The Holy War (1)
In the heart of the northern continent lies the royal city of Eclahim, and at its core, the Eclahim Palace, the source of all its power.
The palace corridors were eerily empty, with only the palace guards standing silently at the many branching paths, their presence barely noticeable.
Footsteps echoed through the deserted halls.
Dalen and Felber’s steps reverberated loudly as they walked, turning corners and descending countless stairs.
Finally, they arrived at a low door adorned with silver and blue jewels.
“The master has ordered that no one be allowed in,” the guard captain at the door said. Felber waved his robe’s sleeve dismissively.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re here to fetch a friend.”
“But the master—”
“Are you really going to make an enemy of this old man over an ancestor of a king whose title you don’t even know?”
Felber tapped his staff lightly against the captain’s armor. The captain’s eyes narrowed slightly beneath his helmet, but his body remained rigid, unable to move.
He was a survivor of the battle a few days ago and remembered well the feats of the wizard before him. This wizard had turned the chaotic spells of hundreds of mercenary mages into a bombardment that rivaled the royal mage division’s combined magic.
Rumor had it that the wizard had vanished from the battlefield to join other heroes in defeating two great demons.
The captain had faced mages before, but this one was beyond his capabilities. And even if he could somehow deal with this wizard, the warrior standing quietly behind him…
The warrior’s dark eyes met his through the narrow slit of the helmet, and a suffocating sense of powerlessness washed over him.
“Ugh…”
The captain almost reached for his weapon but managed to restrain himself, stepping back a few paces.
In the silent corridor, the sound of him swallowing was unusually loud. He gestured to his subordinates with trembling legs.
“Let them through.”
“But, sir…”
“Before Charyna passed, she granted them the status of state guests. Until the next Tsar reverses that decision, not even the royal guards of the Frost Throne can deny them entry.”
The captain’s stern command left his subordinates no choice but to step aside.
Though not as formidable as the so-called Transcendents, the captain was a master in his own right. If he showed such weakness, what kind of being were they facing?
The soldiers, who had recently tasted the terror of an evil god, felt their fear deepen at the unknown presence.
Leaving behind the growing fear and curiosity, Dalen and Felber entered through the door the soldiers had opened.
“What did you do to them?”
“Nothing. They kept glaring at the old man, so I just glared back.”
“Even on the brink of demigodhood, you haven’t lost your mischievous streak.”
“Well, if you glare at someone, you should be ready to be glared at in return.”
Felber chuckled heartily, and Dalen merely shrugged.
Inside, the room was similar to the Hall of the Frost Throne.
The cold was so intense that an ordinary person might freeze just by entering. The air was so frigid that even their breath seemed to freeze, forming frost inside their mouths.
The only difference from the Frost Hall was the clear boundary between the walls and ceiling, instead of an endless white expanse.
The source of the cold was the royal scepter Charyna had wielded.
Charyna’s body lay before the scepter, hands neatly folded, as if she had just passed away.
“Bjorn.”
The one-eyed master craftsman, Bjorn Kaladrakum, sat beside her.
Felber sighed at the lack of response and took the lead, moving forward.
“Bjorn, my friend. Dalen is awake.”
”…”
“You were the only one to witness Charyna’s final moments. He has something to say, so at least hear him out.”
…What story?
Dalen was puzzled by the unscripted words, but the dwarf slowly turned his head.
“Dalen.”
His bearded face was haggard.
Tears had frozen on his cheeks, and his breath had turned to icicles hanging from his beard.
His beard and hair, frozen for days, crumbled with the slightest movement.
He was unusually sensitive to the cold for a dwarf, shivering even in the common snowstorms of the northern continent.
Bjorn spoke in a hoarse voice.
“This child resembles Tasha.”
A few strands of his beard crumbled again. He looked down at Charyna’s face with hollow eyes.
Perhaps due to the scepter’s power, Charyna’s body looked as if she had just passed, her wounds cleaned and hidden beneath ornate clothes and jewelry.
The silver mask covering half her face was crafted in her likeness, blending seamlessly with the rest of her features.
She looked serene and beautiful, a stark contrast to the fierce battle just days ago.
Dalen watched her face for a while before speaking.
