Chapter 328: King of the Northland
In the eastern Northland, after killing the Viscount who carried a Holy Relic, Aen pressed forward relentlessly. The resistance he encountered from the nobles was not very strong.
They wanted to negotiate terms with Aen.
Aen himself was somewhat hesitant. Although he had already become a lord of the Northland, he was still a merchant by birth. For him, it was natural to consider how to maximize his benefits.
Accepting their conditional surrender was, in fact, more profitable.
It would avoid further war, allow him to incorporate the nobles’ forces, and restore strength quickly in order to resist the Fiend Army of the Lords of Annihilation.
Unlike Greenwood, where nearly the entire land had to be conquered in bloody battles—leaving the territory unified yet requiring a long recovery of population—the Northland was different.
Here, unlike the weak Fishmen of Greenwood, the Fiend Army was already positioned nearby.
It was precisely because he thought of Greenwood that he decided not to accept conditional surrender. He would only allow the nobles to surrender unconditionally.
This was imitating the Church’s way of handling nobles—squeezing and toying with them at will.
After all, Aen came from Greenwood. Even though the Northlanders had submitted to him in this chaos, how many of them truly saw him as a lord worthy of their loyalty?
Even now, Aen only truly acknowledged one man—Bazle Bell.
After Bazle advanced to Tier Five, he had still knelt before Aen without hesitation. That was when Aen judged him trustworthy.
So Aen thought, rather than let these nobles surrender conditionally and risk rebellion, it was better to strike them down while his army was still strong.
What amused Aen, yet seemed natural, was that after he issued this order and killed one Viscount and one Baron who tried to negotiate terms, the other onlookers surrendered even faster.
He suddenly realized that whether Northland nobles or Greenwood nobles, they all shared the same aristocratic mindset. The only difference was that, in the Northland, they had to be crushed with overwhelming force until despair set in.
After that, his western campaign progressed even faster. If not for his concern about rebellion from the surrendered nobles, Aen could have split his forces into three armies to gather territory even more swiftly.
But when his army reached the borders of two Earls, they finally stopped.
Earl Leonard Cortes’s lands bordered the Northwind Mountains, with the Greenwood York Territory lying just beyond.
Since the rebellion against the King of the Northland, his territory now stretched right up to the direct lands of Frozen Furnace City.
North of him was another Northland Earl—Brooks Burns—who, like Leonard, had expanded until his territory too pressed against Frozen Furnace’s direct domain.
Thus, the two Earls’ territories became barriers blocking Aen’s army on both sides. The only open route was through the unclaimed lands of Frozen Furnace.
Aen naturally dared not advance further. Both Earls possessed Holy Relics, and together their armies numbered six thousand men—at least Tier Two standard warriors. Beyond that, their territories could conscript even more militia.
Even though Aen’s army had grown to over thirteen thousand through conquest and absorbing surrendered forces, his strongest warrior was still only Bazle Bell, a single Tier Five. The Holy Relic seized from the slain Viscount could not be used by anyone.
Of course, no one dared use it. A Holy Relic was the wealth of Lord Aen.
Aen had witnessed the power of a Holy Relic and the might of Bazle at Tier Five. He knew his men could not defeat the Earls’ forces.
One Earl might still be possible—but two? Aen even doubted whether Odysseus could ensure his safe retreat to Greenwood.
And so, both sides entered a stalemate.
Aen’s ten-thousand-strong army, along with their support troops, consumed vast amounts of food every day.
But Aen did not care. Greenwood was wealthy, and since Bishop Jeven had not urged him to advance, that meant the supply lines behind him were secure.
Perhaps because of that stable supply, even during the halt, his soldiers’ morale remained high.
A ten-thousand-strong army—who in the Northland, aside from the long-dead King of the Northland, had ever commanded so many warriors?
Even if the King of the Northland were alive, he might not be able to gather such numbers.
The soldiers vented their excitement in camp, howling in the cold wind or singing warrior songs they had learned from bard apprentices.
It was the same song sung when Bazle faced off against that Viscount with a Holy Relic.
