The Warlord's Bitter Echo
Always a fierce blizzard of cold eyes sweeping across the land of death—the frozen expanse of Grashikhal.
Heart of the Kar tribe, place where the power of every Kar warrior began.
And the man ruling it all.
“……So, you’re saying the Elbarphiel Lake has been stolen from us?”
The man before him towered like no human could, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light. He looked down at the kneeling figure with eyes as cold as winter steel.
Brakzor.
Absolute ruler of the entire Kar tribe and the only one among them bearing eight feather tattoos.
On hearing the words, the kneeling man lifted his head and answered without hesitation.
“Yes, my lord. Kulak’s Ulgraak is dead, and every last member of his tribe has been wiped out.”
The voice was polite, steady, carrying not a trace of fear.
One of the few who could stand before Brakzor without trembling.
Brakzor’s lips thinned. “And the reinforcement I sent?”
“Makcrowdon and his warriors went with them… but they failed to achieve their objective. They barely escaped, though their own ranks have suffered heavy losses.”
“They ran?”
A chill laced Brakzor’s tone.
Warriors who could claim descent from the fiercest of tribes turning their backs on the enemy?
Yet the kneeling man spoke with absolute certainty. “I believe it was the right call. Had Makcrowdon fallen as well, the damage would have been catastrophic.”
Within the tribe, fewer than a hundred men bore four feather tattoos. Makcrowdon alone was a master of aura among them.
Brakzor was not pleased with the answer, but he respected the judgment. “Then what are your plans moving forward?”
“First, we should observe the situation for a time. The Empire’s force that stopped Ulgraak and Makcrowdon has created… an unexpected variable.”
“A variable…”
Brakzor’s words trailed off, but the kneeling man continued without pause. “A warrior capable of facing them has appeared.”
“…Someone like that would be rare even inside the Empire. Is it Lukael Hargeil?”
Lukael Hargeil, the name known from the Northern Front. A general who had already surpassed the fifth star realm and was said to have reached the sixth.
If the man had moved, Brakzor would have known.
Yet the answer that came was unexpected. “Not in the records. The only information we have is that he is a young soldier…”
“A young soldier?”
“Yes. According to the latest guess, he has not yet reached the age of twenty.”
Brakzor’s face hardened into stone.
He nearly doubted his own ears.
“…A soldier who has not yet reached adulthood fought Ulgraak and Makcrowdon?”
Even in that battle Ulgraak fell?
An absurd report. But the kneeling man never lied.
Brakzor gave a single nod. “Understood. I will investigate further and report once I have more details.”
“…”
Had he ever been left speechless like this?
Brakzor could only nod in stunned silence.
“As you wish.”
“Then I shall take my leave.”
Alone in the room once the man had gone, Brakzor fell into deep thought.
Could a new transcendent being have appeared in the Empire…?
If that was true, and the man possessed such strength…
“Before he grows any larger, his limbs must be torn apart.”
The appearance of a new powerhouse ignited the fire in every warrior’s chest. But if the obstacle stood before them, it had to be cut down at the root.
Now, deep in the shadows, only his eyes burned with the sharpness of a tiger’s gaze.
---
Arteon walked toward the barracks where the third squad members were resting.
He could not help noticing the anxious expressions on the distant faces of the soldiers still guarding his position.
“What are you all doing? Not training?”
“Platoon Leader!”
As Arteon entered the barracks, every man jumped to his feet.
They had been allowed to rest, yet exhaustion still clung to their bodies.
Still, seeing their faces lifted his heart with something like renewed energy.
“Are you all well now?”
“Platoon Leader, are you all right?”
They swarmed around him like a swarm of bees, voices full of worry.
Arteon nodded. “You all look fine. Who was injured?”
“Meti and Urailson took wounds, but they are not life-threatening.”
“…And the others?”
“We were only lightly grazed. Nothing serious.”
They spoke casually, yet every one of the third squad bore bandages somewhere on their bodies. Red bloodstains had already seeped through the wrappings, telling of injuries that ran deep.
“As for you, Platoon Leader—how are you?”
“…”
People worrying about others while he himself could not even protect his own body.
Arteon felt a warm surge rise in his chest, even as his eyes stung.
Yet he forced a calm voice. “Once we return, training must begin immediately. Facing such brutes with these injuries…”
“Please remember I carried the unconscious Platoon Leader back myself,” Barter, first squad leader, grinned as he spoke.
