The Path to Ascension (3)
Doomsteel was a metal said to outperform even Oradium, and its rarity was on another level entirely—years of combing the Subterranean World had yet to turn up a single vein of it.
—If only I had Doomsteel, I could bring my full skill to bear.
No wonder Uncle Ruka so often lamented the lack of it. In the world of warriors, when two fighters stood at the same level, the quality of their gear decided the contest.
Of course, I had no right to claim ownership of this vein. I had given up the Daoist's path, but I wasn't so far gone as to stoop to that.
"I'll show you around inside the forge."
Zaktar led me in. Bare-chested lizardmen with cloth bound around their heads were hammering glowing metal in mighty rhythm. Only the setting was different; the scene itself was one I knew well.
What the smiths were making was no bow or sword. It was an enormous crossbow, easily two meters from end to end. At that size, calling the thing a crossbow felt inadequate—it was a ballista.
Its frame gleamed with a reddish sheen. Which meant it had been forged from Doomsteel.
"They call it 'Korvash's Harpoon.' A weapon made to slay a god."
Zaktar's voice swelled with pride.
"...Impressive."
A vicious Doomsteel weapon like that could surely wound even a Grade-1 monster.
"By the way, why is it you carry no staff?"
Zaktar asked.
"A staff? Where did that come from?"
"Should a shaman not bear a staff? You mean to tell me you can work your shamanism without one?"
"......"
I genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. The Daoists of my past life did carry bamboo staffs—walking canes, essentially—but that was because they were old men, not because their arts demanded it.
Then a fairy tale from my childhood surfaced in my memory. In that story, as in most, the dragon had been the villain, and among its minions had appeared a lizardman.
One of the book's illustrations had shown a lizardman holding a staff. A lizardman in flamboyant priestly vestments, gripping a bamboo-like staff—the image came back to me unbidden.
"I lost my staff. I've been wandering from place to place, you see."
"Hey! Koran!"
Zaktar called over one of the smiths.
"What is it, boss."
The smith answered with his arms crossed, slouched at an insolent angle.
"We still have that spare staff lying around, don't we? You know the one—that court shaman bastard left it behind."
"He never left it anywhere. It's just been shoved in a corner since who knows when. But it's in no state to hand to anybody."
"Give him that one, then."
The smith disappeared deeper into the forge. He rummaged through a corner for a good while before emerging with a rod just over a meter and a half long.
The rod was Oradium, with a large white jewel set into its tip.
"Here you go. Better than nothing, I suppose."
The smith flung the rod at me. I shot out a hand and snatched it from the air.
"It has an air spirit's core set into it. If you ever come across finer material, feel free to bring it by."
An air spirit was a Grade-3 monster. The moment my fingers closed around the staff, I understood why anyone would embed so precious a material in one.
It felt as though my arm had grown longer.
The daoist power within me flowed naturally along the Oradium rod, and with every cycle I could feel it amplifying.
"Do you like it?"
Zaktar asked. I leveled the staff's tip at empty air and tried a weak burst of daoist art.
Shwiiiii—!
A razor wind fanned out in a crescent arc and carved a clean scar into the ceiling of the Subterranean World. The force was a good ten percent beyond the power I had put in.
How had anyone managed to craft such a thing?
Was it the interplay between Oradium, which stored mana, and monster materials, the very wellspring of mana?
I would need Ruka to explain the particulars. Then again, even Ruka might not know. The notion that an item could amplify the power of one's arts was entirely news to me.
I had always assumed that winning on the strength of gear was a story for other people. Apparently not anymore. Between Daoists of equal level, the staff's performance would now decide the fight.
"...A very fine staff. I like it."
If an item this capable counted as 'unfit to give to anyone,' I could scarcely imagine what a properly made one looked like.
"Good. Use that for now. When something better turns up, I will bring it to you myself."
And with that, the tour of the fortress ended. All told, it was a superbly built stronghold. The population was plentiful, and fields, livestock pens, and other facilities for self-sufficiency had been provided in abundance.
My original plan had been to confirm the lizardmen's defenses, then march an army in and sweep them away to the last. Culling the dragon's minions in advance would make the beast itself that much easier to face.
But now that I knew this fortress was the stronghold of the lizardman rebels, revising the operation had become unavoidable.
"Zaktar."
I spoke up as I walked along beside him.
"What are your thoughts on humans, if I may ask?"
"Why ask that all of a sudden?"
Zaktar gave me an odd look, as if to say he'd never heard a stranger question.
"Humans are plentiful in the south, Zaktar. I've met my share of them, so I find myself curious what you make of them."
"Aren't humans the race the demons keep as slaves? Weak of strength, soft of skin. I saw little use for them beyond that."
Zaktar said it as though it were hardly worth noting.
So that was the whole of a lizardman's image of humanity. Fair enough, I supposed—we thought no differently of them.
