Chapter 491 – Frozen Ground (2)
The tundra that the sunlight did not turn away from──the city, Chillstead.
Situated at the far west among the few cities built at the northernmost tip of the frigid continent, this place was exceptional in many ways.
The natural environment upon which the city was founded was not much different from elsewhere, but…
A two to three day's walk would bring you to small streams or brooks that flowed without freezing, where you could wet your feet.
Following them further, you would find villages or towns engaged in livestock farming or agriculture, with cool breezes sweeping through green meadows.
Additionally, because the climate here was warmer than other northern regions, wild animals were far more densely concentrated, making collective hunting activities particularly active.
Thus, in the far north, where one could easily freeze to death if unlucky enough to be caught in a blizzard, the presence or absence of sunlight determined the way of life.
Naturally, survival itself was the same.
So it was no surprise that this warm land, the territory and city of Chillstead, had long been the target of countless groups.
───The neighboring tribe is attacking! Pile up sacks filled with soil outside the palisade, drive thick stakes between them!
───Damn it, they say the Frostwind Tribe plans to bring mages this time? Get rid of those shabby sacks, build solid walls instead! Mobilize every slave under command!
───Bet everything on the ramparts! Higher!! Stronger!!!
Wars of tribes, of seizing and being seized.
Some tried desperately to occupy, others struggled desperately to defend.
Like the merciless cold of their homeland, the northern warriors were stubborn and foul-tempered, sparing no blood of any kind.
Until long ago, when the first King of the North personally led his army and, with overwhelming might, crushed every tribe beneath his heel.
At any rate.
Chillstead, being the region where countless tribes staked their lives and poured in everything, had seen many wars, but precisely because of that, it paradoxically developed into a city.
Later, under the rule of the one and only northern kingdom, 'Prohas', it gradually stabilized.
Now, Chillstead was counted among the most livable and safest cities in the entire north.
Which meant it was the most suitable place for countless refugees to gather.
Murmur, murmur.
Outside Chillstead's gates stretched quite a long line.
At a glance, there were well over hundreds.
It was now afternoon.
Considering that this queue had been forming since morning, it meant that in just a few hours, thousands of people had gathered at Chillstead.
Verden, resting his chin on his hand, gazed at the scene outside the carriage.
"The scale is quite large."
The appearances of the people varied widely.
Some rode large, ornate carriages guarded by escorts, others carried bundles in their arms with flushed faces.
It was clear that not only residents from remote villages, but also people from larger towns had fled here.
"Hm."
Isabella, resting an arm on the backrest, rolled her eyes about.
"Judging by how everyone's loaded with baggage, it doesn't look like they were directly attacked by that monster said to have appeared in the west. Then did all these people gather just from rumors? Seems the situation is much more serious than I thought."
[Calculating the time required for this carriage to enter Chillstead. Approximately 8 hours. Considering the continent's general curfew hours. Probability of failing to enter today, 83%.]
From beneath the hood of the [Ainber] that Verden wore low, Alpha whispered.
They would have to camp here.
For Verden's group, armed with all manner of artifacts and magical items, a little cold was nothing, but still…
"Master, I shall head to the gate for a while."
Adrian could not bear the thought of Verden spending the night on the roadside. He was ready to force his way through inspection if need be.
But Verden shook his head.
"There's no need. It's not urgent enough to demand immediate entry. Besides, as we are not northerners, there is no reason to expect preferential treatment. We'll wait patiently like everyone else."
"If that is your will."
And so, the shabby carriage carrying Verden's group crept forward little by little.
When disturbances broke out during inspections, the waiting time grew even longer. Merchants roaming the line hawked their goods at the top of their lungs.
"..."
Quietly watching ahead, Adrian lowered his gaze.
His hands itched.
Though it was his master's order, it vexed him greatly to sit idle like this.
'That my lord must camp outdoors just because of some gate.'
The situation was frustrating, but with remarkable patience, he did not let the complaint escape his lips.
Whatever else, force was not an option.
Such behavior would only disgrace his lord's dignity.
'Indeed, it is different from the old days, when nobles, royals, whoever they were, I would cut down if they annoyed me.'
Adrian persuaded himself and sank into deep meditation, gradually calming the unruly impulses rising within him.
The serene equanimity, which even his master Raymon the Flawless had failed to teach him in life, was now Adrian's own.
