Fimbulvert (1)

“What is this?!”

“It’s a wanted notice from the King’s Church. Looks like it still hasn’t arrived here through normal channels.”

“It says Darhan-Jadek is dead?”

The notice stated that Darhan-Jadek—son of the Golden King Manza-Jadek, a man who had built his fame by fighting the servitors of the Kurt God Clan at Vthuma’s northern fortress—had been killed by Sir Zebec.

“Yes. Because of that, Vthuma’s army collapsed, the kingdom all but fell… and refugees are fleeing. That’s why food prices are skyrocketing.”

“I see.”

Azadine nodded.

“It’s a frame-up.”

“You really don’t think that Holy Knight, Zebec, killed him?”

“If he were the kind of man who could do that, he wouldn’t have remained unknown all this time. He has considerable swordsmanship and magic, but he’s so rigid he couldn’t even rebel against the lord of wherever he was dispatched. Even if Darhan-Jadek were an unforgivable villain, if his death caused this kind of massive chaos, Zebec would’ve endured it in silence.”

Azadine knew Zebec’s character well, so he was certain this was a frame-up.

“But wouldn’t the King’s Church branding their own Holy Knight as an assassin be like spitting into their own mouth?”

“The ones who framed him might not be the King’s Church. Wasn’t it your clan? There aren’t many factions that would benefit from collapsing Vthuma.”

“Don’t cross the line, Azadine. There’s no way I could answer a question like that.”

Dilia agreed to cooperate with Azadine, but she still drew firm boundaries.

“So your clan plans to profit off hoarding grain at a time like this?”

“Instead of ‘profit,’ how about you call it ‘thrashing around to survive’?”

“Then it sounds like the poor harvest isn’t just a problem here.”

“You know the Kingdom of Korasar is suffering from drought, right? And recently, in the sea adjacent to Arangi and Chitai….”

“The one with Netherstrom?”

“Yes. I hear massive icebergs are being pushed in toward that Andaz Inner Sea.”

“…….”

The Andaz Inner Sea, where Netherstrom lay, was famous for its low water temperatures because cold currents surged in—even though it was a southern subtropical sea.

But it was still a place where squalls poured down in a subtropical climate. There was no way icebergs could drift in intact.

“This is bad. It really is. Doesn’t it sound like Fimbulvert?”

Fimbulvert. A prophecy—an “apocalyptic winter.”

When the Age of Jupiter arrived and the Ancient Gods returned, a frigid winter would begin to herald destruction, and for three years summer would not come—frost would kill every crop.

A horrific prophecy claiming that even the most devout would have to survive by tearing into human flesh.

“Fimbulvert? That’s nonsense.”

“You’re hoarding food, but you’re also denying Fimbulvert outright. Isn’t that a bit much? This could become a problem later.”

Right now, people might just say, “They paid money and hoarded food,” and move on—but if famine truly struck later and people began to starve, they could riot against merchants in fury.

“That’s why we’re providing building materials, aren’t we? We’re preventing roofs from being punched through by hail, so what are you—”

“It’s never a fair trade. Still… I appreciate hearing about Zebec. If you find Sir Zebec, can you bring him to me?”

“That doesn’t sound like something you can ask from a mere branch manager.”

“You can tell them I want to deal with the Senate. I’ll pay a price for Sir Zebec’s safety.”

“Hmph. You’ve grown, Azadine. The one they used to mock as Azadine of Disgrace… you’ve grown too much.”

Dilia felt a strange sense of time’s distance at Azadine’s demand to negotiate as an equal with the Senate.

“Don’t expect much. He’s probably hiding among the refugees, so he’ll be hard to find. And our clan had its arms and legs cut off because someone betrayed us, you know?”

“Right. I don’t expect much either. Still, I’d be grateful for even a little cooperation.”

“Hmph. You talk well.”

It was then. The brass bell hanging on the shop door rang—someone had entered.

“Sir Azadine. Are you here?”

A young woman’s voice.

“…….”

At the same time, a bleak chill began to fill the inside of Van Dyke Trading Company’s shop.

“…Dilia.”

Azadine had felt that bleak chill recently—undead elves who had become Sir Sork’s subordinates… and the voice belonged to their leader, the wight called Dilia.

“What?”

“No, not you. That one.”

Azadine said that to Dilia and grabbed Aurelia Dawn strapped to his back.

“I didn’t come to fight. My master wishes to see you.”

“Sir Sork wants to see me?”

“Yes. My master is calling you in goodwill. But Sir Sork can’t exactly enter Fireglyph, so….”

“Understood. I’ll go.”

Answering Sir Sork’s summons, Azadine decided to head to the appointed meeting place outside Fireglyph.

