment. The monthly living expenses of a small three- or four-person household barely reached two or three gold. To think an entire eight-year supply of living costs was nothing more than the price of one set of clothes?
Is this guy just making things up? One outfit for 250 gold? Does he think we’re idiots?
“Correct. 250 gold.”
The owner casually added from the side.
Kairon stood frozen in place.
“…Really?”
“Yes. Two sets for 500 gold. Here is the receipt…”
The owner pulled a signed transaction receipt from his pocket.
Kairon swallowed hard.
“…You won’t be coming after us, right?”
“Of course not. It’s a custom fit…”
The owner turned with a laugh.
Kairon was still protesting loudly behind Arteon, but the latter simply smiled faintly and climbed into the carriage.
“Get in. We’re heading straight to Preldior now.”
His expression had grown serious. If they arrived, they would be thrown straight into battle without rest.
And…
“Huu…”
Seeing the start of this fight as the true beginning of revenge, Arteon felt his chest grow heavy.
Already… the future I knew has changed.
There had been no imperial succession wars in his past life.
Of course he had no interest in such politics, but crushing the ambitions of the second prince and his allies was the first step.
And then…
Arteon’s eyes flashed with sharp determination.
To do that, he needed to secure this first move perfectly.
“Let’s go.”
“I clearly said I wasn’t paying.”
Looking at Kairon’s persistent grumbling, Arteon simply gazed out the window.
And soon:
“We are departing.”
The carriage carrying the three men rolled toward Preldior.
But then—
“Waiiiiiiit!”