Chapter 327 : The Limits of the Human Body and Surpassing the Limits
Chapter 327: The Limits of the Human Body and Surpassing the Limits
For Aen, who had just begun to engage with war, the progress of battle felt almost unbelievably smooth.
Under the lure of gold coins, food, and the honor of being called the Iron Guards, his army grew larger and stronger with each fight.
And behind this ever-advancing army were wagons of supplies sent from Greenwood.
This, one could say, greatly boosted the warriors’ morale.
His army brimmed with fighting spirit, and within just half a month, the central region of the Northland was entirely occupied by Aen. The number of warriors in his army had also reached nearly five thousand.
Then his army was shattered.
He encountered a Viscount who possessed a Holy Relic.
The opponent merely unleashed the Holy Relic once, and in a single strike over a thousand men were slaughtered. Even Basil, who had charged most fiercely, though he survived thanks to his formidable physique, was carried back to camp covered in blood from head to toe.
Yet even then, looking as if he could be buried on the spot, he still howled to continue charging for Aen.
Of course Aen did not dare to let him continue.
That single strike from the Holy Relic allowed him to once again taste a certain unique trait of the Northland:
If one could not win, one ran.
Of the nearly five thousand warriors, after losing over a thousand, another two thousand fled in one night. Most of them had been those who joined under his banner after he had defeated the first Viscount.
Naturally they fled—when the opponent had a Holy Relic while their own lord did not, staying meant waiting for slaughter.
What made it worse was that these deserters ran in the direction of Aen’s own native territory.
Aen truly did not know whether he should be angry or pleased.
Angry that they had fled, but pleased that at least the two thousand he had brought from his own lands remained to fight alongside him.
Moreover, those who fled had at least run back toward his own territory.
Aen, born of Greenwood, was not a pure-blooded Northland noble. He understood well that commoners were the most precious of assets.
When he started this war, some merchants from Greenwood had even hinted at whether he wanted to dabble in the slave trade.
These merchants naturally dared not use slaves themselves, but nobles whose territories were lacking in manpower sought to replenish their lands.
Of course, Aen refused. At least on the surface, the Church of the Sanctuary did not permit the slave trade, and as a devout believer, he naturally would not commit such a deed.
Still, Aen’s western campaign came to a halt. Facing a Holy Relic was a gap no numbers could bridge.
He could only send letters to Bishop Jeven, and order the recruitment of auxiliary soldiers.
Without the ability to conquer a city each day, he still needed auxiliary forces to sustain his legion.
Yet Jeven’s reply left him despairing:
“This war, aside from gold coins and provisions, Greenwood will provide you with nothing else. Sacred Relics are naturally included in what we will not provide.”
Aen could already see the nobles gathering a coalition army, preparing to counterattack.
At last, he began to understand why nobles were so arrogant.
No matter how many warriors one possessed, a single Holy Relic could repel an assault and reverse the tide of battle.
Aen could not comprehend why the Church would not deploy Holy Relics.
Everyone knew the Church possessed more than ten Sacred Relics and Holy Artifacts.
Yet what puzzled many was that the Church rarely brought them forth. Even the Church’s strongest, Holy Knight George, wielded only an ordinary sword and wore common armor.
Even the suit of armor once belonging to Grand Duke Raymond Corlay had not been used.
But no matter what, Aen did not dare to raise objections. He could only watch as the coalition of nobles assembled.
After seven days of standoff, the Comrades Group came as a whole, claiming they had come to aid Aen in pacifying the western war.
On the surface, Aen joyfully welcomed them, even hosting a banquet that very night and announcing the news. For his weary army, this indeed brought encouragement.
The name of the Comrades Group still carried weight among Northlanders, especially since their leader also possessed a Holy Relic—and had once slain a Marquis.
But after the banquet, Aen could only sigh.
Those who came were merely Prospective Members of the Ring and ordinary members. At best, they increased the number of fourth-tier warriors in his army to thirteen, along with some additional third-tier elites.
Without a Holy Relic, this changed nothing of the current predicament.
The next day, however, Basil—still wrapped in bandages—appeared in Aen’s tent.
“Great Sir Aen, I am your Iron Guard. I am willing to lead your warriors to slay that Viscount and bring you the glory of victory!” Basil said, his eyes bloodshot.
