The Rival Who Survived
A horn blared across the sky, long and deep, and the Kar warriors facing Kairon began to fall back as one.
Kairon watched them peel away and slowly straightened, spear still in hand. There was no point in chasing men already in full retreat.
Still…
“Hey. You all right?”
He stepped toward Arteon as he asked. The clash a moment earlier had unleashed a shockwave so violent even he had felt the strain of it. The proof lay all around them—the corpses nearest Arteon had been reduced to butchered meat, so mangled their original shapes were barely recognizable.
Anyone unaccustomed to such sights would have been retching. Arteon only stared into the distance with a flat, unreadable expression.
“I didn’t think he was still alive.”
“That him? The one you told me about before?”
“Yeah.”
Once, when the two of them had grown close enough that Arteon thought it safe, he had spoken of it—the defeat on the plains of Belikezel three years earlier. Kairon had been startled, firing questions one after another. Someone stronger than a monster like you? What happened to him? How did you even survive? Arteon hadn’t had many answers to give. He had survived by pure, blind luck himself.
I thought Isaac’s attack had killed him.
The man who stood before him again now seemed to carry far greater power than before. The force packed into that casually thrown axe had blown past every expectation Arteon had held. Clearly the intervening years had put Krelmuk through something unimaginable as well.
Arteon let out a short breath and took in the field around him. There had already been a first clash between the Kar vanguard and the troops under Major Tairen; the second had been his own fight with Kortzan. The ground was a ruin, strewn with blood-soaked corpses left where they had fallen. He had thought himself used to it by now, but the sight of the dead among his own still left a bitter taste every time.
Not long after—
“Commander!”
“Lord Arteon!”
The Silent Spear unit was the first to reach him, shouting as they ran up. Tairen and his soldiers had already fallen back safely and rejoined the main force, and word was the main body itself was nearly here. Arteon gave his order at once.
“Recover the bodies of our dead.”
“Understood.”
At the command, the unit moved quickly, gathering the imperial corpses and laying them together in one place. When the main force arrived a short while later, Velkain came straight toward Arteon.
“What’s the situation?”
“We engaged the enemy vanguard and held them until they withdrew. Unfortunately, their losses weren’t heavy.”
“I see.”
Arteon present, and yet the enemy had suffered little damage. It might have seemed strange—unless it meant there was someone on the field capable of pinning even Arteon down. Velkain weighed what he had heard from Tairen against the wreckage before him and said nothing for a moment.
“You’ve done well, Major Arteon.”
Claw stepped up and offered the words. Arteon nodded, then turned back to Velkain.
“Commander. The man at the head of the Kar force… was the former commander of Belikezel.”
“What?”
“What?”
It was Isaac who reeled hardest at the name. The memory of Krelmuk from three years ago drained the color from his face. How could he ever forget that monster? They had dealt him a fatal wound in an ambush, yes—but how many comrades had they lost in that hell to do it?
The rest of the unit froze just as hard.
“Commander… who did you say was leading their vanguard?”
“Those bastards are still alive?!”
Barter, who had been a Silent Spear man three years earlier, pushed forward as he spoke. Arteon’s answer was level.
“Swallow it. You’ll get your chance soon enough.”
He knew it in his bones. The day he would fight that man again was not far off. At his words, Barter and the others around him fought to keep the fury from their faces. Some of them still woke from nightmares of that campaign. And Arteon himself had never forgotten the sight of his comrades lying dead on the ground.
“Re-form the lines. We move again on the Commander’s order.”
“Understood.”
“Yes, sir…”
There was no need to describe the cold of the north. But standing now before the men who had slaughtered their comrades three years earlier, that chill cut deeper than any words could reach.
When Krelmuk returned to camp, every Kar warrior turned to look at him.
Their numbers had barely thinned. In truth, one could almost call the engagement a victory—more than two hundred imperial soldiers had fallen to their hands. Yet the sight of Kortzan hanging limp and bleeding across Krelmuk’s shoulder cast a strange tension over the whole camp.
Suffocating silence. The killing intent and heat of the battlefield had drained away, leaving only unease and coiled nerves in their place.
Durokam, who had been waiting for him, stepped forward.
“Krelmuk. The Taman summons you.”
Short. Hard. An order in all but name.
Krelmuk only tightened his hold on Kortzan and answered without turning his head.
