Half the Ogre's Head Vanished
Half of the ogre's head had vanished.
"Gr… uh…?"
The ogre tilted its head at the strange emptiness. It caressed the shattered remnants of its skull with a hand, finally grasping its own gruesome state. Its eyes rolled back, and it toppled forward like a felled tree.
Even with its brain blown out, it had clung to life until that very moment—truly worthy of the title king of the forest. But what impressed them even more was something else entirely.
Rapilta and Alber stared at the man who had slain the forest king with such ease.
"One… strike…?"
Pol muttered in astonishment.
By his knowledge, the only ranged weapon capable of dropping an ogre in a single shot was a siege engine. And even those, most ogres could rip apart with their bare hands. Dealing with an ogre was notoriously tricky.
"…Reran's weapons are quite impressive."
The crow-masked man drew back the crossbow's string and loaded a thick iron bolt that looked impossibly sturdy. It was as long and sharp as a heavy spear—clearly a ballista bolt. He handled it with the nonchalance of someone who considered ogres mere trifles.
Now the three finally understood his earlier quip: 'Just an ogre.'
"Who are you?"
Rapilta dropped all pretense of formality in her shock.
The crow-masked man paused blankly at her question.
'Uh…' He stroked his chin.
'Hmm…' He scratched his head.
'Ah!'
He snapped his fingers as if struck by inspiration and clapped his hands.
"…A hunter."
'A lie.'
'That's a lie.'
'Liar.'
That was Alber, Rapilta, and Pol's reaction.
"By any chance… are you a Nord?"
Pol asked cautiously, eyeing the man's attire. Among the people he knew, only Nords wore beast masks while hunting.
"A Nord?"
Alber and Rapilta tensed, shooting wary glances.
"Those heretics who raid villages, treat women like toys, love killing, eat children, and live in the mountains?!"
The crow-masked man sighed in exasperation at Rapilta's words.
"…Sure, plenty of Nords are muscle-headed idiots with brains full of nothing but brawn… but how the hell did our reputation get this twisted?"
The poor image of Nords was widespread across the continent. Just three years ago, they had been bands of raiders preying on small villages and territories.
Alber and Rapilta kept their guarded stares, hands drifting to the hilts of their swords at their waists—just in case.
"That's too much. I just saved you… You wouldn't try to fight me, would you?"
"Not at all. But if you're dangerous…"
"We can't just stand by either."
Pol waved his hands frantically at Alber and Rapilta's words.
"Now, now! No need to be so on edge. Look, our crow friend here isn't even armed… Huh?"
Pol's eyes widened as he stared at the crow-masked man. The ridiculously massive crossbow he'd been holding moments ago had vanished.
He'd pulled it out in a flash earlier, and now it was gone in the blink of an eye. Only one profession wielded such spatial tricks.
"No way… are you a mage?"
Pol's eyes sparkled as he asked.
Nords were full of hardy warriors. But mages? Almost nonexistent among them. Rumor had it their famed figure, Shaman, was a grand sage in his own right—but few knew the truth.
"A mage?"
"Hah, but spatial magic is advanced high-tier stuff! Even I can't do it!"
Rapilta and Alber exchanged glances at Pol's outburst.
"If the kid says so, he must be the real deal."
"He's the royal court's seasoned mage, after all."
Watching their reactions, the crow-masked man pondered for a moment before speaking.
"Well… I do know some magic, but I'm not that skilled. I just have tools with magic enchantments."
"Magic tools?"
As Rapilta tilted her head, Pol's eyes lit up.
"Magic artifacts! Is it that outfit?!"
Pol rushed up to the crow-masked man without a hint of caution, pawing at his clothes. The man simply watched him indulgently.
"Something like that. But… how long are you planning to keep gripping those swords?"
Alber cleared his throat awkwardly; Rapilta made a sheepish face.
Whatever his identity, he'd saved them—that much was certain.
"We owe you thanks first and foremost. Sorry about that, young man."
"Thanks. Forgive our rudeness."
"……."
Rapilta extended her hand boldly.
"Name's Rapilta. The old guy's Alber, and the kid over there's Pol."
"I'm Hoon."
The crow-masked man—Loki—clasped her hand.
"Anyway… you really are a Nord, huh? So ogres are no big deal to you?"
Alber knew the rumors about Nords well; he'd even witnessed their fighting style from afar. Brutish, indiscriminate power. Heroes at best, battle-mad berserkers at worst.
