༺ 𓆩 Chapter 34 𓆪 ༻
「Translator — Creator」
᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃
“Guaaagh-!”
The battle cry the kitchen soldier had loosed as he rushed Isaac turned, in the span of a heartbeat, into a scream.
Thud—!!!
The wrist that had held the dagger dropped cleanly to the dirt floor.
“You intend to charge me too?”
Carlson asked the second kitchen soldier, who stood frozen with a short blade trembling in his grip.
“N-no, sir.” The man let the dagger fall.
“You fools, surely you didn’t….”
Ironically enough, the only one truly shaken by the scene was Günter; Isaac was not especially surprised and neither was Carlson. “You drew steel on the lord? Have you gone mad? No matter that you’re from Baitur, do you not understand this will only deepen resentment against the Baitur people?” Günter barked at them.
“Khhhk-”
The kitchen soldier who had lunged at Isaac clutched his severed wrist, thick blood pouring between his fingers; torchlight gleamed in eyes slick with rage.
“The mad ones… are you. Since when… did we live… bowing our heads? Field… hill… forest… none have masters. They are their own lords…. Nobles who know nothing of that… will possess nothing.”
“Are those your last words?”
“Wait.” Isaac lifted a hand, stopping Carlson as he raised his sword, “What happens if one drinks this?”
“Khk… curious, are you? Then… drink it yourself.”
The maimed soldier bent, seized the fallen dagger with his remaining hand. It shook violently.
“Carlson. Don’t kill him.”
“Grah!”
Carlson’s blade flashed again, severing the man’s other hand at the palm. Not enough to take the wrist, but enough that he would never grip anything again. Sticky blood spread across the earth.
If he would not answer what blood it was, nor what happened when it was drunk—
Then they would simply make him drink it.
“Günter. Give him the beer from the cask.”
“Sir?”
Günter looked baffled, but one glance at Isaac’s sharpened expression made him obey.
“N-no.”
Carlson forced the man’s mouth open. Günter filled a wooden cup and poured the ale down his throat.
“Khegh! Cough—!”
The soldier writhed, but could not stop the liquor from going in; a fear spread through his eyes, and in those widening pupils the moon was reflected. “Kehk… cough…” And unable even to support himself with his arms, he collapsed face-first and hacked helplessly into the dirt, “No… cough… no… I wanted… to die… as a man….” Between spasms of coughing, he muttered words barely audible.
“Is… is he dead?” Günter asked.
By then soldiers had gathered, drawn by the commotion. They stared at the scene with faces knotted by anxiety and distrust.
“He’ll die like this,” Carlson said. “He’s lost too much blood.”
Then—
Crack—!!!
Crack—!!!
A grotesque sound split the air.
And the fallen man’s back arched violently. Beneath his shirt, the line of the spine rose sharply. His arms and legs swelled into monstrous proportions.
Hhk.
Hhk.
Huuugh—
Huuugh—!
Hraaagh—!
His breathing changed, growing stranger with each gasp. Grrrrr. And then bone, hide, and flesh began to warp. His nose and mouth thrust outward. Black fur erupted across his body. The ridge between his brows bulged forward. His ears sharpened into points. Black blood seeped from his eyes and ears.
KRAAAAGH!
The spy’s scream no longer belonged to anything human.
His boots tore as claws burst through them. His fingernails lengthened into hooked talons too large and too sharp to be called nails.
This was no growth.
It was abrupt, malformed transformation.
“Beastification.”
Isaac spoke quietly.
He had only read of such mutations in books. Never had he thought to witness one before his own eyes.
The watching soldiers forgot even to breathe. In that silence, the wet cracking of expanding bone and muscle rang all the clearer.
“Carlson.”
Shhk—!!!
The moment Isaac called his name, the kitchen soldier’s head separated from his body. Blood sprayed in an arc.
“Now I understand.”
At last, Isaac found the answer to the questions that had plagued him.
How had the wolves overrun the camp without leaping the walls, breaking them, or tunneling beneath?
Why, of one hundred and eighteen men, had fewer than thirty corpses been found?
‘So this was it.’
Isaac raised his gaze again to the moon.
In his years seeking a cure for his peculiar constitution, there had been no field he had left untouched. Witchcraft among them.