The large man’s head was also wrapped in bandages, but he looked surprisingly well.
Arteon offered a faint smile. In the eyes they shared was the quiet relief of men who had fought side by side through hell.
Then a soldier came sprinting toward him, breathless.
“Arteon Corporal! The commander requests your presence!”
“The commander? You mean Lieutenant Leorn?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Arteon’s expression darkened. He had no desire to meet the man alone… yet there was no choice.
“Understood. I’ll go now.”
He followed the soldier outside and reached the entrance to Leorn’s barracks.
“Enter.”
Leorn, waiting outside, spoke first as he sensed the newcomer.
Arteon stepped inside, right fist clenched, left hand pressed to his chest in salute.
“Steel Heart. Corporal Arteon. Reporting as ordered.”
“A proper greeting,” Leorn murmured. Then he glanced toward the door and raised his voice. “No need for guards. Clear the area!”
“…?”
Arteon’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
Leorn soon smiled warmly. “Hard work pays off, Corporal Arteon.”
The tone was calm, yet somewhere behind it lay calculation.
Arteon listened in silence.
Leorn studied him a moment longer, then lifted a box and offered it.
“A gift for you. Open it.”
“What is this…?”
Arteon asked cautiously. Leorn merely shrugged and kept his eyes on the box.
Open it. Now.
“Then…”
Arteon hesitated only a second before opening the lid.
Inside lay a neat bundle of roots shaped like red flowers.
Arteon’s eyes flickered with recognition.
Velodian Flower.
Leorn noticed the shift and grinned. “You know it. Velodian Flower. It heals wounds far better than any ordinary herb and strengthens the bones themselves.”
Arteon drew a slow breath. “Why give this to me?”
Leorn shrugged again, voice light. “Think of the merit I conferred upon you. This is a small payment. I issued the order, so this is only fair.”
He pushed the box forward, satisfied smile in place.
“Lord Commander will arrive here soon. There will be proper rewards at that time… but I hope you speak well of this place to him. Tell him how much I have sacrificed for the victory of this war.”
Desire flashed in his eyes.
Arteon understood. This was no mere gift—it was a price.
“What are you staring at? Take it,” Leorn ordered sharply.
“…Thank you.”
Arteon accepted the box with a calm face.
Velodian Flower.
Though it fell far short of Ether’s Heart, it was more than enough for his current body.
Outside the barracks, Arteon’s expression remained complicated.
Then sudden shouts shattered the quiet.
“Platoon Leader! Platoon Leader!”
Arteon turned, and there stood Grein.
“Platoon Leader!”
“What is it?”
“The commander… has arrived.”
“…Already?”
Far faster than expected.
At the same moment, a complex mix of emotions crossed Arteon’s face—joy and an inexplicable worry he could not name.
He took a deep breath and looked down the path the commander would take.
Though the battlefield had been won, something told him good fortune was not the only thing waiting ahead.
…Please.
Let nothing happen.
Arteon, whose face had been unusually troubled, simply nodded calmly and walked toward the path where the commander was expected.
---
“Damn it all…!”
Makcrowdon slammed his boot into the ground, voice raw with rage.
He could not believe he had turned tail in battle.
Within the tribe he had earned his name on the battlefield, yet as commander he had been forced to make a choice no warrior wanted to face.
His shoulders sagged heavy, breath ragged.
Surrounding warriors kept their heads bowed, eyes filled with sorrow and the bitter taste of defeat.
Then—
Thud.
Though footsteps had not been heard until moments ago, Makcrowdon’s head snapped up.
From the depths of the forest came a low, calm voice.
“Makcrowdon.”
Makcrowdon’s eyes flashed. He turned toward the sound.
A Kar warrior stepped out of the darkness. On his right shoulder were the twin-eagle tattoos—secret messengers of the tribe.
The moment Makcrowdon saw the marks, his pupils trembled.
Those eagles were the elite force that moved in secret even among the Kar people.
The symbol of those who carried the orders of the great man himself.
The messenger closed the distance with heavy steps and stopped before Makcrowdon.
“I bring the next order.”
Makcrowdon’s breath caught.
The words struck like lightning. “The Elbarphiel Lake has already fallen to the enemy.”
“Enough. I do not wish to hear your thoughts. You will simply follow the great man’s command.”
“…”
Makcrowdon’s face twisted in anguish.
This war…
What exactly was it for…?
His mind reeled with confusion.