206. Dispatch Mission Report: Ice Fishing
The pungent smell of ashes stung my nose. And cold droplets fell one by one on my forehead and cheeks.
‘Is it raining?’
Fernandez frowned at the droplets falling on his face. Drifting through the tangled concept of time in the Realm of the Imagination and being thrown back into reality was never pleasant, and his whole body felt as if it had been slashed by a sword.
And now, on top of that, it’s raining. Perfect. Fernandez frowned and opened his eyes.
A wheat field stretched out before him. Like a wheat field under the midsummer sun, a dazzling golden glow spread before his eyes. From the clear, sky-like eyes, rain was falling.
“Abel.”
“You’ve… been through a lot.”
Abel stroked Fernandez’s cheek with trembling hands. He got up, his body disheveled, and looked around. Flames were swirling around him in all directions. Yggdrasil, the great divine tree that had endured the ages alongside Asgard, was burning itself, announcing the end of a world.
“Your Excellency!”
Kirhas, holding his arm and supporting him, laughed. Her clothes and skin were stained with wounds and dust. The traces of hardship were evident on her body. He slowly raised his hand and stroked Kirhas’s hair.
“Let’s go back.”
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
Climbing down the burning trunk of Yggdrasil, the three began their descent to the ground. Stumbling, sometimes dangerously missing their grip. Supporting and guiding each other, never stopping.
Like human nature, even if they fall, they never stop.
* * *
Loft was sitting on a massive throne made of bones and skulls, spinning around and laughing. Beside him stood Freya, dressed in a pristine white ceremonial armor adorned with flowers and leaves. They sat at the highest row of the grand tent, looking down at the interior.
“Friends. It’s so good to see you after so long. Ah, Father too.”
“Loki.”
The king of the giants, Utgard. The ruler of the Jotuns, with his arms crossed, looked at Loft with a crooked gaze. His steel armor, adorned with leather and animal horns, revealed his solid muscles.
He spoke in a voice that echoed ominously from beneath his helmet.
“Withdraw your forces. It’s time to finish this.”
“On such a fine day, is there really a need for more bloodshed, Father?”
“Isn’t it time to avenge your disgrace?”
“My disgrace? Hahaha! Father. Utgard! You dare say that to me? My disgrace? You were the one who handed me over to the Aesir!”
Loft’s eyes burned with fury. The skulls he sat on rattled with his anger. Then, Thor, sitting at one end of the round table, slammed his hand on the table.
[Jotun. Yes, withdraw your forces. Do you hate the Aesir? We have no intention of living under your protection!]
“Is that what the other Aesir think too?”
Freya, standing quietly beside Loft, spoke softly.
[Banadis!]
“Though I was a hostage. Well, I didn’t hate all the Aesir. How can everything in the world be only good? Or only bad? I enjoyed the spring in Asgard in my own way, Thor. So believe me. Botan has given me half of the Einherjar, so I will respond with the authority of the Aesir.”
Freya took a step forward and declared.
“The Aesir have paid enough for their sins, and they still face lifelong exile. Come to Vanaheim. I can’t promise permanent peace, but I can grant you the right to live among the Vanir. The end has come, and the nightmare of Fimbulwinter ends today. There is no need for anyone’s blood to be shed anymore.”
The old man sitting at the end of the table, who had remained silent, looked at Loft and smiled faintly. Loft chuckled and gestured to him.
“Mimir, if you have something to say, speak freely. After today, we may not see each other again.”
“With Banadis’s Einherjar and Heimdall’s Bifrost in your hands, great king. You have now become the ruler of this era.”
“Like Botan was?”
“What will you do now? Conquer thousands of worlds and reap lives?”
“Oh, Mimir. Wise friend. Don’t threaten me.”
Loft smiled dryly as he looked at the lord of Helheim.
“Thor will inherit the throne of the Aesir. I have no intention of doing so. And as for the Aesir… well, let them scatter to Vanaheim, Midgard, Jotunheim, or Helheim as they wish. I no longer wish to be entangled with them.”
“What an irresponsible king.”
“Do I have any subjects left to be responsible for? My subjects are these guys.”
Loft tapped the skulls supporting him. The skulls clicked, their jaws snapping shut.
