Chapter 130

Test

Two days passed.

Asra was tangled up with the Hell Wolves.

Grrrr.

A Hell Wolf crouched low, scratching the ground, then suddenly sprang up.
Asra grabbed the wolf by the neck and rolled backward, leaving a trail in the snow-covered ground.
The wolf bared its fangs and growled, and Asra responded in kind, revealing a missing front tooth as she growled back.
Two Hell Wolves lunged at her, and Asra scratched at their napes and bellies.
Watching them roll over and rub their backs against the frozen ground, she let out a cackling laugh.

They were wolves taller than an average adult man, but when they tumbled around with Asra, they looked no more than slightly oversized hunting dogs.

The soldiers, watching her strange behavior, began to wonder if the legend that her tribe carried the blood of giants might actually be true.

“How the hell do you even do that!?”

Besimer approached Asra and shouted.
His scalp was flushed red.
He seemed thoroughly enraged—and just as frustrated.
The soldiers’ gazes turned toward him, but he didn’t care.
He had no concern for dignity or pride.

“I told you. Focus on inhaling and exhaling.”
“I know that! I’m asking how to do it, you old hag!”
“Have patience, last wolf of Baitur. It hasn’t even been a full day since you started.”
“Damn it. Just sitting there breathing makes me keep replaying how I got beaten up by you!”
“Have faith in yourself, poison-fanged wolf. You are stronger than you think. I’ve lived as a warrior for more than twice your years. Isn’t it only natural that I defeated you?”
“It’s not natural, it’s not! I’ve faced all kinds of monsters and always wanted to fight them—but when I fought you, all I wanted to do was run away!”

Besimer stomped his foot and raised his voice.
He was the great warrior of Baitur, the de facto last chieftain, and the commander of the Vinfelt soldiers—yet in front of Asra, he looked no different from a whining child.

“Just teach me already! How you can still use that kind of strength and energy at your age—just tell me that! Huh?”

“How can I teach a wolf who doesn’t even know how to breathe properly how to run?”
“Ah, damn it! Seriously, this old hag—!”

After venting his anger and storming off, unable to contain himself, Carlson approached Asra next.

“There is nothing I have to teach a king’s slave.”

Seeing Carlson, Asra spoke in a slightly cold tone.

“I didn’t come to ask for teachings. I came to ask something.”
“About Isaac?”
“Yes.”

“I have nothing to add about him either.”
“I’m not asking for details. What happens if the young master cannot lift that sword?”
“Then that too is fate. Goethe will not receive Granak’s aid. Even so, there is no need to worry. Goethe already has the strength to stand against any noble of the North on his own. Helmut asked for my help not for today’s safety, but out of concern for Goethe’s tomorrow.”

Asra spoke while scratching a Hell Wolf’s head.

“Is there any time limit for when he must lift the sword?”
“No. But he won’t last long without eating or sleeping.”
“How long did it take those who succeeded to lift it?”

“Some took seven days. Some took fifteen. Some took over a month.”

“Without eating or sleeping?”
“That too is a trial the challenger must endure.”
“And if war with Botmer breaks out right now, and the young master still hasn’t lifted it?”
“Do I really need to answer that?”
“So you won’t move until he passes the trial.”
“That’s right.”

Asra nodded.
She looked up at the sky and mimicked the Hell Wolves opening their mouths to catch falling snow.

“I understand.”

With that, Carlson turned and headed toward Isaac’s tent.

“Sir Carlson.”

“How is the young master?”

Hans happened to be stepping out of the tent.

“He’s been like that for two days straight.”

Carlson lifted the tent flap and looked inside.
Isaac was kneeling with his eyes closed, completely motionless.

In front of him lay a single rusted sword.

It was far too worn to be used as a weapon.
On its short blade, a chain-like pattern resembling tangled snakes was engraved along the fuller.
Below the simple cross-shaped guard, the leather-wrapped grip was frayed and tattered, and the pommel was nothing more than a crude, rusted lump of iron.
It was a sword made when one had just begun working with iron—
forged from wrought iron and welded with steel.

According to Asra, the great chieftain of Granak, it was a sword hundreds of years old.

Since speaking with Asra two days ago, Isaac had been meditating in front of it.

“Is it really that difficult to lift such a small sword?”
“They say some go mad the moment they touch it.”

That old sword had a name.

Mulleorn.

It was said to house the souls of forty-seven previous chieftains.
Only after gaining the approval of all of them could one finally lift it.

“Have you tried lifting it, Sir Carlson?”
“It didn’t budge at all.”

Asra Valdruun,
the great chieftain of Granak, had given her grandson a trial.

To lift Ulleorn—the sword passed down through generations of Granak chieftains.
If he could pass that trial, the powerful warriors of Granak would stand on Goethe’s side and oppose Botmer.

When the story first spread through the camp, the soldiers thought it was an absurdly simple and easy test.

But Isaac said it would take time—because one had to understand the true meaning behind it.

Several soldiers and civilians, unable to grasp that meaning, tried to lift the sword themselves.
The results varied.

When Asra held it, it looked like nothing more than a lump of scrap metal—
in fact, given her size, it seemed no larger than a spike.

Yet even the strongest soldiers, straining with all their might, could not move it an inch from the ground.

Some screamed in terror, claiming that the moment they touched the hilt of Ulleorn, they saw ghosts or demons.
Others cried out that their hands felt as if burned by fire, or that they saw visions of beasts tearing them apart or being stabbed by blades.

