Encounter with the Baitur Tribe
Underground. A dark, musty room where not even light seeped in. Isaac was alone. He always had been, and he always would be. The life of a prisoner who had imprisoned himself. If only there had been another prisoner. If only he could sense someone else's presence.
If mana rampage had been a common affliction everyone suffered, Isaac wouldn't have read so many books.
Solitary misfortune was a hell incomparable to misfortune shared. And so Isaac sought out misfortune—in plays, epics, novels, fairy tales. But above all, he devoured histories. They brimmed with the woes of families great and small, nations rising and falling. He read until the pages frayed, until a corner of history unfolded vividly before his eyes, until he had plumbed every implication and possibility lurking in the gaps of the terse records.
Isaac immersed himself. It was the only way to endure. The silence screaming like shrieks. The tragedy's song roaring like a mob. The wordless longing, still as a corpse. Only thus could he avoid drowning in the whispers echoing in his ears, his mind.
'Who'd have thought it'd help like this.' Isaac gave a wry smile.
A new king of wolves has appeared in the Black Forest. Hell wolves have ravaged the camps and villages of Binvelt, leaving them in ruins. Nothing grows there now, and no one lives. The count abandoned Binvelt. He lacked the blood and coin to reclaim the wasteland.
The final record of Binvelt in the histories. Deemed unimportant land, the historians left scant details. Thus Isaac had to experience it firsthand, crossing off the dozen-odd possibilities he'd imagined one by one. This inspection was to gather those clues.
"Not a damn bit of luck."
Hans grumbled. They'd visited two villages of different tribes, but received no welcome anywhere. The ramshackle huts had all drawn their awnings, refusing contact. They'd even nearly tasted blood from a hurled spear.
"They all said the same kinda thing. What'd they mean?"
"...Get lost."
A tribe-born soldier answered Carlson's question.
"They're all skin and bones. Just old folks and women."
"There's nothing edible around here. The land's cursed—nothing grows. The Black Forest crawls with beasts. Not a single young hunter's come back from it. The villages survive on scraps of goodwill from our tribe-born soldiers."
The soldier explained to Isaac, resentment lacing his voice.
"Sounds like they're blaming the Goetes."
"Aren't they?"
The soldier shot back curtly.
"The Goetes sued for peace. But Binvelt's tribes chose war. Now they pay the price."
"They didn't choose war. They defended their land."
Isaac stared hard, but the soldier didn't look away. His eyes wavered, yet his resolve held firm.
"What's your name, soldier?"
"...Gunther, sir."
The soldier dropped his gaze. Only then did Isaac notice Carlson's hand on his sword hilt. Isaac kept staring.
The firstborn who broke Bessimer. The cursed noble. Whispers said he was mad. Gunther regretted it—not just for himself, but for endangering his kin with his rash words.
"F-forgive me, sir. They say I've got a foul temper."
Gulp. Gunther swallowed unwittingly. Even if Isaac killed him here, no trouble would follow. That was the fate of landless tribes.
"Gunther."
"..."
"You might be right."
"Sir?"
"You gonna guide us or not?"
"Y-yes, sir."
Gunther lifted his eyes. No anger or discomfort marred the twelve-year-old noble's face. Just that chilling gaze from his first meeting with Bessimer. Childlike innocence? None. His thoughts? Unreadable. At least he seemed harmless—Carlson had released his sword.
"Whew."
Gunther sighed in relief.
The last village lay at the Black Forest's edge, peopled mostly by Baitur.
"S-sir."
Gunther, riding ahead in silence, spoke up.
"It's lord."
"...Sorry, lord."
Gunther corrected at Carlson's word.
"What?"
"Must we go to the last village?"
"Why not?"
"As you know, it's basically Baitur territory. All tough nuts like Bessimer, and..."
"Tough nuts how?"
"Overstepping, but they're the most hostile to the Goetes. Plus, it's by the Black Forest..."
"Hell wolves might show."
"Exactly. And there are beasts stronger than hell wolves."
"That's why we must go."
"Sir?"
"Scared? Go back first."
"Not scared—just warning you..."
Gunther bristled, but the two horses were already plunging into the forest trail.
"..."
Gunther glanced between the dense, dim woods and the barren plain behind.
"Aw, hell."
Trailing Isaac, Gunther soon regretted it.
"We're surrounded."
"Surrounded, yeah."
"Carlson, can you handle 'em without killing?"
"Killing 'em all would be tough. Escaping alone? Easy."
"Cheater."
While pale-faced Hans and Gunther panicked, Isaac and Carlson chatted casually. Amid tangled grass, trees, and vines gleamed arrowheads and axe blades. But the tribesmen's feral eyes gleamed sharper. Faces painted with blood runes, like Bessimer. Full battle-ready Baitur.
