Chapter 129

The High Chieftain of Granak

Besimer sat by the campfire, using an overturned shield as a seat.

“What are you doing?”

“Brother.”
“I heard someone came?”
“Just kill me.”

Besimer’s face was utterly gloomy as he said it.
Seeing the dark bruise around his cheekbone, his massive build felt wasted.
He stared blankly into the fire, rubbing his shaved head with his palm.

“What happened?”
“As a great warrior of the Baitur, I am a disgrace. I have no right to go to Valaka.”
“People lose sometimes. Why make such a big deal out of it?”
“No, no. I can lose to anyone else—but not to Granak. This concerns the honor of the tribe.”

Besimer let out a heavy sigh.

“Granak…?”

Isaac quietly repeated the word.
There had long been tension between Granak and Baitur.

If it’s around this time… about 13 or 14 years ago.

It was around when Engelbert von Goethe—Isaac’s grandfather—had died of endemic disease and sepsis.
Among the tribes beyond the frontier, exhausted by their long conflict with Goethe, voices advocating peace had begun to rise.
The strongest among them was Granak.

Coincidentally, after Engelbert von Goethe’s death, Granak’s high chieftain also suffered fatal wounds while fighting magical beasts and did not have long to live.
Concerned for the future of the tribes, he proposed a marriage alliance between his daughter and Helmut von Goethe, the new lord of Goethe.
Isaac’s father accepted.

Most tribes made peace with Goethe.

However, some warlike minority tribes in Vinfelt opposed the truce—
one of them being the Baitur.
They fiercely rejected it, insisting that the blood of their kin who had died fighting Goethe must not be forgotten.
That was Besimer’s tribe.

In fact, the beastification of the Baitur had been the root cause of the hell-wolf battle in Vinfelt.

In the end, the high chieftain of Granak had been right.
If the majority of tribes had still been at war with Goethe, Winterband would have long since fallen, and countless tribesmen would have died.

But regardless of the circumstances, Besimer’s identity lay with the Baitur.
He was now both the last great warrior of the tribe—and its chief.
For him, any fight with Granak—sparring or otherwise—was one he could not afford to lose.

“That damned old hag from Granak… I… I… lost. She beat me in front of everyone.”
“An old hag?”
“She said she brought a message for you—from Granak.”

“Is that so?”

Granak was closely tied to Besimer—but to Isaac, they were practically maternal kin.
He had a vague idea of who it might be.

“She’s in the command tent, right?”
“…Probably.”

Besimer nodded.

“…You really lost to an old woman?”

“…I was just curious.”

Besimer looked at Isaac pitifully.

“…No, sorry.”
“Brother.”

As Isaac moved to head toward the command tent, Besimer grabbed his shoulder.

“What?”
“…Am I weak?”

Isaac couldn’t bring himself to meet the gaze of the bald giant.
He had a thick beard, yet his voice carried the sorrow of a child who had just lost his favorite toy.

“No. You’re not weak.”
“Then… is that old hag strong?”
“Probably. Carlson said he’d have a hard time beating her.”
“You think so too?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.”

“…Cheer up. You’re a good guy.”

Isaac lightly patted Besimer’s arm.
Besimer returned to his seat on the shield, staring into the fire, pulling his coat tighter against the cold.

***

Isaac lifted the leather flap of the command tent.

Just as Besimer had said, an old woman sat inside.
But that description needed some correction.

She’s not just an old woman.

She sat in the seat of honor—the place meant for Isaac—without the slightest hesitation.
Even seated, her size was immense.
She was as large as Besimer—perhaps even larger.

A bearskin was draped over her shoulders, and beneath it hung a cloak adorned with snow leopard fur, along with the horns and teeth of a mountain goat.
These were not mere decorations—they were symbols of shamanistic meaning and martial valor.
They were trophies of beasts she had personally slain—likely magical beasts.
And those creatures must have once been great threats, having taken many tribal lives.

At least, that was consistent with what Isaac knew from records of Granak’s customs.

She’s no mere messenger.

The old woman sat motionless, eyes closed, like a rock that had always been there.
Even as Isaac made his presence known and sat before her, she did not react.

“I heard you brought a message from Granak.”

For a while, she said nothing.

That gave Isaac time to study her face closely.
She was unmistakably old—
perhaps older than Isaac had been at the moment of his death in his previous life.

Yet she did not feel frail.
That was likely because of the mana he sensed from her.

As her massive body rose and fell with each slow breath,
it felt as though an entire snow-covered mountain was inhaling and exhaling.

Her mana resembled Besimer’s, yet was fundamentally different—
utterly unlike that of mages or knights.

How do you even build mana like this?