Besimer, Carlson, even Sigbrand’s squad from Winterband—none were exceptions.

Bill, who had laughed and told them not to joke around, collapsed into illness after touching Mulleorn.

Asra set the trial, and for half a day there was an uproar as people tried to lift Ulleorn.
After that, at least in Vinfelt, no one dared to approach that old sword anymore.

“If you’re curious, why don’t you try lifting it too?”
“I’m not curious at all.”

At Carlson’s words, Hans shook his head vigorously.

“More importantly, he’s still growing, and he hasn’t eaten anything—I’m worried.”
“…Are you serious?”

Isaac had long since passed the age of twelve, and compared to boys in their mid-teens, he was about the same height—or even taller.
In truth, even compared to adults, he was only slightly smaller—well within a normal range.
It wasn’t just his height; it was as if his muscles grew just from breathing. He was on par with well-trained soldiers.
Of course, this was due to the mana he had absorbed from the Wolf King’s rune stone, but to those who didn’t know that, it simply looked like the bloodline of the great chieftain of Granak.

“You’ve seen the great chieftain grandmother’s height. The young master still has a lot more growing to do.”
“The young master’s growth is not something you need to worry about. Worry more about your own. The war with the viscount won’t be like fighting Rutger.”

“Understood.”

Carlson looked at Hans.
During the war with Rutger, Hans had killed for the first time.
Whether that should be called growth or loss, he couldn’t say.

But one thing was certain.
Hans now seemed to understand what it meant to wield a sword, to train in swordsmanship.

To take another’s life with the piece of metal in his hand.
To tear through flesh, muscle, and organs with a blade, forcing the other to breathe their last.

‘His eyes have changed. His build has hardened quite a bit too.’

Hans no longer had the eyes of a simple boy.
When Rutger shouted for a charge during the duel and over four hundred soldiers clashed,
Hans had taken a couple more lives.
Whether he wanted to or not.

It must have been a struggle to survive.
Now that his hands were stained with blood, he understood the weight of the steel he held.
In Carlson’s view, Hans would never become a knight, nor would he wield aura.
But he could become an excellent soldier.

‘Probably not the future the young master wanted for him.’

Carlson thought.

—Either protect Hans, or if that’s too troublesome, make him strong enough not to die.

It was the order Isaac had given when he told Carlson to teach Hans swordsmanship.
An impossible command from the start.

Those closest to Isaac rarely survived.
That was why Isaac kept those he wanted to protect at a distance or placed them in relatively safe positions.
But Hans had refused that and sought to rise beyond the level of an ordinary man.

Carlson recalled the first time his own hands were stained with blood.
He had been younger than Isaac was now.
What he learned then, what changed in him—those things could never be regained or reversed.

Though Hans had lived ten years longer than Carlson in terms of age, Carlson could already see Hans’s future.
Because it was a path he himself had once walked.

“That’s enough. It’s almost time for afternoon training.”
“Yes, sir.”

Carlson began walking, and Hans followed.

“Hans.”

After a few steps, Carlson suddenly called out to him.

“Yes?”

“…Stay in touch with your family.”

What he had originally intended to say was a warning.
About the price of the path Hans was walking.
That although Hans wanted to help Isaac, Isaac would not want him to throw everything away for his sake.

It would have been a meaningless warning.

Even if he said it, it would change nothing.
Whether Hans realized it or not, such things were fleeting.

Carlson let out a faint, barely visible chuckle.

‘I’ve changed too.’

He had come this far looking only forward, yet now he found himself looking to the side.
Perhaps it was because of Isaac.

“Ah… yes.”

Hans, who had been trying to interpret Carlson’s unexpected words, answered belatedly.

“Sir Carlson, my wife said she’d send some dried lavender. Would you like me to share some when it arrives? It’s good for deodorizing, and you can also brew it as tea. I asked her to send plenty so I could give some to the young master.”

“No need.”

Carlson quickened his pace.

—

Isaac walked across the snowfield, holding the rusted sword.

The landscape stretched endlessly, snow piled up to his knees.

‘Everything feels real.’

The sword of the great chieftain of Granak—
Ulleorn—had created this mental world.

Yet every sensation felt no different from reality:
the cold piercing into his body, the snow hindering his steps, the warmth of sunlight scattering across the snow, and the blinding brightness.

No matter where he looked, there was only a vast snow-covered plain, a clear blue sky, and the horizon cutting across them.

The snow that had stopped began to fall again.

He could not tell where this place was, what it symbolized, or how much time had passed.
His sense of time and space both felt distant and vague.

Isaac simply kept walking.

The only way he could perceive time was through the accumulating snow at his feet.
What had barely reached his toes gradually piled up—
to his knees, then to his thighs.

Even taking a single step became difficult.

The snow kept falling.

Eventually, it rose to his waist, then his chest.
At this rate, he might be buried in the snow forever—lost and trapped in this world.

‘A mental world.’

‘Snow.’
‘Time.’
‘Snow.’

‘Time.’

Fragmented thoughts repeated in his mind.

When the snow reached his neck, a sentence formed in Isaac’s head.

‘Time piles up like snow.’
‘Their battles, their wounds, their deaths—they all lie beneath it.’
‘To find them…’
‘To connect with them…’

The snow completely buried Isaac.

Holding the rusted sword, he cut his palm.
Red blood seeped into the white snow.

The snow covering the field began to melt.