Ra Tu Ballaka (1)
Kang, ka-gang.
Bessimer swung his axe. The Wolf King's claws sparked and bounced off.
Krrrng!
A hell wolf that had been waiting for an opening lunged at Bessimer. He managed to cleave one in half, but the next hell wolf went for his throat, and Bessimer had no choice but to yield his shoulder. The hell wolf clamped onto his shoulder and shook its head viciously, as if trying to rip it clean off his body.
Bessimer winced slightly, then smashed his fist into the hell wolf's snout. Kyaeng— The beast let out a yelp utterly mismatched to its massive bulk and backed off. It was instinctive, an attempt to avoid pain—but what awaited it was the upraised axe blade. Half its neck was severed in a fatal blow.
The axe haft, still sticky from barely dried blood, now grew slick with fresh gore. Under the watchful eyes of the hell wolves, Bessimer brazenly skinned one of the dying beasts right there.
Nng, ng-ng, kkiing— The wolf writhed and thrashed in agony. But it couldn't resist Bessimer's brute strength as he buried the axe blade in its spine and tore the back hide free with savage force. By the time he ripped the pelt off, the wolf was already dead.
Splaaack!
Bessimer tore the partially shredded wolf hide lengthwise with his grip and wrapped it around the arm holding the axe like a bandage. He bound it tight to keep his hand from slipping on the haft. It was the work of someone well-practiced.
Not a single hell wolf dared challenge him through the entire spectacle. They seemed cowed by the dying wolf's pitiful screams, tails and ears drooping low.
Amid them all, the only one standing tall, glaring at Bessimer with unyielding posture, was the Wolf King. His right eye gleamed yellow, but the long scar over his left eye was a milky gray, sightless. No fur grew over the scarred tissue, making the wound starkly vivid. Blood from his severed ear pooled in that clouded eye and trickled down.
Bessimer met the Wolf King's gaze as he adjusted the wolf hide bound to his three-fingered hand and the axe haft.
The reason for the Wolf King's lost left eye. No one knew it better than Bessimer himself.
Young Bessimer had wanted to grow strong. He fell for his brothers' tales that eating devil mushrooms would make him powerful. He ventured deep into the Black Forest in search of them and encountered a massive bear. It was less a bear and more a mana beast.
When he sensed death closing in, his father—the great warrior and chieftain—saved him. With terrifying axe might, he felled the beast in one strike, but couldn't fully evade its claws.
—Don't cry. You're a warrior.
Half his face drenched in blood, his father spoke flatly.
“……”
The Wolf King's sightless gray eye. That clouded gaze, no longer able to focus, was the last trace of his father left to Bessimer.
And the reason for this fight.
How long had he anticipated this battle? How long had he waited for this conversation with you?
It was the moment he'd longed for without end. All the father-son talks they'd never had, the longing, the resentment—Bessimer meant to pour it all into the axe you'd given him.
“Ra Tu Ballaka.”
Bessimer exhaled deeply and gripped the axe haft.
Krrrng!
The Wolf King dodged the rising blade and dug its claws into the earth, unleashing a powerful recoil. Blood and mud sprayed where it launched. It aimed for the arm holding the axe, jaws gaping wide as if to tear it off entirely.
Bessimer twisted aside, trying to evade and counter. But instead of snapping with fangs, the Wolf King slammed into him with its massive bulk.
“Guh—!”
The impact from such a hulking beast's speed and mass was immense. Bessimer flew back, smashing through the burning tent.
“Is he gonna be okay like that?”
“Leave him be. It's Bessimer's fight.”
Isaac grabbed Carlson's arm as he readjusted his sword grip. Things were taking a strange turn.
An inexplicable tension hung between Bessimer and the Wolf King, and the fighting between the hell wolves and soldiers had ground to a halt. They naturally divided into camps, encircling the clearing.
And they watched. How their leaders fought. Breath held, eyes fixed intently.
“And you know it too. No better chance than this.”
“……”
Carlson glanced back and forth between them at Isaac's words. He was right. They were outnumbered. Outmatched in individual strength too. They'd held out this far, which was grateful enough, but if the battle dragged on, it'd be near annihilation.
The only way out was killing the Wolf King.
Yet this duel had halted the broader fight. If Bessimer won, no more sacrifices. Even if he lost, an exhausted Wolf King would be easier to finish. In the meantime, Isaac and Carlson could recover their strength.
Thud, thud. The giant staggered out from the collapsed tent. Soot smeared his face and body. Fresh blood oozed from punctures, stabs, and slashes; crusted blood flaked off stiffly.
He wiped his face with his left hand, the one not gripping the axe. Blood and ash streaked it in long lines—like the war paint tribesmen drew before battle.
He stopped five paces from the Wolf King.
Chak— He leveled the axe blade at it.
Krrrr. Deep wrinkles creased the Wolf King's brow and snout.
“Young master.”
“Yeah. Spot on.”
Isaac nodded at Carlson's words. Only he and Carlson truly understood mana here.
So they sensed it. The prickling on their skin.
The Wolf King and Bessimer both wielded mana. Not learned, but as naturally as heartbeat or breath.
Perhaps that's why the soldiers and hell wolves had stopped—instinctively feeling it.
Thick, dense, sharp mana gathered visibly around them, shimmering faintly to the naked eye.
The moment it crested, man and beast charged simultaneously, heedless of onlookers.
Claws and axe clashed amid shrieking air, again and again. The impacts sounded like thunderclaps.
