CHAPTER 68……………………………….
. What Is This?
Icecrown was thrown into chaos.
On the very day a banquet hosted by the lord was to be held, an explosion erupted within the inner castle and the ceiling collapsed.
When the townspeople rushed outside in confusion, they were met with the sight of the northern lords and their forces fleeing Icecrown like defeated soldiers.
The residents, who had no idea what had happened inside the inner keep, trembled in unease.
To sow even greater confusion among them, the northern lords spread rumors through their private soldiers.
“Valhar Icemaker has been assassinated.”
“The Vinehelm family has betrayed the North.”
“The Calamity of the Snow Mountains has descended upon Icecrown.”
Every one of those rumors was unverifiable, vague, and completely baseless—
which made them all the more effective at throwing the people into panic.
Some, upon hearing the rumors, hastily packed up and fled after the northern lords.
Others locked their doors tight and waited for morning to come.
At dawn, crowds gathered before the inner keep.
“Is it true?! What really happened?!”
“Where is Lord Valhar? Is he safe?!”
“Please, have mercy on us! O King of the North!”
“Glory to the Icemaker!”
“Glory to the Icemaker!”
They truly believed that the only reason they could live peacefully in that harsh, barren northern land was because of Valhar.
Indeed, Valhar had supplied food to the people of Icecrown several times—
provisions he had practically extorted from the other northern lords.
But to the townspeople, that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that they were fed.
How Valhar had obtained the food didn’t concern them.
Even when rumors spread that the Icemaker planned to rebel against the Empire,
as long as their bellies were full, the townspeople didn’t care.
To them, Valhar Icemaker was as good as a sainted king.
“Hey! What in the world happened yesterday?!”
“Why won’t anyone tell us? Lord Valhar is all right, isn’t he?!”
“At least say something!”
Thus, since morning, the townspeople had been shouting themselves hoarse before the castle gates.
The surviving Icemaker soldiers were all locked up in prison.
The only one standing silently, firmly guarding the gate was—
“…”
—Hog.
“Are we really just going to leave him there like that?”
Inside the keep, watching the scene through a window, Günter spoke.
“At this rate, a revolt might break out.”
“Let it.”
“…What?”
Günter looked at me, dumbfounded.
“What do you mean, let it?”
“Exactly that. I don’t care.”
Whether a revolt broke out or not—
whether the townspeople still worshiped Valhar as a saint or not—
none of it mattered to me.
My goal—revenge—was already accomplished.
“You’ve defeated Valhar Icemaker, subdued the northern lords… and now you’re just going to do nothing?”
Günter shook his head, clearly unable to understand.
“What’s your real name, anyway?”
“Esric Spelder.”
“Spelder? That name sounds familiar… Anyway, you’re still a noble, aren’t you? And yet you don’t want to claim any territory? Then why cause all this in the first place?”
“We came from Icerock.”
“Icerock—as in the fortress holding back the Calamity of the Snow Mountains?!”
While I explained everything that had happened so far to Günter—
“This won’t hold much longer,”
Ronan entered, grimacing.
“They look ready to storm the place. If no one goes out to calm them—”
“Looks like we have just the man for that.”
“Who… wait, you mean me?!”
Günter flinched when our eyes met and waved his hands in protest.
“I can’t! It’s impossible! What they want is the Icemaker! Then… send out Sirina!”
“Sirina’s still asleep. Sully’s watching over her.”
The magic’s effect hadn’t worn off yet—
apparently the Sleep spell had worked even better than I thought.
Sully hadn’t left her side for a moment.
And Sirina was the last surviving member of the Icemaker bloodline.
To parade her out just to calm the crowd would be absurd.
“They don’t need the Icemaker,” I said. “They just need someone who’ll ease their fear. You know that, employer.”
“But I—”
“You’re one of the northern lords. That’s enough.”
“…”
With no more excuses, Günter sighed and nodded.
“All right. A debt’s a debt.”
He trudged outside, shoulders slumped.
“Now then…”
Watching Günter nervously trying to placate the crowd,
Ronan asked me, “What will you do now? Revenge is done. You’re not going back to Icerock, are you?”
“No.”
I’m still thinking.
If I want to change this world’s perception of magic, I’m still far from ready.
My fame as a mage—and my strength—are both lacking.
Zeras Grim.
He made the original owner of this body perform the demon summoning ritual,
had me expelled from the academy to Icerock,
and even hired mercenaries to kill me in the process.
A magus who made a pact with a demon.
At the very least, I must become strong enough that even Zeras Grim couldn’t easily defeat me.
I still don’t know what demon he’s contracted with,
nor what price he paid for that power.
To reveal myself completely and make a name for myself—it’s still too soon.
For now, I need to stay far from the Empire’s eyes.
“I’m thinking of heading east.”
“The east… you mean the desert?”