It was then that noise stirred.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck, a rabble of beggars indeed."
***
A displeasing voice followed.
"Not a shred of dignity among them, their appearances as wretched as beggars. If they've come as refugees, they should simply stay quiet, instead of filling the air with their noise."
"Hoho, indeed."
Out of nowhere, insults were hurled at the refugees.
"Which bastard…!!"
One barbaric man in line half drew his sword and turned.
Already irritated at the thought of possibly being denied entry to Chillstead, he had lost his temper completely.
"Uh."
The man faltered.
A luxurious carriage, guarded by seven warriors clad in armor made from the hides of magical beasts. Inside sat a rat-like, mustached man, and beside him, a heavily made-up woman.
A noble.
In fact, that pathetic, middle-aged noble with a mustache who paraded his young mistress around all day could only be one.
Viscount Casper.
A man notorious among the citizens, who delighted in flaunting his authority and wealth at every chance.
'…Shit.'
The man hastily sheathed his sword and tried to feign ignorance, but it was too late. His voice had been too loud not to be heard.
Clip-clop.
Hooves stopped close by.
"You there, what did you just say?"
"Eh? Me? Ah, no, no, I was talking to those merchants. I said it's too noisy for people who've only come to take refuge."
Northern men were mostly rough.
Those who stubbornly clung to tradition were especially combative.
Like wild beasts.
Thus, they might recklessly charge at an equal, but they knew to bow their heads to someone clearly stronger. That was the instinct of the wild.
"Haha, indeed. A man must know his place. When one forgets his station and makes a fuss, nothing is more disgraceful."
"Y-yes, I think so too…"
"Give him a light beating."
Viscount Casper gestured with his chin.
One of his burly guards stepped toward the man.
As the citizens around them shrank back in fear, merciless violence erupted.
Smack! Crack! Thud!
Resistance was meaningless.
The barbaric man clutched his face and dropped to his knees. His nose was broken, his teeth knocked out, sticky blood dripping between his fingers.
"I'll grant you my mercy and leave your tongue intact. Guard it well in the future. Understood?"
"Cough, cough, y-yes…! Th-thank you…!"
Viscount Casper chuckled nastily, his shoulders shaking slightly. Proving his station so openly was his hobby.
In the north, social rank was enforced more strictly than on other continents.
Not by social views, but by violence itself.
Thus, as the noble's carriage bypassed the line and advanced toward Chillstead, the viscount's mistress covered her mouth and spoke.
"Oh my, my lord. Look at that carriage."
Where she pointed was a shabby cart stuck in line.
Inside were two figures hidden by robes, and outside sat a coachman with a massive greatsword on his back.
"How odd, for such a tiny carriage to carry two passengers, with a coachman besides. Do they have money, or don't they?"
"The latter, surely. Lacking money for a fine carriage, they hired a coachman to make it seem more respectable, to feel as though they were being treated with dignity."
"Then what about that enormous sword the coachman carries?"
"Nothing but a show of vanity. A trick to look impressive. The kind of thing done by those with no ability but inflated pride… Hm?"
In the midst of his mocking words, the viscount tilted his head, eyeing the sword on the coachman's back.
It looked familiar somehow.
But most of the blade was hidden by the coachman's body, and the carriage itself was too shabby, so he quickly dismissed it.
"Hmph, at any rate, pitiful folk. They cannot be compared to us. Who would think to carry people in such a wretched cart, honestly."
"As expected, my lord is so insightful, and so reassuring. Tonight, I find myself looking forward to it even more."
"Hahaha! Indeed, indeed!"
The two lovers' mocking conversation faded as their carriage rolled away. The window was open, so many heard it.
Including those with ears far sharper.
Rustle.
The coachman, Adrian, loosened the leather strap and lowered the greatsword of the Grand Warrior to his side.
"Could you keep my place for a while?"
"Of course."
Isabella readily accepted, stepping down from the carriage to take the coachman's seat.
Adrian touched ground and bowed his head toward Verden.
"I will bring back their apology."
"Enough, just keep it moderate."
"Yes, my lord."
Now, not even Verden could stop him. Even if he did, Isabella would act in his stead.
The rush of passing wind.
Boom!
In the blink of an eye, Adrian vanished, and the wheel of Viscount Casper's carriage shattered to pieces.
***
Casper's guards were warriors forged of money, no less.