“I’ll be there soon.”
Durokam’s eyes flashed.
“It is the Taman’s command. Move. Now.”
On any other day Krelmuk would already have turned. Today was different. Without so much as a glance at Durokam, he swung toward his own tent. Durokam’s face twisted; he reached for Krelmuk’s arm.
“Krelmuk! You dare defy the Taman’s order—!”
His hand never closed on the arm.
Thud!
“Ghk—!”
Krelmuk struck the hand away. It felt less like a slap than a hammer blow. A dull crack of impact sent Durokam stumbling backward. A scream nearly tore free; he bit it down, clutching his left hand, and glared.
Krelmuk turned slowly. His eyes were ice, thick with murderous intent.
“Can’t you see the wounded?”
Durokam had no answer.
“The Taman will understand. Stay out of it, Durokam.”
Short. Calm. And unmistakably a warning. The moment the words left him, Krelmuk settled Kortzan more firmly across his shoulders and walked on toward the tent. Thick fur flaps whispered as they parted; his back vanished into shadow.
Only when he was fully gone did Durokam grind his teeth, face dark with blood-red rage.
“Arrogant… bastard…!”
Spoiled by the Taman’s indulgence until he no longer knew his place. Durokam stared after him and forced the fury down, bite by bite.
The tent flaps billowed, and a knife of cold air cut inside. Barg looked up from the map spread across the table as Krelmuk entered with the chill.
“You’re back.”
A dry voice—yet a faint smile touched Barg’s face as he regarded him. Krelmuk inclined his head.
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
Krelmuk was silent a moment. He knew exactly what was being asked. He let out a short breath.
“Much changed from three years ago. Back then he was unfinished. Now…”
He pictured Arteon as he had just met him again—stronger than expected, the old openings gone, something far greater held firmly in hand. The last three years had not shaped Krelmuk alone.
Barg nodded.
“Still, you came back without much damage yourself… Kortzan, was it? The man under you.”
“Yes.”
“I hear he was badly hurt. Will he be all right?”
“He’ll be on his feet soon.”
Krelmuk’s expression tightened at the question. He knew too well why Kortzan had been wounded—knew it was a wound that need never have been taken. When the silence stretched, Barg spoke more softly.
“You, of all people, letting a look like that show. Your opponent must be quite strong.”
He lifted the cup at his side and tossed the liquor back. The hard spirit burned down his throat and sent a clean jolt through him. He had no wish to talk long with Krelmuk. There was only one thing he wanted confirmed.
Barg fixed him with a serious gaze.
“So. When you face him again—can you kill him?”
“I can’t swear to it.”
The words dropped between them, and Arteon turned his head slightly. Kairon had drawn closer.
“Honestly… my realm’s lower than yours. I’ll give you that. But I’ve seen a lot.”
He pressed on without pause.
“That guy standing behind you back there—the second he moved, I completely lost him. A man that size, hauling someone over his shoulder and getting back to his original position, and I never even saw it.”
The shiver of that moment still clung to him. If he had met that man head-on, he would have died without ever knowing his head was gone. Cold sweat slid down his spine.
Arteon only turned his gaze toward the Kar camp.
No question…
Compared to three years ago, the difference was absolute. Calling it merely “changed” barely touched the height of that realm. And then there was Kortzan, the man Arteon had fought—clearly a subordinate of real importance to Krelmuk. Yet even when that subordinate stood within a breath of death, Krelmuk had not intervened. Or rather, Arteon had been drawn into Kortzan’s intent—but Krelmuk had still held himself back and watched.
He risked a life just to force me to show my hand…
Krelmuk had confirmed a portion of Arteon’s strength. Arteon had not properly gauged Krelmuk’s in return. That imbalance could become a decisive variable in any real fight.
The look on Arteon’s face made Kairon’s own expression harden. He had expected the usual easy dismissal—something like, It’s fine. Instead he saw something far more serious, and asked carefully,
“You’re not… scared, are you?”
“Hardly.”
Same man as always—except quieter, more deliberate than usual. Then Arteon spoke again.
“This isn’t about whether I can or can’t. It’s simply…”
His eyes turned once more toward the Kar lines.
“Something that has to be done.”
Like a vow spoken to himself, the hard certainty of the words rode the northern wind and scattered into the empty air.