The vast night remained heavy and intoxicating. And at the very instant Skadi also sank into sleep, deep within her mind, the "Magic Mirror" overflowed with faint light.
The Queen of the Land of Shadows, Scathach, let out a soft murmur. "That little girl... has she fallen asleep?"
In that dark world of piled barren hills and spreading shadows, Scathach sat within a palace built from countless massive stones, yet she was faintly excited. Beneath her folded arms, her full figure shifted, and her crossed legs swayed lightly.
Skadi and Scathach were not the same person, but they shared the same origin and an extremely close connection. So long as Skadi fell asleep, Scathach could use the power of the "Runes" she had obtained from her to briefly descend her consciousness into Skadi's body and borrow the goddess's flesh.
It was just that, under normal circumstances, the goddess would not fall asleep.
Unless winter had passed.
And spring was about to arrive—
"The Wild Hunt... Rovi, was it? What a strong one. He makes it hard not to get excited." Scathach licked her red lips, her gaze shifting to the place behind her, higher even than the throne on which she sat.
That was her friend's seat—the seat of a god of the underworld from a foreign land, the guide who had led her to see through life and death and become a transcendent beyond both.
The founder of the Land of Shadows.
The Queen of the Land of Shadows, Scathach, was merely managing this dark land in his stead after he had fallen asleep.
"My friend..." Scathach brushed back her long hair. "I can feel it. The day you awaken is not far away."
After that, the night passed in silence.
...
The next day.
As the sky faintly brightened, Rovi opened his eyes. A night's sleep left him feeling refreshed.
That ease of spirit made him unable to help letting out a yawn.
Across from him, on the other side of the extinguished bonfire, Skadi, who had woken long ago, was staring fixedly at him with a pair of dark-purple eyes.
"Morning," Rovi said.
"You slept very soundly," Skadi could not help saying.
"If you don't sleep deeply and comfortably, what's the point of sleeping?" Rovi stood up.
You slept comfortably. I wasn't comfortable at all... Thinking of that, Skadi suddenly felt a little troubled.
She herself did not know what had possessed her last night to share the same cloak with Rovi. At first, they had only been back to back, but late into the night, for some reason, she had somehow slipped into his arms.
Rovi, sound asleep, naturally had not noticed. Something so harmless could hardly wake him.
But Skadi had spent the entire night curled in Rovi's arms, anxious the whole time. The number of times her heart had raced and jumped in that one night rivaled every time before it combined.
She had endured it all the way until morning before carefully sneaking out—of course, the goddess would never admit it was because she had not wanted to leave.
"Here." Skadi handed the cloak in her hands back to Rovi.
Rovi reached out, took it, and draped it directly over himself without being particular about it. "Eat something, then we'll set out."
We still have to eat?
The goddess's eyes widened slightly.
You're a god, and I'm a god too. What are we eating for...
"So good!" A short while later, the bonfire had been lit again, and the scent of roasting meat spread out in fragrant waves. Skadi chewed in small bites at the meat, roasted crisp on the outside and tender within, a blissful expression appearing on her face.
It felt... healing.
Rovi: "?"
Is my cooking really that good?
He took a bite himself, then nearly choked.
Too much salt...
And so, when he looked at Skadi, there was inevitably a hint of pity in his eyes.
She even thought this tasted good.
What did this girl usually eat?
Though he knew the Norse were not only bold in behavior, but also paid little attention to refinement in food—as long as there was plenty of meat and plenty of wine, that was enough—he had not expected the food here to be this "simple."
Even the gods were like this.
Did they not know what salt was?
Rovi flung the meat to the hyena "Fafnir," who had been eyeing it hungrily for a long time. Fafnir instantly opened his mouth, swallowed it in one gulp, and showed a comfortable expression.
"Once you're done eating, we should head out," he said.
To the place where people gathered. To the place where the sparks burned brightest—Scandinavia.
Whether in the Age of Gods or in later ages, the Norse lands in the northern part of the world were synonymous with vast land and sparse population. The land here stretched on endlessly, the seas were broad, yet there had never been many people living here. But few did not mean none. In truth, there were nations formed by humans here, as well as city-states and collective settlements of civilization.
That place was Scandinavia. The later Norse nations of Sweden and Norway would both stand upon this region.
The environment here was also different from other places. Spring lasted longer here, vegetation was more abundant, and the geography was better suited for human habitation.
And so, very soon, Rovi could see green vegetation covering the exposed earth. In the light and shadow cast by the rising sun, villages were scattered across the land, and smoke from cooking fires rose in curling wisps.
Rovi tugged the reins and stopped his advance on high ground.
