Ratu Ballaka (2)
“Woooah!”
The soldiers who had witnessed the Wolf King’s death right before their eyes let out cheers of triumph. The battle wasn’t over yet—countless hell wolves still remained—but that hardly mattered to them anymore. Buoyed by their soaring morale, the soldiers charged at the hell wolves without hesitation.
With the Wolf King dead, the hell wolves lost their chain of command and floundered in confusion. The beasts, who had moved like a disciplined army just moments ago, were now reduced to mere stragglers from the pack. Pierced by spears and swords, they could no longer bare their fangs; instead, they fled the camp in disarray.
“Bessimer!”
“Bessimer!”
“Bessimer!”
The surviving soldiers chanted Bessimer’s name. It was victory. Anyone could see that he had led them to triumph in this battle.
The joy of victory didn’t last long. The camp’s tents had burned and collapsed into near-ruins, and corpses of hell wolves and soldiers alike littered the ground. The soldiers’ bodies were especially gruesome—limbs torn off, heads ripped away, torsos severed with entrails spilling out. Just looking at them was agony for the men.
“Move the bodies! We celebrate victory after everything’s cleaned up!”
Carlson urged the soldiers on. Leaving the corpses out too long would invite plague. Pests, stench, and the smell of rotting meat would draw more mana beasts. Preventing that and restoring the camp to normalcy was the top priority.
“Burns real good, huh.”
“Yeah.”
Isaac responded to Carlson’s remark. They’d dug a pit outside the barricade and piled the hell wolves’ corpses into it separately for burning. Unlike the soldiers’ pyres, the flames fueled by mana burned with a blue hue—far more intense.
Night had passed, and dawn was breaking. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky. A few soldiers carrying bodies halted, staring blankly at the roaring blue flames.
“Move… it?”
Carlson started to bark at them, but Isaac grabbed his arm and shook his head.
“Give ’em time to mourn.”
“……”
Carlson looked displeased but followed Isaac’s lead. At Winterband, no one mourned a comrade who’d slept beside them one night and died the next—not out of indifference or lack of attachment, but because they had to keep fighting. For these soldiers, this was likely their first battle with casualties on such a massive scale.
“Everyone’s got a first time.”
Isaac spoke in a flat tone, his voice oddly world-weary for a boy in the throes of puberty.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Of course it does. But what can you do? Gotta get used to it.”
Isaac leaned on a longsword nearly as tall as he was, looking downright awkward. Without the previous battle, Carlson might’ve dismissed him as a kid playing at war. But he’d seen Isaac fight, seen how he’d seized control of the battlefield’s mood. Amid fatigue and despair, he’d ignited unyielding resolve.
Is that what the Goetes are like?
Carlson thought to himself.
“Speaking of—where’s Bessimer?”
“Good question. I saw him take down the Wolf King, but after that…”
Both had been too busy with camp cleanup to check on him.
“Come to think of it, there’s no Wolf King corpse.”
“You’re right.”
Isaac noticed it too, at Carlson’s words.
“Bessimer? He was around when we chased off the last hell wolves, then he just… vanished.”
“Where to?”
“No idea.”
Isaac asked around the soldiers, piecing together Bessimer’s trail.
“He hoisted the Wolf King’s body over his shoulder and headed out. Guy’s still got that kinda strength? Captain’s a captain, alright. Oh, uh, ‘captain’ is just a nickname—don’t mind it. No matter what anyone says, the real commander here’s the young master… er, the lord.”
According to the accounts, Bessimer had carried a wolf king corpse several times his own weight out of camp.
“These look like Bessimer’s tracks.”
“Yeah.”
Carlson’s sharp eyes spotted them: deep imprints in the dry, hard wasteland soil, footprints burdened by immense weight, stretching endlessly toward the hills.
“Carlson, hold down the camp.”
“What’re you planning?”
“Nothing much. Just gonna get some air.”
“Take a horse if you’re going. I’ll fetch Hans.”
“Nah. Better alone. Gives me time to think while I walk.”
Isaac grabbed the one decent shovel left in camp and followed Bessimer’s tracks solo. No grand purpose—just old memories surfacing.
The helpless self when Goethe fell, unable to do a thing. The self carrying Yonas’s feather-light corpse. The self scraping by winter after winter in the ruins of Goethe Manor.
