"The Holy Church?"
“The Holy Church?”
“I mean the priests there. They don’t like us Nords. They’ll probably… want money.”
Money? Why bring up money all of a sudden…? As Loki puzzled over it, the soldier provided the answer.
“Be careful not to clash with the priests. And if you do, pay them for a baptism. Even if it’s just for show, getting that token will stop them from bothering Lord Hoon without reason.”
“…I don’t get it. Is this some religious thing?”
“Yes. They call us Nords ‘heretics’ for worshiping other constellations. If you go through the motions of baptism and ‘conversion’ and pay them… you’ll pass safely after that.”
Some complicated mess, huh? Loki pondered, noting the soldiers’ subtle expressions.
Come to think of it, history was full of religious friction and wars. Even in the Middle Ages, unbelievers were branded heretics and punished harshly.
“I see. Thanks. Then…”
“Take care.”
As the soldiers bowed again, Loki looked at them and added,
“Oh! And one more favor.”
“……?”
“Don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
“That’s…”
The soldiers looked troubled. Everything that happened on this frozen lake—no matter how trivial—had to be reported up the chain.
“Even if Aum Linia asks, say you didn’t see me. You know my position outranks his, right?”
At Loki’s words, the soldiers flinched and bowed their heads.
“…Understood.”
“Good.”
Loki nodded and waved his hand through the air. He pulled a potion from his inventory and tossed it to the soldiers.
They caught it reflexively and stared blankly.
“A bribe. No backtalk after taking it.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Watching a figure meant to set an example engage in corruption, the soldiers sighed deeply, unsure whether to feel joy or sorrow.
“Aaaah! I can’t go any further! No! I can’t!”
Knight Rapilta collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. Her ornate full-plate armor was caked in dust.
Rapilta, nearing thirty, had endured all sorts of hardships and experiences. But days without washing or proper food had pushed her to her limit.
They’d spent a week in the monster-infested Celt Mountains. chased by monsters on day one and losing their food, lost on day two, and suffering ever since.
Without water or rations, they’d eaten tree bark and roasted the larvae inside it. For water, they drank whatever they found—stagnant or rotten—enduring the gut pain.
Tough as she was, days of bark, larvae, and foul water had her craving real food.
This place, once a sacred ground for red orcs in the Celt Mountains, drew a deep sigh from her as she flung her longsword to the ground. Her legs gave out, and she sprawled flat.
“Damn it! Why am I suffering like this?!”
“Hah! You fool, Rapilta! A knight sprawled like that is worthless!”
Beside her stood an old man who looked about seventy. Wrinkled face and shabby appearance, but his armor was flawless full-plate—heavier and bulkier than burly Rapilta’s.
Rapilta yelled at the old man.
“Lord Alber! Talk sense! What knight? We’re mercenaries now. Aaaah! I shouldn’t have come! We’ll starve or get eaten at this rate!”
Clutching her head, she groaned.
“Just hold on a bit. The map says this way… uh… that way? No? Maybe over there…?”
A crude wooden staff, a wide-brimmed pointed hat straight from a fairy tale, and a long cloak on a boy who looked about sixteen—he fumbled with the map in panic.
“Pol, that’s the third time today you’ve said that? An hour ago, too! We’re lost!”
Rapilta gripped her head.
“Ugh! What’s this ‘universal potion’ rumor anyway? It’s all superstition!”
Rapilta, Alber, and Pol were mercenaries on a job: find the ‘universal potion’ somewhere in the Celt Mountains.
Rumors said it flowed from around here, so the legendary alchemist must live nearby.
“You sure it’s here?”
“…Not exactly. Who knows? Maybe beyond the Celt Mountains, on the frozen plains?”
Alber, who’d taken the job, avoided Rapilta’s gaze.
They were mercenaries hunting traces of the ‘universal potion,’ taking gigs like this for info. They’d come to Celt Mountains for a hint, but saw only reddish cliffs and crimson maples.
“You’re not thinking of going to the frozen plains, are you?”
At Rapilta’s despairing voice, Pol reacted. The boyish mage trembled, staring at Alber.
No way he’s serious…?
“Grr! If we must, we go!”
“……?”
“If it’s there, we find it!”
“…Lord have mercy! Senility’s set in! No wonder the deathly training—finally lost it… Ack! Don’t swing that sword!”
Rapilta freaked at Alber’s blade between her legs.
“Don’t worry. With hands and feet, you can always wield a sword.”
“My manhood goes first!”
“Fine! Cut it off now! Focus on training, free of distractions!”
“Hey! Trying to castrate me, you senile geezer?! Let’s see you try!”
Rapilta drew her sword, facing Alber.
“Y-you two are too on edge! Deep breaths… Huh? That smell…?”
“……?”
“Smells delicious, right?”
Pol sniffed, eyes sparkling.
“Meat?!”
“R-really?!”
“No way!”
