Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 149

After Hackapel had fallen asleep, Leon and Varg left the cavern without exchanging a single word. By the time they returned to the tent at the peak of the rocky mountain, the sun had already set.

The sky was painted in twilight. The sun, sinking below the western horizon, dyed the heavens crimson as it went down. Like even the most beautiful flower must eventually wither, the rising sun too could only sink.

A truth so obvious it hardly needed to be said, yet on this day it pressed heavily against the chest.

“Are you back...?”

Varg’s voice came cautiously from behind Leon, who had been gazing at the evening glow. His instincts were calm now, but one could never be too sure. Leon turned at that reaction and gave a faint, awkward smile.

“Yes, it was me. Did it startle you?”

“To say it didn’t would certainly be a lie,” Varg admitted without resistance, then his eyes widened, filled half with excitement, half with awe. “However you did it, I must ask—was the man who just moved your body... was that... him?”

It was not something reason could accept. If Leon had claimed to be imitating him, that would have been a dozen times easier to believe. Varg’s instincts, however, knew better.

The absolute weight of that presence, the force that had made him feel helpless in a single instant—it could belong to no one else. The blood of Fenrir and his Sirius in him both declared it so.

“You guessed right,” Leon said lightly, affirming the impossible. “He took over for a moment through the power of the Holy Sword. The one who spoke was Holy King Rodrick himself.”

“I see...” Varg rubbed at his brow with one hand. “So that was what you meant by ‘direct disciple’.”

Though he had acknowledged Leon as the heir of Rodrick’s martial arts, he had never accepted that title of direct disciple. How could there be a direct disciple of a martial lineage that had ended more than three hundred years ago? It defied all reason.

However, the moment he had brushed against Rodrick’s presence, Varg understood. It meant exactly what the words said—Leon had personally received Rodrick’s teachings.

“Once again, I must apologize. For doubting your words, for daring to oppose you—I have no excuse,” he added, his voice heavy. “Thank you. I cannot remember the last time my grandfather slept with such a peaceful face. It must have been at least five years.”

“That thanks is not mine to take.”

At Leon’s humble refusal of credit, Varg shook his head firmly.

“Don’t be absurd. You carried the Holy Sword and the Holy King here and came before me out of sheer goodwill. That alone is more than enough. By the blood of Fenrir, I swear this debt will be repaid a hundredfold.”

Among beastkin, a vow sworn on blood was absolute. And if the one swearing was none other than the chief himself, then he was bound to uphold it, even at the cost of his life. Leon, unfamiliar with such customs, thought it merely a formal show of gratitude.

Varg lifted his bowed head, his words catching in his throat. There was no avoiding the question he wanted to ask.

“I know it is shameless to ask, but... is there... a cure?”

Leon closed his eyes. It was a question he had already asked El-Cid before Varg had. Could Hackapel’s shattered mind be restored? The answer was clear.

—As close to impossible as it gets.

El-Cid, who had once been synonymous with breaking impossibilities, spoke with a subdued, almost heavy tone. The man who had split sky and earth, subdued dragons, and struck down Demon Kings now said there was no hope for Hackapel.

—There are three ways, and none of them are realistic.

Three? Leon blinked.

El-Cid explained in his detached way.

—Yes. But the problem is that not one of them is feasible. First, I could try it myself—touch his soul directly, cut away the broken parts, and rebuild them at the most delicate level. Something only I could even attempt. Even Kasim, the strongest creature alive now, wouldn’t dare. It’s the kind of trick that belongs past Master, past Grandmaster—another whole realm beyond.

If it were ordinary senility, it wouldn’t be so hard, but Hackapel’s case was different. Even El-Cid advised abandoning hope.

—Hackapel has defied the natural order. His lifespan was over, but he kept living. Body and soul fell out of alignment, and his mind collapsed. His spirit is fraying, barely clinging to his body.

Even if El-Cid forced a repair, it would break again soon after.

—Now, the second method: accept his death. Stop forcing his spirit to remain, and he’ll have only a few days—but in those days, he’ll be himself. Call it a final flare before the end.

That’s...

—Not something you guys can do.

There was no way Leon and Varg’s words would reach the current Hackapel. Besides, what grandson could bear to persuade his grandfather to die? And how would Leon ask Varg to do that, in the first place? It simply wasn’t an option.

—The third... well, this is perhaps the most impossible out of the three.

What is it?

—When mortals reach realms beyond their limits, their lifespans extend. My doggy’s only problem is that his allotted time is over. If his lifespan could be stretched, his spirit and body would realign.

Leon stiffened as he asked, You mean...?

—Yep. If he stepped into the next martial realm, he’d recover his sanity instantly.

Leon relayed those words, and Varg’s gaze dropped to the ground, heavy with despair.

“Which means it cannot be done...” Varg muttered in disappointment.

It was a truth known across all disciplines: the higher the level, the steeper the next step. Beginners could grow quickly, but veterans struggled to advance even an inch. Most never broke through the wall of Master, no matter how long they trained.

