Chapter 47: "Noble? Which One?"
His tone carried curiosity, but that was all. Ash was the one flustered by Loki's curt, matter-of-fact words. He'd assumed revealing his noble status would earn at least a modicum of courtesy—yet nothing of the sort.
Does he not believe me?
Ash examined his own state. Though caked in blood and dirt, his clothes were unmistakably fine garb. Any passerby would peg him as highborn without question.
Could he know my body's condition and mock me for it?
Both legs lost to the Wight—that must be why the scorn! Hah! But for a lowly cur to dare... wait.
Ash paused mid-inspection. My legs... they're here?
The limbs that had been torn away were whole again.
...Then! My body?
Ash groped himself frantically, especially his abdomen. The wound there had been fatal—beyond Holy Sea Water or high-tier healing magic. Yet now, not even a scar remained.
"What in the...?"
"I asked what kind of noble."
Ash stared blankly at Loki's question.
"A dream? Am I dreaming? But no dream feels this vivid... then that pain I felt...?"
"......"
Loki sighed softly as his question went ignored. The wounds, perhaps?
"...Did you heal me? Are you... a mage? But severed legs and a gutted belly—how...?"
Ash floundered amid the unbelievable miracle. To buy time from the hassle, Loki pointed up at the tree.
"......?"
Ash followed his finger and spotted a girl perched on a branch, legs swinging idly as she peered down with wide-eyed curiosity. Bronze skin, crimson eyes, silver hair spilling from her hood—she was striking. Her fine clothes sparked doubt in Ash.
A nobleman's daughter? Ah, yes. I've heard Nords wear beast pelts.
To him, she looked like a runaway noble lass with a Nord bodyguard. But where were the others? Ash scanned around—nothing.
A fugitive noble girl, then?
The thought lasted a heartbeat before a voice shattered it.
"Elf medicine packs quite the punch. Your wounds were treated with it."
Salat startled at Loki's words. Elf remedies were potent, true—but laughably weak compared to potions or healing spells. To mend wounds no continental potion or magic could touch? That belonged in legends and fairy tales.
"...Elf?"
Ash glanced back at the dark elf, Salat. Long ears peeked from her hood.
"A real... elf."
Even for him, sighting an elf was a first. They were exotic, otherworldly. But could such a being truly work miracles?
"Did that heretic save me...?"
Ash tested the waters, then clamped his mouth shut. Loki emanated faint killing intent.
"Calling your savior a heretic... manners lacking."
"......"
"No matter. I saved you to hear your tale."
A tale? He revived me just for that?
Loki eyed the stunned Ash and spoke.
"Do you know of the Death Angel?"
***
Loki sought out plague hotspots on foot—information scarce, he had no choice. And here he'd found a blond youth who seemed to know of this Death Angel.
Loki watched Ash, awaiting a reply. Ash eyed him back, hesitating oddly.
"Speak what you know. All of it."
The pressuring air irked Ash; he shot back peevishly.
"...Your speech is rude. I'm a fallen noble, but still of noble blood. Mind your manners—"
"...Rude speech."
Ash's words cut off—not by Loki's retort, but a flash streaking past his ear. Too swift to track, the light brought a gust that stung his skin. Strands of his hair fluttered, severed.
Ash stiffly turned. Trees split left and right crashed down.
He whipped back to Loki, who clenched and unclenched his fist.
...A Divine Gift user?!
A mere swing felled trees? Immense power. Ash recalled the Wight shattering before he blacked out.
"Noble blood or not, means nothing. We're the 'heretics' you spoke of."
Loki grinned darkly at Ash.
"......"
Ash swallowed dryly. Hood hiding Loki's eyes, yet the aura alone pierced him like blades. All his kingly lessons crumbled. He'd only dealt with status-fawning nobles. Facing raw threat sans rank, his mind blanked white.
Ash forced calm and spoke.
"I know nothing of any Death Angel."
He hadn't even grasped what it was—just tavern gossip for commoners.
Loki had hoped, but sighed at the expected flop. ...Wasted effort. Potion down the drain.
"......"
Ash reeled at the unprecedented slight—like rank meant zilch.