“The Einherjar, and all the dead. They need at least one lighthouse to guide them on their path. If the only choices after death are the cold hypocrites of the heavens or the mad demons, that would be too sad. On the long journey to the afterlife, which lasts longer than life itself, wouldn’t it be nice to have at least one ‘friend’?”
“Do you intend to become the God of Death?”
“If I must, I’d rather be a companion than a god. Don’t call me that, friend. Weren’t we comrades who shared the same boat?”
Loft laughed heartily. Mimir, the one who had devised and delivered the Ragnarok plan to Loft. The two strategists, who had used each other to achieve a single goal, looked at each other and laughed.
“Hail to the great king. You’ve grown well, Loft.”
“Enough with the flattery. Now, everyone. Great sovereigns of the thousand worlds. Pay attention.”
Loft clapped his hands and stood up.
“Now it’s time for everyone to return. The play is over, the curtain has fallen. The actors must return to their homes and start new lives. Even after preventing the world’s destruction and killing our enemies, life goes on. Utgard.”
“Hmph.”
“Withdraw your forces. Why not enjoy the snow in Jotunheim?”
“And if I refuse?”
“Well, the Einherjar, Helheim, and the grieving refugees of Asgard would all condemn you in one voice. Maybe even use a sword or two?”
Utgard slowly closed his eyes and turned his head. Watching this, Loft smirked and looked at Thor.
“Thor. My friend.”
[……Do as you please.]
“That’s what I thought! I’ll take the Bifrost. You take the throne.”
[I’ll take Jormungand’s corpse too.]
“I don’t know what you plan to do with it, but fine. Go ahead. Now, Freya?”
“I’ll go to Midgard.”
Freya stepped back from the table and smiled. Surprised, Loft tilted his head.
“To Midgard?”
“It’s been a long time since I left Vanaheim. What meaning would there be in me going to establish a new home? I’ll accept the Aesir’s exile, but I have no desire to start a power struggle for Vanaheim’s throne. I’m not suited for the throne.”
“Then what,”
“Alright then, Mimir, do you have anything else you want?”
Mimir slowly stood up and spoke.
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Do not use Bifrost for conquest.”
For a moment, their gazes locked. Loft soon nodded heavily.
“I swear on my soul.”
“That will do. Long live the king, Your Majesty.”
As Mimir waved his hand, a small firework popped and exploded above the tent. The giants seated around the round table remained motionless, silently staring at each other.
Loft chuckled. Stiff bunch, as always. It was time to wrap things up. He slowly rose to his feet.
“Well, I’ll take my leave now.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to greet the friends who’ve suffered the most in this matter. I wanted to throw a banquet, but with Asgard in complete chaos, that’s not possible.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Freya followed Loft out. They lifted the tent flap and stepped outside.
* * *
The night at Inquisition Keep is brighter than the day. Not as a figure of speech, but literally. The days of the Inquisition Officers are filled with quiet meditation, personal training, penance, and prayer, and these activities often continue into the night.
Therefore, the night at Inquisition Keep, with torches blazing along the city walls, is inevitably brighter than the dimly lit day. However, tonight—no, these past few nights—have been slightly brighter than usual.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the torch-lit corridor.
“Monastery Head, the troops are ready.”
“What about the Reverse Cross Crusaders?”
With the sound of papers rustling, Brother Enmagika’s voice resonated softly, as if in prayer.
“They are being deployed to the northern border. All deployments will be completed within five days, and they will enter combat readiness.”
“Where is the Order of the Bright Martyr currently?”
The questions came almost simultaneously. In truth, Beorn was walking while simultaneously calculating complex political, diplomatic interests, power dynamics, and supply lines in his head.
“The last report two days ago said they were preparing to march. They should reach the Widow’s Coastline within ten days at the latest.”
“What about the Eastern Kingdom Alliance?”
This was the most sensitive issue. A request for support from a secular kingdom. It was a matter of exerting influence beyond religious realms into secular society. Fortunately, the Vaitas Church had some leverage and justification to influence the Eastern Kingdom Alliance.
“King Vicente of the Dane Royal Family is personally leading the expedition. The Phaeirn Royal Family is sending the Royal Griffin Knights. The Dallas Royal Family has promised naval support, and the supply lines are well-protected.”
