novelraw Chapter 10 : Chapter 10
Chapter 10 : Chapter 10
༺ 𓆩 Chapter 10 𓆪 ༻
「Translator — Creator」
᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃
The Empire that had continued for a thousand years.
The so-called Millennium Empire.
A singular human nation that emerged from the chaos of an era when countless races and kingdoms vied for control, ultimately unifying the entire continent.
‘A grand empire that toppled seventeen kingdoms, subjugated seven races, and ruled over thirteen distinct peoples.’
Every country that had once dotted the continent had knelt before the Millennium Empire, either annexed outright or reduced to mere vassal states. Even the Empire’s northern territories had once belonged to a proud and powerful northern kingdom.
Now, it was a barren fringe. A desolate wasteland infested with monsters, it was hardly worthy of its former glory.
Crackle—!!!, crackle…!!!
Inside a weathered and crooked hut, the fire in the crude hearth sputtered quietly.
A man with black hair, sunk into a creaking armchair, stared into the flickering flames.
With his free left hand, he brought a damp cigarette to his lips.
It was low-grade, soaked more than once by frost and dew, but even something this poor had become hard to come by.
And for now, it was more than enough to dull the pain.
“Tch tch… You’re holding out well.”
His shirt, faded and stained with time, had been washed and hung to dry by the old woman.
His bare upper body was exposed in the firelight.
Curved shadows swayed here and there following the flickering firelight.
The defined muscles and prominent scars seemed to show dramatically what kind of life he had lived.
Thin needles dipped in black ink pierced the taut skin of his forearm.
Shk—!!!
Every now and then, the ink mixed with tiny beads of blood, and the old woman wiped them away with a cloth, her brow glistening with sweat as she etched the design into him with surprising grace.
How much time passed?
Night faded into dawn.
And beyond the window, the first glow of morning light began to push away the dark.
At last, the old woman set down the needle, the handle wrapped in layers of thread.
Rubbing her sore back and wrists, she spoke.
“It’s done.”
Her imperial tongue was tinged heavily with a northern accent.
The man, cigarette still in his mouth and eyes half-lidded, slowly opened them and looked down at his right wrist.
A black snake, coiled into itself, its tail in its mouth.
An ouroboros, evoking the shape of an ‘8.’
Too refined to dismiss as mere superstition; there was an artistry to it. It was a haunting beauty.
He glanced at the old woman, who was now cleaning her tools.
Then he ground out the spent cigarette and murmured:
“You should’ve been a painter, not a shaman. That way, you wouldn’t have ended up owing your life to some wandering stray like me.”
Talented painters were often granted residence within noble courts, given patronage and security; it was a comfortable life.
Though his words came out flat, it was a compliment, in its own way.
And perhaps sensing that?
The old woman’s wrinkled eyes curved slightly, and she let out a dry, rasping laugh.
“If I had, the nobles wouldn’t have left me alone. Kekeke. I was quite the beauty in my day, you know.”
“Sure you were.”
He answered in a cracked, cool voice.
His tone was endlessly weary, utterly comfortable.
Maybe that was only natural.
The world had gone to hell, and this, this flicker of warmth, this decaying chair, even the tasteless drag of a half-wet cigarette, felt like a rare luxury in a time when even meaningless chatter was indulgence.
Perhaps the old woman sensed what he was thinking, because she glanced toward the window and muttered,
“Sleep until sunrise.”
“A rare kindness. What’s the occasion, old woman?”
“Becuase we won’t be seeing each other again. Kekeke.”
He didn’t argue.
Even for a Knight, rest was a sweetness no one refused.
How long did he sleep?
Long enough for his damp shirt to finally dry.
When he eventually opened his eyes, he rose slowly and began preparing to leave.
“These things...?”
“Call it blood money. I overcharged for the ritual, so take it as a bonus. If it bothers your conscience, pretend it's thanks to your teacher.”
A modest bundle: rough-cut cigarettes rolled from dried leaf, a flint, spare clothes, and strips of cured wolf meat.
Bare essentials, but in the northern wastes, it was the best hospitality one could offer.
And he knew it.
So he said nothing. Just slung the supplies over his back and reached for the crooked doorknob of the hut.
But just as he was about to step out—
“So this spell... does it actually work?”
He asked the question without turning back, his voice quiet.
The old woman chuckled softly through her wrinkled lips.
“Why would you ask a shaman that?”
She grinned gently.
"You should ask your next-life self."
The man's face turned strange.
An expression as if asking what kind of bullshit that was.
The old woman gave a short laugh, then clarified in a way he’d understand—
“If you wake up after you die... that means it worked.”
And with that—
Ain Krieg opened his eyes.
