Chapter 113
Chapter 113
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 113
Chapter Title: Säén Plateau
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Harbadonia was nominally treated as a single landmass, but considering the diversity of its creatures, geography, and sheer scale, it was far simpler to just think of it as a continent.
After a full month and a half of travel, we finally arrived at Frostspike Gorge and hurriedly unpacked our gear.
Frostspike had originally been the territory of the Germia tribe, but now they too had apparently headed south to join Griffion, leaving the gorge eerily deserted.
As night deepened into darkness, the tribe swiftly set up tents and lit bonfires all around. The undead that preyed on settlements drawn by the scent of life feared fire.
“This is where we are now: Frostspike Gorge.”
In this harsh land where even making paper was impossible, Clan Chief Beduel unrolled a map on a wide stone slab by the bonfire.
He had carved the geographical features of Harbadonia in detail into the rock surface with a blade—something no map in the Empire could match in precision, drawing gasps of admiration.
“We’ll loop around to the right like this, follow the Robrun tributaries downstream, and head to Lavenfell—Winter Harbor.”
Lavenfell was the port city built on the eastern side of Silver Horn Bay at the southernmost tip of Harbadonia. Yes, the only city in this arctic wasteland.
Up until the 8th century, before the White Wolves and beastkin turned hostile, it had thrived as a hub for all sorts of people traveling the North Sea.
Merchants came for the high-quality oil and hides of walruses and seals, adventurers for fame, mages and witches for research.
“It’s incredibly close to the Wall.”
“Not just close—it’s about three days from the Wall. Push hard, and we could make it in one.”
A perfect geographic spot for gathering all the tribes without issue. That very fact stirred a faint unease.
“Will we make it in time?”
The tribe’s southward pace was several times slower than Rain had anticipated, thanks to the elderly, infirm, and children.
Harbadonia’s terrain was anything but kind to them. And with blizzards or nightfall came the undead threat, halting movement entirely.
If they were too late... if the war had already begun... it was obvious everything would go up in smoke.
“What about cutting straight across here like this?”
Kasena, who’d been dozing off beside him, jabbed a finger at the map.
Specifically, she traced a straight line from Frostspike Gorge through central Harbadonia down to Lavenfell.
Barlzen immediately shook his head.
“Can’t go that way.”
“Why?”
“It’s the Säén Plateau.”
“Säén Plateau?”
“You haven’t heard of it? That’s why you furless ones are hopeless. This place? It’s the land of nightmares.”
The Säén Plateau was formed where the Madness Mountains extended south, their slopes gradually widening and flattening out.
That also meant the ancient entities dwelling in those mountains could descend along the terrain—which was why beastkin had long forbidden it.
Barlzen’s objection seemed like it would end the topic there, but Clan Chief Beduel stared down at the map with a troubled gaze.
“Yes, it’s certainly that kind of land...”
Sensing the unease in that look, Barlzen slapped the ground as if to snap out of it.
“Chief, if you’re thinking something crazy, drop it. You’re not seriously considering going there, are you?”
“The blizzards are coming far too frequently. At this rate, we’ll run out of food before we even reach Lavenfell.”
“Even so—this is the Säén Plateau!”
“Yes, a plateau. And there’s no better terrain for marching.”
If one had to name an advantage of the Säén Plateau, it was that Harbadonia’s characteristically unstable ground didn’t apply there.
Vast, flat plains stretched out endlessly—ideal for large-scale migrations.
In fact, history said Enuel and his shock troops had advanced north along the Säén during the war’s final stages.
“You know what happened to the tribes that went there for a shortcut!”
“I do. And those tribes didn’t have companions like ours.”
Beduel, locked in debate with Barlzen, suddenly turned his gaze toward us.
That look was asking... for our will and resolve.
Hesitant about being a burden, Rain exhaled a puff of white breath in the tension and nodded.
“If it were just about moving fast, we wouldn’t make this call. But Barlzen, that’s not our only goal now, is it?”
“...!”
“We have to get these children to Griffion. Isn’t that right, Alakish?”
Alakish, who had been silently watching the exchange with arms crossed, nodded.
