It happened when Frida was a child.
She had just turned sixteen, the age when she could finally follow in her father’s footsteps.
The road they were on led to a fortress, escorting prisoners received from the Empire and the Mareza City Union or volunteer enlistees.
It was during the time when the green leaves of the Mareza forest shone gloomily under the drizzling rain.
When the mountain where Kehil lay was obscured by fog and out of sight.
It was then that they found a boy collapsed among the soaked green grass.
He looked as if he had been wandering and starving for a very long time; his emaciated face appeared far from healthy.
Was he a human slave who had escaped from the Empire?
Or an experimental subject who had fled from Anurthin?
Perhaps not. He might have been a deserter from Sorgeperk.
In any case, it was clear that he was not ordinary.
With hair as black as the night sky and striking teal eyes like clear seawater, the boy was impressive, but young Frida turned her head away indifferently.
He looked about fifteen, around her age, but pity was all she felt.
In Geladridion, where saving others was uncommon, the girl’s reaction was typical.
Just as she was about to spur her horse to create some distance, her father dismounted and approached the boy.
Had he not done so, many things afterward would have turned out differently.
Frida’s father was not a man of many words, whether good or bad.
A large blue mana tattoo covered his right arm and spread up to his face.
He was an imposing warrior whose massive build suggested he could tear a man apart with his bare hands, and this appearance only added gravitas to his taciturn nature.
On both his hips hung axes, and he wore a peculiar metallic prosthetic leg resembling a human foot.
Her father was known by many names:
Veteran of Battle.
Former Chief of the Crownless Tribe.
King Varmanz.
Duke of the Empire.
But most simply called him:
Budonggong Astak.
The immovable warrior in the fortress of Liam, guarding against the Abyss.
Slaying priests and monsters that flowed out from the expanding Abyss, driving deserters and volunteers to death, protecting the entirety of the southern continent.
A person who would abandon one to save more.
Yet, at that moment, he was, unusually, saving someone.
Though emotion was rare in his gruff demeanor and even rarer in his eyes, the girl knew.
It wasn’t without purpose.
Indeed, it wasn’t.
Frida soon realized how strange—how extraordinary—the boy was.
When he babbled about how old he thought he was and asked if this place was truly Geladridion, she wondered if he was insane, but he wasn’t.
Not long after, the boy became composed.
With a somewhat melancholic expression, he introduced himself.
He called himself Aslan and requested that they teach him how to fight.
The girl found it suspicious.
Despite not knowing where he was moments before, he recognized her father and personally requested training.
Perhaps he was a priest? Or a spy from a foreign land? But Astak trained him without any suspicion.
The intensity of the training was not normal.
Even the girl, who had been personally trained by her father until she was sixteen to become the next tribal chief, couldn’t keep up.
Aslan sparred daily until he collapsed, battered and bruised.
After waking, he would stuff himself with food until he was about to vomit, then throw himself back into Astak’s brutal training sessions.
As if there was no tomorrow, as if he had nothing to lose.
Perhaps because of that viciousness and the tutelage of the master warrior, the boy grew into an impressive warrior within a year.
His body was muscular, his gaze sharp, and his limbs seemed ever-ready to wield weapons—or his own fists.
During that year, Aslan became beloved by everyone in the fortress of Liam.
With his friendly nature, gentle smile, and natural good looks, coupled with the rigorous training regimen, he became someone no one disliked.
Budonggong Astak adopted the boy as his foster son.
He offered him his position.
He proposed that he become his successor.
What happened afterward is unknown.
The boy left shortly after, and Astak never mentioned him again.
The only proof of his survival were the occasional letters that arrived at the fortress.
Frida couldn’t understand Aslan.
The greatest Duke of the southern continent, the owner of the grand and respected fortress of Liam, was offering him his seat, offering him family, yet he left without hesitation.
Did he not need a family?
Or perhaps, secretly, he hated or despised Frida and Astak?
Or was he really a spy who later had a crisis of conscience?
There were many hypotheses, but none mattered.
The girl grew into a woman, and the woman became the tribal chief.
As the boy became a warrior, as he became a master of combat.
Thus, she understood nothing.
If anything was certain, it was that Astak had let Aslan go.
Whatever Aslan harbored inside, he had convinced Astak.
It wasn’t until the presumptuous younger brother returned, mentioning Kehil and declaring he would kill all evil deities, that she understood what Aslan must have said to Astak.
For twelve years,
since leaving the fortress of Liam, the boy wandered the world alone, fighting evil deities.
No one recognized him, yet he persisted.
Finally, Frida witnessed the fruits of his labor.
“Big sister.”
Upon hearing the whisper, she opened her eyes to see her younger brother’s face.
Due to losing one eye entirely, her field of vision was narrower, but it didn’t matter since she couldn’t see with that eye anyway.
“…Yes.”
Her left arm was gone, as was her right leg, but no blood flowed.
Though dizzy from excessive blood loss and tingling sensations in her limbs, the emergency treatment had been perfect.
Glancing to the side, she saw a doctor, likely a restoration mage.
Looking around, she noticed several people moving about.