Although these Northlanders lacked the skill of the bards, their rough voices mingled with the Northland wind, making the song even more majestic.
They had grown fond of this kind of song.
And with it spread the talk of Aen as the “King of the Northland.” Songs like the “Song of Aen” and the “Song of the Northland Storm” began circulating.
Aen of course knew it was the work of the monastery. But he did not know whether it was the will of the Church or the Senate.
Not that he cared. His eyes were now on something in his tent, covered by cloth.
It was the Holy Relic of that slain Viscount.
Aen could feel its constant temptation. Had Odysseus not stopped him in time, he might already have touched it.
He did not know what would happen if he did. But he was certain—it would not end well.
So he kept it covered, and the temptation faded.
As if, so long as he did not see its true form, he would not be affected.
Unknown Holy Relics and mysteries were to be handed over to the Church. That was tradition.
Now Aen began to understand why.
He had even thought of gifting it to Bazle Bell, believing the relic too dangerous to keep—lest he never wake again one day.
But Bazle, though moved to tears by his trust, still refused.
He said, “I am your warrior. If even you are unwilling to use a Holy Relic, then I too should not borrow its strength. I believe that even without a relic, I can conquer all your enemies.”
Aen could not tell whether Bazle spoke from political understanding or pure loyalty.
But since Bazle said so, he could only give up and keep the relic under his own tent.
Still, he thought again of the Church’s attitude toward relics and mysteries.
He remembered—since becoming a lord, he could now establish his own church.
But since his lands directly followed the Church of the Sanctuary, tradition meant this relic should be delivered to them.
He made up his mind.
……
Aen feared the two Earls, and they, in turn, feared him.
And in the west, new turmoil had risen.
Marquis Moreno Reynolds had been cut down by the legendary leader of the Comrades Group.
Of the five Northland Marquises, two had been slain by Hode, another crushed by a Frost Giant, and the eastern Hoover line was long gone. Only Marquis Sain Vasquez remained.
But when they looked toward Marquis Vasquez, they discovered rebellion had broken out in his lands.
The First Gladiator from the arena had killed him. Apart from his wife—his daughter whom Marquis Sain had married off—everyone else had been slaughtered.
The next day, that daughter inherited the marquisate.
The very next day, while walking, she “accidentally” tripped on flat ground, fell, and smashed her head open. Thus the First Gladiator Joaquin Fenrir took the Vasquez name and became a Marquis.
The territory was in upheaval.
Joaquin was indeed the First Gladiator, but he was no noble.
Yet when Joaquin loudly praised the Comrades Group leader Hode—and when Hode himself entered the Vasquez lands—the unrest quickly calmed.
Everyone already knew the tale of Hode cutting through Marquis Reynolds’s lands alone.
Perhaps pushed by unseen hands, but the tale was true enough. And before such raw power, no one dared object.
They all waited for the meeting between Joaquin and Hode.
When news spread that they met peacefully, no one questioned Joaquin’s new title.
Soon after, Joaquin began raising troops.
He declared, “The mighty leader of the Comrades Group, Hode, has come to end the chaos of the Northland. The four Marquises who stirred the turmoil are dead. Only Earl Leonard Cortes and Earl Brooks Burns remain. I, Joaquin Vasquez, now respond to Leader Hode’s call: we shall kill the two Earls and bring peace to the Northland!”
Whether Hode truly sought peace in the Northland mattered little to the nobles and gentry of Vasquez. What mattered was that Hode stood with them—and their target was the two Earls.
With the Marquises dead, the Earls’ territories had already swollen beyond their old bounds. If the Earls were destroyed, there would be even more land to divide.
Even if in the end Hode became King of the Northland, Joaquin would remain a Marquis for political reasons. But the others—might they not become new independent nobles to fill the void?
Thus, they answered Joaquin’s call with fervor. Soon, over six thousand Tier Two warriors were gathered.
Joaquin then led them straight into Earl Leonard’s lands.
Though the conscripted militia had not yet assembled, no one cared.
Hode alone could cut through an entire Marquisate—how could an Earldom stand in comparison?
They believed that the speed of conquering the two Earldoms would depend only on how fast they could run.