Outside Fireglyph, Sir Sork’s subordinates were stationed at a watermill.

They looked much like living elves at a glance, but their true nature was vile undead—wights, monsters starving for human blood and vitality.

And Azadine showed up alone, without bringing a single subordinate.

“…I can’t tell whether to call this brave, or stupid.”

The wights were flustered to see Azadine arrive alone.

But for Azadine, he had no real choice.

“Sir Ject is in Fireglyph now, and so is Prince Kalintz. Even if you take me, it’s not like you can march on Saint Mallory without resistance. And I’m confident I can run if I have to.”

Azadine replied to the wights’ barbed words and casually ran his hand along a rock beside him.

The snow and hail had melted, but the rock was still cold—too cold to believe it was summer.

“Have you come?”

At that moment, the mill door opened, and a burly orc knight stepped out. Wearing black armor, he clicked his tongue when he saw Azadine was alone.

“Sir Azadine. It’s fine that you trust me, but keep in mind the hags are still after your neck. What if I desire the power and knowledge the hags promised me?”

Even if Fimbulhorde’s ambition to descend from Fireglyph and strike Saint Mallory had been blunted, he still had reasons to covet Azadine’s head.

But Azadine knew better than anyone that the threat was hollow. If Sir Sork truly intended to capture him, he would have attacked first. He wouldn’t warn him.

“Thank you for the advice, Sir Sork. So why did you call for me?”

“Interesting. Why the sudden politeness now? Did you come alone because you’re afraid?”

“Not exactly. You called me in goodwill, so I chose to regard you as a senior within the Order—at least for now, in this moment.”

When Azadine met Sir Sork before, he had been an intruder who flew into Sork’s territory. Now they were meeting by agreement, so Azadine decided to acknowledge Sir Sork as a senior.

“A junior with proper manners. I like that. If you treat me as a senior, then I should act like one.”

Sir Sork nodded at Azadine’s attitude and issued a warning.

“Fimbulvert has begun. For the next three years, summer will vanish. The Rescue Knights Order has lost virtue, and kings have lost their thrones. The Light of the Crown that protects Hubris is fading—indeed, in Vthuma and Korasar, the Light of the Crown has gone out. A crisis is coming for mankind.”

“Is there a countermeasure?”

“There is. Become undead. Become a body that doesn’t need food or heating fuel. That’s how we will endure the brutal winter.”

“…….”

Fimbulhorde—Sir Sork’s undead legion—had been created in the first place to prepare for Fimbulvert.

But the “countermeasure” being to become undead?

“You may be a lich, but wights still need blood and vitality, don’t they? When I tried using other undead, their bodies wore down without recovering—they just kept grinding away.”

To ordinary people, undead felt like invincible beings, ominous curses—but once Azadine actually commanded them through necromancy, he found flaw after flaw.

Becoming undead wouldn’t magically let you endure Fimbulvert.

“There’s a way to solve that problem.”

“How…?”

“Among the Ancient Gods’ relics, there is something called the Eye of Ashajit. A jewel that endlessly bleeds. They say one can turn a fountain red with blood, and two can soak a river.”

“Don’t tell me the plan is to turn everyone into undead and keep them alive by feeding them that blood?”

He tried to think it was a joke, but Sir Sork looked at him as if to say, “Why not?”

He was serious.

This man really wasn’t sane. Was he insane because he became a lich, or did he become a lich because he was insane to begin with? Azadine couldn’t tell which came first.

“You deserve to live. I can feel virtue and conviction in you. But knights who can’t uphold virtue don’t deserve to live as humans. Wouldn’t it be better to make them undead than to let them tear people apart and eat them? If we turned half of humanity into undead, food consumption would be cut in half, too.”

“…I thought you were going to tell me how to stop Fimbulvert. I expected too much. So do you have the Eye of Ashajit?”

“Regrettably, I do not. But I know where they are. One is in the Chadra Convent, and the other is held by a vampire named Griselda.”

“Griselda?”

“Niselda’s mother.”

“Ah.”

Azadine recalled Bernard, the blood mage, saying he had found the Ancient God’s blood, and nodded.

So that was how it fit together.

Was the “Ancient God’s blood” Bernard sought… that?

‘But is this because he’s a lich? Turning humans into undead, then keeping them alive on blood from some suspicious Ancient God relic… Is he out of his mind?’

No matter how eccentric orcs could be, the idea of “overcoming Fimbulvert” by becoming undead and drinking blood from a dubious Ancient God source was something only a madman could conceive.

Doubting Sir Sork’s state of mind, Azadine asked:

“Don’t tell me that’s why you wanted to see me—so you can order me to fetch it?”