“—Haaagh!”
His breath came ragged, his chest heaving.
He yanked up the sleeve of his right arm in a panic, eyes darting down to the skin—
The tattoo was there.
The same one from the dream.
Perfect. Exact. No error. No illusion.
“Heh… hah…”
Ain Krieg let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound.
And for once, instead of a mana cigarette, he pulled out a regular one, lit it, placed it between his lips.
Pushing back the tangle of sleep-mussed black hair, he whispered to himself,
“…Uroboros.”
The tail-eating snake, its symbolism?
“Birth and death. Immortality. Eternity.”
It was, in truth…
…a strange thing.
༒︎
Vanargand Ironblood Fortress.
Or rather, two hundred years ago, it was more than just a southern gateway for the Empire.
It had always served a dual purpose — not just as a gate, but as the Empire’s southern frontline in times of war, with stationed forces perpetually garrisoned there.
In other words, most of what the Cerberus Brigade, including Ain Krieg, now used had already existed centuries prior and had merely been restored.
Shhhhhh…!!!
With that in mind, he had little trouble finding the showers, his steps assured and unhurried.
‘Imperial architecture hasn’t changed much.’
Even if the construction had been carried out by dwarves, the fundamental layout wasn’t much different from the human-built fortresses of old.
“Haa…”
Whether it was because he’d woken up before dawn, or because he had drawn on his mana reserves until the brink, his body ached all over.
Hot water crashed down over him, washing that stiffness away.
As warmth seeped into his bones, he exhaled quietly, a rare, subdued smile curling at his lips.
A moment of peace. So rare now, it felt foreign.
He wiped the condensation from the old, water-stained mirror.
There, his reflection emerged faintly.
Unkempt, tousled black hair.
Equally dark eyes ringed faintly with shadows.
A complexion not quite pale, not quite sun-tanned, paired with a body lean with just enough muscle.
And on his right wrist, the mark.
“Or should I call it a mark?”
Calling it a tattoo didn’t quite feel right.
Ain Krieg had never let a needle touch his skin in this life, not for art, at least. If it had been a blade, maybe.
How long did he stand there, beneath the scalding water, lost in thought?
Eventually, his mind drifted—
Inevitably—
Back to his previous life.
“Two hundred years ago, the beings of Ashes devoured most of the continent. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The only ones left standing were the remnants of the Empire, the Military State.”
Some other nations and a few cities had survived too.
But those were beside the point.
The real issue was the Dual Number.
The Reaper of Ash.
And the ashen crystal it had left behind.
That detail meant only one thing.
“Someone is deliberately controlling the beings of Ashes.”
He’d begun to trace the pattern back when he was still in the Intelligence Bureau.
“The Ashen Order.”
Fanatics who not only worshipped the calamity that had consumed the world, but sought to finish what it started and turn the land into a kingdom of death.
Ain Krieg chuckled.
Who would’ve thought they had endured for over two hundred years?
“Though I suppose… to them, the same could be said of me.”
He glanced down.
The tattoo on his wrist twitched.
Was it because of the dream?
The old shaman woman’s words echoed in his mind.
“That would mean it worked.”
Success.
He scoffed softly.
Could he really call this… success?
Often, the dreams that surfaced, along with the memories, blurred together. He no longer knew whether they were nightmares or authentic recollections. All he knew was that his destination lay at the Empire’s Capital Cathedral.
He chuckled softly to himself, brushing the wayward black strands from his face, and cleared his mind.
‘I need more intel on the Ashen Order.’
If only he could have stayed longer at the Bureau of Intelligence… but he’d set a personal deadline - to leave three years before Siegfried’s final reforms were complete.
Any later, and every plan he’d laid to reach the Empire’s capital would unravel.
Click—!!!
He locked the door he had latched behind him.
And with towel in hand, he wiped himself dry and thought,
‘That Dual Number wasn’t planned, but it arrived at just the right time.’
Was it some twisted blessing from the Ashen Order? A gift he never asked for?
Swish—!!!
He donned his uniform and stepped into the corridor.
The hallway was slowly brightening, morning was on the horizon.
With a composed expression, he lit a mana cigarette and mumbled almost to himself,
“Which way to the dining hall again?”
There was an old saying among the Empire's warriors —
Even at Vánargand, mountain views wait until after breakfast.
Tap—!!!, Tap—
He walked through the corridor toward the exit, where a chill breeze brushed his cheek, almost surprising, given the southern climate used to be mild… before the beings of Ashes darkened the skies.
Now…
the southern gate, once a trade route with maritime kingdoms, stood as a breakwater holding back the northern wasteland.
A stark inversion of its original purpose.
“Cold.”
He muttered it under his breath.