The basis of sorcery was imitation: mimicking the laws of nature and forcing them into reality.
One crafted effigies in the likeness of men to cast curses or transfer misfortune. One made corpses imitate the living and used them as laborers or soldiers. One deceived spirits through catalysts and symbols, borrowing their strength.
And in sorcery, the moon symbolized madness, true nature, and cycle.
‘The Baitur worship a wolf god. Among beasts, wolves are famed for loyalty to their kin. It suits the Baitur creed.’
When the moon waned to fullness—
They borrowed sorcery’s strength and returned to what they believed was their original form.
It sounded almost romantic at first hearing.
But sorcery was deception by nature, profit stolen through imitation.
And such arts always demanded payment.
“How many drank it?”
Isaac asked, staring at the beer level in the cask.
It was already half empty.
“….”
“I asked how many drank it!”
His voice rang out. Still young, only newly broken by adolescence, yet it froze the cook-soldier in place.
“This ale. Everyone who drank it, raise your hands.”
No one moved. Cooks and soldiers alike seemed bereft of reason.
“…Almost all of them,” Günter said at last.
“All?”
“…Yes.”
“Since when did you mix Hell Wolf blood into it?”
Isaac fixed the remaining cook-soldier with a cold stare.
“Answer.”
Carlson’s blade tilted toward the man.
“…Y-yesterday.”
“Under orders?”
“…Yes. During night patrol… at the rendezvous…. Please believe me. I didn’t know it was for this! I was only told that whoever drank it would sleep deeply for several nights, and they meant to strike then….”
“So while they slept, they meant to assassinate the lord.”
The man bit down on his lip.
“Then why are the soldiers here not changing like that one did?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, you die.”
Carlson pressed steel to the man’s throat. Blood welled where the edge kissed skin.
“I truly don’t know! The only thing I know is that Valden… perhaps he knew they’d turn into wolves after drinking this….”
“Valden? That corpse was called Valden?” Carlson kicked the headless body aside.
“…Yes. He said… once he reached Balaka, he would beg forgiveness from his comrades. I swear it, that is all I know.”
“What shall we do?” Carlson asked Isaac.
‘Moon, blood… and what else?’
Isaac searched for the final element that had triggered Valden’s transformation; but no answer came.
“P-please spare me. I am Baitur, yes, but I am also Goethe’s soldier.”
“One last question. Answer it, and I’ll let you live.”
“Yes! Anything—ask anything!”
The man replied in desperate haste.
“You received orders from Birpi.”
“T-that’s right.”
“After the task was done, what were you told to do?”
“Send a signal.”
“A signal?”
“Yes. They said they’d be waiting in the nearby hills. I was to send the agreed sign.”
“What sign?”
“…Huh?”
Suddenly the man’s gaze lifted into empty air.
“That one.”
“That one?”
“…There.”
Isaac followed the finger pointing upward.
A flaming arrow arced through the night sky, launched from somewhere within the camp itself.
Awooooo—!!!
Not far away, wolves howled and the cry rode the night wind, sharper and clearer than ever before.
Carlson withdrew his sword and pressed one hand to the ground.
Then he looked at Isaac.
“They’re coming.”
“Battle stations.”
“All men, battle stations! All men, battle stations!”
The moment Isaac spoke, Carlson roared like thunder.
“B-battle! Battle stations!”
Even those who had stood stunned now repeated the command and began to move.
But the Hell wolves struck one beat sooner.
“Gaaah!”
“W-wolves…!”
Screams erupted from the center of camp.
Grrrrr.
Wolves cloaked in pitch-black fur burst from tents across the encampment.
“Hold a little longer!”
Carlson shot forward like an arrow and cut one through the neck, but the soldier it had attacked was already dead.
His waist had been torn nearly through, upper and lower halves hanging by flesh. Blood flooded the ground and pooled thickly. Entrails spilled steaming into the dirt.
“How… already?”
When Carlson had heightened his senses through aura, the heavy tread of the approaching pack had still been at least three hundred paces away.
Even now, the true pack was still beyond a hundred paces and charging.
There was nowhere in camp for such giant wolves to have hidden.
Then the answer came.
“Aaaah! Save me! Save meee!”