At Pol’s shout, Rapilta and Alber leaned in. The savory aroma lit their eyes.
“Meat smell!”
“Mercenaries on the same job nearby!”
“Let’s go!”
They followed their noses to torchlight and sprinted.
There were the mercenaries they sought—dead, roasted as meat lumps.
“…Orcs.”
“Orcs.”
“Red orcs, known for taming ogres.”
That was Rapilta, Pol, and Alber’s reaction.
Before them, red-skinned, two-meter muscular orcs sat amiably by the fire. Leather garb, bone clubs, looted human swords, spears, shields. Human bones scattered, a skewered, skinned human roasting golden over the flames.
The orcs gawked at the sudden humans, licking lips.
“…Tasty humans.”
“Grab ‘em!”
The orcs rose leisurely, bloody drool from raw meat staining their mouths.
Rapilta despaired on the spot.
“Not meat! Well, meat—but human meat!”
“…Still looks tasty.”
“Pol, you eat people? Even mages are eccentric, but cannibalism…?”
“No! I’m normal…! But… orc meat’s fine, right?”
“…You’re a weirdo too.”
“What now?”
At Alber’s question, Rapilta shrugged.
“Fight. Orcs are orcs—green or red, same deal.”
“Hmm… Pol?”
“Same here. Orcs are manageable! Only four warriors. But…”
Pol paled, pointing behind the orcs.
“An ogre changes that.”
From the bushes burst a massive monster: tusked maw, twisted face, steel-muscled body, bulging gut—over four meters of ogre, forest king.
Armored in iron plates outshining the orcs’, iron mace in hand. Too well-equipped for a tamed beast.
“They pushed that one forward.”
-Roooaaarrr!-
Gazing up at the ogre’s might, Rapilta lowered her sword slyly.
“…Run?”
“Run.”
“Run.”
Alber and Pol nodded at each other.
-Roooaaarrrk!
At the ogre’s roar, Rapilta, Pol, and Alber bolted back full speed. The ground quaked with each step.
“Damn! Why this suffering…!”
“No complaints—move! Wanna be meat?!”
“Wh-what do we do? Ogre’s too fast!”
“It’ll be fine! Ogres are huge! Forest obstacles slow ‘em down!”
Something crashed ahead.
“……!”
Pol ducked; Rapilta and Alber leaped. A log.
They glanced back—the lumbering ogre smashed and hurled trees.
“Now it’s got throwing weapons?!”
Rapilta bellowed; Alber yelled back.
“Rapilta! Chance! Show knightly sacrifice!”
“Huh? You saying that? We’re mercenaries! Quit knighthood ages ago! Old folks should sacrifice for the young!”
“More than that… I’m tired! I’m a mage! Not like you trained fighters!”
As they screamed to survive, a shadowy figure appeared ahead. A man in a large crow mask strolled casually, looking around.
“What?! Monster?”
“No! Human! Just masked…!”
“R-run! Ogre’s coming!”
The masked man tilted his head at their shouts, spotted the pursuing ogre, and sighed, rubbing his forehead.
Seeing that, the three felt pity. It screamed, “Oh no, the forest king ogre! I’m done for!”—pure resignation.
“Ugh! Rapilta! Knight’s first rule: knights…!”
“…Help those in need!”
At Alber’s words, Rapilta chimed in, grabbing the man from both sides and sprinting. The man dangled helplessly from the knights.
“…What’s going on?”
The suddenly kidnapped man tilted his head.
Alber and Rapilta, clutching him, fixed their crow masks while fleeing the ogre. His voice was utterly calm, but Rapilta had no time for that—sweating buckets, she yelled.
“Can’t you see?! Man-eating ogre chasing us!”
“…An ogre, huh. But just an ogre…?”
“Just?! Forest king! Weak knights and thrill-seeking adventurers get devoured by that thing daily!”
“Dangerous?”
“Obviously! Ten years younger, I’d take it solo… but age catches up!”
Alber panted.
Heavy gear and still talking—he had stamina to spare.
“Aaah! Same! If not starving, one shot! That thing!”
Rapilta shouted.
“Forget that—do something! I’m dying!”
Pol cried.
The crow-masked man tilted his head, slipped a hand into his loose robe. Out came an impossibly large object, defying space and mass.
“That’s…?”
“Crossbow?”
“But no way that hits… And why so huge?!”
Two meters of absurd crossbow. Rapilta and Alber staggered under the sudden weight but kept running.
“What?! Where’d that come from?!”
“Kid! Too heavy! Drop it!”
“Keep holding.”
The masked man aimed at the ogre.
“Hey! Don’t do pointless stuff! Ogre! That thick hide doesn’t pierce easi—.”
The crow man pulled the trigger.
Bang-!
A massive boom and recoil sent Rapilta and Alber tumbling forward. But the crow man landed smoothly, eyeing the target.
Halt!
…Gone?
Half the ogre’s head had vanished clean away.