Growth
“Virpier, the Baitur shaman, seduced the men of the village and turned them into hell wolves,” Gunther explained what he’d heard from the elder.
Their families and kin had been driven out to the Binvelt wastelands. The starvation they endured, the wretched lives they led. Virpier blamed it all on the Goetes. He planted seeds of vengeance in the men’s hearts and made them crave power. The men followed him like moths to a flame. They underwent the ritual and transformed into beasts. Now, all that remained in the village were elders, women, and children.
Their wariness of outsiders stemmed from that too. They had no strength. They lived in constant fear of being devoured at any moment. Unable to stand anywhere, belonging nowhere, they had passed their days on thin ice, huddled between the hell wolves and the Goetes’ ill repute.
“They want to apologize.”
No sooner had Gunther finished than about thirty elders and women bowed deeply. The children stared blankly at the adults before mimicking them.
“The eldest son of the Goetes brought them hope. They can now live looking forward to tomorrow. They want to help with anything. They want to join the miracle unfolding in Binvelt.”
The people from the tribal villages, already flocking to the camp, were utterly entranced by the blue flowers blooming around them. Every face was flushed with excitement.
“Er, um.”
Isaac scratched his cheek at Gunther’s translation. Well, it hadn’t been done with any grand intentions. What Isaac aimed for was the revival of the Goetes—and nothing more. It had been calculated, and the tribesfolk had simply benefited unintentionally.
Well, for now, even a cat’s paw is welcome if it helps.
The camp lacked hands. Rebuilding the camp, preserving the beast meat salvaged from the Black Forest, fetching water, gathering firewood, tending to surviving wounded, repairing soldiers’ gear—the list went on. Even if none required great strength, there were endless small tasks needing labor.
It was an offer beyond suspicion. The baskets the elders and women set down contained herbs from the Black Forest and famine crops. They had scraped together what little they had. Their joy in this situation was clear even without shared language.
“What’ll you do?”
Bessimer, who had been watching silently, approached Isaac. A subtle anxiety flickered on his face. He seemed worried Isaac might turn them away. And rightly so— to Bessimer, they were no different from distant kin.
Binvelt’s warrior tribes had fought alongside the Goetes against common foes. There had been no small exchange between them. They were practically extended family.
“What do you think?”
“Brother.”
Bessimer emphasized the word in response to Isaac’s question.
“Gunther, tell them: elder, woman, child—doesn’t matter. No freeloaders. If they’re confident they can earn their keep, they’re in.”
“Brother!”
Bessimer’s face lit up.
After accepting the villagers, the camp buzzed with new life. It was the first time since the battle with the hell wolves. Elders offered wisdom, women tended the wounded and handled odd jobs. Children learned swordsmanship under Gunther, fluent in the tribal tongue. The specters of death and screams haunting the soldiers’ minds began to fade, bit by bit. Instead of clinging to past losses, they learned to look to the future.
“Waaah—!”
A child practicing sword forms with a crude wooden block fell on his rear and burst into tears.
“That kid cries like his heart’s breaking.”
The soldiers chuckled heartily and moved to help him up. But Gunther blocked their path.
“Let him get up on his own.”
“Whatever.”
The soldiers shrugged awkwardly and passed by. The child wailed louder, but with no help coming, he quieted. He glanced around, then stood up by himself. Gunther told him in the tribal tongue that if he wanted to protect something, he had to learn to rise alone.
“Next.”
Gunther drilled basic stances through repetition, sparring each child one by one. After dinner, he gathered the villagers to teach the common tongue. Day after day, he trained relentlessly alongside his other duties.
“What’s got you working so hard?”
Carlson approached Gunther, who was resting astride a log. The logs for camp reconstruction had been felled by Bessimer himself from the Black Forest.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Ever look in a mirror?”
“Where would I find one around here?”
“You look worse than young master Goete.”
As Carlson said, Gunther’s face was sallow. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin was dry and flaky. His long braid down the back, once neatly plaited, was frayed and unkempt. Though Bessimer had begged to take in the villagers, no one supported and cared for them more fervently than Gunther.
“Take it easy, yeah?”
“I’m just excited, sir. Really excited.”
“Excited?”
“I’m here because my mother saw through Virpier’s schemes. Our tribe fell to another before the war with the Goetes even began. Women and children of a defeated tribe are treated as spoils. My mother, having lost everything, didn’t want to lose me too.”
“I see.”
“For me, this place is a new home. The lord made it so. A home must be tended. Made livable.”
Gunther breathed deeply in and out.
“Right. Care for a sip?”
Carlson offered the willow cup in his hand. No pity or regret showed on his face. Just the look of that’s life.
“Cough, cough cough.”
Gunther drank readily, assuming it was ordinary ale, but hacked violently at the fiery burn scraping his throat.
“Not much of a drinker, huh.”
“What is this stuff? It’s vicious.”
“Abused my captain’s privileges to get strong distillate from the quartermaster.”
“Can’t imagine why anyone drinks this.”
“Yeah. A life where you know this taste ain’t worth recommending.”
Carlson took back the cup and drained it without hesitation. The familiar heat soaked his gut.
“How’d you end up following the lord, Captain?”
Gunther eyed Carlson steadily before asking.
“Following?”
“The lord’s incredible. At such a young age, he’s steadily achieving what no one here dared dream.”
“You really believe in young master Goete, don’t you.”
“Yes. I’ve lived here over ten years, but no one suits this land better than him.”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Don’t you, Captain…?”
“Dunno.”
Carlson stared into the empty cup. He was here because he had work to do. He shadowed Isaac because there were goals to achieve. Bessimer, Gunther, the soldiers here—maybe they brimmed with hope and zeal. But Carlson’s heart was as empty as this cup. The darkness within mirrored the depths of his soul.
“Time to sleep.”
Carlson dumped the dregs on the ground.
“C-Captain.”
“What?”
“One favor?”
Gunther spoke cautiously.
“The kids need a role model to follow.”
“Role model?”
“Everyone had one as a kid. Someone whose back you wanted to emulate, to catch up to someday.”
“……”
Carlson fixed Gunther with bleary, alcohol-flushed eyes.
“Ah, no. Forget I said it. Overstepped.”
“Do that.”
Carlson left those words and headed to his tent.
“D-Did you just agree?”
Gunther shouted at his back. Carlson waved dismissively without turning.
“A bit of fun’s fine. Can’t fill an empty cup, though.”
Carlson muttered words even he didn’t grasp.
Isaac wrestled with the wolf king’s magic stone. It maintained a constant warmth like body heat—a complete enigma to him. He’d shaped it with a chisel and hammer of rezorium and dimegtrium, then completed it as a rune stone using the beast’s blood.