Chapter 91

The campsite, strewn with burnt-out campfires reduced to gray ash, hosted a group of people relaxing in one of its corners.

Its members were quite unique.

An elf, a woman, and a man.

At a glance, it might seem like a group lacking combat capability, but their fighting prowess was assured.

This was evident by the large two-handed axe casually leaning against a tree.

The owner of this axe rested their head on the man’s thigh, blinking long lashes. Whether due to repeatedly closing and reopening white eyelashes or some other factor, the eyes appeared moist.

As the woman gazed up at the man’s face and then closed her eyes with a delicate sniff, the man, who had allowed his leg to be used as a pillow, looked up with an expression of mild discomfort.

Just then, a small elven girl approached.

It was Phey, the red-haired elf girl with indigo eyes and curly hair.

Phey dragged something behind her, and it was immediately clear that it was a hammer.

The hammerhead resembled a dragon’s head, and from the head to the handle, it was made entirely of steel, appearing twice as heavy as most weapons.

Despite the weight, Phey dragged it over and grinned before placing the hammer in front of Aslan.

“Here you go, Aslan!”

Upon this gesture, Aslan chuckled slightly, seemingly perplexed.

Aslan’s weapons often broke, and even those crafted by skilled weapon masters didn’t last long.

After just a few battles, they would typically break, so Phey’s action could be seen as an act of kindness.

Aslan was well aware of this fact.

However, sometimes there are things beyond control.

“Thank you, but… if I carry this hammer, I won’t be able to walk properly. Maybe Ereta can take it?”

At the mention of her name, Ereta, who had been enjoying herself, slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze swept down to the ground, glanced at the hammer, and then returned upward.

When their pink and indigo eyes met, Phey put on an exaggerated pout.

“You brought this for Aslan, but now you don’t want to give it?!”

Phey looked like a sulky child. Knowing it was fake, Ereta glanced up at Aslan and realized he had decided to play along.

“Wow, is that how much you dislike me?”

Ereta subtly smiled, pretending to be hurt while covering her face. But the curve beneath her fingers betrayed her amusement, prompting Phey to place her hands on her hips without any sympathy.

She lacked compassion altogether.

“You stole my spot from me, Eri! That’s why I don’t like you!”

Phey’s “spot.” Upon hearing this, Ereta uncovered her face and wore an expression of curiosity.

After pondering for a moment while playing with her hair on Aslan’s thigh, she realized what Phey meant.

Phey’s designated seat referred to Aslan’s lap.

Understanding this, Ereta’s smile grew. She covered her mouth while giggling and then pressed her cheek against Aslan’s thigh. The warmth radiated through the leather pants.

“It’s my spot.”

Phey grumbled, feigning anger as Ereta teased her. Just then, the ground resonated with heavy footsteps approaching them.

“Why are you treating someone else’s legs like your own? Hey, leave that kid alone.”

It was Tiamat.

Tiamat looked around after approaching and spoke.

“Where’s that orange-haired brat?”

“She said she wanted to check out the ruins once.”

“Hmph, what could she possibly do alone…? She’ll be fine.”

Indeed, Angie was at the age of boundless curiosity. She often asked questions about anything intriguing and gleamed with excitement, so such behavior wasn’t unusual.

Besides, she was the toughest and strongest among the group. Recalling the incident where priests screamed upon witnessing Angie tear their heads off, Tiamat flicked her tail and redirected her attention.

Her slitted draconic eyes turned toward Aslan.

“Hey kid, stop loafing around and come here.”

Hearing Tiamat’s words, Aslan placed Ereta’s head off his knee, and Ereta sat down beside him, stroking his leg with a look akin to a dog deprived of its treat.

Aslan followed Tiamat across the campsite.

“…Why am I still ‘kid’?”

People were scattered near pots and fires, waving or calling out to Aslan as he passed. Reading the gratitude in their voices, Aslan simply smiled.

While crossing the encampment, Tiamat smirked.

“This time, you only killed one, right? I took care of two. So, you’re still a kid.”

Aslan wore a puzzled expression.

“Weren’t we hunting dragons together?”

“The arm and head were mine, so it counts as my kill. Isn’t that right?”

“Alright… but what about the one I killed?”

“You helped catch the dragon hunter, so we’ll count it as one kill.”

Aslan frowned upon hearing this.

