Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 147

A chill wind swept across the mountaintop. Three members of the Fenrir tribe lay flat on their backs, and Elahan and Karen, not understanding what had just happened, could only stare blankly at Leon.

The first to rise was Hati. Perhaps because she had experienced it once before, she was calmer this time—though her face burned red as she strode straight toward Leon.

“You... You...!” she stammered, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Leon quickly pressed his hands together and apologized, “I’m sorry.”

“How could you make me bare my stomach in front of everyone!? Wasn’t it enough that you saw it once yourself?”

“No, it’s not like that—”

Something in his hesitant tone made Elahan and Karen narrow their eyes.

“Hero Leon...?”

“Leon...?”

For some reason, their expressions had turned chilling, and as the two drew near, Leon—who could hardly withstand Hati alone—floundered helplessly. Hati shook him by his shoulders with teary indignation, while Elahan and Karen, eyes glinting dangerously, demanded an explanation. Surrounded on all sides, Leon’s vision dimmed.

This pressure was greater than anything he had felt, even when dueling Kasim. The one who saved him was an unexpected voice.

“I see,” a low, resonant tone cut through and brought them back to themselves. “There was a reason you dared to call yourself his disciple. I never imagined that the true successor of that man would appear in my time.”

At some point, Varg had risen to his feet. His gaze, calm yet heavy, fixed intently on Leon. He, too, had heard it countless times from his grandfather.

‘Only the true successor of Holy King Rodrick can make the Fenrir submit.’ To think my grandfather’s words were true after all...

An Aura Master could control their body completely. Right up until the moment Leon had clapped his hands twice and clicked his tongue, Varg’s body had been “prepared”—ready to dodge, block, or counter the instant the technique was unleashed. That he had been unable to react at all proved it.

Three hundred years ago was the turbulent age when Holy King Rodrick roamed the continent, Masters numbered in the hundreds, the Evil Order controlled nearly a third of the land, and dragons emerged from their seclusion to unleash their breath upon invaders from beyond.

Even then, only a handful of humans could keep pace with a master of Sirius. Rodrick had not called it the art of “Absolute Speed” for nothing. Varg’s grandfather, Hackapel, had left behind legends of running faster than lightning itself at his peak.

And yet, I could not respond at all.

As though it had been inevitable from the start, Varg’s body was flipped over with humiliating ease. The conditions of the duel he had imposed on himself had decided the match. It was a complete defeat.

“I hereby retract my earlier discourteous declaration,” said Varg as he bent one knee and lowered himself to meet Leon’s eyes. “I, Varg, successor of the martial lineage of Sirius, greet the heir. Forgive me that as chief of my tribe and people, I cannot kneel fully.”

“No, Beast King Varg,” Leon reached out and raised him back up. “I only wished to prove my identity, not establish a hierarchy. Please think of me as Hati’s friend, and as one tied by an old connection.”

“An old connection...” Varg muttered, turning the words over in his mouth, then smiled, seemingly satisfied. Clapping both of Leon’s shoulders, he said, “Very well. I will respect your wish.”

“Thank you.”

“To think every word my grandfather spoke was true... I was a blind fool,” Varg let out a long sigh, then gave a bitter smile. “Still, even had I believed him, I could not have imagined it would come to this.”

“Haha...”

Leon could only laugh awkwardly. Who would have thought the word “submission” literally meant being flipped onto one’s back? Anyone else would have assumed it a metaphor—no one would have guessed it forced the body to expose its belly.

At last, Varg took stock of the situation: Skoll still confused, Hati being grilled by the two women, and Leon looking as though he had something more to say.

“Let’s begin with the reason you came to me,” he said to Leon, gesturing toward his tent, suggesting a private meeting.

***

Leaving Elahan, Karen, Hati, and Skoll outside, the two men sat facing each other. It was, in its own way, a curious fate.

The descendant of the very beastkin taught directly by Rodrick. The Hero wielding the Holy Sword, handpicked and trained by El-Cid. Two threads that had diverged three centuries ago now tied together in a single knot.

Had the line of Sirius been broken, had El-Cid not idly passed down his prank, had the first Beast King not left words for his heirs, Leon and Varg might not have met like this for a very long time.

Listening carefully to Leon’s account, Varg nodded.

“I see... Driving the nomads into a corner to provoke war? It’s a petty trick, but, at the same time, it’s quite the threat.”

Compared to proper nations, both the Great Savannah and the Great Desert lacked scale. However, their military strength was formidable.

If the two powers truly clashed, it would not stop until rivers of blood flowed and one side was annihilated. Whoever emerged victorious, the land would be drenched in carnage.

“I understand. Their aim is not victory or defeat, but to spark war itself.”

“Yes. That is why we need your help—help of the King.”

Varg seemed to guess Leon’s intent.

“Hm. You are asking me to suppress the war faction?”

As Beast King, he had thus far maintained neutrality, but that principle was not absolute. If given just cause, he could wield his authority.

And Varg was strong. Even Urakan, chieftain of the Tiger tribe and proud strongest among beastkin, did not dare challenge him. If Varg declared for peace, the war faction would grumble but ultimately fall silent.

“Indeed, if I insisted, none would dare oppose me. However.” Varg added, “Such a method would not secure your standing. If I simply smothered the war faction with my authority, it would all be meaningless should the Bedouins strike first. It would be a shortsighted solution.”

“Then...?”

“Try a frontal breakthrough. At the chieftains’ assembly, with Hati at your side, turn the flow toward peace. Convince the war faction to accept it.”