Scars still marred his face, his expression ferocious, like a savage Northland berserk bear.
Aen felt no fear. After this time together, he had already come to trust Basil’s loyalty.
Yet this request could only draw a sigh from him.
“Basil, you are my Iron Guard. I can entrust my life to you. In my eyes, you are the foremost warrior of the Northland. But the enemy possesses a Holy Relic—that is not power humans can master. So I cannot grant your request. I do not wish for the greatest warrior I have recognized to simply throw his life away.”
As a merchant by birth, Aen was fluent in honeyed words. He did not care about titles like First Gladiator from the arenas. At least he had added the qualifier—in his eyes.
But these words only twisted Basil’s face further. He roared like a beast, bellowing:
“That despicable fellow only wields a Holy Relic. What of it? Please permit me! I will kill that wretch, and that Holy Relic shall belong to someone as great as you!”
Basil crouched on the ground, his massive frame like a raging berserk bear, his eyes burning with the desire for battle.
Aen felt that if he rejected him again, this brutal bear might well tear him apart on the grounds of cowardice.
So he could only sigh again.
“Every one of your lives is precious. Facing a Holy Relic is perilous beyond measure. So I will not command them to follow you. You may summon them yourself to see who is willing.”
Basil shouted: “Their loyalty is to you! How could I dare usurp your authority and summon them? I beg you to summon them instead!”
Aen almost laughed. Such a brutal bear, yet he knew the boundaries of authority.
Still, he wore a look of trust and said:
“You are the foremost warrior I have acknowledged, and also my Minister of War. I believe in your loyalty. So I grant you the authority to summon them. Use the authority I give you to bring me a brilliant victory.”
Basil threw himself to the ground, howling with tears, swearing then and there that he would chop off the enemy’s head and present it to Aen.
Only after Basil departed did Aen finally exhale, turning to Odysseus—only to see his face grim.
“He is dangerous now,” Odysseus said.
“I know he’s dangerous,” Aen replied. “He’s like a savage berserk bear—strong and fierce.”
“I mean,” Odysseus said, “he makes me feel truly dangerous.”
Aen was stunned. Odysseus was a Virtue Knight, one recognized by the Monastery as the knight closest to Tier Five.
The seven current Tier Five Grand Knights of Greenwood had all reached that level only with the aid of Holy Relics. In theory, Odysseus was but one Holy Relic short of matching them. Perhaps with his strength, he could reach Tier Five even without one.
For Basil to make Odysseus clearly utter the word “dangerous”—Aen could not help but suspect Basil had already reached the Fifth Tier.
“He has reached Tier Five?” Aen asked.
Odysseus shook his head. “No, not yet. If he truly had, what I felt would not be danger—but the stench of death.”
Odysseus, as a Brave Knight, adhered to the creed of courageous combat. This gave him not only greater strength but also sharpened his instinct in battle—sometimes even allowing him to anticipate an opponent’s move in the next instant.
For him to smell the stench of death meant the opponent utterly outclassed him.
Aen nodded. He felt pity that such a powerful and loyal Iron Guard was heading to his death.
But he dared not stop him. That aura was too terrifying. As a merchant, Aen did not believe he had the courage to withstand Basil’s fury.
Then, Aen thought of the Church of the Sanctuary.
Or rather, of certain legends about bishops.
It was said bishops could receive the Lord’s revelation—a prophecy of the future, an affirmation of what was to come.
If that were true, then surely his western expedition, commanded by Bishop Jeven, must succeed.
If success was certain, then this Viscount with a Holy Relic could not be his true obstacle.
So would Basil be the one to defeat this Viscount?
Could a Fifth-Tier Northland Warrior stand against a Holy Relic?
Aen did not have to wait long. The next day, Basil summoned the other twelve warriors.
Six from Aen’s army, and six from the Ring.
Not one retreated. Upon hearing Basil proclaim himself Aen’s foremost warrior, they nearly fought him over the title.
That very day, all thirteen of them marched to confront the Viscount.
Aen’s army remained behind, while the Viscount stood with seven warriors who had sworn fealty to him.
It was a challenge letter sent by Aen, demanding a duel of warrior against warrior. If Basil and his men lost, Aen would retreat back to his own territory and surrender the lands he had occupied to the Viscount.