Clad in full-body magical beast leather that granted physical resistance where punches felt like massages, and magical resistance enough to endure a
At their belts hung sharp, heavy swords not easily acquired.
Of course, none of it mattered.
"Guuhhh…"
All seven of the viscount's guards lay sprawled on the ground.
Some bled from split lips as they retched, some groaned with limbs bent the wrong way.
Grab.
Adrian seized the hair of the battered viscount.
"You said it yourself earlier. A man must know his place, and forgetting one's station to make a fuss is disgraceful. Yet knowing that, why did you run your mouth?"
"I-I, I was…"
"Shut up."
He released him, and the viscount toppled forward.
His bruised, swollen face was blotched red.
Each breath was labored.
"My lord has shown you mercy, so I'll leave you your limbs intact. Consider it an honor."
"Guh, ghhhk."
Adrian, with killing intent, stomped down on the viscount's head.
"Hii, hiiik…!"
The viscount's mistress, who had been near the nearly half-destroyed carriage, staggered backward in fright, but she did not get far.
Crack!
A small pebble, flicked from Adrian's fingers, struck her on the neck.
She fainted instantly.
It would take quite some time for that grating voice of hers to recover.
"Insane, Viscount Casper has been…!"
"I, I didn't see anything…! I saw nothing!"
The refugees shuddered at the sight of the half-dead Viscount Casper. Some even abandoned the line and fled.
For to dare lay hands on a northern noble meant just that. Everywhere on the continent, the common sense was the same—crossing a noble meant an ill fate.
Thud, thud.
From Chillstead, many cavalry came thundering.
Judging by their attire, with the gatekeeper who oversaw inspections leading them, it was clear word had spread that Viscount Casper was being assaulted.
"Halt!!"
In an instant, northern warriors encircled Adrian.
Schring.
Seeing the man trampled beneath him, they widened their eyes and drew their weapons in unison.
"Shit, th-that really is Viscount Casper…! Step off at once, and slowly back away! If you do not, we will execute you on the spot! This is your only warning!"
A hair's-breadth from battle.
Of course, Adrian had no intention of turning Chillstead's soldiers into pulp.
A moderate suppression would suffice.
To do that, disarming them all at once would be most effective.
'If done well, it might even open the door to negotiation.'
If he could break their fighting spirit, they might be able to enter Chillstead quickly.
With overwhelming force, most problems could be resolved. Passing through a city gate, all the more so.
It was a way of thinking fitting only for the truly strong.
"Catch."
Perceiving Adrian's intent, Isabella tossed him the greatsword. A heavy, solid blade—perfect for destroying weapons.
Whoosh!
Adrian caught the Grand Warrior's sword as it flew with swift precision, resting it on one shoulder.
"Come, then."
The intensity of his presence surged.
For a moment, heavy silence swept the area.
"That sword…"
The warriors of Chillstead, seeing the shape of the blade and the cross guard, opened their eyes wide as if they would tear.
An expression of shock.
Even Viscount Casper, on the verge of fainting, thought himself saved and rolled his eyes—only for his face to go pale.
At last, the gatekeeper cried out in alarm.
"Th-th-the Sword of the Grand Warrior!!"
The traditional symbol of a mighty warrior, directly appointed by the King of the North.
At that exclamation, every northern gaze focused on one place.
"…?"
Receiving everyone's attention, Adrian tilted his head.
***
The situation turned swiftly.
The fact that Viscount Casper had been beaten was erased completely, and the carriage with Adrian, who claimed the role of coachman, was allowed entry into Chillstead without inspection.
Moreover, when they sought lodgings, the gatekeeper himself bowed and guided them directly.
The Inn of the Candle of Ice.
There, having rented the top floor, Verden's group discussed.
The topic was the Sword of the Grand Warrior.
Ting.
Isabella flicked the blade with her finger, a metallic note ringing briefly.
"So, 'Grand Warrior' wasn't just a nickname, but more like a title?"
She recalled the barbarian she had dealt with in the unclaimed eastern lands, one also called a Grand Warrior.
Adrian spoke.
"It seems to be quite a high rank. The treatment in Chillstead alone, and that viscount couldn't even meet my eyes properly."
"No, that's probably because you beat him bloody… but still. This is unexpected. Who knew the sword carried such meaning."
Unwittingly, they had become impostors.