Mana, as it was commonly understood, was something shaped through vessels, rings, and circuits—
a system with inherently artificial elements.
It required learning, internalization, and relentless training to refine.

But the old woman’s mana was of an entirely different nature.

It’s like… a mountain.

Like rivers flowing down from peaks, her mana moved naturally.
Moisture held by the earth evaporated into clouds, rained down, and returned again—
a continuous, natural cycle.

It was the kind of mana Isaac had only ever imagined in theory.
Since both mana and humans belonged to nature, he had wondered if, for some people,
mana might flow as naturally as breathing—
as rivers ran and rain fell.

And now, that imagination stood before him in human form.

“Have you stared enough at this old body?”

The old woman opened her eyes.

Despite being a member of Granak, her command of the common tongue was impeccable.
She was clearly no ordinary messenger.

“My apologies.”

Her pale gray eyes quietly examined Isaac,
as though searching for something within him.

“You resemble them closely. Are you Helmut’s son?”
“Yes. I am Isaac von Vinfelt Goethe, lord of this land. Do you know my father?”

“Not well. But I’ve met him a few times.”

Her voice was low and rough.
She seemed to have transcended something—age, gender, perhaps even humanity itself.
If a spirit of the snowfields had taken human form, it might feel like this.

Each time she spoke, Isaac felt as if his lungs were filling with snow—
cold and biting, suffocating, yet strangely soft.

“That hair, those eyes, that gaze… you are a perfect mix of Helmut and Adele.”
“Well, I am their child.”

Isaac met her gaze.

Within her eyes, a landscape unfolded—
or rather, a vision shaped by her mana.

A snowfield beneath a sky heavy with low clouds.
The weight of the clouds felt suffocating, yet the vast emptiness of the land was desolate and endless.
Sunlight broke through the clouds, scattering across the snow in countless fragments of light.
The snowfield shimmered blindingly—
not warm, not lingering, but carrying a faint trace of warmth one might feel at the edge of eternity.

It was the emotion with which she looked at Isaac.

“They were both stubborn children.”
“What is the message?”

“Will you pretend not to know until the end?”
“I know you are my grandmother, whom I’ve never met until now.”
“Then—”
“But right now, I stand not as your grandson, but as the lord of Vinfelt before the High Chieftain of Granak. And that High Chieftain seems to have crushed the spirit of one of my warriors.”

“A venomous wolf barked fiercely, so I taught it its place. If that whelp truly is the last great warrior of Baitur, then he is not broken—he is being tempered.”
“That may be true. Still, I’ll ask again. What did you come all this way to say?”
“You already know.”
“I don’t, unless you tell me.”
“Hmph. I was told you were clever. I’m disappointed.”

The old woman smiled.
She seemed quite pleased with the grandson she was meeting for the first time in over a decade.

“I came here because of Helmut.”
“…My father?”
“He stood on frozen ground for nearly ten days without moving, stubborn as ever. Even now, he’s still a fool. Hard to believe he’s a mage.”

“Did he ask for your help?”
“He did. He threatened that Goethe might fall into the hands of unworthy men. But the elders opposed lending strength to Goethe. The rulers of the northern lands have changed many times, yet Granak has endured through it all. They said they would not spill the blood of their warriors to protect Goethe.”

“Then why did you come here yourself?”
“That’s where Helmut’s stubbornness began. He said if I came to Vinfelt, I would see Granak’s future.”
“…What?”
“So I grew curious. What exactly that stubborn mage believed in so strongly, that he spoke so confidently about Granak’s future—I wanted to see it for myself. Though compared to how grandly he spoke, it was somewhat underwhelming.”

“In any case, the future of Goethe alongside Granak lies with Jonas, not me. I think you came to the wrong person.”

At those words, the old woman narrowed her eyes.

“Do I look blind to you just because I’m old?”

“That child carries a flame, but lacks the vessel. You, on the other hand, are already spreading the fire—across the entire north.”

Isaac remained silent.
There was a weight in her voice he could neither refute nor respond to.

“It was quite impressive. The venomous wolf rests within your shadow, catching its breath. The cursed wolves of Baitur till the land and play with children. Tribes with nowhere to go and the king’s slaves live together as one. Though small, this is something no chieftain has ever achieved.”

“For a moment, I even thought… that the blood of warriors might finally be spent on something worthwhile.”

“That sounds like an overstatement. I’m—”

Isaac tried to respond, but the old woman had no intention of listening.

“Then would it be acceptable for Granak not to aid Goethe?”
“No… not exactly.”
“Then, as the High Chieftain of Granak, Asra Valdrun, I shall give you a chance.”

“…A chance?”

“First, call me ‘Grandmother,’ child.”

Asra Valdrun—the High Chieftain—
grinned broadly.

She was missing one of her front teeth.