Even Aslan could not incapacitate all the martial monks without injury.
Even if it were Aslan, fighting against many martial monks in continuous battles would inevitably lead to wounds.
Thus, Aslan did not annihilate the martial monks.
One of the martial monks fighting Angie had to be killed, but there was no need to kill the rest.
What was immediately more important was maintaining the front line and driving the martial monks away, so Aslan deliberately gave up the advantage of a surprise attack and revealed himself to strike.
The overwhelming assault plan of the martial monks was premised on Aslan not being present. Since Aslan had revealed himself, there was no real reason for the martial monks to insist on staying on the battlefield.
On the contrary, if they stayed and were counterattacked, leading to a significant reduction in their numbers, it would also be a loss for them, so the martial monks quickly retreated.
Aslan, having killed seven martial monks including the five guarding the tomb, the one fighting Angie, and the one attacking Tiamat, returned to camp with Angie slung over his shoulder.
After laying Angie down in the tent, when Aslan stepped outside, it was already growing dark, and the deep twilight had cast long shadows from the trees.
This was the optimal time for an ambush. However, the forest was eerily quiet, and there was no response from the aura.
Simply by revealing himself, Aslan had caused the martial monks to vanish without a trace.
Although this might seem strange, Tiamat didn’t even show any signs of surprise, merely taking a swig from a strangely shaped bottle of alcohol.
The sharp, distinctive smell of liquor. Tiamat, who exuded this strong scent, had long bandages wrapped around his shoulders, back, and arms.
The bitter smell of medicinal herbs emanating from beneath the bandages told Aslan how much strain the rest of the group had endured during his two-day absence.
A sense of guilt began to creep in, and as Aslan’s expression grew heavy, Tiamat scrutinized him silently before asking,
“What’s wrong with your face?”
“…I just thought you must have suffered while I was gone.”
“Well, I can’t deny that, but is it really something you need to worry about? It was this old man who chose the place to fight.”
Wiping the spilled liquor from the corner of his mouth, Tiamat extended the bottle, but Aslan declined it. He was already prone to drunkenness and wasn’t in the mood to drink anyway.
With the group injured, it wouldn’t be appropriate for Aslan to get drunk.
During those two days when Aslan was absent, the number of martial monks who had attacked was not small. In blocking them, the group had been pushed to their limits and sustained injuries.
Besides Angie inside the tent where Aslan had laid her down, there were also Phey and Ereta, meaning the only one who remained unscathed was Tiamat, who had maintained a distance during the fights.
It would have been less unsettling if at least a veteran spearman had been brought along, but since that wasn’t the case, the situation felt uneasy.
Twisting his lips and sighing, Aslan caught Tiamat’s gaze, who then lightly patted his back.
“Don’t worry about it. The ones inside the tent probably won’t care either. This old man is far too rough to concern himself with such trivialities.”
Tiamat chuckled faintly and exhaled a long breath into the twilight breeze.
The intoxicating scent of alcohol wafted from his breath, and after observing Tiamat for a moment, Aslan reluctantly nodded.
They remained silent for a while, and the conversation resumed when Tiamat’s bottle was finally empty.
Clicking his tongue and tossing the bottle aside, Tiamat glanced at Aslan and asked,
“Did you let those guys go on purpose?”
“…Yes.”
Upon hearing Aslan’s reply, Tiamat stroked his scaly chin and murmured,
“Not a bad decision. As long as they don’t catch on.”
“They won’t. I made it look quite brutal.”
Aslan manipulated the collapsing tomb as its master died, crushing the martial monks who had surrounded him with the tomb walls.
The scene resembled a giant bug being squashed by an even larger hand. Aslan deliberately created a gruesome scene to ensure the martial monks wouldn’t suspect they were intentionally let go.
Moreover, the veteran spearman had moved away from the battlefield in another direction, which would make the martial monks cautious about any strategy behind the move.
To them, Aslan was a symbol of victory and a priest-slayer, so they couldn’t help but overly scrutinize and assign great significance to even his smallest movements.
Aslan had intended this and acted accordingly.
If things went as Aslan planned, regardless of how the martial monks assessed or guessed his moves, their overwhelming assault would cease because they would consider it a futile waste.
“Anyway, we’ll be safe for a while. They’ll at least give us time to recover and recuperate.”
Aslan said this as he folded Steamfalos’ wings and looked at Tiamat.
Even in the dim night, Tiamat’s vivid red scales shone brightly. Having partially revealed these scales by removing his coat, Tiamat still seemed on high alert.
His bow lay nearby, ready to intercept any martial monk who entered his range.
Even Tiamat, usually relaxed, was in this state, causing Aslan to suddenly realize they couldn’t stay in this battlefield indefinitely. It had to end somehow.
“How are the peace negotiations going?”
So he asked, and upon hearing this, Tiamat yawned widely, shaking his head.
