Asgard, the Newborn Nation
Asgard was a newborn nation. Moreover, its true ruler over the Nords was Loki. Ignoring such an existence was no different from mocking the king to his face and pointing fingers at him—it was tantamount to declaring war diplomatically. It was more than enough justification for even a minor power to use as a pretext for war.
If we crush Ronia's key figure right in their heartland, their main base, with just a hundred men and do it effortlessly!
That would serve as a warning to other nations as well. Don't underestimate us, or you'll pay dearly.
Aum bowed lightly with a smile. The gesture was so exaggerated it seemed to mock the other man, but Ash mistook it for Aum's blunder born of panic and uncertainty.
"Thank you. It's an honor to hear you say that. Our Berserk Warriors are weary as well, so they could use some proper rest. A banquet seems in order to boost morale."
Aum was openly demanding, Prepare a banquet!
We deserve some fine food at least. He wanted to treat his Berserk Warriors to proper continental cuisine while he was at it.
Ash rejoiced inwardly. Requesting a banquet meant they wanted to "negotiate." They surely had demands for him.
"Excellent! Let's do that!"
"Then we'll prepare to depart by tonight."
"See to it. I want to let my subjects know I'm alive—and that you're here!"
Ash smiled and nodded. Satisfied, Aum called over the Berserk Warriors and Kudan.
The Berserk Warrior glanced at Aum, then flicked his gaze to Ash. Meeting the eyes hidden within the helmet, Ash flinched and shrank back, but a surge of belated pride stiffened his neck.
"Escort him with due respect," Aum ordered.
One Berserk Warrior nodded and led Ash away. Turning to the remaining Kudan, Aum spoke.
"Now we head to Roden Territory."
"Not back home?"
"Weren't you tired of indulging my whims? Since we're handing over the refugees, we might as well have some fun."
"Fun?"
Aum nodded.
"Tell the Berserk Warriors there's to be a banquet at the territory we're heading to. When I give the signal during it, they can enjoy themselves freely."
"...Planning a massacre, eh?"
Kudan chuckled hollowly. Unlike the Nords, he hated exerting himself unnecessarily, so he grasped Aum's intent well enough.
"Exactly. Capture that prince at the banquet. As for the rest... no need to spare them. Kill them all. If the prince resists, cut off his limbs if you must. Just don't kill him."
Aum smiled. It was the cruel grin of a beast gearing up for a delightful hunt.
Kudan scratched his head as he watched Aum.
The sun set, and night fell. Darkness blanketed Harma Territory, save for the cart housing the Berserk Warriors, illuminated brightly by torches.
"To Roden?"
Loki, arms crossed atop the cart Aum had brought, fixed a sharp glare on him from within the crow mask. Sensing Loki's foul mood, Aum flinched and offered an awkward smile.
"Didn't the king say to handle it ourselves?"
"I would've preferred torturing the bastard."
No—he's being called king now.
"That works too, but... as a link to the underworld, keeping him alive is better. Better than driving him mad, right?"
Curiosity piqued by the mention of madness, Loki asked, "What torture did you have in mind?"
"I don't know how, but the Berserk Warriors do. Something about feeding him special food..."
At Aum's words, the Berserk Warriors twitched. With keen ears, they'd overheard the exchange, and cold sweat trickled down their backs. They meant Aum's cooking—blood-red, chewy, springy, unfamiliar fare that reeked of nose-searing spice. To any onlooker, it looked like hellish cuisine, ominous as could be.
It was half in jest, but half serious.
"I have no idea what it was either. I said I wanted to watch, but they refused. They were so adamant I didn't press."
"Torture food? Could be a truth serum."
Kudan smacked his lips at Loki and Aum's words.
If I said Aum Linia's cooking itself is hellfood, they wouldn't believe me. Loki had unofficially appointed Aum palace chef, praising his dishes.
The continent had no concept of "spicy" food. Thus, no spice tolerance existed. Even pain-hardened Berserk Warriors recoiled—ordinary folk would black out at first bite.
"Th-thank you! I'll never forget this kindness!"
"Take care..."
Kankun was seeing off refugees pleading for asylum on the frozen plains. They'd trek unguarded, braving whatever perils arose.
Kankun wished them luck. Only those bound for Roden remained.
"This is all? No carriages?"
Ash's complaint drew a wry response from Aum. "Apologies. We didn't prepare any."
Truth be told, carts could be whipped up in moments. But he'd skipped it deliberately. For provoking noble mockery, appearances mattered most.
"...Now's the time to nitpick?"
