Chapter 37
La to Balaka (2)
“Waaah!”
The soldiers erupted in cheers as they witnessed the death of the Wolf King with their own eyes.
The battle was not yet over, and many hell wolves still remained, but that no longer mattered to them.
Fueled by victory, the soldiers charged at the hell wolves without hesitation.
With the Wolf King dead, the command structure of the hell wolves collapsed. They became confused, unable to act.
Just moments ago they had moved like a disciplined army—but now they were nothing more than scattered beasts.
Impaled and slashed by spears and swords, the hell wolves no longer bared their teeth. They fled in all directions from the camp.
“Bessemer!”
“Bessemer!”
“Bessemer!”
The surviving soldiers chanted his name.
It was victory.
Anyone could see it—Bessemer had led them to triumph.
But the joy did not last long.
The camp was in ruins. Tents burned and collapsed. Bodies of hell wolves and soldiers lay everywhere.
Especially the soldiers—many of their corpses were in horrific condition.
Limbs torn off, heads missing, torsos split open spilling organs.
Even looking at them was painful.
“Move the bodies! Celebrate only after everything is cleaned up!”
Carlson urged the soldiers on.
If corpses were left too long, disease would spread.
Insects, stench, and other beasts drawn to decay would follow.
Restoring order to the camp was urgent.
“It burns well.”
“Yeah.”
Isaac replied to Carlson.
Outside the camp wall, a pit had been dug, and hell wolf corpses were gathered there and burned separately.
Unlike human bodies, the flames burning the beasts carried mana and glowed blue.
The fire burned far more intensely.
By now, dawn had begun to break.
Black smoke rose into the sky.
Some soldiers carrying bodies stopped and stared blankly at the blue flames.
“Move—ah?”
Carlson tried to shout at them, but Isaac stopped him and shook his head.
“Let them mourn for a bit.”
“……”
Carlson didn’t like it, but he obeyed.
In Wintervandt, even if someone who slept beside you died the next day, no one mourned.
Not because they felt nothing—but because they had to.
Otherwise, they could not fight again.
But for these soldiers, this was likely the first battle of such scale.
“Everyone has a first time.”
Isaac said calmly.
It was too old a tone for a boy in the midst of adolescence.
“You’re not affected?”
“I can’t not be affected. But there’s no helping it. You get used to it.”
Carlson looked at Isaac leaning on a sword almost as tall as his chest.
Without the battle they had just seen, he would have looked like a child playing war.
But Carlson had seen how Isaac fought.
How he controlled the battlefield.
How resolve rose from exhaustion and despair.
“Is that what Goethe looks like?”
Carlson thought so.
“By the way, where’s Bessemer?”
“I don’t know. We saw him kill the Wolf King, but after that…”
Neither Isaac nor Carlson had been able to pay attention.
“Now that I think about it, the Wolf King’s body is missing.”
“True.”
Isaac realized it as well.
“Bessemer? He went off somewhere while chasing the remaining hell wolves.”
“Where?”
“No idea.”
Isaac asked the soldiers and followed the trail.
“He was carrying the Wolf King’s body on his shoulder and heading somewhere. I don’t know how he still had that strength. The chief is the chief, after all.”
According to witnesses, Bessemer had carried the Wolf King’s body—many times heavier than himself—and left the camp.
“This must be his footprints.”
“Yeah.”
Carlson, sharp-eyed, found the trail.
Deep impressions in the hardened wasteland soil.
A heavy, dragging path continued along the hills.
“Carlson, I’ll leave the camp to you.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“Nothing special. Just taking a walk.”
“If you’re going, take a horse. I’ll call Hans.”
“No. I should walk alone. I need time to think.”
Isaac picked up a usable shovel from the camp and followed the trail alone.
It wasn’t a grand reason.
He was simply reminded of the past.
Of Goethe collapsing while he could do nothing.
Of carrying Jonas’s feather-light corpse.
