Chapter 485
Somewhere deep within the dense, shadowy foliage of Mount Raja, where sunlight barely penetrated, Beric had been hiking for nearly an hour. He carried his backpack in front and had Ian slung over his back.
The rugged terrain made climbing difficult even without extra weight, yet Beric moved with surprising ease—his breathing steady, his pace unflagging. It was clear that his training, carrying the equivalent of ten backpacks at once, was no exaggeration.
Ian, watching his own feet wobble beneath him, asked, “Beric, are we sure we’re going the right way?”
“Yeah, yeah. White trees with thick leaves.”
“…But everything around here looks like that.”
“No, no, you can tell when you recognize something familiar. Hungry? Want some jerky?”
Ian realized he’d overlooked one crucial fact: Beric was terrible with directions.
At the mountain’s entrance, Beric had charged off confidently, vowing to kill every mole-like creature they encountered. Naturally, Ian had assumed Beric knew the way.
Even now, Beric seemed convinced he was on the right path, but from Ian’s perspective, that was nonsense. He tapped Beric’s shoulder gently.
“I think we should head back to the mansion and bring a guide.”
“We’re almost there, really.”
“It’ll get harder to go down once the sun sets.”
Just then, Beric’s gaze fixed on something in the distance, and he hesitated.
Ian looked ahead too, but the view was no different from before: trees, bushes, winding dirt paths. No giant holes or signs of battle, nothing like Beric had described.
“They’re here.”
“What is?”
“The moles’ gaze. I can feel it.”
Beric carefully set Ian down and whispered. Though he didn’t know the exact location, he was certain they were being watched nearby.
Moles lived underground, so they might be lurking beneath the soil. Beric stomped his foot loudly and shouted.
“Hey, you mole bastards! I’m here to settle the score for that cracked skull! This time, I’m going to strike first—fair and square!”
“Beric, it’s not ‘fair and square,’ it’s ‘evenly.’”
“Evenly! I’m throwing the first punch!”
Ian motioned for Beric to calm down. It seemed Beric was sensing their presence through his magic sword, but Ian couldn’t detect any sign of wild animals nearby. His magic and physical strength were both drained.
Carefully, Ian looked in the direction Beric was watching and asked, “Are the Dera tribe—the rulers of Raja Mountain—there?”
“Mole bastards!”
“We are messengers of the royal palace. It seems there’s been some misunderstanding. Please show yourselves. We wish to talk.”
“Come out! Stop sneaking around behind our backs!”
“Beric, quiet.”
“…Come out, you bastards.”
Beric muttered curses under his breath after Ian’s warning, but there was no response. Though the Dera were a secretive tribe, it was hard to imagine they’d ignore the royal palace’s envoys. Beric waved his identification card defiantly, but the silence remained.
“Beric, are you sure you sensed the Dera?”
“Of course. I’m still seeing them.”
Hmm. Ian pondered, stroking his chin.
Suddenly, something flashed and flickered ahead. Before Ian could even make out its shape, a hard grip seized his wrist roughly.
“Ian!”
“Ah.”
A strong force yanked him fiercely. Ian twisted instinctively and came face to face with a woman’s face carved into a tree trunk.
‘A Dryad!’
Tree spirits bound to the trees they inhabit, known for their fierce protectiveness. Ian struggled, but was helpless as he was dragged along.
“Damn it!”
Ziiing! Ziiing!
Beric instinctively unleashed his magic and drew his black sword. Dragging Ian around like that? Insane!
The air around him shifted violently. With a light leap, dirt, stones, and leaves scattered wildly.
“Let go of him!”
Beric raised his sword to cut through what looked like a mere twig, but suddenly a hammer flew at him—it was from the Dera tribe.
Whoosh!
Clang!
This time, Beric wasn’t caught off guard. He twisted his sword to block the hammer and gritted his teeth. Those mole bastards, why attack now?
“Beric!”
“Ian, hold on!”
Ian fell to the ground, clutching a rock to steady himself. His whole body felt weak. What had Lady Lien said?
“Living a life rooted in one place, feeding off the body of a loved one—that’s how terrible it is.”
Dryads survive by absorbing life force, whether from beasts or humans.
As Ian’s left hand slipped and he lost his grip on the rock, a vine wrapped around Beric’s ankle.
“Shit.”
Another Dryad. So the gazes they’d felt weren’t the Dera’s, but these creatures’. Beric met the hostile eyes staring at him and flipped them the middle finger.
“Can’t even tell what’s edible and what’s not!?”
He lowered his stance, shifting his weight, ready to swing his sword. These vines were nothing. Ian didn’t need to suffer like this!
But then, another hammer came flying.
Whoosh!
Clang!
“Ugh!”
This time, the blow landed squarely on Beric’s temple. A ringing echoed through his skull, and his vision darkened. Two hits and he’d be out cold—no chance for a comeback.
Beric focused, amplifying his magic release.
“You little squid. Trying to cut without knowing a thing.”
“Mole—!”
“Shut up. Just before we leave.”
“What—!”