“It’s exactly as you imagined.”
In other words, the worst-case scenario. Collecting his thoughts, Aslan sighed and stood up. As he headed towards the command tent, Tiamat casually said,
“Welcome back.”
Aslan nodded, and Tiamat smirked slightly.
Receiving what could hardly be called a proper farewell from Tiamat, Aslan proceeded to the command tent, passing through the exhausted soldiers who were asleep, and entered.
The tent, still emitting light, was proof that the commanding officers were still awake.
Their reaction was immediate. Seeing the face of the person entering the tent, they breathed a sigh of relief.
“It’s good to see you’ve returned safely.”
The first to speak was a bald middle-aged man. The general sent by the Emperor appeared to have been injured in the previous battle, as he wore a bandage across his face.
His eye seemed lost, the area covered by the bandage stained with blood.
“I apologize for being late.”
“There’s no need to apologize. Your return alone is fortunate enough.”
The bald general smiled as he spoke. Those standing beside him mostly agreed, their weary faces and pale complexions notwithstanding; some nodded slightly or managed a faint smile.
Their reactions implied doubt about whether Aslan had truly returned. To elicit such responses indicated their condition was far from perfect.
There were those who had lost an arm, others with bandages wrapped around their stomachs, and some who looked deathly pale, reeking of medicine, as if they had narrowly escaped death.
Observing their appearances, Aslan closed his eyes tightly and sighed.
In the mere two days of his absence, Aslan could guess what had happened to them.
Hearing this sigh, the bald general gestured with his hand to stop Aslan.
“You don’t need to feel this way. We avoided the worst, didn’t we?”
That they had avoided the worst was thanks to the veterans Aslan had brought along.
Opening his eyes, Aslan spoke.
“I’m sorry for not arriving in time.”
“That’s unnecessary…,” the general tried to interject, but Aslan bowed his head nonetheless.
Had he not fallen into the tomb, fewer lives might have been lost. Aslan still found deaths occurring beyond his reach unpleasant, even after twelve years of wandering for precisely this reason.
He hadn’t needed to protect anything more than his own life.
But even that was now ancient history. Quickly dismissing such thoughts, Aslan surveyed the room.
“The peace negotiations… I assume they haven’t gone well?”
“…Yes.”
The bald general nodded solemnly and explained the situation.
As expected, it wasn’t favorable.
Count Scherlukunde was dead. Count Worfel seized this opportunity to further condemn the Emperor’s side, solidifying the justification for the civil war.
Moreover, Count Scherlukunde’s successor was his young son, not yet an adult.
Though currently holding the title, it wouldn’t be surprising if something happened soon.
The young Count Scherlukunde could do nothing. He would undoubtedly follow the orders of Count Worfel.
In effect, the Scherlukunde territory was practically under Count Worfel’s control.
The biggest issue lay here.
The original plan for the peace agreement required the cooperation of Scherlukunde.
In other words, the existing method could no longer secure a peace agreement. On the other hand, abandoning the agreement and engaging in full-scale warfare was also impossible.
If they advanced the front lines for a full-scale war, once they entered the relatively vast territory of the Scherlukunde domain, the front lines would inevitably stretch.
As the past two days without Aslan had shown, dispersing the strength of the veterans would prevent maintenance of the front lines. Maintaining the current front was already a challenge.
Ultimately, the only option was a peace agreement.
“Therefore, Lord Aslan must step forward.”
With the peace agreement through Scherlukunde no longer possible, the only remaining method was external intervention.
By securing the promise of external cooperation and support, they needed to make Count Worfel hesitate to continue the civil war.
After hearing all the information, Aslan paused briefly before speaking.
“Let’s escalate this beyond a simple civil war.”
“Exactly. Now, while the martial monks have retreated and remain hidden, is our chance.”
What the bald general sought from Aslan was one thing:
To become the empire’s envoy and secure the cooperation of a neighboring country that was not inferior in military power.
When Aslan looked toward him, the bald general smiled faintly.
“Belus Alphen.”
The name of the country Aslan needed to secure cooperation from was Belus Alphen. Though merely a city-state, its power and reputation rivaled those of surrounding nations.
This city was no ordinary one.
It was the city and homeland of the dragonkin, divided into sections according to parts of a dragon, each section representing a different class.
And the names of these sections symbolizing the classes weren’t merely titles.
The god who created the dragonkin and fathered the wild dragons of Geladridion.
The god of fire and metallurgy who sharpened the weapons of the gods.
After this colossal dragon’s spine was broken by a molten tungsten projectile fired by a predator and it died, the city emerged beneath its remains.
That was the city of Belus Alphen.
“I hope Lord Aslan can secure the cooperation of this city.”
And only those with qualifications could enter the city.
The two most important qualifications valued by Belus Alphen were martial prowess and metallurgy.
Martial prowess was not an issue.
Aslan was a master of combat.
