Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 150

The Beast King, Varg, was the third man to stand at the pinnacle of the Great Savannah.

Because three generations of his line had all worn the crown, it was easy for outsiders to suspect hereditary succession. Yet unlike humans, beastkin did not consider inheritance by bloodline a given.

Being acknowledged as a member of a tribe was one thing, but to hold a position within it, one had to seize it with one’s own strength. The Beast King, the one above all others in the savanna, was no exception. The title was finally wrested away from Hackapel.

“Keugh!”

The Taurus chieftain, Bulls, involuntarily staggered back a few steps, his teeth clenched in frustration. The muscles that had never once failed him now meant nothing.

Before that overwhelming gap, his instincts froze. Even if he seized the axe hanging at his waist, it would make no difference. Varg’s might was already at a level beyond approach.

He’s become even stronger than fifty years ago... What a monster!

Swallowing dryly, Bulls recalled that day, more than fifty years ago, when the previous Beast King—Varg’s father—had died suddenly. The throne was left vacant. The law of the plains had always been the same: the strong alone prevailed.

At that time, Varg wasn’t even a Master. No one looked to him just because of bloodline. The pure blood of the Fenrir was formidable, yes, but he was still a youth. None thought him stronger than the chieftains. And so, the struggle for the throne began.

The Urus chieftain, who had openly scorned him, collapsed in disgrace, one eye torn from his skull. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

“Graaagh! H-how could a kid like you defeat me...!”

The Naga chief, stronger than most, also raised both hands in surrender, his body drenched in blood as Varg’s fangs closed in on his throat.

“I admit defeat. You and I are simply too ill-matched.”

As Varg brought down one, then another, then another of the chieftains, fewer and fewer dared to disparage him. However, not one of those battles was easy. Every victory left Varg broken both inside and out, his body ruined to the brink of death.

Yet without yielding, without ever collapsing, he shattered his own limits again and again—until he finally reached it: the realm of Aura Master. Having stepped into the realm of Sirius, so fast that he left even sound behind, he forced even the mightiest of the Tigris to bow to their knees.

Unlike the others, that man laughed aloud.

“Kahahaha”

Urakan, chieftain of the Tigris Tribe. A clan whose every member was a battle-mad warrior, who believed struggle itself was the essence of life. He was one of the three greatest powers of the plains, and once, he had fought Varg for the throne itself.

“Finally! You show yourself like a king! Yes, this is how it should be. If you would stand above me and command me, then you must be at least this much!”

The striped muscles of his eight-foot frame rippled menacingly. To a war-mad beast who felt death as a destination and danger as ecstasy, fear was no more than seasoning. Urakan chuckled and stepped forward, dropping one knee to the ground as he looked up at Varg.

“Now! Speak, my king! Tell us why you are so angered—teach us the folly of our ways!”

“If that is what you want.”

Varg gave a single nod and rose to his feet. The pressure radiating from him swelled even further, dragging groans from between the clenched teeth of the assembled chieftains.

Whether they suffered or not, he paid it no mind. In this place, the strong were he, and the weak were them.

“I granted you freedom. A Beast King rules, but he does not enslave. I would not take the chains that my grandfather tore away and bind them back with my own hands.”

The title of Beast King was both an honor praising Hackapel’s glory and a mark of liberation. The beastkin, freed of their slave collars, had called themselves vassals first, offering their savior the highest respect they could by naming him ‘king.’ That was why Varg had always feared to sully the title—why he had never used a king’s authority to oppress his people.

“If you want war, fine. Then claim it,” Varg said as he swept over the chieftains who stood with the war faction.

“If you want peace, fine. Then claim it.”

His gaze shifted, this time raking across those who stood with the peace faction.

“If you want to wait and see a little longer, fine. I can give you all the time you need.”

He looked carefully, one by one, at the chieftains who remained neutral, then cut his words short.

This time, the voice that had been calm turned savage. It was a beast’s growl.

“But to set my children at the front of your bickering, and worse, to meddle in decisions outside this council—I will not allow it! Therefore, the tribe that broke the unwritten law of the plains, the Bastet, will be wholly excluded from this council!”

His roar thundered across the grounds. The chieftains of the peace faction and the war faction alike turned pale, though in two different ways. The neutral faction, unaware of the details, could only gape in shock.