Leon frowned slightly and asked, “But we are outsiders. Can we even participate in such a meeting?”

Varg bared his fangs in a grin.

“I will grant you permission with my authority. The people of the plains are swayed more by strength than by fine words. If you and your companions prove yourselves in the assembly, no one will dare disrupt it with petty objections.”

Leon hesitated. From what Hati had told him, such “assemblies” were anything but gentle. They began with words, but often ended with bloodied bodies staggering away. If words failed, they settled disputes with force—it was a savage form of debate.

Leon made his decision and accepted the proposal.

“Understood. I’ll attend the assembly and try to turn the tide.”

“Good.”

With a satisfied expression, Varg turned toward the outside and shouted, “Skoll! Hati! Bring our guests inside!”

At his call, the twins entered the tent with Elahan and Karen in tow, wearing awkward looks. That day had been nothing but firsts for them.

They saw their father, who had always been as high as the sky, lowering himself before a human. He had also sent the two of them out so he could speak privately with that same human. However, regardless of their surprise, Varg addressed his children in his usual stern voice.

“Skoll.”

“Eh? I—I mean, yes, Father.”

“Go back and prepare for the assembly. And tell Felis I’ll visit him later.”

“I’ll deliver the message...”

The weight of a tone that allowed no refusal forced Skoll to wipe cold sweat from his brow as he bowed out of the tent. Varg watched him leave to the end, then called again.

“Hati.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Escort our guests to their quarters for the night. I still have matters to discuss with the heir. Once we finish, I’ll summon you again.”

“As you command, Father.”

Hati accepted without a word of protest. Karen and Elahan, on the other hand, glanced at Leon, but when he signaled them to go ahead, they turned without argument—though both silently resolved to demand a full explanation later.

And so, the mountaintop was left with only two men. Once Elahan and Karen’s presences had faded, Varg rose from his seat. His face was darker than before, his voice deeper, heavy with something grim.

“There is one more request I wish to make of you,” Varg said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Leon caught the weight in his tone, understanding right away what he meant. “Hackapel...?”

Varg groaned low and nodded. “Mm. You’ve heard about him from Hati, I assume?”

“Yes. That his mind is no longer whole...”

“Sadly, it’s true. He doesn’t rage or run wild, but he’s always lost, wandering in the past.”

It had been ten years. Since he was a boy with a tail barely grown, Varg had listened to his grandfather’s tales of glory. To see Hackapel, the hero he idolized, lost in old memories, was nothing short of agony.

The moment before Rodrick saved him, when he lost his family. His grandfather would regress, sobbing like a child, the strength he had built as a warrior rendered meaningless.

The moment he first stood on a battlefield and struck down an enemy. He would puff up proudly, gaze into empty air, and demand praise from people long gone.

“It was more painful than I could ever have imagined.”

Varg’s brow furrowed deeply. From childhood, Hackapel had been the man he revered—the beastkin’s very own hero, the one who had made the savanna their sanctuary. And now he could not even recognize his own grandson’s face.

—Dummy, El-Cid muttered, his voice unusually heavy.

“Still... seeing you, I can’t let go of hope. If there’s even the slightest chance he could come to his senses, then I...” Varg trailed off.

“Where is he now?” Leon asked.

Leon’s reply, as good as consent, made Varg’s eyes widen. Rather than answer with words, he turned his gaze toward the corner of the tent, where a hide of some great beast hung on the wall. Leon looked at him in disbelief.

“Follow me.”

Both men rose and walked toward it. Varg pushed aside the hide, revealing the mouth of a tunnel behind it.

“I couldn’t leave him outside my sight. So I made my dwelling here on this mountain and hollowed out a cavern inside for my grandfather to live in.”

“...”

“That’s also why I haven’t been able to move about freely. With him here, I couldn’t stray too far.”

As Beast King, it was not what one would call admirable. Leon, however, fully understood. To the Fenrir, Hackapel was a living legend, the savior who had freed their people from slavery across the continent.

And for Varg, he was not only his grandfather, but also his teacher in Sirius. Even if it meant neglecting some duties as chieftain, he could not help but stay close.

Their footsteps echoed through the cave. Unlike a natural cavern, Hackapel’s dwelling was completely dry. Perhaps Varg had carved ventilation shafts somewhere.

Leon unconsciously invoked Spacework. Each time his foot struck the ground, vibrations spread outward, returning faint reflections. Stone lay tightly reflected back cleanly. Much better than sand.

Ah.

Leon sensed the presence. Dozens of meters ahead. A living being touched by the wave. Varg too shifted his demeanor, having felt the presence.

Every time they visited, his grandfather had been someone different. Sometimes, Varg had become his comrade-in-arms. Sometimes, the brother he had lost. Sometimes, the sibling of his grandmother, whose name he had forgotten.

Who will he be today? Varg asked himself.

Thanks to their blood, Hackapel had never once taken Varg for an enemy. To beastkin, blood kin could never be mistaken—their scent, their voice, was undeniable.

Then, the voice came.

“Who goes there?”

A voice rang from deep within the cave, and both men stopped. Varg opened his mouth to answer, but before he could—

“Rick, brother, did you call for me?”

Someone was suddenly at Leon’s back. No disturbance in sound nor space. A movement that transcended even an Aura Master’s perception.

He asked in a voice as fleeting as the wind. Leon froze, but Varg, who had endured it many times before, turned and spoke.

“It has been too long, Grandfather.”

As always, Hackapel did not recognize him.