Salat, leaning against Loki's cart from afar, muttered. Her small voice carried clearly to Ash.
"...Salat. Was that aimed at me?"
"Who else?"
Ash looked dumbfounded at her rebuke. Their distance felt wider lately.
"You know who I am and still spout that crap?"
Salat snorted. "Hilarious. As if a human prince means anything..."
Once a princess herself—nay, an empress—what was a petty kingdom's prince? And to her eyes, Ash lacked any royal dignity.
"Don't you realize your words could harm others too?"
Aum's warning startled Salat. She wasn't foolish; she understood human hierarchies and the etiquette due royalty. A misstep could rebound on Loki.
She glanced worriedly at him. Looking up at Loki on the cart, she froze. He was glaring—not at her, but at Ash. No overt killing intent, but eyes that could slay at any moment.
The crow mask hid it from Ash, of course.
"E-easy now!"
Guessing Loki's state, Aum sweated coldly. He knew one more word from Ash could reduce him to ash, utterly erased.
Aum seated Ash on another cart and signed to Loki: Just a bit longer! It's soon! Do as you please after!
"...I'll make that bastard suffer before he dies."
"Yes, yes, have at it. Kudan, let's move."
Aum addressed Kudan, who nodded and ordered the Berserk Warriors. They set off for Roden Territory.
Another refugee band departing Harma was fleeing for their lives.
"Eek!"
"I told you this was a bad idea!"
"Should've gone with that prince!"
The refugees scattered in panic, abandoning luggage to sprint full-tilt. But the starving monsters visible in the distance were faster still.
"Argh!"
In desperation, a man tripped and fell, smashing his forehead on hard ground. Blood flowed, but he had no time for trivial wounds. He had to run.
"Daddy!"
Grimacing at his child's cry, he struggled up—only for something to seize his leg.
"...!"
He froze in shock. A gurgling rasp and hot breath came from behind. Trembling in denial, he turned slowly.
Agony exploded in his leg. With a crack, his scream echoed across the plains.
A Wight. Its elongated hand gripped and twisted his ankle. Unsated, it dragged him with a rotten grin.
"Aaaagh!"
"Daddy!"
As the child approached, the man bellowed, "Run! Get away! Hurry...!"
"N-no... I don't wanna...!"
"Please... someone help!"
His pleas rang out unanswered. The others fled blindly for survival.
"Anyone...!"
Suddenly, something pierced him. His pounding heart was clutched—and ripped out, devoured by the Wight.
"..."
His head slumped to the ground. Instant death.
The child backed away from the Wight, knowing she must flee. But... Daddy was right there. Terror rooted her feet.
Sensing this, the heart-munching Wight approached slowly. Humans were tasty, but children were delicacies—tender meat, pure blood, screams like sweet music.
As it gaped wide, the child squeezed her eyes shut.
A splat erupted. Blood sprayed; the Wight crumpled.
Peeking, the child saw...
"...D-Daddy?"
Her father stood tall, having crushed the Wight barehanded. Alive? Despite his heart being eaten?
He stared puzzled at his hands. He'd slain it in one blow. His gaping chest had knit closed—healed. An impossible miracle.
"Daddy!"
She wailed into his arms. He hugged back, ignoring the unfamiliar sensation, but kept bloodied, Worm Pest-tainted arms distant.
"I-I'm fine. You okay? Not hurt?"
"Yeah... Daddy!"
"Good. Thank goodness you're safe..."
Footsteps approached. Whirling, he spotted a woman.
Over two meters tall, a jet-black greatsword on her back. Crimson-black armor over a white dress. Long hair to her hips—half white, half inky black. Ghostly pale face, horned helmet veiling her eyes. Clear golden eyes pierced him through the slits.
"Ah...!"
He knelt unbidden, bowing low. A stranger, with chilling, merciless eyes. Why? He couldn't fathom kneeling to her—or instinctively recognizing her as master.
But the questions faded, leaving only loyalty.
"D-Daddy?"
"...Bow to the great one. Now!"
Startled by his grave tone, the child mimicked him.
Trembling, he declared, "Your lowly servant greets you."
Wights swarmed nearby—but swordsmen in bizarre half-white, half-black armor hunted them. They finished the last and bowed to the woman like him.
He smiled. His body quivered, heart racing with joy. The thrill of a wretched human pledging fealty to greatness.
He bellowed, "Great one! Queen who rules the living and the dead...!"
Raising his head, he beamed ecstatically, eyes glazed upon her.
"I behold Helga!"