Maybe Bessimer felt the same. Maybe he’d floundered for over a decade in that swamp of powerlessness he couldn’t escape.
That’s why.
The giant’s footprints, burdened with the massive wolf, guided Isaac clearly. He walked and walked, but Bessimer stayed out of sight. The sun rose to midday, then sank west. Before he knew it, Isaac had ventured deep into the Black Forest.
Yet the path remained obvious—trees snapped or flattened where the giant had passed. Isaac just followed it.
Cool forest air. Occasional bird calls. Cricket chirps. Unseen presences lurking.
After a sleepless night and a full day’s march, Isaac was exhausted enough to doze on his feet. Still, he pressed on.
He stopped at a colossal ancient tree, one of the Black Forest’s giants. Amid the faint red glow of sunset filtering through the underbrush—
Thud. Thud.
Bessimer swung his axe into the earth relentlessly. The Wolf King’s corpse lay beside the tree.
“……”
“……”
Bessimer saw Isaac but said nothing. Isaac didn’t speak either. He just gripped his shovel and started hauling dirt from the pit Bessimer had begun.
Silent, the giant and the boy dug deeper, wider. To bury loss, pain, longing—they needed a bigger hole. Far bigger.
Sunset faded; darkness cloaked the forest. Bessimer lit a fire. They stared into the flickering flames.
The pit still wasn’t deep or wide enough for the Wolf King. For burying old emotions. Not yet.
The giant and the boy said nothing. But they knew what this was: farewell to the past.
Thud. Thud.
Isaac jerked awake from dozing. Bessimer had resumed wrestling the earth. Dried black blood crusted his mouth—he’d eaten chunks of the Wolf King’s flesh.
Flesh holds spirit; eat the flesh, join the spirit. Baitur faith.
The Wolf King was dead, but part of its soul would live on in Bessimer forever.
Isaac gripped his shovel. His head throbbed; his body was spent. After a brutal battle, he hadn’t eaten. Yet he leaned on the tool and stood.
Scoop by scoop, he piled dirt. It wasn’t much by Bessimer’s standards, but Isaac didn’t stop. It was courtesy.
Courtesy to the man who’d defended Binvelt. Courtesy as half-Goete, half-grand chieftain’s blood—to the Baitur chief who died protecting his tribe. To a great warrior.
Blisters formed, palms tore and swelled, but Isaac kept going.
He couldn’t erase the bloodstained history between Goethe and Binvelt’s tribes. But he could try. He could extend a hand.
Birds sang. Crickets chirped. A hell wolf howled.
Sun rose. Crested. Set.
Thud.
Bessimer plunged his axe deep into the mounded earth. The endless burial was done.
Isaac gazed at the ancient tree. The Wolf King’s body would rot here, feed worms, nourish the tree. How tall would it grow?
Darkness fell; Bessimer rekindled the fire.
“……”
Silence stretched into the deep night.
Crack! Snap!
Sap burst in the flames with vivid pops. Stars gleamed through the tree’s branches, brighter than ever.
“A star must’ve fallen.”
“……?”
Bessimer shifted from the fire at Isaac’s sudden words.
“In the kingdom, they say a great soul’s death makes a star fall.”
“……?”
“Your father gave everything to save the tribe. A great warrior. One of those countless stars up there… it’s gone.”
“……!”
Bessimer’s gaze returned to the fire. Silence again.
Isaac didn’t rush. He just stayed.
As dawn broke and embers died—
“Never thought of it.”
Isaac woke to Bessimer’s raspy, steady voice.
“Killin’ my father with my own hands? Never crossed my mind.”
“……”
Isaac said nothing, just watched the paling sky.
“Livin’ after? Even less.”
“……”
“From now on, my life’s a bonus.”
“……”
“Little young master. Call me big brother from here on.”
“Huh? Outta nowhere?”
Isaac yelped, surprised after the quiet.
“Count’s big bro number one, steward’s number two. No reason you can’t be number three.”
“No way—I’m way younger than you.”
“Don’t matter none.”
Isaac blinked at Bessimer’s firm tone. Technically true—Isaac had lived three times as long. But hearing it felt absurd.
“I’ll stick to ya like a brother now.”
“Creepy. Pass.”
“Ain’t your choice, brother.”
Bessimer grinned. Isaac laughed in disbelief.
And thought: Binvelt’s new history starts now. From its new lord, Isaac von Goethe.