Of surviving winter day by day in the ruins of Goethe Fortress.
Perhaps Bessemer was similar.
Perhaps he had been trapped in the same swamp of helplessness for over ten years.
The giant’s footprints led him clearly.
Isaac walked.
Hours passed. The sun rose, then set westward.
Eventually, he entered deep into the black forest.
Even there, the path was visible—broken trees and flattened grass marked the giant’s passage.
Cold forest air filled the space.
Birds occasionally cried out.
Insects chirped.
An unknown presence lingered.
After a full day and night without rest, Isaac was exhausted enough to sleep standing.
Still, he kept walking.
Finally, he reached a massive ancient tree in the deepest part of the forest.
Thud.
Thud.
In the dim red sunset light filtering through the branches, Bessemer repeatedly struck the ground with his axe.
Beside the tree lay the corpse of the Wolf King.
“….”
“….”
Bessemer said nothing even after noticing Isaac.
Isaac said nothing as well.
He simply took the shovel and began digging the soil Bessemer had already loosened.
The giant and the boy worked in silence, digging deeper and deeper.
To bury loss, grief, and longing, the hole had to be bigger.
Bigger still.
The sun set, and darkness covered the forest.
Bessemer lit a fire.
They both stared at the flickering flames.
The grave was still not deep enough.
Not wide enough.
Not enough to bury old emotions.
They said nothing.
But both understood what they were doing.
A farewell to the past.
Thud.
Thud.
When Isaac, half-asleep, opened his eyes again, Bessemer had resumed digging.
Blood had dried black around his mouth.
He had eaten pieces of the Wolf King’s flesh.
Among the Baitur tribe, it was belief:
Flesh holds spirit. By consuming flesh, one shares its spirit.
The Wolf King was dead, but part of him would remain with Bessemer forever.
Isaac picked up the shovel again.
His body was weak, head heavy, strength gone.
He had eaten nothing after the battle.
Still, he forced himself up.
One shovel at a time.
Even if he wasn’t much help, he did not stop.
It was respect.
Respect for Bessemer, who had fought to protect Binfelt.
Respect for the fallen Baitur chief.
Respect for a great warrior.
His hands blistered, split, and bled.
But he continued.
Birds cried.
Insects cried.
Hell wolves howled in the distance.
Days passed in silence.
Finally—
Bessemer drove his axe deep into the mound.
The burial of the Wolf King was complete.
Isaac looked at the ancient tree.
The Wolf King’s body would rot there, become food for insects, and nourish the roots of the tree.
How tall would it grow?
As darkness fell again, Bessemer lit the fire once more.
Silence continued through the night.
Crackle.
The fire burst as sap inside the wood popped.
Stars shone brightly through the branches of the giant tree.
“Stars fall, I guess.”
“…?”
Bessemer looked at Isaac.
“In the kingdom, when a great person dies, people say a star falls.”
“…?”
“Your father was a great warrior who gave everything to save his tribe. One of those stars must have fallen.”
Bessemer turned his gaze back to the fire.
Silence returned.
Eventually—
“I never thought,” Bessemer said quietly.
“I never thought I would be the one to kill my father.”
“….”
“I never thought I would still be alive after killing him.”
Blue dawn light began to spread across the sky.
“From now on, my life is borrowed.”
“….”
“Little young lord. I will call you brother from now on.”
“Huh? What?”
Isaac reacted in surprise.
“I will call the earl the first brother, the steward the second brother. So why not call you the third brother?”
“I’m way younger than you.”
“That’s a trivial matter.”
Bessemer said firmly.
Isaac blinked.
In reality, Isaac was older—by more than ten years.
But hearing it like this still felt absurd.
“From now on, I will follow only you.”
“That’s disgusting. I refuse.”
“That choice is not yours.”
Bessemer grinned.
Isaac, speechless, laughed too.
And he thought:
A new history of Binfelt begins now.
From Isaac von Goethe.