Now, the preparations are complete. Ready to sever the head of the Great Demon. Beorn also thought about the declaration he would make to his brothers, who were itching to charge into battle, as he walked.
Soon, the end of the corridor. The entrance to the hall came into view. Beorn gestured, and the attendants pushed open the heavy iron gates. The gates creaked as they swung open.
Ahead, in the inner courtyard of Inquisition Keep, fully armed Inquisition Officers stood silently, watching him. Beorn walked forward with a dry, expressionless gait.
“Brothers.”
“Brothers of the Inquisition.”
The Inquisition Officers quietly chanted in unison. Each voice was not loud, but their deep, powerful tones resonated lowly throughout the courtyard.
“We stand at the brink of the end, brothers. The brink of the world’s destruction. Some may call it the delusion of fanatics, but we have always advanced, staring at that edge.”
Beorn stood on the podium and spoke calmly. The hall was dead silent.
“This is an era where myths awaken. But not the happy, hopeful myths promised by our gods. It is an era where myths of apocalypse and hell, the kind that would appear in children’s nightmares, awaken. Hell is near, evil is rampant, and the righteous are fading.”
Thud. A dry sound echoed. From the crowd, an Inquisition Officer struck the ground with his sword. Soon, thud. Thud. Others followed suit.
“But shall we retreat? Shall we lament that human power is futile? We have sworn to bring the flame, and this conviction will burn until we are consumed. We are Inquisition Officers, and our end will never be peaceful.”
“Do not seek peace. I bring not peace, but a sword.”
In response to the crowd, Beorn slowly raised his arm.
“Indeed, it is not your peace, but a sword for the peace of the world. Brothers. Do not mourn the death of a brother. Only rage. Rage against the evil that has blossomed in the world. And… against ourselves, who allowed that evil to flourish.”
“Brothers.”
“Brothers of the Inquisition. By the authority granted to us by the Temple of the Gods…”
At that moment, the entrance to the courtyard burst open, and a man stumbled in. Startled by the stern gazes of the Inquisition Officers, he cautiously made his way through the crowd toward the podium.
“Monastery Head!”
“What is it?”
He was one of the torchbearers responsible for external communications. Beorn frowned as he looked down at him. There was no need for theatrics, but they were on the verge of the final expedition against the Great Demon’s resurrection.
Zephis had returned immediately after his mission failure and submitted a grand report on the destruction that had begun in the north. The deaths of brothers in battle, the sacrifice of the saint, the opening of the gate to hell. The widespread corruption in the north.
Upon reviewing the report, Beorn immediately requested the Papacy to declare a Holy War. Things moved swiftly. The military forces of the churches aligned with the Temple of the Gods were gathered, and support from secular kingdoms poured in.
Even the Temple of the Gods, after a long silence, sent down a revelation. The demons were rising. Indeed, since the resurrection of the Great Demon, the number of demon-related incidents reported to the Inquisition Office had increased tenfold compared to previous years.
In the midst of this, all Inquisition Officers were summoned. From those involved in operations to new recruits.
And now, at this moment when they were about to finalize the expedition, a letter from the north lay before Beorn.
Beorn glanced briefly at the Inquisition Officers lined up around him and carefully opened the envelope. The rough parchment envelope was sealed with a familiar wax stamp.
“Brother Fernandez…?”
Slowly, Beorn pulled out the document from the envelope.
[Deployment Mission Report: Ice Fishing.]
[Attention, Urgent Order No. 221. This document is restricted to Sub-Archbishops or higher.]
As soon as he read the first line of the all-too-familiar handwriting, Beorn slowly, very slowly, set the report down. He held his forehead and let out a deep sigh.
“This is trouble.”
He didn’t need to read the report to understand its contents. Zephis’ earlier report had mentioned that the Great Demon’s seal had been broken, and that the saint had sacrificed himself by throwing himself into the seal.
And now, with Fernandez’s report intact before him, there was only one conclusion. Either the Great Demon was dead, or Fernandez had fallen.
Either way, it was a major incident. And at this moment, when they had mobilized troops with support from various factions, it was unclear whether to rejoice or mourn the saint’s return.
“Lord Vaitas, show us the way.”
Foreseeing the political fallout that was about to hit, Beorn quietly closed his eyes and prayed.
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