The Night Of The Blood Moon (3)

“There’s no need for you to step forward, Sir Morten…”

“No, My Lord. That heretic likely belongs to the line that boasts of having fought dragons and giants before the gods in their so-called ‘War of the Gods.’ And as you can see, his prowess is not ordinary. As a warrior, I wish to grant him at least a warrior’s end.”

At Morten’s words, Kraf’s face hardened coldly.

“To a heretic, such honor is but a luxury.”

“Once he is dead, what you do with his body under the law of Judgment—whether you offer it or otherwise—is your choice, High Priest. But for me, this is nothing more than the pure joy and curiosity of one who holds the sword. Surely that is not too great an offense?”

Morten tapped the hilt of his sword with his palm.

Kraf, realizing that to Morten the sword lay closer than the word of God, and that it was the Commander of the armored knights speaking, forced a mask-like smile.

“Very well. Since the Knight Commander himself insists, I shall yield—for now. Let us see this amusement together.”

Morten dismounted. His squire approached, inspecting his armor and handing him his helmet.

Ingmar, gasping, turned his eyes toward the hut.

‘Elin, fulfill the prophecy! Even if I go first!’

“Do not look away before me, heretic warrior!”

Morten leapt like lightning, bringing his blade down upon Ingmar’s crown.

Chaaang!

Ingmar barely raised his sword to block, but the shock threw him to the ground.

Arrows pierced his instep and lodged deep in his knee.

His legs could muster no strength; he could not even draw power from his waist.

“Rise.”

Morten spoke with a blank face.

‘As if I would not rise anyway!’

Snapping the arrow in his foot with his hand, Ingmar seized a fallen shield and used his sword as a crutch to rise, limping.

Kwaang!

He blocked the waist-cutting strike with his shield, but his legs gave him no support. Only by bracing his sword to the ground did he avoid collapse.

Puhk!

Morten closed in swiftly, smashing his shield down upon Ingmar’s arrow-pierced knee.

“AAAHHH!!!”

The scream Ingmar had suppressed to spare Elin finally burst out, uncontrollable. He rolled across the ground.

‘I-Ingmar!!!!’

Inside the hut, Elin collapsed at the cry, trembling and drenched in tears.

She wanted to flee, but her body would not move. Had she known it would come to this, she would have cast off the mantle of priestess and ignored the Oracle. She wanted to run into his arms, to take the blade in his stead, to scream: We are no one important!

‘Ingmar, Ingmar… May your pain be lessened! O Olrun, O Manafreya! Please, send a Valkyrie to him swiftly…’

Elin knelt, her tears soaking the floor.

The man who had praised her eyes as the North Star was now dying outside, struck down by the will of God.

Kwaang!

Flat on his back, Ingmar caught Morten’s descending blade with his shield, then feigned rising before slashing with all his might at Morten’s ankle. To aim for the ankle—such an unexpected move.

“…!!!”

The blade struck Morten’s shin but, weakened, failed to bite through his greaves.

“A fine move indeed, ‘warrior’.”

Morten muttered, glancing at his dented greaves. If the foe’s legs had been wounded, bleeding, his victory would not be assured. For that primal, archaic swing of the blade had fallen outside all his predictions.

Ingmar, staggering as if to rise, instead collapsed forward, hurling his weight and gravity into a strike aimed at Morten’s head.

His first—and last—surprise attack.

Startled, Morten barely raised his shield in time.

The blade splintered part of the shield, dented Morten’s helmet, and grazed his brow.

“Still… Such strength!”

Blood streamed down from beneath Morten’s helm.

“OHHHHHH!!!”

The knights, and all the Tribunal, gasped in shock at the sight of their Commander’s blood—something they had never witnessed.

“Commander!”

The Lord cried out, but Morten raised a hand to silence his concern.

“This is the end. His final desperate strike, as expected…”

Morten was right.

Bleeding and in agony, Ingmar lay sprawled, struggling vainly to rise. He managed only to prop his torso on trembling arms.

Morten strode quietly to his side.

He laid down his broken shield, grasped his sword with both hands, and raised it overhead.

Casting Kraf a sidelong glance, he spoke low, for Ingmar’s ears alone.

“Heretic or not… Thank you for letting me witness the old sword-arts, and for meeting me honorably as a ‘warrior’. Considering your condition, it was I who dealt the greater discourtesy.”

“……”

“Go now. Whether it is the abyss that awaits heretics, or the hall of the gods you believe in—rest there.”

Ingmar’s final gaze turned to the hut.

“E… Elin…why still…”

Tak!!!

The stroke fell, and his head flew.

His sight fell from earth to sky before dimming on the cold ground. At its end, he beheld a radiant woman with wings unfurled, clad in ancient armor, bearing a sword, coming to meet him.