Thus, they encountered Earl Leonard Cortes, filled with rage and fear.
Then Leonard unleashed his Holy Relic, killing over a thousand men outright. Joaquin, charging at the front, was covered in wounds, one arm blasted away.
They began to sense something was wrong. They hesitated—yet seeing Joaquin still roaring in defiance, running wildly, his voice thunderous, raising his one remaining hand with a hand axe to strike at Earl Leonard, they continued forward.
They did not believe they could lose. A Marquis fighting with all his strength against an Earl—how could that end in defeat?
So they kept charging alongside Joaquin.
But then came Leonard’s second release of his Holy Relic.
This time, nearly eight hundred were slain, and Joaquin was reduced to half a skeleton.
At last, they realized something was amiss. Why had Joaquin not used a Holy Relic?
And where was Hode?
Fear struck them. The sharper ones among them turned and fled.
Like a chain reaction, the entire army fell into chaos and lost direction.
Then Leonard’s soldiers, both furious and suspicious, descended upon them.
Without a Marquis to lead them, and with their morale broken twice by Leonard’s relic, how could they resist his triumphant army?
It became a one-sided slaughter.
As blood sprayed and morale collapsed, some warriors rekindled their Northland bloodlust. No longer fleeing, with bloodshot eyes they hacked at each other like madmen.
The brutal slaughter raged for a full day and night, until finally Earl Leonard emerged as the victor.
He was a Tier Five warrior, with a Holy Relic in hand. Victory was only natural.
But out of nearly ten thousand combined troops, fewer than a thousand survived. And those survivors, standing amid a blood-soaked field, were howling like beasts.
The frenzy in Leonard’s eyes slowly faded as he gazed upon the corpses and the mangled survivors. Aside from himself, this wanton Tier Five butcher, even the survivors were all missing parts of their bodies.
Leonard did not even know how many he had slain among the corpses—nor how many of them had been his own men.
When slaughter clouded the will, it could no longer be restrained by reason.
But he was an Earl! Could he really have been blinded by slaughter?
He was a recognized Tier Five in Greenwood’s judgment—a mighty Northland warrior who should have perfect control over his body.
Suddenly, Leonard trembled, and then threw down the Holy Relic.
Could it truly be that the savagery in the blood of Northland warriors was this cruel?
Or was it the leaking power of the Holy Relic in his hand?
Leonard abandoned his territory and fled toward Greenwood.
He was the Northland Earl who had the closest ties with Greenwood’s merchants, a friend of Councilor Bevan and Councilor Puniel.
The war of Marquis against Earl had ended with the Earl’s victory. But what remained were nearly a thousand maddened survivors, who knew nothing but killing. They unleashed a new massacre upon the land.
Only after they were exterminated did the people of the Cortes lands realize that Earl Leonard had vanished.
……
A lone figure arrived at the battlefield. It was Zeke.
Though some distance from the true killing grounds, the earth looked as though it had been ploughed.
Zeke knelt on one knee before half a skeleton, carefully gathering bones piece by piece.
“Joaquin, oh Joaquin… in just this short span of time, did you truly fall in love with that woman?” He sighed. “You could have chosen to survive, but instead you chose to fulfill the King’s task, planning only afterward to seek her?”
But Joaquin’s task had ended. What of his own?
Zeke carried Joaquin’s remains to the Vasquez family tomb, burying them within the grave of that woman.
He could still see her pale face, eyes closed in a smile, her neck wrapped in a Greenwood silk ribbon, unmarked as though she were a sleeping beauty.
Yet Zeke knew—Joaquin himself had struck off her head. And in that final moment, the woman had only smiled tenderly at him.
Placing the last of Joaquin’s bones inside, Zeke sealed the grave and disguised it well.
The Vasquez family was wiped out, and greedy scavengers would never abandon the treasures of their castle. Before the armies from the east arrived, countless thieves would surely plunder it.
After fulfilling Joaquin’s final request, Zeke departed eastward.
The western matter was finished. It was time for the Northland to find peace again.