Soldiers from the fortress were gathering the fallen, while others hurriedly transported the wounded or provided first aid upon request from the mages.
So many deaths and injuries. Yet, despite it all, Frida couldn’t help but smile.
“Really… we won.”
It was a sigh of relief.
Despite so much death and injury, they had ultimately triumphed.
Turning her eyes, Frida’s heterochromatic gaze met Aslan’s teal eyes.
They always seemed melancholy, glowing with a sorrowful light, like stars in the rainy night sky.
“I’m sorry.”
Once a boy, Aslan spoke these words, and Frida extended her intact right hand with a slight smile.
A rare tender pat on the cheek.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“…If I hadn’t fallen, fewer people would have died.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Unable to agree, Aslan bowed his head sadly, but Frida merely lifted her dazed head to look toward the horizon.
Certainly, countless people had died.
Many civilians and unparalleled heroes lost their lives or were injured, a clear scene of tragedy.
But it wasn’t just a tragedy.
To her, this battlefield was a place of victory amidst the horrors.
Undoubtedly, many had died here. They had suffered painful deaths, perhaps with regrets. Their bodies were undoubtedly torn apart, meeting their end.
But what of their will?
What of the meaning behind their sacrifices, their throwing themselves into battle?
What of the noble sacrifices of those who wished for more survivors, who prayed to break this absurdity, who bought time to secure ultimate victory?
Frida could answer firmly.
Their will was not trampled.
The soldiers being evacuated were alive, Aslan lived, and light illuminated the battlefield.
This was proof.
For the first time in a long while, Frida loosely caressed the cheek of her unrelated younger brother.
“Good work.”
Humans cannot defeat gods.
No matter how thoroughly prepared, no matter how miraculous the circumstances.
Humans are bound to fail against gods.
For nearly four thousand years since the heavens opened, this history has been a stark record of human defeat.
Humans cannot defeat gods.
This was an undeniable truth.
Until this very moment.
Now, this indisputable truth has been overturned.
After four thousand years, humans have finally claimed victory over the gods.
Against beings that even the creators of the world couldn’t conquer, humans have stood firm and enforced their will.
Some might call this a defeat. A significant blow, a crisis for the alliance itself.
But to Frida, it wasn’t. She viewed it more optimistically.
Even high-ranking priests who channeled divine power, surpassing preparation and prediction to grasp miracles, couldn’t force humans to kneel.
What made the difference were the humans, but it was one man who pushed them forward and seized the miracle.
Once a boy lying on wet grass, clutching his starving stomach as he neared death—had she not picked him up then, he surely would have perished.
Only now did Frida realize why her father had saved the boy, why he had let him go.
Swiping her hand across her cheek, seeing Aslan’s awkward or flustered expression, Frida gently patted his cheek with a soft smile.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I…”
“The Varmanz recognize you as one of us.”
The trembling teal pupils. Slowly lowering her hand, Frida rested her remaining right arm on her stitched-up abdomen.
She had lost an arm, a leg, and her already lost eye was completely gone.
Yet, she didn’t feel despair.
Rather, Frida felt quite cheerful.
At last, humans had struck a blow against the gods.
And it was her younger brother who had done it, the monumental achievement brought about by all the humans he had rallied.
Her slightly fuzzy mind managed to utter these words, thinking she might feel embarrassed upon waking, yet she smiled softly.
Rarely seen by her sibling, seeing Aslan’s perplexed expression, Frida blinked slowly.
“Well, I need to catch a bit of sleep.”
Something about the line sounded off. As Aslan’s expression stiffened, Frida slowly closed her eyes.
“A little… tired…”
Her closed eyes quivered slightly, and the hand resting on her abdomen slipped to the floor.
Aslan gripped her shoulder tightly, his expression frozen with fear of loss.
This can’t be happening, they can’t part like this.
Though not related by blood, he didn’t want to lose another family member.
Desperately, Aslan shook her cold body, shouting.
Please stay alive, don’t die. His voice broke as he tried to deny reality.
“No, big sister, nu…!”
Cough.
The snore stopped him.
Snore.
Breath escaped, and the sound of snoring mixed with Frida’s breathing.
Watching his sister’s face with a blank expression, Aslan eventually chuckled awkwardly.
“I thought you were dead with all those death flags up…”
Then, muttering something incomprehensible to the nearby mage, he shook his head.
*
When the age of humans ended and the era of evil deities began,
the martial artist who revealed himself, slaughtering countless lesser divinities and silencing numerous heroes.
The Myth Slayer, The Divine Being’s Sword.
The true powerhouse who lived for nearly four thousand years fell,
not to another evil deity or high-ranking priest, but to the hands of a human.
Like a monster being culled.
When the battle at Netchagni Fortress concluded, the incredible news that humans had finally defeated a god spread rapidly across the continent.
Some saw it as an opportunity.
Others showed no interest.
Still others doubted its authenticity.
Yet, none of them could deny that something was changing.
The times were shifting.
And at the epicenter of this upheaval, Netchagni Fortress,
a week had passed since the fall of the oldest martial artist.