「This Alakish has crossed the Säén Plateau many times. It’s undoubtedly dangerous, but if navigated with skill, it’s the safest path.」
“Safest? How could this place be...”
「Don’t you know? There are no truly safe paths in Harbadonia right now. Something’s wrong. The cold winds are raging beyond reason.」
Barlzen knew that all too well, having lived his whole life in this land.
Something off, something inexplicable... the abyssal taint thickening in the chill winds to a nauseating degree, enough to draw cold sweat.
And the black clouds that had lately shrouded the heart of the Madness Mountains fanned those vague terrors even further.
「Something’s happened to the seal. I must hurry these children to the Wall, then investigate it myself.」
Alakish’s words brought a tentative close to the meeting.
The eyes of everyone gathered lingered long on the word [Säén], carved ominously deep into the stone slab.
Even Rain had to swallow dryly, gripped by the vague dread seeping from that land of colossal mysteries.
At last, Clan Chief Beduel exhaled tensely, deciding the tribe’s fate.
“Barlzen, tomorrow we head southeast. Toward the Säén Plateau.”
* * *
“See? No one here either.”
The white wolf grimaced, huffing irritably on his frostbitten hands.
“This patrol’s a damn waste of time. Where else would the beastkin who haven’t joined Griffion be?”
They were called wolves, but they weren’t actual wolves.
The name “White Wolves” originated from the pristine white wolf pelt cloaks worn by the warriors who guarded the [Snowridge Fortress] in the Age of Origins.
Not just the cloaks—their outfits were uniformly pure white for camouflage: wool garments, leather vests, leather boots.
That attire had been passed down through generations, along with the name, so those present now were still called White Wolves.
“No, this feels different.”
Another wolf, scrutinizing the desolate abandoned village, reported in.
“There are bloodstains scattered here and there, scorch marks from embers too.”
His name was Shaunwell, a fresh Limites (2-star) mage who’d just graduated from the magic academy <Winterhold>. Despite being a rookie, he got better treatment than most wolves.
His senior, Gutt, scowled in annoyance.
“Bloodstains? Those bastards eat raw like animals—that’s why.”
“And the tents are still here intact. Beastkin always take their tents when moving as a tribe.”
“Hmph! They probably made new ones and took those. I’d ditch these ratty things too.”
The old wolf Jerard, listening to his returning subordinates’ bizarre reports, finally nodded.
“Shaunwell’s right. Something’s off here... We need to investigate more. Reporting back comes after.”
“Huh?”
“Gutt, we camp here. Tents are ready—just light a fire. Oh, and stake the entrances.”
“Sleep in beastkin tents? Ugh, I’d rather freeze in the snow.”
“Good point. Start prepping camp now, or I’ll personally bury you in a snow pit so you freeze tonight.”
Grumbling, Gutt dismounted and led the team in setting up when—
The wind... sweeping through the dense pine branches... felt like a sigh.
Primal terror, gooseflesh rising.
The hounds the wolves had brought barked themselves hoarse, and the horses tied in the corral thrashed wildly, snorting furiously.
“W-what is it?”
Suddenly, something cold and damp settled on the wolves’ foreheads and scalps.
Before they could grasp it, a blizzard—fiercer than any they’d ever seen—howled in, snuffing out every flame around them.
Was it the blizzard? Or the cold piercing their bodies so sharply they couldn’t move for a moment?
“...?”
Then, into that blizzard stepped an ancient being beyond human imagination, silent as death.
A peerless beautiful boy appeared in a dark teal robe with fluttering sleeves, his build suggesting seven or eight years old at most.
“K-kid...?”
“What the...?”
Yet beneath his jet-black rippling hair, his skin was ghostly pale—and strangely, every movement brimmed with ineffable dignity.
「Doon oe piaris.」
In that instant, the primal terror that invaded mage Shaunwell’s mind...
The boy spoke in primordial tongue: “Kneel.”
The sixteen wolves around him had their limbs shredded and scattered.
Heads and torsos hung suspended by spiderweb threads, and the boy plunged his hand into each skull in turn.