"Careful—"
Rovi spoke with a sidelong glance. At the same time, the heavenly horse beneath him gave a neigh. Its twelve pairs of spread wings vanished at once, and its eight legs shook before merging into four. The hyena by his feet also swayed and shrank its body.
The horse's back beneath them suddenly became narrow. Although Skadi had already expected it, she was still startled, and instinctively wrapped her arms around Rovi's back, stabilizing herself through the hard, cold armor.
Rovi thought nothing of it. After all, there was still a layer of armor between them. But Skadi's face instantly flushed again.
"How rude..."
"Who's rude?" Rovi glanced sideways, rather baffled.
Me, of course.
Skadi took a deep breath and stopped talking, but her tightly wrapped arms showed no intention of letting go.
And so Rovi merely laughed aloud and was about to head toward the human settlement when, in an instant, his steps paused. He turned his eyes and gazed into the distance.
...
The spirits in the wind wandered through the wilderness and once again brought him news.
They said, "Someone is calling your name."
"Someone is praying for your aid."
"King of the Wild Hunt, ruler of storms, commander of the undead army... god who commands the storm giants." In a dark, deep temple, before an altar unrecognized by others, someone was quietly calling those names.
It was a thin, elderly man. Wearing black robes, his body withered like dry wood, he was currently explaining something to a tall, strong young man. "He comes from underground Jotunheim. He is the messenger of Ymir, creator of the world and giant who made all things. He brought breath and life to all things, and more than that, he brought hope to all things!"
"The gods in the heavens are nothing but rebels. The true king of giants, Ymir, will bring them punishment."
"Young man, believing in Ymir is the most correct and righteous path!"
The old man was preaching.
But the young man beside him did not respond. He simply stared fixedly at the altar before him.
That was not an altar to Ymir.
It was an altar for worshiping the "Lord of Storm, Wild Hunt, and the Dead."
The young man—Beowulf—had personally witnessed the terrifying scene when the King of the Wild Hunt descended. He had also seen the countless monsters fleeing in panic after being swept away by the storm.
The village chief from that village had returned afterward. He told Beowulf that the Wild Hunt was both god and demon. He regarded all things equally, bringing death to monsters and also bringing death to humans. Death was the final destination of all things, without exception.
Seeing the old village chief safe and sound, Beowulf, who had not been from that tiny village to begin with, soon took his leave and departed.
Beowulf's birth was no ordinary one. His father was a powerful warrior, and his mother was the daughter of the king of the Geats. With that bloodline, Beowulf himself was without question the heir to the kingdom, a prince of a nation.
But though he was noble by birth, he dreamed of becoming a mighty warrior and hero. And so, at a young age, he had gone out to travel.
While broadening his knowledge and tempering his martial skill, he also hoped to subjugate monsters in various places and earn himself enough fame.
Before this, things had gone very smoothly.
Just like with the old village chief in that settlement, Beowulf had visited many aged, retired heroes. He had met many, many humans and demigods, and his martial skill had grown. At last, he had believed himself capable of subjugating powerful monsters and spreading his name far and wide.
Then Rovi arrived.
Then the ashes of most monsters were scattered by the King of Storms.
Looking all around, it had become difficult to find even a single powerful monster.
A man with dragon-slaying arts but no dragon to slay—Beowulf's current situation was roughly that.
The young warrior felt rather lost.
He had come alone and on foot to Scandinavia. This place was already not far from his homeland, but if he simply returned to his country like this, Beowulf would feel unwilling.
He wanted to become a powerful hero, to make his name known across the world. That ideal was something he could never let go.
That was why he had been drawn here by the old preacher before him.
Because the man had mentioned "giants."
If it was giants—those were monsters too, right?
He had not expected that instead of seeing a giant, he would see an altar to the King of Storms.
As for the old man's words, Beowulf scoffed at them.
That King of the Wild Hunt did rule and command giants, but according to the old village chief, he was not a giant at all.
He was a Demon King with Divinity.
A god with demonic nature.
After thinking for a moment, however, Beowulf still did not leave at once.
"Devoutly worship Ymir's messenger, the King of the Wild Hunt." The old man's expression was clearly rather kindly, but under the faint light in this cold, dim hall, it looked quite terrifying. "You will be able to obtain everything you seek."
What I seek... what is it?
Following the old man's words, Beowulf knelt on one knee and prayed.
He said, "Homage to the King of the Wild Hunt..."
The wind spirits carried his words to Rovi, who was already nearby, and Rovi responded at the same time.
...
This was a story recorded even in later ages...
The confused brave one prayed to the god of storms high in the heavens, asking that god and demon to answer the doubts within his heart.