'During the war, I saw a few Nords take on four kingdom elite soldiers each.'
And that was with shabby gear. Properly equipped and trained, they'd be terrifying.
Recalling those beast-like figures who seemed to revel in combat, Alber kept his guard up against Hoon. They were elite warriors, sure—but known for losing reason in a rage.
Pol gazed at the sky. The sun was setting.
"Let's make camp first. I'm beat…."
He slumped, grass drooping from his shoulders.
"Here…?"
Alber and Rapilta eyed the dead ogre.
"Feels creepy."
"No. This spot's perfect."
Loki pointed at the ogre.
"Most monsters will steer clear of an ogre's blood scent."
Pol looked surprised.
"Huh? You know about that? Ogre blood repels monsters. Even the orcs who tamed this one will back off from the smell! Though if it rots, it'll attract them instead."
Hoon smiled.
"Picked it up somewhere."
Loki had learned plenty from the Nords.
"Alright, let's set up camp!"
At Rapilta's words, Loki nodded.
Rapilta took first watch as they prepared to bed down. Alber glanced sidelong at Hoon.
'He's quite different from other Nords.'
The Nords he knew were hot-tempered, impulsive, bodies moving before brains. Superior to any mercenaries, but hard to control—so few hired them. Only nobles sparking territory wars welcomed them.
'That's why so many Nords were mercenaries in the Ronia civil war.'
But in the last three years, their numbers on the continent had plummeted. No one knew where they'd gone, but most said they'd returned to their frozen homeland.
'Rumor has it a nation formed there…'
Alber dismissed it as unreliable. Nords building a country? Absurd. Probably just thousands of bandits with a self-proclaimed king. The world was full of surprises, but…
'No need to worry.'
In his mind—and the continentals'—Nords were just raiders. No different from bandit packs.
Night deepened.
…How much time passed?
Loki's eyes fluttered open at a faint sound.
'People?'
Definitely not monsters. Clinking metal, weapons shifting, hushed voices.
'Where?'
Not far. Close.
He glanced at Rapilta's group. She eyed him sleepily, puzzled.
"Huh? Hoon, not sleeping? Plenty of time till shift change. Get some rest…"
"I hear sounds."
"…Sounds?"
"People. A fairly large group."
"…I don't hear anything?"
Rapilta strained her ears, hearing only insects.
'Hunter's sharp ears? Or just imagining things?'
She doubted him but couldn't accuse her savior of nonsense.
"What do we do?"
"Huh? Of course we check. But are you sure it's people?"
"I heard voices."
"Voices?"
'Not sleep-talking, I hope?'
Then Rapilta caught a faint noise too. Hard to tell if people or monsters.
But…
'I hear it!'
She gaped at Loki.
Was he for real!?
"What do we do?"
"Huh? Of course we meet them!"
They'd been lost for ages. A guide who knew the way would be perfect!
Slave trader Azar belted out a cheerful tune. His flushed face, strawberry nose, bulging belly, and leather clothes caked in grime and sweat made quite the sight. He flashed rotten teeth proudly, singing at the top of his lungs—but the mercenaries beside him desperately wished to plug their ears at the noise.
They couldn't complain, though; he was the one paying them.
Ronia Kingdom's civil wars had surged lately. Surprisingly, mercenaries avoided them. Makes sense: on the front lines, they were cannon fodder, spearhead, or shields—disposable. Once they'd worn down the enemy, elites took over. Mercenaries got no glory, no pay, and risked death. Wars were bad business.
So they flocked to safer caravan escort gigs. Azar had hired these cheaply, knowing that.
He could've used slaves as guards, but control was iffy. Better trust mercenaries.
'Slave warriors grab a weapon and try to kill me after a few days of hunger and work! They lack that slave mindset!'
He loved free labor, but valued his life more. A slave trader killed by slaves? Pathetic!
'The hiring cost? Offset by slum sweeps later.'
To him, slum-dwellers were slaves anyway. No one would miss them.
'Plus, I snagged a treasure!'
Azar grinned slyly at the tented cart.
Then the mercenaries halted. They stared in one direction, panicking and chattering.
"What…? Those guys!"
"Bandits?"
"Nah, can't be. Gear's too good."
Azar followed their gazes. A group blocked the path. Too well-equipped for bandits—one stood out: a man in a crow mask, never seen before.
"Weird getup? Crow mask? Beast mask means… Nords?"
"Nords…? Those raiders…!"
The mercenaries raised their weapons in unison.
"Ambush!"