With each grotesque ritual’s end, the wolves withered hideously, drained of sustenance, heads lolling.
‘Die, die, die die die...’
That overwhelming dread alone moved Shaunwell’s body.
He hastily formed seals, hurling 2-star Ice Spikes wildly—but the boy’s flesh seemed pierced, then... wasn’t.
Precisely: each puncture instantly sprouted webs, regenerating the wounds in a blink.
‘Ultra-fast regeneration?’
In this world, only one being could use ultra-fast regeneration... Shaunwell turned and bolted blankly.
‘Warn... must warn the main force. That thing, that’s...’
Yet why, the more he ran, the closer he drew to the boy?
The answer lay in the boy’s extended finger, oozing pitch-black spider silk.
As the boy’s face neared, primal terror exploded—Shaunwell’s bladder burst as he screamed desperately.
“Sp-spare me, please, pleeease──!”
Dragged to the boy’s feet at last, the boy stabbed a finger deep into Shaunwell’s brain. Black energy flowed from the victim into the boy’s hand.
‘While the King slumbers, these lowly things have grown bold...’
Shar’kas, extracting memories directly from Shaunwell’s brain, arched a brow slightly.
Humans are humans, after all.
Pathetic weaklings.
Shar’kas tossed Shaunwell’s corpse—now grotesquely shriveled, vitality utterly sucked dry—onto the snow.
‘Need another host. Something sturdier, with more intel...’
But then, the discarded head twisted unnaturally toward Shar’kas and grinned.
[Reading my memories just now, right? What do you think of my handiwork?]
A human dabbling in possession...
Shar’kas flicked a finger—the head was savagely sliced by webs and launched airborne in a blink.
Even as it spewed blood from the neck stump mid-flight, the head laughed: “Hah!”
[As legendary as they say. Even I barely caught that move. Possessed, so my power’s a bit down, though.]
Grinning playfully, chummily, but Shar’kas crushed it emotionlessly under his geta-clad foot until the eyeballs popped.
「Shut that mouth.」
[Haha, no need to be so cold... I’m on your side, Young Master White.]
「Side? Be grateful I even speak to a human.」
[Hahat, anyway, like my work? Beastkin and humans fighting, right? Descendants of those pests who annoyed you? Spot on! All my planning. Took about 400, 500 years, I’d say.]
「This is your last warning. Don’t open that lowly mouth till I allow it. Think I can’t find your real body?」
Shar’kas pointed to one side—the grin vanished from Shaunwell’s lips.
Far off, in a jet-black barrier enclosing east, west, north, south, a cross-legged youth sweated coldly with a hollow chuckle.
Shar’kas’s killing intent speared straight to his true body.
‘A monster beyond reason. How did that old hag take down things like this?’
Meanwhile, Shar’kas eyed the human corpses wordlessly, eyes narrowing.
Humans, minions of the Genesis God, using their tongue.
He’d instantly mastered Imperial tongue from Shaunwell’s memories—and it irked him. For mere centuries had his King’s realm fallen this far?
‘The vision the King showed me before the seal... Is He imprisoned there now?’
Need information.
To find the King.
But humans are too weak... short lifespans, scant knowledge capacity.
「Host.」
Shar’kas spoke first—Shaunwell’s reply lagged slightly in surprise.
[What host?]
「Hosts worth devouring memories from. Prove your worth. Fail, and I take your brain.」
Shaunwell hummed thoughtfully, then summoned a mirage with a short gasp.
[Got a perfect one nearby.]
The mirage showed a dragonkin crossing the snowfield, red hair whipping like flame.
[True dragon sent by the Fire Dragon. Over a thousand years old. Real pain.]
Fire Dragon... the left head of the three-headed Asura. Split off now, per this human’s memories.
That its clone?
Shar’kas’s unchanging expression since awakening twitched upward in satisfaction.
「Heh, that’ll do nicely.」
No sooner said than—crunch, crack... bones twisting grotesquely...
They began rising, one by one.
The White Wolves, clearly dead.
Twenty-four ribs writhing out grotesquely, crawling spider-like on the snow.