“Charyna called you her great-grandfather.”
“Yes. Tasha was the grandmother of her mother. Charyna was as beautiful as her noble status suggested. She was truly beautiful, unlike me, who was just a miner in a mountain cave…”
Tears flowed again.
The sorrow that had frozen on his face now dripped onto his beard, forming new icicles.
Dalen watched the grief in silence, lost in thought.
The brief conversation in the Hall of the Frost Throne and the runes on Charyna’s arms were still vivid in his mind.
In the game, Bjorn Kaladrakum’s identity was shrouded in mystery, known only as a descendant of an unnamed dwarven dynasty and an ancestor of the current Charyna.
The gunpowder technology, utilized by only two nations on the continent, had such a background.
The grieving dwarf revealed all his secrets without reservation.
“Though not recorded in history, Tasha and I once loved each other deeply. She passionately supported my research. Even when I abandoned my kin by renouncing the throne, she supported my choice to leave the family that had accepted me…”
”…”
“Perhaps she thought I would return one day. But as I continued to avoid her under the guise of research, over a century passed. I couldn’t even offer a kind word to this child who resembled her so much…”
His voice trembled with emotion, and the air grew heavy.
After a moment of silent trembling, the dwarf took a deep breath and lifted his head.
“Dalen.”
He spoke.
“Will you kill the evil gods?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his reply.
“If they retreat to hell, unable to defeat you?”
“Then I’ll tear down hell itself to kill them. Every last one.”
“Yes, every last one… I see…”
Bjorn exhaled deeply.
His frozen beard began to thaw, and the acrid smell of burning filled the room.
Bjorn stood, still gazing at Charyna’s face.
“Then my hands are yours.”
The dwarf’s shoulders no longer trembled.
Only a black ripple spread from his feet, forming gentle concentric circles.
Ten days had passed since the victory trumpets sounded in the royal city of Eclahim.
Three days had passed since the funeral, which filled the streets with mourning, following the fervor of the festival.
The group gathered in a meeting room at the northern branch of the Holy Knights.
It was their first meeting since the war ended, as each had been overwhelmed with duties.
“Are you alright?”
”…Yes, Dalen. I’m fine.”
Lucia replied with a faint smile to Dalen’s question.
But the shadows under her eyes didn’t disappear.
Her blue eyes were weary, and her usually lustrous blonde hair seemed slightly dull.
Over the past ten days, everyone had their own reasons for being busy, but Lucia had been through the most chaotic days of all.
“The Inquisitor must have had a tough time. With the recent war, you probably had to redraw the entire power map of the Ruin Palace. I bet the reports you had to write alone could fill hundreds of pages,” Felber remarked, savoring the aroma of his tea.
“Not to mention drafting the expansion plans for the Northern Continent branch as promised to the late Charina, handling the disposal of monster corpses, and tending to the wounded. With all the high-ranking knights sent up here having returned to the gods in battle, even ten bodies wouldn’t have been enough.”
“If the Tower Master hadn’t helped, I might have worked myself to death. Thank you,” Lucia replied.
Felber chuckled heartily, “Oh, what did this old man do to deserve such thanks?”
His laughter softened the atmosphere around the table, and as they exchanged stories of their endeavors over the past ten days, time seemed to fly by.
Plans for the second headquarters of the Holy Knights in the North, the establishment of an independent mage tower by mercenary wizards, the treaty between the Tsar’s royal family and the High Orc chieftain, and the Tsar’s plans to modernize their gunpowder corps—all these high-level discussions flowed like casual conversation, interspersed with words of comfort for what had been lost.
As they finally began to unwind from the burdens of the past ten days, Felber cleared his throat and asked, “So… Dalen, what lies ahead for us?”
“To be honest,” Dalen replied, tapping his fingers on the table. He picked up his steaming teacup and continued, “I don’t care much for prophecies or fate, but there’s one thing I’m certain of.”
”…”
“I’m going to kill all five of the evil gods.”
His brief declaration cast a heavy silence over the table, a stark contrast to the lightheartedness that had filled the room moments before.
Dalen drained his tea in one gulp and sank back into the plush chair. “It will be very dangerous. I won’t force anyone. Decide for yourselves whether to follow or not.”