The Dera tribe appeared.
A short, stocky mole-like figure in suspenders glanced around, picked up the dropped hammer, and then approached the Dryad.
“Hup!”
His short, muscular arms flexed as he hammered the Dryad’s face with all his might.
Clang, clang. After several sharp strikes, the Dryad’s wooden vines began to droop, losing strength.
“Ah.”
It loosened. Ian wrapped his bruised wrist and struggled to stand. Meanwhile, the Dera kept pounding the Dryad’s face.
“Whether you’re cutting or picking fruit, you have to knock them out first. Otherwise, your eardrums get destroyed. I’m not exaggerating—if your body’s weak, you could even bleed from your eyes, nose, and mouth.”
Clang!
The Dera turned toward Beric, who lay face down on the ground, glaring fiercely. He seemed torn about whether to help or not, but didn’t hesitate long.
“They said you’re from the royal palace, so they’ll spare you. Huh?”
They didn’t want trouble here.
The Dera deliberately stepped on Beric’s head, then struck another Dryad’s face.
Clang!
Beric’s ankle was freed.
He crushed a branch underfoot and rushed to Ian’s side. Ian’s wrist was a mess, and he was covered in scratches from being dragged.
“Ian, you okay? Damn, you look like hell.”
“I’m fine, Beric.”
“Hey, you said you’re from the royal palace?”
The Dera pointed their hammer at the two, issuing a sharp warning.
“We don’t know what you’re about, but we’ve lived here since the beginning of Bariel. We won’t tolerate anyone disturbing our lives. More than that, we’re the victims of past events.”
Being beast-people, they were especially wary. That was partly why humans had caused noise in Raja Mountain and sometimes stolen things without much retaliation.
Even if they officially complained, who would listen to the claims of mole-people? It was fortunate they weren’t simply driven out as monsters.
“Victims? The real victim is my subordinate, who got hammered by you after getting lost in the mountain.”
Ian quickly grasped the Dera’s position but feigned ignorance and denied it.
“…Subordinate?”
The Dera’s tiny eyes narrowed. They looked Ian over, then Beric.
A boy who clearly hadn’t come of age paired with a burly, rough-looking man. The leader must be the blond one?
“…Well, judging by how you talk, that might be right. I thought the kingdom was doomed if riffraff like you claimed to be from the royal palace.”
“What? You said all that?!”
Beric lunged angrily, but the Dera braced for a fight. Ian slipped between them lightly.
“Do you know someone named Lien?”
“Who?”
The Dera hesitated, confused.
To gain trust from such a closed-off, wary group, outside help was necessary. Ian smiled gently.
“Lien. The name might have changed, but the Dera surely remember. She bore Dryad blood and was the one who stabbed her own mother and fled. I heard she was close with you all?”
And finally, the name of that scrap heap—something no outsider could ever know.
“I heard Dripper passed it on too.”
“…!”
“Don’t take it the wrong way. Lady Lien owed me a favor, so I accepted it as repayment. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet the famed lord of Rajasan. Let’s introduce ourselves properly.”
Ian extended his hand and introduced himself.
“I’m Ian Hielo, Minister of Magic for Bariel. And that one over there, the one who just got hammered with a hammer, is Beric—the Royal Palace Guard’s magic swordsman.”
“You’re dead,” Beric mouthed, silently cursing with both hands. The Dera tribesman nearby wrinkled his nose at the display but said nothing, shaking Ian’s hand instead.
“…Pim.”
“That’s a ridiculous name.”
“Your face is way weirder.”
“Oh? Look at that. You’re not exactly in a position to talk!”
Pim easily ignored Beric’s insults and smirked. Both Lien and, more importantly, Dripper were topics Ian wanted to hear more about.
“Do you have anything to treat wounds?”
“Of course—! Ugh!”
Beric was about to shout that their massive backpacks were packed with first aid supplies, but Ian quickly clamped his mouth shut, cutting him off.
“I’d appreciate your help.”
“This way.”
With a swift motion, Pim led the way through the underbrush, and Ian signaled Beric to carry the backpack. Though they lived the same day over and over, the Dera tribe was determined to forge a different future. They had been invited into their tunnels.
Romandro, who had been frantically sorting through documents, suddenly looked up. The sunlight outside was unusually bright today. The gently swaying branches hinted at a warm breeze.
The noon sun shone directly on Ian’s empty seat, revealing the faint layer of dust that had settled there. No matter how much it was wiped, without someone sitting there, it would just gather again.
Just as Romandro searched for something to clean with—
Knock, knock.
“Romandro, are you busy?”
“Hm? No, not really.”
“The tournament is about to start. Just letting you know.”
“Thanks. Let’s go together.”
“Oh, and…”
Romandro tucked the papers under his arm, wearing a puzzled expression. Something was up.
“What is it?”
“A strange dispatch just came in.”
“Strange?”
“Yes. I think you should check it first before reporting it to His Majesty.”
Romandro took the crumpled sheet from his subordinate. It looked worn, as if the writer’s troubles were etched into every crease.