And Hackapel? He had long surpassed Master, standing only a few steps from Grandmaster—a realm that might take centuries, millennia, to reach. For him to cross that threshold now, in his state? It was less likely than a child becoming an Aura Master overnight.

Varg forced a smile, then looked at Leon.

“As I thought. If it were a trial that could be overcome, Grandfather would have overcome it himself. Thank you, Heir. Please, give Holy King Rodrick my respects.”

“Of course.”

“Go on, then. Hati is likely waiting below. Rest well tonight.”

And so their talk ended. Leaving the wearier-looking Varg in the tent, Leon walked toward the cliff’s edge. He sat at the rim and gazed out over the horizon.

The sun sank smaller and smaller beyond the western ridges. As though saying farewell, the last light shimmered, and the faint stars began to show. The day ended like any other, quietly. El-Cid, too, was silent.

The two of them sat there for a long while, wordless.

***

One of the few annual events on the savanna—the assembly of the tribes—began the very next day. It was the day when the twelve tribes, who represented all beastkin, gathered together.

Whatever was decided here bound everyone. If war were declared, even the peace faction had to take up arms; if peace was chosen, even the war faction had to lay down their blades.

Drums made from the hide of some unknown monster resounded with deep and loud thumps. With each tribe’s arrival, the unending rhythm pounded louder, rousing the spirit of all who listened.

The steady cadence instilled a sense of unity, of belonging. It made strangers link arms, made unfamiliar voices hum a common melody. Primitive music revealed its essence here, raw and unvarnished.

“Is that the Taurus tribe? They look easily over three meters tall,” Karen said, watching the procession from her front-row seat.

Following her gaze, Leon saw them too: beastkin with oxen heads and hulking, muscle-swollen torsos. Even without looking closer, their physical might was clear.

The Taurus. Fully grown, they were said to be strong enough to crush a troll barehanded.

“Hero Leon,” Elahan called and tugged lightly at Leon’s sleeve, pointing in another direction.

It was the Bastet tribe. With swishing feline tails, pointed ears, and sleek, supple bodies, they looked agile and sharp. They had been thoroughly humiliated by Karen, but that was because they’d drawn the worst possible opponent. Their skills were far from mediocre.

“Their chieftain’s not with them, huh?” Leon muttered in confusion.

“Yes. And the ones we captured before aren’t here either,” Elahan confirmed.

“They wouldn’t absent themselves from the assembly just to save face. Why, then?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Their puzzlement over the absence of Bastet’s chieftain, Felis, was brief. There were many others they needed to watch, and among the twelve arriving tribes were figures far more striking.

Like Urakan, chieftain of the Tigris tribe. His Aura was heavier, fiercer even than Hati’s or Skoll’s, pressing down on everyone around him.

He doesn’t look like a martial artist... but he feels stronger than an expert.

It was a strength closer to beast than man. The raw power and savagery of a predator born to kill, wielded without artifice. Leon had never faced such a type before, and he felt an involuntary spark of interest. Cultivated movements were efficient—but at times, the instincts of a beast surpassed all artifice.

“Wow, the foxes are gorgeous. No wonder they say they’re masters of enchantment—no need to ask why,” Karen said in awe, gasping at the sight of the Renard tribe.

Meanwhile, Leon cleared his throat awkwardly. Nearly all of them were women, clad in scandalously revealing outfits. Their long, slender limbs and languid eyes seemed to melt anyone they looked at. Old tales said that fox maidens of the Renard had toppled kingdoms with their beauty—and looking at them now, it was not hard to believe.

The one that looks like their chieftain has seven tails. The others have no more than five. Does the number mean something?

Leon’s eyes darted, watching in secret. El-Cid answered as if he were waiting for the question.

—The tails of the Renard are proof of their life-force and curse-power. The more tails, the stronger and older they are.

How many can they grow?

—Nine, I think? This one idiot strutted before me with nine once. I beat her into the dust, but she was stronger than most Masters.

That meant that they were stronger than Leon had expected. Though by El-Cid’s standards, all of them seemed diminished, Leon could not help but raise his estimate of the beastkin’s collective strength.

The Naga chieftain, too—master of seventh-tier primal magic—was no power the desert could ever withstand.

No matter what, I have to stop this council from choosing war. Otherwise, the sands will run red with blood.

Resolving himself anew, Leon realized that by now, all the processions had entered the village. The chieftains were emerging. At the heart of the open square stood a colossal round table. Around it, wide benches had been built for spectators—not just to watch, but to ensure there could be no doubt of fairness, no secret deals.

And at the seat of honor sat Varg, the Beast King.

“Take your seats.”

He offered no greeting, no pleasantries, simply commanded the ten arriving chieftains to take their seats. The rowdy crowd fell silent all at once. Even the wind through the air seemed to stop at his voice.

As if to prove his authority as Beast King, the pressure Varg released bore down on the ten leaders. It was the first time many of them had been so oppressed, and unease showed on their faces.

“What is it? Why do you not sit?”

At the center of the pressure that didn’t allow a single foolish movement, the man who created it all smiled coldly.