“It’s snowing.”
Aeren watched the small snowflake settle on the blade of her axe. Behind her, the warriors stood in formation, tension flickering in their eyes. The northern winter’s biting wind tangled their hair.
“Are you afraid?”
Aeren faced the approaching demons, their minions, and the warriors of the Kazalid Clan, their eyes gleaming with malice. Blessed deeply by the demons, each of them would surpass the average clan warrior.
Though they had drastically reduced the enemy’s numbers, it didn’t guarantee victory. Aeren and the remnants of the allied forces knew this. They had successfully launched a surprise attack up to Erik’s frontlines, but the number of warriors in Erik’s stronghold was far from small.
“Are you afraid?!”
Aeren shouted at the top of her lungs. Her rough, husky voice pierced the ears of the warriors. She turned her horse to face them.
-Whhooosh!
The wind scattered her hair. Like a lion with its mane raised, like a predator pouncing on its prey. Aeren’s blue eyes glowed in the darkness.
“Do not fear death! Fear only shame, dishonor. Warriors of the North! Our lives are already in the hands of the gods!”
Courage bloomed in the warriors’ eyes. Satisfied, Aeren turned her horse. The enemy was approaching.
“Fight with all your might, and stand tall before our ancestors! Better to die honorably in a moment than live a day in defeat! None of us!”
“None of us can live forever!”
“Good! Warriors of the North, descendants of the gods! Do not kneel before demons, before those monsters! Go! Charge forward!”
“Waaaah!!”
As she raised her axe, the warriors surged forward. The ground shook as furious horses and men charged as one. Forward, forward, only forward. Beyond the realm of strategy, beyond tactics, toward something narrower.
Tactical considerations, at least for now, in this moment, lost their meaning on this battlefield. Only a savage, pure charge remained.
-Thudthudthudthud!
The earth trembled as the two forces clashed. In this moment, there was no strategy, no tactics, no schemes, no plots. Only pure struggle.
“Yaaah!!”
Aeren ran with them, swinging her axe, splitting the head of the demon charging at the front. Brain matter and blood sprayed. Blood and flesh melted the frozen battlefield under the falling snow.
“Look at that, friend. Isn’t it magnificent?”
Loft appeared slowly beside Fernandez, who was crouched on a tree stump, whispering. Fernandez was staring fixedly at the frontline.
“That, that spectacle, is what we dreamed the Einherjar would be. The essence of pure struggle against demons, against the end. The most ideal image of warriors we all dreamed of before it all corrupted.”
“A fabricated ideal.”
“Yes, a fabricated ideal. We shaped the entire North to our liking to create those pure warriors.”
Loft spoke bitterly, his blue eyes glowing.
“How many of them will survive, friend?”
“…Not many.”
Fernandez watched as the warriors were chewed, trampled, and torn apart by demons. They scattered like moths flying into flames, powerless. Though they inflicted damage on the enemy as they fell, it was far from a fair exchange.
The enemy’s main force was approaching them moment by moment. This was a battle of time. A race against time before the forces thrown to hold Erik’s gaze were completely annihilated.
They had set countless traps to leak information to Erik and Bard that this battle was their last hope. They even threw Aeren into the frontlines. Seeing the leader of the remnants’ alliance appear, Erik would surely sense victory.
“Freya. How much longer must we wait?”
-Pop!
A small petal burst from the tree stump. Red. Not a positive color. Fernandez looked up at the cloudy night sky, lost in thought.
“It’s a time where death is common.”
“Wasn’t it always?”
“Once, death was incomprehensible, mysterious, majestic, dramatic. Before the afterlife turned from fear and mystery into vulgar horror. Look at them.”
Loft raised a bony finger, pointing at the demons charging at the frontline. Contempt overflowed from his eyes.
“Look at those soul-devouring monsters. What do you think death means to those warriors now? Vulgar, miserable sacrifices. Nothing more, nothing less.”
That’s why I’m just a powerless breeze drifting now. Loft shrugged. The birth of new life is always blessed, no matter the time or culture, so Freya’s power is relatively strong.
But Loft, the god symbolizing death in the North, had lost most of his power, crumbling amidst dwindling faith.
Compared to the absolute authority death gods hold in other cultures, it’s a pitiful end. Yet Loft smiled with bitter eyes, not despairing.
“Well, don’t pity me. If this is the result of our mistakes, it’s not an unexpected tragedy.”
The god of mischief chuckled and turned his gaze. The snowstorm grew fiercer, and the battlefield, now filled with screams and shouts, slowly disappeared from view.
“It’s snowing… I hope the blizzard doesn’t make us lose our way, friend.”
Loft said this and slowly vanished. Fernandez stood still for a while, catching snowflakes, his eyes closed. He thought of the lives fading beyond the curtain of night and snow.
“Don’t be late, Kirhas.”
Slowly, he made the sign of the cross. Not for himself, but for the fallen dead.
-Swish.
Erik swung his axe, cutting the neck of a trembling demon. The demon dispersed into black fog, scattering into the night sky. As he turned his head, a trembling warrior was dragged roughly and collapsed before him.
-Swish.
The axe rose with a cold sound. The warrior, shaking, grabbed Erik’s pant leg.
“Please, please! Send me to the frontline! This, this kind of death is too…”
“I won’t forget your sacrifice.”
“Please!!”
-Crunch.
The axe slid, cutting through the warrior’s neck. The warrior’s head fell, mouth gaping. Blood poured out, and at the same time, beside Erik…