"Master, should I hide the sword now? There's a chance we could be accused of killing the real Grand Warrior."
"If we're not planning to leave Chillstead immediately, it doesn't mean much. There were too many witnesses."
[Agreed.]
Verden set the leather-wrapped Interis against the wall, sat in a chair, and folded his arms.
"And the stigma of having killed a Grand Warrior doesn't matter much either. I recall Broker Serlo Brodon saying once that the Grand Warrior under the Eastern Archduke was actually a heinous criminal who fled from the North."
"Since we took down such a man instead, if this truth spreads, we might even receive a bounty."
"Or else someone may recklessly try to seize the sword. In any case, thanks to it, we entered Chillstead swiftly. For us to try to explain away the misunderstanding would be awkward. Better to reveal the sword than to hide it—it will look more natural."
Verden concluded.
"For now, we'll watch how things unfold."
***
On the wall of Chillstead's military supply headquarters hung a large map of the North. West of the symbol marking Chillstead, numerous notes were pinned.
The quartermaster spoke.
"Sigh, with rumors spreading uncontrollably, the number of refugees has far exceeded expectations. Chillstead's capacity will soon reach its limit… yet the flood of refugees shows no sign of ending."
"…And the state of public order?"
This time the captain of the guard answered.
"Reports of disturbances continue. From experience, I fear a major incident is imminent."
"I see."
Receiving nothing but grim reports from his officers, the mage known by the northern moniker 'Giant's Step', Terat, pressed his brow.
Though not directly holding office in the northern kingdom, he had been hired by Chillstead's mayor as the one responsible for this crisis.
'This won't do.'
From the west, monstrous beings and demi-human hordes approached with each moment, and Chillstead, the only refuge, was on the verge of bursting.
Danger loomed.
At their current advance, countless lives would be lost.
Even if Chillstead opened its arms to every refugee, hundreds stranded outside the city would never even leave behind a corpse to be found.
'Relief is still far from arriving. Somehow, I must delay their advance… but our available forces are too few.'
The walls might be defended, but to sortie beyond them was impossible.
To break this deadlock, external aid was essential.
They needed, without fail, someone or some group of immediate and immense strength.
But where was such power to be found?
'This was supposed to happen only if I failed the trial…!'
Terat groaned, racking his brain for a solution.
News of hope came then.
"…What? A Grand Warrior has arrived?"
A Grand Warrior was an unmistakable powerhouse, acknowledged by the King of the North himself.
It was a legacy of tradition.
Having heard everything from the gatekeeper, Terat rose at once.
"The Inn of the Candle of Ice, you said? I must meet him myself. I shall go alone, and speak with him. No one else follow."
Perhaps he had found a breakthrough.
***
Knock, knock.
Terat cautiously knocked on the door.
Sensing presences inside, the door opened.
"Who is it?"
Long hair of deep navy, eyes the color of sky, a mask covering the lower face.
No doubt about it.
The very Grand Warrior who had shattered Viscount Casper before the refugees' eyes.
"It is an honor to meet you, Grand Warrior. I am Terat, tasked with leading the expedition to counter the threat that has appeared in the west."
"Your business."
"I came to meet you. More precisely, to ask for your aid. Forgive the sudden visit, but the matter is urgent… Could you spare me a moment?"
The Grand Warrior glanced back slightly, as if seeking someone's will, then opened the door.
He stepped inside.
As rumored, there were two other figures in the room besides the Grand Warrior.
'…Both appear far from ordinary.'
One, seated on the bed, was an exceptionally rare beauty. The other, seated in a chair, was a man cloaked in an imposing robe of jet black.
"?"
At that moment, the cloaked man lifted his head and scrutinized Terat's face.
After a brief silence, the man smiled faintly.
"So that's where I sensed it from."
It was clearly directed at Terat.
"…Do you know me?"
"I've never heard your name before, but we have met, in a sense."
As if by magic, the hood covering the man's head vanished. His hidden features were revealed.
"Huh?"
Ash-gray hair, blue eyes.
"Y-you…!"
Seeing those unforgettable features, Terat gasped, staggering back until he hit the wall. Only then did he utter the name from memory.
"A-Asher!!"
Fifth-rank lower mage──the Giant's Step, Terat.
He had been one of the candidates for Arkhship who, earlier this year at the Ark exchange, fainted under Verden's
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