This was also a Northland tradition.
However, the letter only carried Aen’s price for defeat—after all, if the Viscount lost, naturally he would be cut down on the spot.
The Viscount, who had just repelled Aen’s army single-handedly, was full of arrogance. He did not believe he would lose, and so he directly accepted Aen’s challenge.
On a small steep hill, Aen remained mounted on horseback, which allowed him to see further.
The Northland did have horses, but they were short-legged beasts better suited for hauling loads, enduring in stamina but unfit for battle. As such, battles in the Northland were mostly fought on foot, and horses were more often used as a food source, for supplies were scarce.
When it came to true combat, Northland warriors fought primarily in infantry charges.
Aen had already grown accustomed to the Northland style of war, but this time he noticed something strange.
As both sides prepared for battle, a dozen bards with a distinct Greenwood style appeared.
They stood between the two armies, a bit distant from the battlefield’s center.
Their arrival puzzled both sides.
The Northland Viscount clutched tightly the waist-thick stone pillar in his hands—his Holy Relic.
But ignoring the suspicion, the bards solemnly struck hand drums and plucked lutes, chanting in unison with grave expressions:
“Warrior, warrior, sworn upon his honor.
When the Northland trembles in war.
The warrior’s roar is like a blade.
Even the fiercest foe shall flee at its sound.
In the Hall of Heroes, they hear the song of triumph.
Hear, O sons of the Northland.
This shall be your story, and it shall become the Northland’s legend.
Warrior, warrior, we pray for the blessing you have earned!”
Some sang, some added guttural war cries amidst the verses. They channeled magic to amplify their voices, spreading their chant across both armies.
Aen was astonished. Was this another invention of the Monastery?
Yet the deep chant, carried on the howling northern wind, truly stirred the heart.
He could not see how it affected the enemy, but around him his own warriors panted heavily, eyes bloodshot, as if desperate to charge with a howl and swinging weapon.
Aen thought this kind of song could indeed be used to rouse morale in battle.
When the bards finished, their solemn faces vanished. They quickly gathered their instruments and slipped away.
Meanwhile, the two opposing groups in the center roared in unison and charged.
The Viscount immediately unleashed his Holy Relic. The massive stone pillar was hurled into the sky, swelling dozens of times larger before slamming into the frozen earth with a thunderous crash.
The impact landed before Basil and his men. Most of them had already seen a Holy Relic unleashed once, so they knew the true power came after.
Crimson patterns lit upon the pillar’s surface, then a massive force surged into the ground. The Viscount charged up to it and slammed a palm onto the pillar.
In an instant, a fan-shaped shockwave blasted out from the pillar’s core, smashing into Basil and the others.
They roared, bracing against the force, but the Viscount’s face twisted in a cruel grin. With a savage kick at the pillar’s base, he ripped the frozen ground apart.
Shards of permafrost flew like blades, slashing toward Basil and his companions.
They barely managed to shield their faces with strapped round shields, yet their fine leather armor was shredded, crimson streaks spraying from their legs.
The Viscount roared again, both palms slamming onto the pillar. This time the crimson patterns blazed, and a blood-red storm burst forth in a sweeping arc.
The storm engulfed Basil and his men, their howls echoing within like beasts gone mad.
The Viscount gasped harshly, blood trickling from eyes and nose. He was only at Tier Four, and to wield a Holy Relic twice in such short time strained even a Viscount. Thus this time, the range of devastation was far smaller than the strike that had crushed a thousand men.
But he deemed it enough. After all, they were but Northland warriors without a Holy Relic.
Hoisting the pillar, he roared for his warriors to charge into the storm’s fading light for the final blow.
As the blood-red storm subsided, eight warriors still stood. Their bodies were covered in blood, and their eyes seemed to glow red.
They bellowed like berserk bears, launching a desperate charge despite their grievous wounds.
Three fell before even reaching the enemy.
The Viscount stood laughing, already envisioning himself ruling lands many times his own, seated upon a throne as the Northland’s first Grand Duke.
“Roar!”
The sound, like a berserk bear’s, snapped him back.