So, the dragon hunter died both to Tiamat and to Aslan.

“The calculations are all over the place.”

“Tsk tsk, worrying about that kind of thing makes you unpopular. Kid.”

Aslan shrugged and let it go, causing Tiamat to chuckle. They arrived at a large tent, lifting the curtain to enter.

Greeting Aslan and Tiamat inside were several individuals gathered around a table conversing.

First was the commander of this battlefield and a close confidant of the emperor, a balding middle-aged man.

Standing beside him were knights clad in plate armor, mostly the emperor’s cavalry officers managing farmland in the imperial direct territory, including the familiar Sir Milton.

Also present were the new lord of the Ashuld barony and mercenaries.

Among the mercenaries, one man caught Aslan’s eye.

A confident man with free-flowing brown hair reaching below his neck, leaning a crude but high-quality iron spear against his shoulder.

His smirk carried neither confidence nor arrogance, dressed in a leather cuirass, with plate vambraces and pauldrons on one arm, greaves on his legs.

Next to him stood a spearman fully clad in heavy armor, not revealing a single patch of skin, who brightened upon seeing Aslan.

“Spear Breaker sir has arrived!”

The man’s name was Thor Mull.

A master of spears, Thor Mull had fought alongside Aslan on several battlefields. Though somewhat arrogant, his skills were undeniable.

As Aslan lightly raised his hand in greeting, Thor Mull nodded, and the bald general finally turned his gaze to Aslan.

“Ah, welcome. Did you rest well?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

Rest had become less meaningful to Aslan, but etiquette was necessary. People rose from their leaning positions at the table, interrupting discussions of strategy, tactics, and logistics.

“It’s fortunate that you did. First of all… thank you for eliminating the Veteran. Without Aslan’s efforts, the damage to our side would have been unimaginable…”

“Not really that great. In fact, it was lucky it was a Veteran.”

At this, the bald general widened his eyes, and Aslan smirked.

During twelve years of survival, the priests who attacked Aslan the most were Veterans.

Their numbers were countless, coming for his head under the guise of offering sacrifices or seeking the head of a master of combat. Each time, Aslan killed them and learned their ways.

To Aslan, Veterans weren’t much of a threat.

Perhaps only collector-like, seasoned Veterans could pose a danger, but none such were present on this battlefield.

“The Supreme Divinity ranks low among deities in terms of strength. Its power is relatively insignificant compared to others. Moreover… the number of Priests, the Veterans, is excessively large, resulting in significant variations in strength among them.”

Of course, the statement lacked persuasiveness, and the people wore peculiar expressions. Aslan noticed and added,

“The more humane and rational the deity, the weaker it tends to be. The Supreme Divinity is one of the rare deities capable of holding conversations. Therefore, the Priest, the Veteran, isn’t particularly difficult under normal circumstances. If we were dealing with a Priest of the Canopy of Compassion… it wouldn’t have been this easy.”

The crowd remained unconvinced, but the spear master stiffened his expression contrastingly.

“That’s true. There was one occasion when I barely escaped alive after encountering a Priest of the Canopy of Compassion. Their power was incredibly challenging. Perhaps what Aslan speaks of relates to elemental advantages.”

Only then did people begin nodding faintly.

After all, wasn’t Aslan the Master of Combat? Someone who reached the pinnacle of martial arts could describe facing Veterans as easy.

Of course, it wasn’t solely for that reason.

Aslan’s judgment was accurate, extending beyond what he should have known, based on data from games experienced during his past life as Lee Hyun-woo.

Deities possessing rationality and personality had ‘relatively’ lower stats, whereas deities devoid of such traits had higher ones. The emergence rate of Priests and their strength were inversely proportional.

The rarer their appearance, the stronger they were; the more frequent, the weaker.

Thus, Veterans were weak, and the Supreme Divinity was weak too.

But this weakness was relative.

Aslan knew that even this relatively weak Supreme Divinity had swiftly killed and devoured the ancient God of War and Knowledge, considered one of the strongest among the old gods.

A deity’s power merely indicated superiority among deities, incomparable by human standards. Thus, distinctions held little meaning.

“―It seems Aslan’s words are correct.”

Immersed in thought, Aslan snapped back to reality upon hearing his name.

“Yes?”

“Regarding Count Scherlukunde and Count Worfel. It appears the conflict between them persists, as Aslan mentioned.”