The shockwave rippling out a beat later chilled spines and raised every hair.
Boom!
The tide turned against Bessimer. He blocked the Wolf King's strikes, but precariously. Each blow landed so heavy it rattled his bones. His feet sank deeper into the mud or skidded back. His body lurched with every hit. Ears rang from shockwaves, muffling sound.
He swung on instinct alone, blind to how he'd blocked or what came next.
Yet somehow…
Bessimer felt no threat. No sense of impending death. He might lose, but his life wasn't on the line.
Was battle frenzy dulling his survival instincts? No, that wasn't it.
Left foreclaw slicing air toward his vitals. Duck it, and the right came slashing up from below. Axe it away, and a heavy charge followed seamlessly.
At some point, the Wolf King stopped using its fangs. Like a dual-wielding fighter.
Just foreclaws and body.
And those combos felt familiar to Bessimer. Stirring ancient memories.
—How do you even block that!?
—If you can't block it, you'll die on the battlefield.
—But…!
—You think 'but' exists on the battlefield? You're my sons. One of you will lead the tribe. One will stop me if I stray. Complain after you're dead.
His father had stern words for his whining brothers, beaten by staff-as-axe. Then he'd crush them with unpredictable assaults that left no room for countermeasures.
—Get up! Get up, Bessimer! How long you gonna cry? Grab your weapon. A warrior who quits gets only death.
That was it. The one he faced now fought like his father from boyhood. The chieftain who dashed hopes of challengers with twin axes.
The Wolf King wielded its foreclaws like axes. Trajectories and weight shifts familiar to Bessimer.
Like finally completing his missed coming-of-age rite. The Baitur ritual's finale: withstanding the chieftain's great wolf strikes.
He'd never blocked them as a boy. Now, years later, he held his own somewhat—but it still overwhelmed.
Yet a grin crept onto Bessimer's face.
Ya remember this? The footwork Father taught me.
Two steps forward, one big stride, axe raised high. The Wolf King retreated lightly.
How 'bout this? My first wolf slash as a kid.
Bessimer pursued, bringing the axe down. The Wolf King whipped a foreclaw in response to the dive.
Boom!
Endless clashes. Bessimer teetered on collapse, breath held taut on full swings. Yet his body moved relentlessly, unheeding the strain.
But limits existed.
Boom— Another sonic boom and shockwave swept outward. Bessimer's guard crumbled. His body was spent. Legs failed to support his torso; he toppled.
A black shadow loomed over him on the ground. Only yellow-glowing eyes visible.
Krrrng!
Bessimer barely blocked the Wolf King's jaws with the haft. Kaduk—kaduk— Teeth like honed daggers gnawed the ironwood.
“Wait.”
Isaac thrust out an arm, halting Carlson mid-draw.
“He'll die like that.”
“You see it? He's smiling.”
Carlson narrowed his eyes at Isaac's words. Bessimer was grinning.
“Guy's out of his damn mind.”
“You think?”
Unlike the fidgeting Carlson, Isaac watched calmly. The Wolf King's maw inches from Bessimer's face, skull about to be crushed.
Yet Isaac felt no anxiety. He saw two warriors conversing.
No shared cups or words. But to him, it was fathers and sons unleashing pent-up emotions in fury.
“Don't interrupt their last talk.”
“Pardon?”
Carlson blinked, but Isaac just crossed his arms and watched.
Bessimer recalled his father's final lesson.
—Face an unbeatable foe, wait till the absolute last moment. When all seems lost, that's your counter chance. They'll be off-guard.
Dad had demonstrated, feigning disadvantage in sparring. Back to ground, opponent hammering down mercilessly. Then he'd escaped with masterful skill.
Same now.
What'd you do then, Father?
Bessimer pondered—or rather, his body acted first.
Gripped the haft two-handed, lifted one leg. Then twisted his body inward with all his might. Muscles from thigh to hip to lumbar accelerated the spin.
Clack— Teeth clashed where the haft slipped free.
The axe whirled a full circle, grazing the Wolf King's cheek. It flinched back, but Bessimer leaped after, aiming dead between the eyes.
The blade drew a straight line through air.
“Father, I'm too late.”
A night of chirping crickets. Deep in the Black Forest, warriors' corpses burned atop pyres. Flesh of those slain by Goethe.
They'd died as warriors; their souls gone to Ballaka.
Little Bessimer stood by the Wolf King—not as a giant silver wolf, but the Baitur chieftain. Silver hair wild, beard to his chest: an elder warrior.
Beside the giant chieftain, Bessimer was a small boy. Just as he'd been when teased as the coward.
“Good timing.”
The Wolf King spoke. A soul tough enough to endure thirteen years untamed. But even it teetered on the brink, human reason and form eroding under feral bloodlust and impulse.
“So, you faced it this time?”
“With Birpio dead, what's my existence mean?”
“Ya resent me?”
“……”
The Wolf King gripped young Bessimer's shoulder. Heavy as iron.
“My soul goes free. My kin too. Thanks to you, Bessimer.”
“……”
“But is your soul free?”
“……”
Bessimer had no answer.
“What'll you live for now?”
“Dunno. But I'll find somethin'.”
“Good.”
The Wolf King nodded, placing a thick hand on Bessimer's head.
“Binvelt… I leave it to you.”
Thud— The giant wolf collapsed limply. Axe buried deep in its brow.
Too drained to hold the axe, Bessimer slumped against the corpse.
“Wait in Ballaka.”
He thought he heard his father's voice.