Wait, he's a Nord, right?
To them, only employer and hireling mattered—no noble-peasant divide. Nobles despised Nords for it. Yet trusted their 'honor' above any mercenary: pride-bound, they never betrayed first if unbetrayed.
Recalling that, Ash pondered. Explaining hierarchy to such folk was futile.
He gauged Loki, who hungered for answers. Ash decided honesty.
"No clue on Death Angels. But..."
"......?"
"Those with the continent's best intel know."
"...What do you mean?"
"Heard of the underworld?"
Loki smiled, stroking his chin. Pol had mentioned them: vast network, unmatched info. Even his group couldn't find them—yet this youth knew?
"You know of them?"
"I do. And until recently, I negotiated with them. Want an intro?"
Perfect—Ash needed this Nord's strength. A Divine Gift guard? Fearless. And Nord reliability beat Ronia mercs.
Ash bowed. First, stay in his good graces.
"My thanks for saving me."
To outsiders, a royal bow held weight.
"I'll bridge you to them. In return, protect me. With rewards."
Hiring Loki as mercenary.
"Escort me to Roden Territory."
Loki mulled. The haughtiness grated, but nobility excused it. Rewards? Money meant nothing to him. But underworld access? Tempting.
"Very well. I'll travel with you awhile."
Hope lit Ash's eyes.
"My thanks! But..."
Ash blinked at the odd trio: Nord, elf, himself. Bizarre.
"Who are you lot? Mercs...? Travelers?"
"Us...? We..."
Loki paused at "us," glancing at Salat in the tree. Since when did 'us' slip out...?
He smacked his lips and spat it out.
"Herbalists."
***
Half a day since meeting Ash.
"Nngh~!"
Salat rubbed her eyes with her handknuckle upon waking. In forests, ambush loomed; as slave, horrors awaited. Now, safe sleep overwhelmed her with gratitude—all thanks to him.
...When did I start relying like this?
She could flee anytime. He'd never restrained her. He'd shrug if she vanished.
Problem: she craved his side, curiosity piqued.
Those weird potions, that strange power... what's his deal?
Curious by nature, she yearned for his truth. Unnoticed, vengeance faded from her mind.
Yawning drowsily, she jolted upright—no Loki in sight.
No way?!
She scanned wildly, halting at a voice nearby.
-Don't worry. He's nearby.
"......"
Salat eyed the summoned ifrit, manifested over the campfire flames.
"Where is he?"
-That way, in the woods.
The ifrit pointed; Salat headed there without pause.
"...Where you off to?"
Ash called to her. His uniform still bloodied rags. Body pristine, but eyes weary from mental toll.
Salat eyed him, ignored, and stepped on. No chat with lowly humans—Alex was the rare exception, and she'd never revisit the monastery.
"W-wait! Hold on. The Nord's gone too—"
But then...
"Ugh-!"
Salat turned at the groan. Ash had scorched his hand on a spark lunging.
Pathetic shut-in nobles...
She sneered, but hesitated—then approached, extending her hand.
"Gimme your hand."
"......"
Ash offered it; Salat fetched herbs from her pouch, smeared salve, wrapped with leaves.
"Th-thanks."
His face flushed.
"Sit tight."
"Wh-where were you headed?"
"To find him."
"...You know where?"
"He wanders off sometimes."
"I-see."
Ash fidgeted, lost-puppy anxious. Pity stirred in Salat—like her old self.
"Got a question."
"What?"
"That... Nord. What's he like?"
"...Nord?"
Salat tilted her head. No clue what that meant.
Come to think, the monk called him that too...
She realized she didn't even know his name. They traveled, but talked little—post-Alex, barely ten words.
Aware of her ignorance, she pondered how to reply. Ash cocked his head at her silence.
Salat finally spoke to his expectant gaze.
"Just... a herbalist, like he said."
"Herbalist? He claims so, but... his skills waste on that. Does he want something? The underworld connect aside—wealth, maybe?"
Royal Ash quizzed for future favors, assuming success.
"D-dunno."
Salat shrank with each query, tongue-tied.
"That so? Then..."
Next question—
"His name?"
Salat went speechless.