In the dark hall, candlelight swayed, and a faint point of light lit up at the same time.
...
Rovi came.
His body was still near Scandinavia, but his consciousness descended into that place at the same time, entering Beowulf's inner sea.
He said, "You were looking for me?"
Beowulf abruptly steadied his mind. Around him was a vast world filled with endless wind and snow, yet without the slightest icy chill.
Before him, the spreading mist scattered, revealing a tall throne. Upon it, cold machinery operated, and the steel Giant King sat enthroned.
"Please tell me—how can I become a hero?" The young hero took a deep breath, knowing that the god and demon had answered his plea.
"A hero?" The "Wild Hunt," clad in armor and holding the storm lance, seemed to let out a low laugh. "What is a hero, as you understand it?"
"One who drives out monsters, whose name is known across the world, who possesses extraordinary courage and martial strength!"
Beowulf's answer was firm and decisive.
But it was denied.
"That is your hero. Not the world's hero."
My hero?
The world's hero?
Beowulf froze. Though the Norse were different from Greece, where heroes were chosen by the gods, heroes in the Norse lands had never had anything to do with others. Those with extraordinary courage were heroes, and those with great martial strength were heroes as well.
That was what everyone believed.
Because the Norse lands revered the strong, and they were also a country that revered the brave.
Among the gods, the stronger one was, the higher one's status. Among humans, the stronger one was, the more respect one received.
Yet in the eyes of this Wild Hunt... that did not seem to be the case?
"There are many kinds of courage. Daring to stand before others is courage. Daring to shoulder responsibility is also courage. There are many kinds of strength as well. Resisting monsters alone is strength. Uniting people and allowing a nation to flourish is also strength."
"Even monsters are combinations of courage and strength. They dare indulge their own desires without fear of being subjugated, and their strength can oppress a region without anyone resisting."
"Is that the sort of 'hero' you want to become? Only famous in one region? Only renowned in one land?"
Beowulf fell into thought.
"The monsters of this world have already been swept clean by my storm, but the demons in human hearts have never been lacking." Rovi pressed on while the iron was hot. "Beowulf, tell me your answer."
"I—still want to become a hero." Beowulf took a deep breath. "A hero whose name is known across the world!"
To have himself shaken by a few words was impossible.
Beowulf had traveled to many places and encountered many setbacks, yet he had still persisted and come this far. His resolve was beyond doubt.
But seeking fame across the world did not mean it was evil.
"Making my name known across the world is for fame, but it can also spread good!"
The two had never been in conflict.
Rovi let out a laugh. "In that case, let me see your determination!"
"In the name of the Wild Hunt, I grant you the seed of storm!"
A point of firelight appeared and fell into Beowulf's palm. He froze slightly.
"Your courage and strength will become the energy that feeds the seed. The flame that burns will provide you with powerful strength and wisdom."
"Go—"
"Hero!"
Beowulf suddenly came back to himself and woke with a start. Returning to the present world, he was still standing in the quiet earthen hall.
The old man beside him let out a sound of shock and doubt. "You..."
He looked at the seed in Beowulf's hand and suddenly said with excitement, "You received the blessing of the Wild Hunt? I knew it! The great god Ymir..."
"Ah!"
Before the old man could finish, Beowulf swung a punch at him and knocked him unconscious on the ground.
"Ymir? I didn't see any Ymir!"
Beowulf bared his teeth in a grin. "A heretical cult that leads people astray like this is better off burned!"
The old village chief had been right.
The Wild Hunt was neither god nor demon. He was also god, and he was also demon.
God and demon both existed within the human heart.
The Wild Hunt—was merely human.
...
Only humans can give humans aid. Only humans can give humans blessings.
In his question and answer with the god, young Beowulf understood this matter.
The young hero faced his own path. Ahead might be thorns, or it might be strewn with corpses.
But the seed had already fallen into the human world.
And light, of its own accord, would illuminate the road ahead.
—Nibelungen Poems
...
Rovi withdrew his distant gaze and said nothing.
He had originally planned to resolve the matter of the so-called giant Ymir falsely using his name... but now, he suddenly felt that using their existence in return to make contact with the "heroes" of this era might also be a decent choice.
The seed had already been scattered with the giants.
But scattering a little more would never hurt.
Beowulf was the first, but Rovi had no intention of making him the last.
He had done this sort of thing in Greece. Doing it again here was only natural.
The difference was that in Greece, he had been a sage and mentor. Now, he was a god.
...
God grants the seed to all things, and all things shall offer light to the one and only god, the one and only Lord of Hosts.
—World Religions: Introduction
...
"It's time to enter the place where people gather."
Rovi tugged the reins and paced forward.