In the eighth year since the Hero Himmel's passing,
Nanoda received some rather unwelcome news from Lugner.
War had begun once again—
a war sweeping across the Southern Lands.
From Great Mage to the universally known "Witch of Rebellion," the elf Minus had ignited endless strife throughout the south.
Working alongside her were several of the Southern Lands' minor nations, as well as the remnants of Ohaly's war faction—as though it had all been long premeditated, yet it still caught everyone off guard.
"So that King of War has returned?"
"No. The Ohaly Kingdom has already severed all ties, claiming that army is nothing but remnants and phantoms loyal to the late king, and that it has nothing to do with them."
Seeing Nanoda fall into thought, Lugner continued:
"There's movement in the North as well. Those 'shadows' seem to have stepped out into the open—they're all racing southward, one after another."
The Empire's shadow warriors, the Northern Empire's interference in the south, Levi's pledge of allegiance—all of this was still within Nanoda's expectations.
"I understand the situation. For now, let's watch and wait."
Nanoda had no desire to join the fray; she had more important matters to attend to.
"I was thinking the same."
Lugner nodded expressionlessly and buried himself once more in the piles of dossiers, large and small.
Reaching the doorway, Nanoda's steps suddenly halted.
"Lugner, Aaron's condition..."
"At least for these next few years there won't be any major problems—that's what the doctor who recently passed through Gaderia said. The renowned physician in the city reached the same conclusion."
The creak and click of the door closing sounded, leaving behind only the scratch of a pen tip across paper.
This is a story from the twentieth year since the Hero Himmel's passing—a tale buried within history and within a boy's heart.
The screams of slaughter, the air growing scorching hot, red spraying across his field of vision like water from a showerhead, the ceaseless grating clang of metal against metal, sprays of sparks bursting open one after another.
The red-haired young warrior looked around, only to feel the scene begin to distort, his breathing growing more and more labored, sweat nearly bursting from every inch of his body, his thoughts turning sluggish, hesitant—and the axe blade in his hands, trembling, had yet to swing even once.
"Haah... haah..."
Clench, release, clench, release—the only constant was that trembling.
Pull yourself together, hurry and join the battle! Help Father and your brothers!
But his legs felt as though they'd been filled with lead; he couldn't move a single step.
Time slipped by, second by second, his mind still caught between tension and chaos.
"Stark! Stark!"
Still wrestling with the voice in his head—"I can't do it, it's too terrifying, I can't"—amidst that continuous and all-too-familiar shouting, Stark abruptly snapped awake!
What filled his vision was a white cloak, and that lively warrior whose face resembled his own by at least seventy percent—it was none other than his elder brother.
"Get a hold of yourself!"
The white cloak that should have been spotless was now stained crimson, the white robe torn in many places, marked with wounds large and small.
Stark could scarcely believe it—his brother, who could effortlessly handle even the most vicious magic beasts, whose white garments were always without a speck of dust, now looked so battered and ragged.
"Guaaaahhh!"
A sudden, agonized scream rang out.
With his own eyes, Stark saw his father—said to be the strongest warrior in the village—struck down in a single blow by that towering monster, collapsing to his knees on the ground.
"Stark, run! Hurry!"
His vision blurred. Stark saw a flash of white, and after leaving those words behind, his brother turned and plunged back into the battlefield.
He hesitated for a moment—he couldn't tell whether he was obeying his own heart, or his brother's words.
His legs felt much lighter now, but they still trembled.
Stark whipped his head around and, without a single backward glance, ran out beyond the Warriors' Village.
I really can't do it, it's too terrifying, it's impossible—
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!
Over thickets, streams, little hills... until at last, utterly spent, he collapsed with a thud, and the surroundings gradually fell into silence.
Mouth parched and throat dry, Stark lay staring up at the sky, dazed and vacant; the tears had long since been wiped away by the wind as he ran.
The sky had nearly faded to dusky yellow.
His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and he suddenly recalled an encounter from a few days earlier.
He had met a one-armed old man, who carried on his back a great sword wrapped in white bandages.
What surprised Stark was that this old man had a full head of white hair and looked older than his own father, yet his muscles showed not the slightest sign of atrophy—tall and imposing, valiant in bearing—and that presence, that spirit, even far surpassed the young warriors of the village.
"Tell the people of the village to flee, quickly. This village is doomed."
Those words, so unbelievable at the time, had now become reality.
A settlement able to exist in remote woods swarming with monsters, treating those monsters as prey and as training partners, formed of nearly a hundred warriors—such a mighty Warriors' Village, facing that member of the Demon Race...
Even his strongest father had fallen, and his brother, the one most likely to surpass their father...
Once his emotions had settled, what remained was deep, deep regret.
The courage of a warrior, the resolve of a warrior, the dignity of a warrior.
Stark realized that he had nothing left at all.
His consciousness gradually drifted away. Stark ceased his thinking and his torment, sinking into a brief, peaceful sleep.
As evening fell, a figure suddenly appeared in the distance, while Stark, lying on the ground, remained unconscious.
The newcomer's frame looked rather short and small, the iron helmet upon his head catching and refracting the glow of the sunset. When he saw the red-haired boy fallen on the ground, he stopped to observe, gently stroking his long, thick beard—and within those eyes, nearly buried beneath the armor, flashed a strange gleam.
"Take pride in yourselves. I acknowledge you, and I offer you my respect! You were all magnificent warriors, fighting to the very last moment!"
A brawny figure standing well over one meter ninety, twin horns like a devil of hell, a crimson military robe, its high collar concealing the neck and exposing cheeks sharp as though carved by a blade—the Great Demon slightly curled the corner of his mouth, his expression gentle yet laced with cold cruelty.
Human warriors lay fallen one after another around him, and the Great Demon, treading through the blood and hefting his double-bladed greataxe, walked toward the last white-clad warrior.
Houses collapsed amidst the burning flames, illuminating the black night—and illuminating Stoltz's bloodless face as well.
"Tell me at last—your name, human."
Blood dripped from the greataxe's blade, and its surface, catching the firelight, once more reflected Stoltz, half-crumpled upon the ground.
"Heh heh... go to hell, Demon Race!"
Blood lingering at the corners of his mouth, his whole body drenched in crimson, Stoltz tried to rise on his broken legs.
"Shhk!" The greataxe fell without the slightest hesitation, drawing up a string of blood droplets.
Even after he had fully collapsed, from beginning to end Stoltz never once loosened his grip on the longsword in his hand.
You must live on, Stark...
His sharp gaze softened, then dissolved into a haze and faded away, as Stoltz slowly closed his eyes.
Against a backdrop of crackling flames, the Great Demon—a few drops of blood on his face—raised his head to gaze at the sky. With his eyes closed, breathing deeply, he looked as though he were savoring the moment, and as though he were mourning.
The crescent moon hid behind the deep black clouds, revealing only a single sharp point.
As the firelight died down, the dance of the battlefield drew its curtain closed.
____
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