Despite the southern location, the air chilled him sometimes, once vibrant lands now turned ashen and barren.
The Ashen Horde took too much.
Uncountable lives. Billions of souls. Two hundred years of sorrow.
His thoughts echoed that weight as he reached the dining hall.
“Brigade Commander?”
A voice that sounded familiar yet unfamiliar.
“The dining hall isn’t open yet.”
She said it plainly, gesturing toward the window where a handful of cooks were bustling inside, preparing the early meal.
Then, she offered something—
A small loaf of bread, held in a pale hand.
It was still warm, freshly baked, not pillowy, perhaps due to supply limits, but fragrant enough to make anyone’s mouth water.
A sausage had been halved and tucked inside.
Ain Krieg shifted his gaze to the woman holding it.
She had brown bobbed hair and hazel eyes; and a left leg that dragged behind her slightly.
She was a familiar individual… and a name he recalled.
“Parmilla?”
She nodded gently.
“You remember me. Sergeant.”
He paused to look down at the bread she offered, took it in both hands, and bit into it.
“Rier Yung must’ve told you well.”
“There wasn’t much said.”
“Well… never trust anyone in this world.”
The bread was surprisingly good. Given the supply shortages, he didn’t expect much, but it was satisfying, though the portion felt too small.
“Are supplies really that scarce?”
“Do you want an honest answer?”
When he nodded, Parmilla shrugged slightly and replied,
“At this point, it’s a luxury. Normally we get a loaf of bread and thin potato soup. But morale has been shaky… so we scavenged what sausage was left and shared.”
Though called a quasi-penal unit, most of the Brigade were not criminals, they’d been forced here by circumstance. And whatever their pasts were, they were survivors. When such people gather, one of two things usually happens…
They either isolate each other, or they form unexpected bonds.
And it had been the latter ever since Arditi Günther became acting Brigade Commander.
Shk—!!! Fff—!!!
Parmilla set down the supplies and lit a cigarette. And Ain Krieg did likewise.
How long did they sit there in silence, exhaling smoke?
Parmilla spoke first:
“I heard you retrieved Sergeant Doggins’s tags. Thank you. I can finally put something in his hometown grave.”
“Was he someone special?”
Parmilla's expression twisted, not from sadness for Doggins, but disdain for the implication Krieg had just made.
“We’re over ten years apart. You’re insane if you think that.”
Perhaps in the capital such age gaps weren’t unusual, but Krieg swallowed his retort, shrugged, and said, “So then?”
“We were close. No, in this case, I guess you could say he was my benefactor?"
She exhaled, leaning against the wall. Her left leg that dragged looked uncomfortable. The smoke she breathed out carried regret, or was that just his imagination?
He cleared his throat.
"What happened to your leg?"
“Oh this?”
It might’ve sounded rude, but she didn’t take offense. She rolled up her left pant leg.
Swish—!!!
There was a wooden and metal prosthetic, an artificial leg assembled with crude materials; it was a typical issue for wounded veterans.
“Think it was about four years ago,” she said. “I lost it during a reconnaissance. Triple Number-class… whatever. Acting Commander, no, Major Günther and the other Specialist Officers held them off, and Sergeant Doggins carried me out. I was just a Corporal back then.”
With a bitter voice, she muttered under her breath, “Should’ve just taken the damn discharge when I had the chance.”
The silence settled, carried by the faint drift of smoke.
Eventually, she stubbed her cigarette out on the ground with practiced indifference and gave a small shrug.
“Honestly, everyone’s just… confused.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you’ve probably thought it. ‘Why are they acting like this?’ ‘What difference would it have made had I showed up early?’ Maybe you’re even thinking we’re all just a bunch of idiots.”
Her brown eyes met Ain Krieg’s black ones.
Both wore a smile.
But the meaning behind each was worlds apart.
“You’re right, Brigade Commander.”
Ain’s smile was a lazy, curious tilt.
While Parmilla’s was self-mocking, resigned.
“Even though we know it wouldn’t matter whether you came early or late… we still end up resenting you. Or maybe we’re just afraid of change. We’d been doing fine on our own, you know?”
Humans were creatures of fear, of change, especially.
“Pretty stupid, huh? But I felt that way too. At least until yesterday.”
It was instinct. The inertia of a beast grown too used to shelter.
“This is my gesture. Don’t bother thanking me. Let’s call it even.”
And with that, she turned and walked away.
Left alone in the corridor, Ain Krieg lit another mana cigarette and murmured softly to himself:
“People who feed you are always the wisest, it seems.”
Whatever else might happen, it seemed he wouldn’t be going hungry anytime soon.
That alone made for a decent day.
END σϝ CHAPTER