Awakening the Great Bloodline

Chapter 148 — Succession in the Falling Snow

Snow fell thick across the plains. Like a blocked pressure point suddenly opened, heavy flurries blanketed the world. The wind grew fiercer, sweeping across the battlefield as if to scour it clean.

Soldiers sorted through the fallen, separating ally from enemy and gathering them together. As trenches were dug, a priest's prayer rang out to one side. Knights tore strips from their cloaks and draped them over their comrades' bodies.

At the center of it all, Imran lay still. The master of the battlefield, who had not released his sword until the very end. Knight commanders lined up on either side of him, paying their respects.

Calix stood among them. As they mourned the dead, snowflakes settled softly onto his shoulders.

It was then.

"Lord Calix, receive his sword."

Nuvel Groxat, Knight Commander of Silver Falcon, urged him forward. Taking a step ahead, he gestured toward Master Imran's sword with his eyes.

A moment of puzzlement.

Then the knight of the Niboria Empire spoke of the fallen man's honor.

"The death of a victor must be commemorated. All the more so for a hero. Above all, were you not the one who remained by Sir Akran's side until the very end?"

"……"

"Take his sword."

Did he deserve such a thing?

After brief deliberation, Calix slowly — yet without hesitation — lifted Imran's sword. Its weighty presence traveled from his fingertips straight to his heart. The scabbard was cold, and that coldness became resolve.

He said nothing as he fixed the sword at his hip. No words were added, yet the act alone was sufficient. The gazes of the Mountain Rabbits and knights alike converged upon him at once.

Rosser, a knight of House Pentan, gave a quiet nod. The knight commanders of the high noble houses made no objection — not even Helmut Barben.

They had seen it.

The moment the earth turned inside out and a wicked shadow spread, only two men had stood against it. A young man who had willingly stepped onto a battlefield where even the finest knights had not dared to tread.

If someone had to carry on the honor of Imran Akran, there was only one answer. The older knights murmured quietly from the rear.

"The Guardian's sword…… Has passed to a young hero."

Calix sensed those stares, and so he did not move carelessly. The weight of the sword bound at his hip pressed down on him as though it would crush his whole body — yet instead of casting it aside, he drew it deeper into himself.

He turned his head, and there was Cardium, the capital of the Niboria Empire.

Atop the northern ramparts, torches flickered in irregular rhythm. Seen from a distance, the great city's silhouette remained magnificent — but what lay beneath those flames was impossible to tell.

***

The aftermath required roughly three days to manage. The Mountain Rabbits treated their wounded and gathered the remaining forces.

"Damn bastards, showing up only now. Brave as you please, aren't they."

Dwarf Basim grumbled as he watched the deserters trickle back. The high nobles were slipping quietly back into the allied camp, as though they had simply stepped away for a moment.

Volga laughed softly and shot back.

"In a way, you could call it smart. They ran, so fewer of them died, no?"

"…… In exchange for having nothing to show for it."

There was a barb hidden in the easy banter — though even that was only possible now that a few days had passed and they had enough breathing room to smile again.

Even the elves and dwarves had suffered no small number of casualties.

Niyan Storal, nephew of Kyle Est. Lauren, cousin of Srivan Alban. Vel Haim, son of Valo Haim.

Heirs of each tribe had wrapped themselves in their banners and entered eternal sleep. Yet for the Mountain Rabbits, even that was part of the process of hardening.

"Calling that smart. Why didn't you run too, then?"

Zahira spoke up while winding bandages around one hand. Her tone was blunt on the surface, yet beneath it lay an inexplicable warmth.

Volga hesitated briefly, then answered with a flushed face.

"I'm just saying you could look at it that way. And me, well…… I stayed because there was someone to protect."

"……"

She could not bring herself to ask who that someone was. Instead, Basim let out an exaggerated uwek- from beside her, dry-heaving dramatically several times over.

The overdone performance set off a burst of laughter all around. Gregor shouted 'The folly of youth!', and even Royce let a faint smile slip through. The knights added their own remarks. All sense of distance had vanished entirely.

"Now you'll never be able to run away!"

"Ahh, that fool's one of the Mountain Rabbits now!"

Layered within those brief words was the conviction they all shared.

Mountain Rabbits do not run. They disregard what they see alone, and plant their feet in the direction they face together. Even unto death, they advance as one.

They had never proclaimed it themselves — yet the words had emerged first from among the noble soldiers who had fled.

"Mountain Rabbits who hunt demons!"

Yet even amid the laughter, Calix did not set down the weight placed upon him. He sat across from Yelayen at the campfire and opened his mouth.

"There's no response from inside the walls."

"…… Give it a little more time. Kohtan enjoyed strangling his enemies slowly rather than killing them outright. The people of the capital have been besieged for far too long."

The younger knights kept their eyes on those gathered around the fire. A mage was a mage — but above all, it was Calix they watched with devoted eyes.

Then Marik cut in with a suspicious look.

"Could the Emperor be plotting something?"

"It's not impossible. But he won't have the strength left for it. He has……Lost too much."

In truth, Calix was not concerned about that. He had no reason to fear late-stage interference. He simply hoped not to be bothered.

The survivors of the Kriya Order seemed to share the same thought.

"The purification rite is nearly complete."

Late in the night, Pope Sier Lagrin stepped into the firelight, wiping his hands. He carried a censer. Beams of light flowing from a silver Holy Chalice drove back the fragments of darkness.

On one edge of the battlefield — where Kohtan had been annihilated — a black pool remained. Blood and smoke, the dregs of fire, had seeped into it, so that not even snow could settle there.

"The remnants of Kohtan shall be entirely eradicated by this."

"Light becomes a foothold for the living. But darkness does not perish — it merely returns to its place."