“I’ve been exiled, remember. The less I stand out, the better. Like a rat hiding in the sand.”
“A rat?”
Just then, beside Ronan—
“Expose!”
A burst of blinding light filled the room.
Baaang—!
The shadows vanished, revealing a small puppet-like figure that had been hiding there.
Ronan instantly drew his sword and pressed it to the intruder’s neck.
“Whoa, whoa! Easy there!”
“…Vardo Croven!”
Raising both hands, Vardo glanced at me once Ronan eased his sword slightly.
“Impressive. No one’s ever seen through my Hiding before.”
“I’m more surprised you ever got away with it until now.”
“As expected of the man who defeated Valhar Icemaker. I acknowledge your skill.”
“…What do you want?”
“Relax. I told you I’d arrange a meeting, didn’t I?”
Ronan had already told me Vardo was the one who killed Drake.
“Breaking in secretly is your idea of arranging a meeting?”
“Please understand. It’s a sensitive matter. May I?”
Slowly, Vardo reached into his coat and drew out a letter, handing it to Ronan.
Ronan kept his sword up as he took it, then glanced at the letter—
“…!”
His eyes widened. He glared at Vardo.
“I told you—it’s a delicate matter.”
At that, Ronan lowered his sword.
“What? What’s going on?”
“See for yourself.”
Ronan handed me the letter from Vardo.
It looked perfectly ordinary.
I turned it over several times but couldn’t see what was so shocking.
“…You seriously don’t recognize it?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“That seal.”
Ronan sighed in disbelief.
Seal?
I looked again. On the letter was a red wax seal—
a lion’s face, jaws open wide.
…but I didn’t recognize it.
“Unbelievable,” Vardo muttered.
“That’s the emblem of the Raimond Imperial Family. You really didn’t know?”
“The Imperial Family’s… emblem?!”
At Vardo’s words, I turned sharply to Ronan.
He clicked his tongue.
“From now on, you’re banned from calling me stupid.”
For centuries, the Leonhart Empire had ruled the continent as one unified realm.
The Raimond dynasty reigned as the Imperial Family.
The lion emblem symbolizing that family could be seen throughout the imperial capital.
But engraving it on any object required the Emperor’s direct permission.
A sword bearing the lion’s mark could only be wielded by knights personally recognized by the Emperor.
Armor bearing it could be worn only by the royal guard.
A great medallion bearing the lion could only be worn by imperial magi.
And to the Emperor’s direct descendants—specifically the men—
was given a ring engraved with the lion.
That ring served as a personal seal, used to mark documents and seal letters.
It was proof of an imperial command.
A man wearing that ring walked confidently down a long corridor.
Bronzed hands bore numerous scars.
Even through his garments, the hard outlines of powerful muscles showed.
His broad shoulders supported a thick, bull-like neck,
and above that—a chiseled face.
Though handsome, his sharply cut eyes were fierce,
and the irises beneath them glowed a blood-red hue.
Running a rough hand through his short blond hair,
he strode through the empty hall.
At the end of the path stood a door lavishly decorated.
Without hesitation, the man pushed it open.
“Well, well. Look who it is.”
Inside, an old man sitting at a desk smiled faintly and rose to bow.
“It has been a while, Your Highness Prince Calix.”
Calix Raimond.
The Empire’s First Prince,
and the most likely candidate for Crown Prince.
Nearly every noble house in the Empire’s central region already supported him.
“I’ve come to fetch you, Headmaster Zeras.”
At his words, the old man—Zeras Grim, Headmaster of the Imperial Academy—blinked in surprise.
“Me?”
“How long will you waste away in that academy? Come to the capital, and lend your strength to the Empire’s glory.”
“Would this old man really be of help?”
“Don’t pretend otherwise, Master.”
Calix smirked.
“You’ve turned away every envoy I’ve sent, so I had to come myself.
The Imperial retainers and major houses already support me.
Bringing you to the capital will cause no further dissent.
So, as promised…”
Calix’s crimson eyes gleamed.
“You will make me Emperor.”
Zeras smiled.
Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.
“Understood. Then I shall make prepara—”
He stopped mid-sentence and turned abruptly toward the window.
He stared silently at the distant landscape beyond.
“…Master?”
Calix called, but Zeras didn’t answer.
Someone had just opened a Gate to the Demon Realm.
It was only for a brief moment, but he was certain.
A new demon contractor—or worse.
He, too, had made a contract with a demon to become a demonic magus.
He knew what that presence felt like—
and this one was stronger than his own.
A Demon King?
Who could it be?
No one else alive should still know the summoning rites…
And then a face came to mind—
Esric Spelder, the troublesome last heir of the Spelder family,
whom he himself had expelled from the academy years ago.
Could it be… not over after all?
Calix called again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,”
Zeras replied, hiding his dark amusement behind a smile.
“Nothing at all.”