The squire approached Morten and removed his helmet.

“Mm…”

As his squire applied salve and wiped away the blood, Morten silently studied his helmet, caved in by Ingmar’s blade.

‘Had there been a little more strength in his waist, my skull would have split in two…’

Such immense strength and speed.

Behind him, Yodel, Kraf, and Fynel approached, each offering their praise and words of effort.

“Then, as promised, our Inquisitors will handle the body.”

At Kraf’s words, Morten’s expression hardened. He cared little what became of the priestess or other heretics inside—but to defile the corpse of a man who had faced him honorably and even wounded him—he loathed the thought.

But a promise was a promise. And Kraf was the type who judged the depth of a man’s faith with his own eyes and tongue.

“Do it, then.”

Morten spat the words, and Kraf smiled faintly, turning to order the Inquisitors.

“Bring sharpened swords, axes, hammers. Hack this heretic’s body into pieces so small even a newborn chick could swallow them.”

Anger flashed in Morten’s eyes. Noticing it, Fynel hastily gripped his arm.

“……”

“Please…pretend you did not see, Sir Morten.”

There was no helping it.

Soon, the courtyard filled with the sickening sounds of bones breaking and flesh being crushed.

“Now then—under the Lord’s care, let us carry out the final end of this wicked cult, and secure our Duchy’s eternal peace.”

Leaving behind the chopping, all eyes turned to the hut.

The hut was shrouded in silence.

“Perhaps she has already taken her own life…”

“Even so, the Rite of Judgment must proceed. No body escapes the pouring of molten silver and lead.”

“Of course.”

Four Guards approached cautiously, exchanged glances, and kicked the door in.

Bang!

Through the open door they saw a woman, collapsed on the floor, weeping without resistance.

They searched the room for threats, found none, and one Guard stepped outside to signal all clear.

Yodel and Kraf dismounted and entered.

“Ahh…”

Elin, sobbing quietly, tears streaming down.

Even Morten and Fynel, standing in the courtyard, clearly saw the pitiful figure of the last priestess.

Guards encircled her, swords and spears leveled.

“It’s fine.”

Yodel gestured them to lower their weapons and stood before Elin.

“Raise your head.”

“……”

When Elin stayed silent, still weeping, one Guard kicked her side, sending her sprawling with a pained moan.

“The man outside was your mate, no doubt. Pitiful indeed, by the outcome… But lay your blame upon the false evil you worship. Raise your head!”

When she still did not move, the Guards seized her shoulders and yanked back her silver hair.

“Mm!”

Yodel let out an involuntary sigh of admiration at her revealed face.

‘This is…’

Hair of silver flowing like living strands, ruby-bright eyes, pale skin with blushing cheeks, a nose sharp as the ridges of Yotun Mountain, and rose-colored lips.

Her sagging body, her loosened garments revealing her snow-white skin.

‘That such a woman was hidden within my duchy…’

Yodel was struck dumb, utterly enthralled by her beauty.

Not only the guards restraining her, but even Morten and Fynel in the courtyard froze, breathless at her beauty.

Elin, her face drenched in tears, raised unfocused eyes to Yodel and whispered the prophecy again. Her lips, once crying out the name of her protector, now half parted, trembling in sorrow.

Kraf stepped forward and slapped Elin’s cheeks roughly three times.

“You filthy wench! Serpent’s spawn spewed from the pit of evil!”

Elin’s head drooped low.

Yodel raised a hand, signaling Kraf to stop.

“I shall…”

“What, My Lord? Why halt me? This serpent-spawn, cursed by God—such a harlot deserves no mercy or courtesy!”

“I will interrogate her myself. Everyone, leave.”

Yodel’s face flushed red, lust rising within him.

His lust, long checked before those who judged faith, now revived, emboldened by position and power.

Kraf, about to rebuke him, caught sight of those burning eyes and held his tongue.

‘Yes… Perhaps this too is another form of punishment. To permit such sin may serve better for the Duchy’s future under holy rule.’

Kraf nodded and led the others outside.

“The Lord himself will interrogate this serpent’s spawn. Everyone withdraw.”

At Kraf’s words, some tilted their heads, then smirked lewdly as they left the yard.

Morten glanced at Fynel in disbelief and shook his head.

“Pathetic…”

“There is no helping it.”

“Is this how filthy it has become? The Duchy of Nastrand we serve? Its ruler?”

“Careful, Sir Morten—someone may hear!”

“What exactly are we fighting for? Compared to this… That man who stood against us alone…”

“……”

Their eyes turned to Ingmar’s desecrated body, his severed head’s vacant gaze still fixed upon the hut.

The moonlight over the ravine deepened into crimson.