Yelayen recited the cold truth.

As a sacred song rang out, dark waves surged from the center of the pool. Mingling with the blue light of the Holy Chalice, the fragments of darkness crumbled to ash and scattered. From among the soldiers, gasps of wonder and fear intermingled.

The astonishment was brief.

Seasoned clerics sealed the fallen fragments into reliquaries. A scribe recorded everything on a scroll, and at the end, inscribed the name of one young man.

"Whatever the case, Calix — you retrieved the wicked soul."

"I—"

"Imran's name will be recorded as well. But yours must come first."

Sier added shortly.

Surrounding gazes gathered upon him once more. The sword, the reputation, and now the Order's endorsement as well. Both politics and symbol rested in his hands.

But in that moment, one sealed fragment broke free. It arced up like a shard of gravel and drove straight into Calix's chest.

Sseuk.

His breath stopped. A cold-hot heat surged simultaneously up his spine. Knowing that this force was not his own, he quietly closed his eyes.

An unfamiliar resonance grazed his ears — a wavelength that felt as though he had heard it long ago. The whispers of the Draug and the presence of De Generitum came through with startling clarity. His heart struck twice, hard. A sensation of cooling blood followed, then surged again as if set ablaze. It subsided quickly, yet left a distinct mark behind.

Calix raised his head and met Yelayen's eyes. He had tried not to let it show on his face — but the mage had already read even that.

The darkness inside him was seething.

Shortly, Sier and Ella's faces went rigid, and the Mountain Rabbits who caught the strange atmosphere only a moment later exchanged cautious glances.

"It's all right, still all right."

Just then, Yelayen approached slowly. He did not even brush the snow from his cloak. With unwavering eyes, he raised one hand in a slight wave.

"But Calix — the darkness is not yours."

Calix gave no answer. He was pouring all his focus into settling his Core. The mage lowered his voice further.

"The more accustomed you become to that power, and the more you permit it a place to dwell, the deeper it will stain you. At some point, the master will change. That is what became of the Draug — of Kohtan — of De Generitum as well."

Questioning looks poured in from all sides.

Calix's shadow stretched long in the firelight. Yelayen exchanged a glance with Sier, then exhaled the remaining words in a low murmur.

"We will need to meet the Gatekeeper. Though winter has come, so it would be best not to move for now."

The words carried the weight of a prophecy.

Calix drew a short breath. The clerics' faces were filled with shock and confusion. Darkness had seeped into his Core, and it beat clearly within his chest.

Yet nothing changed. He had not forgotten Imran's teaching. Even if he straddled the boundary between black and white, the one making the choice was still himself.

***

Several days later.

Sier Lagrin asked no questions about Calix's darkness. Nor did he press Ella, who had known of this beforehand, with so much as a single inquiry.

In this world, at this moment, silence was the same as faith.

Thanks to that, before long, a funeral procession set off toward the city gates. The cloth covering Imran's body rustled in the wind, and the wooden stretcher, saturated with moisture, creaked with each step.

When the banner bearing House Akran's crest unfurled, the torches atop the walls showed purposeful movement for the first time.

There were no bells. Having been exposed to the darkness for so long, the people of the capital still shrank from venturing beyond their doors. Their faces could not believe the fighting was over. Even among the elite soldiers, the whites of their eyes had dried beneath their eyelids.

But when the stretcher drew near the city gates, the sound of chains unraveling accompanied the slow, creaking swing of the great iron doors.

Presently, garrison soldiers approached and halted the stretcher. They lifted the cloth briefly, confirming the warrior's face and the family crest. Then they struck their shields three times.

Tong—, tong—, tong—!

The warrior has returned.

It was the Niborian signal.

"…… Who would make such a sound?"

At first, no one could believe it. Children, drawn by curiosity, crept out cautiously; then women followed, and then the elderly and the elders of noble houses filed out one by one.

"……!"

Slowly — yet unmistakably — life spread through the crowd.

The news did not take long to travel. But unlike Astria, this time not even the women wept.

Instead, children came running to the roadside and scooped up the dirt clinging to the soldiers' boots. It was the symbol of victory to be offered to the god of war.

"How many times did you block with that shield?"

"…… At the very least, hundreds of times."

"Wow!"

Then the mothers stepped forward. They tucked oak leaves into the handles of the soldiers' shields. Lamenting that they had nothing more to give, they stroked the soldiers' cheeks with radiant smiles.

"You've worked hard. Now wash clean and sleep."

Someone added.

"Our sons have come home to a warm house!"

Reverence for the gods, encouragement for the warriors.

Not one person knelt.

Throughout it all, Calix stood in the second row. He felt the front was Imran's place. But he did not know — the Niboria Empire loved the humble.

A hero never stood in the first row, and everyone lined along the road already knew that.

Tak—, taak.

At some point, an elderly man making his way with a cane walked out to the center of the road. Not a man of great rank — but the longest-surviving veteran. The respected warrior walked slowly toward Calix.

When they came to stand face to face, the old man dipped his fingertip in olive oil and rubbed it onto the young man's brow. Then he lightly scattered salt, ash, and barley.

To cleanse away the smell of blood and welcome him home. It was a purification rite unique to the North.

Sier Lagrin watched from the rear and fell silent.

Why did he fall silent?

The answer was here.

This city breathes by leaning upon one young man. Ella, too, recited a prayer without a word. Above Calix's brow, the oil caught the light and spread faintly.

Standing before him, no one called out the Emperor's name. Who had proven themselves came before who had given the orders.

The northern reaches of the continent had always been such a place.

A land of those who struggle.

The capital of the Niboria Empire, Cardium — it reclaimed its freedom that way. Not by Kohtan's hand, but by the Mountain Rabbits'.