180. Interlude: Crisis is an Opportunity
“Kill him.”
“Yarl, Yarl!! Please, just one more chance… give me one more chance…”
Deep in the black night. A night where cold snowflakes fell sporadically. A warrior knelt, tears streaming down his face as he pressed his forehead into the snow-covered ground. Please, please… It wasn’t that he didn’t want to die. It was that he didn’t want to die like this.
“Shh.”
A young boy walked up to him. His black cloak dragged along the ground. His pale, youthful skin was covered in black, spiderweb-like scars. The boy spun a large axe, as big as his own head, in one hand.
“Besan. If I were to give you another chance, tell me why I should.”
“Yarl… I have served your family with nothing but loyalty since the time of your ancestors.”
“Your loyalty is a pitiful excuse for your incompetence. I already gave you another chance. A chance to defend your failure.”
-Swish.
The axe gleamed coldly under the moonlight. The boy stared down at the middle-aged man kneeling before him with dry eyes. He looked ready to strike at any moment, yet he stood still, as if daring the man to make a move.
“You bastard.”
The warrior gritted his teeth and muttered.
“Is this all my loyalty was worth? Just this! You traitor! You betrayed humanity!”
The warrior sprang to his feet, pulling a dagger from his chest. In one swift motion, the dagger shot toward the boy’s throat like a flash of light. The boy’s small stature made the surprise attack astonishingly quick.
-Clang!
But the blade shattered in half on the first strike.
-Swish.
Before the broken blade could even bounce into the air, before the man could even react, his arm was severed.
-Whoosh—. Thud.
The centrifugal force spun the axe around, finally cutting through the man’s neck and head. The boy, having completed three movements in a single strike, spun the axe once more, shaking off the blood, and sheathed it at his waist.
“Clean this up.”
As the man, now missing vital organs, collapsed weakly, the warriors behind him silently grabbed his legs and dragged him away. A trail of blood marked the snowy ground. The boy indifferently looked at the dagger fragment embedded in the back of his hand, then pulled it out and dropped it.
“It wasn’t an execution, but a duel. His soul must have reached Valhalla. That is the reward for your loyalty.”
The boy turned on his heel and walked away. His black cloak swept across the snow-covered ground. The warriors who had been watching bowed deeply and whispered. ‘Erik’. ‘The Great Yarl’. ‘The King of the North’…
Erik the Pitch-Black. The warriors didn’t dare rise until his presence had faded.
When Erik returned to his tent, servants immediately approached, removing his garments and wiping his body with warm, damp cloths. His small frame was covered in scars and scabbed wounds, so the maids’ hands were extremely cautious.
One maid accidentally touched the still-bleeding wound on the back of his hand. Erik’s eyebrow twitched, and the maid turned pale, prostrating herself on the ground.
“F-forgive me!!”
“It’s fine.”
Erik took the trembling maid’s damp cloth and roughly wiped the wound. The bleeding stopped, and a scab formed almost instantly. Another scar to add to the collection. Erik silently watched this, then handed the cloth back to the maid.
“Leave. I want to rest.”
“Yes, yes!”
The maids bowed their heads in unison and quickly exited. At the same time, a silhouette appeared behind him, as if fog had gathered.
“Kind-hearted as ever, Erik.”
“Baldur.”
“Haha, was that really necessary? Huh? My heart aches every time I see that little body of yours covered in more scars. My Great Warrior. Even if your heart were torn out, you wouldn’t die, you know.”
Baldur’s blessing was ‘Invulnerability’. A life without flaws, a life fit for a king. With that blessing, Erik couldn’t die even if he wanted to.
Long ago, when Baldur was first born, the great goddess Frigg bestowed upon him a blessing that no being in the Material World could harm him. ‘Invulnerability’ was a lesser version of that blessing, ensuring that no being in the Material World could kill him.
So, from Baldur’s perspective, what Erik had done was utterly pointless. A farcical tragedy, a hollow puppet show.
“Only in those moments do I feel alive.”
“Tsk. Mortals.”
But the blessings and curses of the gods are synonymous. The absence of the threat of death meant the absence of the sensation of truly living. From a very young age, Erik could only feel alive when he was wounded.
Baldur looked at the densely clustered scars on Erik’s left chest, as if chunks of flesh had been torn away. The heart beneath it likely bore no fewer scars.
It was unpleasant. The Great Warrior, blessed by the god of ‘Perfection’, should have been flawless in appearance as well. Baldur frowned as he watched Erik slowly put on his robe.
“So, what brings you here?”
“Am I not allowed to visit my Great Warrior without a reason?”
“At least you should have one.”
Erik’s words made Baldur’s irritation evident. His overwhelming presence pressed down on Erik. Erik, expressionless, faced Baldur’s anger with the same detached demeanor.
After a brief standoff, Baldur chuckled and waved his hand.
“How are things progressing lately?”
“Fine.”
“Right, right. I’m sure you’re handling it well. No successful operations, huh? Just chasing down remnants, even supporting their wounded families. Pathetic tribes, pathetic people. Haha!”
As Baldur sneered, Erik’s expression gradually hardened. Seeing this, Baldur chuckled.
“Of course. Banadis got involved.”
“…Banadis?”
“Yes, our dear cousin. The dwarves’ whore, the filthy half-breed… Freya Banadis. That woman has awakened.”
“One of the underground tombs we missed, then. We should have pried them open one by one, even if it took time.”
“Well, we were short on time back then. Not anymore. In fact…”