He looked to the battlefield—and his pupils shrank. At the front charged Basil, drenched in blood, smashing down two of his loyal warriors. With one hand he seized another’s head, dragging him forward.
Those savage eyes—they were the same that had once made him tremble when facing Earl Leonard Cortes.
He shuddered, instinctively retreating a step. Then gritting his teeth, rage blazing, he raised his Relic and charged Basil.
The stone pillar swept wide. Basil swung the warrior in his grip like a hammer, smashing him against the Relic.
The unfortunate warrior was crushed to pulp.
Basil tossed aside the head, lunged forward, and seized the Relic before the Viscount could recover.
The Viscount sneered, crimson light flaring across the pillar as spikes erupted, impaling Basil like a hedgehog.
One spike pierced his heart.
The Viscount laughed as a victor.
But then he saw—the man who should have died still glared at him, arms straining as spikes snapped. Basil lifted the pillar, and the Viscount clung helplessly to it, dangling upside-down, eyes locked with the blood-drenched warrior.
A primal fear seized the Viscount, like a hound before a snow wolf. It was the suppression of one higher on the food chain.
His grip weakened. Then the world turned black as Basil’s gaping jaws descended.
…
Aen almost vomited. Even with faith in Bishop Jeven, he had not expected Basil to win against a Holy Relic Viscount this way—by tearing the man’s face off with his teeth.
And when Basil, impaled by a dozen spikes, knelt before him, raising the mangled head as an offering, Aen nearly retched.
He clearly saw a spike piercing Basil’s heart—yet the man still howled like a beast.
Aen thought Odysseus’s words that Tier Five was the human limit were not accurate.
This was not something the human body should achieve. A pierced heart should not allow one to fight on. In all his life, Aen had never seen the like.
Yet however unbelievable, Aen had won. Though five Northland warriors perished, and the others bore heavy wounds, his army stormed the Viscount’s castle, seized his land, and pressed westward.
The bards spread word of the battle’s outcome.
The tales varied, but what Aen remembered most was:
‘The warriors of Lord Aen of the Northland defeated a Viscount wielding a Holy Relic.’
It reminded him of the time when the Church had enacted Anathema.
When commoners slew knights, when commoners slew nobles—now warriors had overcome a Holy Relic.
That night, as cheers echoed outside the tent, Aen sat in silence.
Considering the Church’s guarded stance toward Holy Relics and Sacred Artifacts, he felt as though he had stumbled upon a dangerous secret.
…
The domain of Marquis Moreno Reynolds lay in Greenwood’s northwest corner, isolated by a mountain range from the Exile Lands, and bordering the Valleys.
The Valleys were smaller than both Northland and Greenwood, filled with gorges and stifling heat. This was why the Northland had always preferred to attack Greenwood and the Woodlands rather than set foot there.
Thus, Moreno, who held this narrow strip, was considered the weakest of the Northland Marquises.
But even the weakest Marquis was still a Marquis.
The power of Tier Five was no illusion, and his Holy Relic was formidable, not to mention his vast army.
If anyone had said before today that a single man could challenge an entire Marquisate, people would have called him mad—or suspected he was the legendary Supreme King.
So when his city walls were shattered, when his fortress was split asunder, Marquis Moreno fell to his knees, proclaiming he would recognize Hode as Supreme King of the Northland and serve as his vanguard to pacify it.
But Hode merely exhaled a frosty breath and said:
“Moreno, you are a Marquis of the Northland. You should have the pride of the Northland. Stand, take up your weapon, and fight me to the death!”
Hode was wreathed in white frost, his eyes pale, his hair turned white with ice crystals.
He gripped a battleaxe whose blade seemed to warp space.
Moreno’s eyes trembled. If he had even a sliver of hope, he would have fought.
But compared to this man—the comrade group leader he had once scorned—he had no chance at all.
The man had carved through his lands, cleaving all who dared raise arms against him, until nobles fled, soldiers hid, and warriors cast down their weapons. Only then had he come to Moreno’s castle—
—and split it open with a single axe blow.
Such unrestrained power left Moreno without a thought of victory.
And such power, capable of unifying the Northland, deserved to crown a Supreme King. Thus, by tradition, he knelt.
But Hode’s words stripped him of all excuse.
He raised his weapon.
And his head was severed in one swing.