"Lemme see. Sturdy lads: two, four, six, eight... gotta be over twenty."
"You counting heads now? One slip and you're meat."
Hans scolded as Isaac tallied calmly.
"Weird, right?"
"Yeah, super weird. Counting in this spot? You blind to the danger?"
"Other villages had no young men—just old folks and women. And this is the Black Forest, but they're all fine."
"Strongest fighters, remember? Not the point! Do something—you planned this, right?"
Hans rolled anxious eyes.
"Grab the axe."
"Axe? Oh, that."
Hans fumbled trembling hands at the saddle bundle.
"The warrior who broke Bessimer comes to meet the prophet!"
Isaac hoisted Bessimer's axe high. The tribesmen just blinked.
"Anybody get that?"
"Shut it. The warrior who broke Bessimer comes to meet the prophet!"
Isaac repeated. Whispers thickened among the hidden foes.
Then a hulking tribesman stepped forward. Baitur warrior.
"Bessimer, sleep time, woman time, axe down, Bessimer dead?"
"Alive. Fought duel by Baitur custom."
Whispers swelled, then stilled.
"Young warrior. You only."
The Baitur pointed at Isaac.
"Can't go alone. Who knows what they'll do."
Despite Hans's worry, Isaac dismounted, struggling with his pony's height.
"Little help?"
"No."
"You don't decide. Carlson."
"Yes."
Carlson helped where Hans wouldn't.
"Really going alone?"
"Gotta check something. Hans, it's me. If they get me, run—"
"Don't jinx it! Run? Hell no. If that happens, I'll... with this sword, yeah? This sword... ugh, hack 'em all!"
Hans wrestled his scabbard, drawing the blade at last. Grim face, but unconvincing.
"Who said run? Fight to the death, no fleeing."
"...Huh?"
"Said you'd die if I did?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
Hans looked baffled.
"And Carlson."
"...Haven't taught swordplay yet."
Carlson preempted.
"Then teach drawing it while we wait. He'll lose fingers otherwise."
"Got it."
Isaac strolled after the tribesmen like it was a walk in the park. Well-trodden, the path was firm, bushes trimmed. Easy going, but jostled by hostile brushes—deliberate shoves, "accidental" blades.
'Brutal.'
How far they'd gone—
"Welcome, young warrior."
A grizzled elder fluent in the common tongue awaited. Stooped, yet taller than Isaac. Once a Bessimer-sized brute, scars proclaimed.
"That necklace—hell wolf?"
Feathered headdress, neck strung with fangs and claws.
"Yes."
Milky blind eyes fixed on Isaac. No warmth.
"Knew I'd come?"
"Goddess gave oracle."
"Then you know why."
"I do. Greed for this land."
"Oracle too?"
"No."
"Good. My faith in her holds."
Isaac chatted idly, scanning: hut styles, totems, garb, weapons. All clues.
'...Using other tribes' stuff as their own. Confirmed it all.'
His theory solidified. Binvelt history's fragments boiled to two hypotheses.
'Two left. Both horrific.'
"To business, young warrior. Why come so far?"
The elder's milky eyes pierced like blades.
"Or I'll start."
Shing— Steel sang from everywhere as he finished. Blades menaced Isaac. Murder hung thick.
"Little Goete, spawn of the northern demon. Reason not to kill you?"
"Got one."
Isaac smirked. Too predictable.
"What?"
"I'll let you live."
"...The little Goete's gone mad."
The elder spoke; tribesmen roared. Bessimer's wild guffaws. But short-lived.
Binvelt was cold, but mild spring by northern standards—thanks to the sea beyond the Black Forest. Yet white breath plumed with every exhale, laugh. Frost rimed the vivid green foliage.
'Time for the last clue.'
Isaac vented cold mana from the frost rune stone through his fingertips. Aimless, it scattered, flash-freezing air. Cooling, cooling, cooling. Five circulation paths thrummed. Mana overflowed the circuits.
"C-curse!"
The elder's face twisted in horror. Tribesmen—worshippers of more gods than any nation—paled in terror.
Isaac wasn't exploding or intimidating. No.
Awooooo—
A massive wolf howl nearby. Heavy footfalls shook the earth.
'Here.'
Beasts chased the potent mana he'd loosed. Hell wolves, precisely.
Whoosh— A vast shadow swept overhead. The beast landed silently for its size.
"...Huh?"
Isaac faltered slightly. Dense mana drew beasts. He'd baited hell wolves for the clue: face them with Baitur.
But he'd hooked a monster fish.
Bigger than any camp tent, a long scar across one eye. Unlike kin, its fur gleamed silver, not black. Vastly outsizing the arriving pack.
Unmistakable. The wolf king had come—the beast that would raze Binvelt, claim it for monsters.
'Found it. The last clue.'