Ah, that’s it. Aslan nodded, and the bald general scratched his scruffy chin while speaking.

“Likely, as Aslan predicted… the active participation of the Veterans in this battlefield stems from the diminishing influence of the Supreme Divinity in both Scherlukunde and Worfel territories, which the Supreme Divinity doesn’t find pleasant. I’ve also heard that deals were made with Count Worfel and Count Scherlukunde to expand influence.”

If this continues, Count Scherlukunde will likely end the civil war.

Following the bald general’s reasoning, Aslan anticipated the same.

Veterans were increasingly perceived as useless.

Though they were indeed powerful and significantly aided in the civil war, that was a thing of the past.

The owner of the Scherlukunde territory desired new lands.

Yet, transactions for acquiring new lands weren’t proceeding smoothly, and instead of the targeted lands, humiliations were being endured. Under these circumstances, Count Scherlukunde would have no choice but to reconsider the deal.

Of course, there were variables.

Aslan broached this variable while leaning towards the table with a map laid out.

“If the Supreme Divinity’s Sword doesn’t appear, everything will proceed according to plan.”

The Supreme Divinity’s Sword.

A high-ranking Priest, capable of turning the tide alone, wielding immense power.

Aslan believed the possibility of the Supreme Divinity’s Sword appearing was low, but if it did, all established situations would be overturned.

Upon Aslan’s assessment, the men in the tent fell silent momentarily.

“Aslan could capture it, couldn’t he? What’s there to worry about?”

Except for one knight.

That knight laughed heartily and spoke.

“Even if the Supreme Divinity’s Sword appears, Aslan could kill it, right? In fact, doing so would significantly reduce the Supreme Divinity’s influence, thereby…”

“No.”

Contrary to the knight’s smile, Aslan responded seriously.

“The civil war will end if the Supreme Divinity’s Sword appears.”

The calm declaration. A silence implying defeat’s obvious outcome. The previously laughing knight lowered his smile, glancing around at others.

“The Supreme Divinity’s Sword wields rare and legendary longswords and greatswords, including the divine sword ‘Victory,’ and colossal centipedes… That is the Supreme Divinity’s Sword. Among all high-ranking Priests, it ranks within the top three in strength.”

In fact, the Supreme Divinity’s Sword employed the martial arts first absorbed by the Supreme Divinity, the martial arts of the ancient God of War and Knowledge.

An ancient monster wielding the swordplay of the former chief deity with a robust physique honed over thousands of years.

Aslan knew that the Supreme Divinity’s Sword had once decapitated twenty Lesser Divinities in a single strike.

Though obtained from game information, given that Geladridion had become Aslan’s reality, Aslan didn’t think this power had diminished.

It was a genuine monster.

Finally understanding the approximate level of the Supreme Divinity’s Sword, the knight who laughed first now straightened up and wiped cold sweat from his brow.

“Then… why doesn’t the Supreme Divinity’s Sword come here? If it could end the civil war, why doesn’t the Supreme Divinity send it here?”

Aslan pondered before answering.

“One of two reasons. Either it fears other high-ranking Priests targeting the Supreme Divinity’s Sword…”

Leaning on the table and looking at the map, Aslan raised his head, his teal eyes glowing ominously.

“…Or it fears mutual annihilation with me.”

The knight closed his mouth and remained silent.

Instead, the bald commander continued.

“…Then, we should hope it doesn’t come. Anyway, Aslan’s plan is progressing as intended.”

As the bald commander’s scarred finger pointed to the map, everyone in the tent directed their gazes towards it.

“Count Scherlukunde invited us to meet at the Tomb of the Wordless One. Though there’s distance from the front lines, it’s worth meeting.”

Expectant gazes and the pouring attention met Aslan’s eyes as they locked onto the bald man’s.

“Count Scherlukunde seems willing to negotiate if the Master of Combat appears.”

Aslan understood the implication in those words.

It was practically equivalent to Aslan’s directive, so it made sense.

Aslan knew the fastest way to end this civil war was to induce betrayal from Scherlukunde.

Therefore, contact with Count Scherlukunde was arranged, leading to negotiations.

The rest depended on Aslan.

The subsequent meeting wasn’t necessary for Aslan.

Once again, as discussions on supply, strategy, maintaining the front line, and morale management dwindled among the occupants of the tent, Aslan stepped outside.