He came to Aen’s camp. With him arrived the news that Earl Brooks Burns had been slain to the last man by Hode alone.
“This is the Holy Relic of Earl Leonard Cortes. He is dead.” Zeke knelt on one knee, presenting the relic to Aen—a sharp curved dagger, with a crimson line running through its center.
Zeke continued, “Marquis Joaquin Vasquez is also dead. Now the Marquises and Earls of the Northland are all gone. The Northland has no King, no nobles. This is the moment for you to end its chaos and be crowned the new King of the Northland!”
His voice rose with fervor, eyes blazing with fire, arms raised high.
Inside the tent were Aen’s key figures: Bazle Bell, his undisputed First Warrior; the first Northland warriors to join him, each now commanding three hundred men; the Comrades Group’s Ring members, allowed entry thanks to Zeke; and a handful of obedient surrendered nobles—kept, while others were crushed, just as the Church did in Greenwood.
And there were Odysseus and the Virtue Knights, frowning.
But as Greenwood men, they could not dictate Northland affairs. And so, when Zeke’s words ended, silence hung—then gazes grew fervent, until fanatical cries rang out.
“Great Lord Aen, new King of the Northland!” Bazle’s booming voice roared first.
“King of the Northland! Great King Aen!”
The voices of Northlanders were vast. How could a tent contain them?
Outside, hearing the cries, the soldiers first paused, then echoed them with burning zeal—“King Aen, King of the Northland!”
The cry spread like wildfire, through tent and camp and far beyond—as if the entire Northland cheered its new King.
But Aen’s face was stiff. Secretly, he glanced at Odysseus for help.
Yet Odysseus had closed his eyes.
Did Aen want to be King? Of course he did—this was the supreme power of the Northland.
But every night before bed, he muttered to himself, “I am but Bishop Jeven’s dog.” Those words both calmed and terrified him, keeping his blood in check.
This was the Northland, full of barbarians. He was a merchant—not even a lower Tier Two warrior. To become a Baron had already been more than he dreamed.
And now, to become King of the Northland?
He was truly afraid. Looking at those bloodshot fanatical eyes, listening to the shouts outside, he felt if he refused, he would never leave the Northland alive.
He looked again to Odysseus for rescue, but Odysseus still kept his eyes closed.
With a sigh, Aen straightened his face and stood.
At once, the tent fell silent. Even outside, the soldiers seemed to sense it—an uncanny stillness spread. All eyes turned to the tent.
Aen drew a deep breath, then raised his hand and shouted, “All men, pacify the Northland! I shall hold my coronation in Frozen Furnace City!”
His voice echoed in the tent, and beyond, faint yet unmistakable in every ear.
Bazle was the first to bellow in excitement: “Houuuh! King of the Northland!”
He stormed out, and all the Northlanders followed, singing the Song of Aen composed by the bards, donning armor and seizing weapons—without order, yet as if guided by his will.
Like a true King of the Northland, the entire land moved to his command.
Inside the tent, however, Aen collapsed onto his seat with a heavy sigh, legs weak.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty, King of the Northland Aen,” Odysseus said.
Though he spoke congratulation, Aen felt only mockery in his tone.
With a bitter face, Aen said, “That atmosphere—if I hadn’t agreed, I feared they’d have torn me apart.”
Odysseus consoled him, “You are now King of the Northland. Fear no one—bear the dignity of a King.”
“Spare me, Odysseus. This is the Northland. You know well—I’m just a merchant. Even a monastery apprentice could beat me down.” Aen gripped his chair, rising to his feet. “Now, Odysseus, I want you to do me a favor.”
Odysseus hesitated. “My task is only to protect you.”
“I am King of the Northland now. That title should keep them from touching me, at least for a time.”
Meeting Aen’s pleading gaze, Odysseus finally nodded. “What do you need of me?”
Aen pointed at the Holy Relic dagger by his throne and the relic beneath a cloth. “Please take these relics quickly to the Church headquarters, and report everything to Bishop Claudy. I will also send word by white dove to Bishop Jeven.”
“Then tell them: the lost believer Aen now seeks the guidance of the Lord.”