"This is where you will stay. You have promised to aid us, so we promise you the finest of treatment in return."
He led me to a large house built of packed mud. By lizardman standards, it apparently passed for a mansion.
"Thank you, Zaktar."
"Rest. When the meal is ready, I will come for you."
Zaktar departed. I stepped carefully inside. My first impression was the humidity: damp moss blanketed nearly every surface of the house.
I suppose a steamy den like this was paradise, by lizardman standards.
My transformation art hadn't come with the ability to breathe through my skin, so after a cursory look around, I headed back out.
"It's the shaman!"
"Hello, Shaman!"
"Hello!"
The moment I stepped outside, I ran headlong into five tiny lizardman children.
"Shaman, can you show us some shamanism?"
"Yeah! I heard you tried to blast the fortress wall down! That's what the grown-ups were saying!"
"Show us, show us!"
Boundless curiosity, it seemed, was a trait that crossed species lines.
"...Very well."
There was no reason to refuse. I needed something to pass the time until dinner anyway.
I cupped my hands and mimed blowing a soft breath. A butterfly with wings of small flame appeared and drifted lazily through the air.
"A butterfly!"
"Whoa! It's amazing!"
A memory from my past life surfaced unbidden. I hadn't been a particularly cute child myself. Being abandoned by my family had forced me to grow up early.
And what Elder Jaheo had shown me back then was a butterfly conjured from sorcery, just like this one.
"—Isn't it pretty?"
"—Well? Don't you want to learn?"
Looking back, it was almost funny. One butterfly had been all it took to captivate the gloomiest child in the world.
I lost track of time playing with the children. The show only ended when Zaktar hoisted one of the little ones into the air by the scruff of his neck.
"Do not pester an honored guest."
The children scattered in every direction like a sandcastle collapsing.
"That one there."
Zaktar pointed at the back of the chattiest child's head.
"He is the king's son. King Ksilak was prepared to offer even his own child to Ogrmar. Had I not intervened, that boy would be the dragon's meal by now."
"Your king sounds insane."
Zaktar's face clouded with bitterness. It was a startlingly human expression. Then again, perhaps calling it 'human' was simply human arrogance on my part.
"The meal is ready. Come."
I followed him to the fortress's central plaza, where crowds of lizardmen had gathered in clusters around a great bonfire.
Surprisingly, the lizardman palate was ordinary enough: meat grilled well over the fire, dipped in a sweet-and-salty sauce.
What kind of meat, however, was anyone's guess. Ignorance seemed the safer bet, so I deliberately didn't ask.
"The dragon has come too close."
We were in the middle of the meal when an old lizardman rose from his seat and spoke.
"It is time we admitted it. We cannot stand against a god. We have lost too many brothers already. How many more must die before this madness ends?"
Another voice rose in agreement beside him.
"He's right! We must return to Lord Ogrmar's embrace!"
A storm cloud settled over Zaktar's face. He fixed the old lizardman with a terrifying glare.
"Better to die fighting than to live as a slave."
"That is your belief alone. Did you ever truly believe this could work? How can wretched creatures like us defy a god?"
"That thing is no god. It is nothing but a lizard bigger than we are!"
Zaktar slammed his fist down on the table. It collapsed to the ground with a crack. Snorting through his nostrils, he growled like a beast.
"We have Korvash's Harpoon. Did you not see it bleed when the harpoon struck? What god in this world bleeds?"
"That's right—we wounded that lizard!"
"It is not a god. It is prey!"
The warriors raised their voices for Zaktar. The lizardmen had split into two camps.
Zaktar whipped his head around to look at me. His long, vivid-yellow eyes blazed like torches.
"And now, as it happens, a shaman has joined us. Which means the power that thing commands is no longer its alone. Is that not so, Srudal?"
"......"
Every lizardman's gaze swung to me. In that instant, I understood that whatever I said next would decide the fate of this small community.
Troublesome.
Beneath the scales, I was still an outsider who knew nothing of these people. As the Duke of Esterzy, on the other hand, I had options in abundance.
I could pit the two factions against each other and let a war of attrition do the work. I could throw them out as bait to lure the dragon into the open.
Or, failing that, I could slaughter every last one of them and seize the Doomsteel vein for myself. It sounded cruel, but to certain people, it would have been a perfectly valid option.
I ran my fingers along the staff. I could feel the children's earnest eyes on me.
"...Kindness deserves kindness in return."
I had made my decision.
"Ogrmar will fall."
Zaktar threw his jaws wide in a grin. The lizardmen erupted in cheers, chanting my borrowed name. In an instant, the dinner had become a festival.
"Srudal! Srudal!"
Though this did leave me in a bind. If our two peoples ever opened relations, Srudal would eventually learn that I had been borrowing his name.
The Northern Grand Duke's Daoist Arts Are No Joke — Episode 99