Of course, Aslan wasn’t the only one leaving.

Tiamat was certainly included, as well as the spear master Thor Mull and his companion, the fully armored spearman.

“Kid, this elder needs a nap. Come find me if needed.”

“Understood.”

Tiamat yawned widely, perhaps due to the warm sunlight, and left. Aslan watched her go silently before turning around.

Thor Mull, the spear master. Catching his eye, he extended his hand. Aslan grasped it without hesitation and shook it lightly.

“Thor Mull, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, about a year, right? You haven’t changed at all.”

Aslan chuckled awkwardly at Thor Mull’s comment, who grinned mischievously and leaned casually.

“It’s been a year since the Worthless Dragon hunt.”

“A tough prey to handle. Thanks to you, we managed to capture it easily.”

Aslan smiled softly at the subtle grin, and their handshake ended.

Releasing his hand, Aslan carefully observed Thor Mull, who maintained a playful smile.

Frankly, Thor Mull wasn’t among the very strongest of the Masters.

He was competent enough to be called a Master, but he wasn’t overwhelmingly strong like Tiamat or Phey.

Still, a Master is a Master. His skills were guaranteed.

Moreover, he led a mercenary company, so Aslan saw no reason not to recruit him.

Though there might be some regrets as a comrade, there were no disqualifying factors.

“So… there’s something you want to say to me, right? Is that correct?”

In the midst of his thoughts, Aslan replied affirmatively when Thor Mull questioned while resting his spear on his shoulder.

“I have something I’d like to discuss after this civil war ends. More accurately, it’s a commission.”

“A commission?”

“One I’ve never undertaken before, dangerous with a high chance of death.”

Thor Mull’s eyebrows twitched at the unexpected commission proposal, and Aslan observed the playful expression gradually fading from his face.

“If we fail, we lose everything, but if we succeed, we gain honor and glory. We might also obtain power and wealth encompassing the world, and our names will be remembered in history.”

The key was not revealing the immediate intention to defeat the Evil Deity.

Aslan knew Thor Mull well. He wasn’t the type to throw himself into glory without material gain.

A thorough mercenary driven by profit—that was Thor Mull.

And Thor Mull seemed to know Aslan well too, as he positively stroked his chin despite hearing what others might dismiss as a joke.

“What kind of commission you’re not telling me suggests… you’ll inform me once I decide?”

“Of course. You might change your mind once you hear it.”

“Ho ho.”

Though he had some competitiveness and adventurous spirit, those were worth less than a handful of gold coins to Thor Mull. His focus was on the part about world-encompassing power and wealth.

Thor Mull’s playful expression gradually returned, and positive signs began to emerge: his rising lips, the faster movement of the hand stroking his chin, and a growing glint of desire in his eyes.

Aslan knew Thor Mull had no choice but to agree, and Thor Mull knew it too.

Amidst this positive atmosphere…

Suddenly, Aslan felt a sharp sensation, as if someone had pricked his scalp. An illusion of a needle piercing through his skin.

Since leveling up, this sensation occasionally activated at certain times, providing Aslan with unsettling premonitions and directions.

A heavily armored spearman, approximately 170 cm tall.

This spearman, completely covered in armor, exuded murderous intent.

This intent coalesced sharply, forming a distinct shape aimed directly at Aslan, causing him to instinctively grasp the dagger hidden in his cloak.

A motion so subtle that even a top assassin wouldn’t notice. As Aslan’s eyes darted around covertly, the spear-wielding mercenary appeared completely calm, as if nothing had happened.

“…Aslan? Why are you acting like that?”

Mastery at this level displayed precision beyond imagination. Until now, Aslan’s intuition had never been wrong, though there’s no rule saying it can’t be.

Aslan clearly saw it.

The slight movement of the spearman’s fully armored spear shaft.

The stance indicating readiness to strike at any moment.

For a while, Aslan silently gripped the dagger, then returned it to his cloak and gestured with his chin.

“…Who is this mercenary?”

“Oh, ah… my new adjutant. His spear skills are mediocre and average, but he survives well, so I keep him nearby.”

Hearing this, Aslan stared at the heavily armored spearman.

In the dim interior of the helmet, only dark eyes shone brightly.

“…I see.”

What triggered Aslan’s intuition. That sensation.

It was undoubtedly murderous intent.

Very precise and sharp, the kind of intent that arises when preparing to attack.