“Just a little… just a little…”
Carlson tore through two tents toward the scream and halted mid-stride.
“Ah.”
It was neither sigh nor groan that slipped between his teeth.
Beastification.
The Hell wolves that had appeared ahead of time were the camp’s own soldiers.
“………….”
A cold sensation, long forgotten, returned to Carlson; he tightened his grip. Breathed in. Breathed out. And settled himself.
Shhk—!!!!
The neck of the soldier transforming into a Hell wolf flew free.
There was no hesitation, no faltering, all there was a clean line of steel.
The muscle and vertebrae alike were severed neatly; neither wolf nor man, the dying creature stared blankly into the night sky.
“Rest.”
Carlson closed the soldier’s eyes.
They had come here only half a month ago. Men he himself had drilled and cursed and trained.
Too short a time for affection.
Their feelings toward one another had not been warm.
But it might have changed.
Had time been given.
Like the comrades of Winterband.
They might have become men to whom he could entrust his back.
“Hu.”
He exhaled like a sigh, then ran toward the camp gate.
He remembered Isaac’s order clearly.
“It may be worth trying. But many soldiers will die.”
“…Then your role is to reduce that sacrifice as much as possible. Better this than total slaughter by a legion of Hell Wolves.”
Carlson intended to obey.
“Fear! It is fear! Do not yield to fear! Fight as men! Die as men!”
Behind him rang a child’s voice, sharp as iron, haunted and furious.
‘Fear. So that was the final key.’
Carlson now had one more reason to kill the King of Wolves quickly.
But when he reached the gate, no silver wolf stood there.
Only black beasts rushing beneath bright moonlight.
“Do not yield to fear! Do not fear death! Think of what you must protect!”
Isaac shouted until his throat nearly tore.
Mana carried his voice throughout the camp.
And so more wolves turned toward him.
“M-my lord.”
Günter, Hans, and several soldiers who had regained themselves found they were already encircled by a massive pack.
The wolves bared their fangs and growled.
Jaws broad enough to crush flesh on contact. Teeth keen as knives. Thick saliva dripped as they looked upon prey.
“Do not be afraid. We will live through this.”
Even Isaac could not guarantee those words.
But he meant to prove them true.
Tatatatat—!!!
The earth trembled as one Hell wolf lunged for him.
Demonic beasts sought dense mana.
To any eye, Isaac was exquisite prey.
But the wolf’s teeth never reached him.
Isaac had lowered his stance, blade hanging loose, waiting.
Then he rose and struck upward.
The Hell Wolf’s snout split cleanly in two.
At last, all the time he had spent sharpening the blade bore fruit.
The techniques he had trained to face Bessemer were finally of use.
The tide of battle did not truly turn.
There were still too many Hell Wolves. Soldiers still screamed in agony throughout the camp.
But it was enough to drag men back from fear.
“He killed a Hell Wolf in one stroke!?”
“What are you doing, you idiots!? Will you lose to a brat lord!?”
“The Ice Demon is on our side!”
“Right! Better the Ice Demon than those bastards we fought ten years!”
The soldiers shouted wildly.
No one ordered it.
They were stoking one another’s courage.
To live.
To survive.
To keep from becoming beasts.
Grrrr.
But the courage they had scraped together shattered when a silver wolf landed soundlessly before them.
Even the Hell wolves were terror enough.
This one was several times larger.
The King of Wolves’ yellow eyes blazed.
“W-we’re dead. We’re dead—GAAAH!”
One soldier failed to master his terror and transformed.
Günter stabbed him dead at once.
Panic spread.
Then—
“What are you doing, you fools!? Pick up your weapons and stab it!”
“Captain!”
At the next roar, the soldiers brightened.
Bessemer, bound to a pole and starved for days, had broken through the encirclement of Hell Wolves and now stood before the King of Wolves.
“Come to save me, Father?”
The silver wolf and Bessemer locked gazes in the empty night.
That brief moment felt endless.
“This axe, remember it? You placed it in my hands yourself at my coming-of-age rite.”
Grrrrrr….
“Now I mean to save your soul with it.”
Bessemer gripped the axe in both hands.
“La, Tu, Balaka!”
Shouting, he charged.
END σϝ CHAPTER