The balance that had been four against four was now three against four. With the war faction losing a vote, Varg’s words had all but handed the advantage to the peace faction.

Only Urakan laughed outright and asked, “Then, my king, what of that fool, Felis?”

Varg turned to him with a chilling look and answered, “He’ll be recovering for some time.”

“Kahahaha! Recovering, is it!”

Urakan could no longer hold back his booming laughter. In contrast, the other chieftains blanched.

He really beat him down...?

Lucky he’s still alive...

How badly must he have struck him...

Recovery, indeed—it was plain he had been thrashed so thoroughly he’d be useless for some time. It was fortunate Hati hadn’t been harmed; otherwise, the Bastet would have had to forget about this council altogether and needed to choose a new chieftain outright.

Only after that declaration did Varg’s pressure ease. The chieftains at last took their seats around the great round table, but it was already clear they’d lost control of the council before it had even begun. The overwhelming force and the declaration excluding the Bastet had shaken them twice over.

“Come in,” Varg gave the order once all the chieftains were seated. “Skoll. Hati.”

At his call, the siblings stepped forward—Skoll moving naturally toward the war faction, Hati toward the peace faction. The two sides, sitting directly opposite, glared and bristled with tension.

Even without the Bastet, the war faction’s tribes still boasted the strongest warriors. If it came down to force, they could still sway votes through sheer intimidation. At this stage, no one could say either side held the advantage.

That wasn’t all. Varg still had another card to play.

“Heir. Please come down.”

At his summons, Leon and his companions leaped down from the spectators’ seats to the edge of the round table. The beastkin stared, eyes wide, wondering who these humans were.

The chieftains, regardless of faction, wore open scowls at the intrusion of outsiders. The Taurus chieftain, Bulls, was the first to object.

“My king! Humans, here in the council of the plains? That is unacceptable!”

“Hm?” Varg turned a flat gaze upon him. “They are the ones who thwarted the Bastet tribe’s scheme and protected my daughter. The ones who asked for no reward yet still brought me news of the nomads. Do you still dare say they lack the right to stand here?”

“T-that may be, but...”

Varg, interrupting Bulls, called out, “Urakan.”

“M-mm?” Urakan, who had been staring at Leon and his companions as though enchanted, answered a beat late.

“I ask you—do they lack the right?”

“Hah! I see your sense of humor has grown in our time apart, my king.”

The war faction brightened briefly at Urakan’s jest—

“Guests of honor that come once in a hundred years. Their place is not to be questioned, but celebrated with all hospitality.”

—and were left speechless when his words cut against them.

Varg alone looked unsurprised, as if he had expected it. War faction or no, Urakan was nothing but a pure battle maniac. He had taken that side only for the promise of endless fighting. Now, faced with strong opponents like Leon’s party, of course, he would choose them.

“It’s decided. In the Bastet’s stead, adventurer Leon and his companions shall take part in this council, making the full twelve votes complete.”

The war faction had no choice but to swallow their protests as they could not go against Urakan, the strongest of them. When Leon’s group sat beside Hati, the war faction’s scowls deepened further. The council was only just beginning, but already the outcome seemed to show itself.

“Now, then. Let us begin.”

Varg smiled thinly, as though mocking their position.

***

As the saying goes, “It begins with words and ends with blades.” The chieftains’ council opened with a war of tongues—logic and rhetoric wielded to batter opponents and sway the neutral clans.

The voice of the war faction was Totuga, chieftain of the Urus, a bear beastman. He was a rising power, the one who had overthrown his one-eyed predecessor and taken his place.

“The desert bastards covet our lands,” he began with a deep, sonorous voice that was carried without strain, resonating across the grounds. “They begged our pity, and for a hundred years, we granted them land. And now they gnaw at it piece by piece, shamelessly stretching out their hands for more. How long must we endure this begging?”

Someone shouted, “That’s right!”

It might have been a plant, or it might not. What Totuga said was not entirely false. The nomads had indeed crept into the plains little by little, and after more than a century, the land they occupied had grown too large for the beastkin to ignore.

Even if the land itself was barren, having it taken stirred fury. And among beastkin, territorial instinct burned far hotter than in humans.

“War,” Totuga’s low voice rumbled like thunder. “Let us show those feeble desert chums whose land they have dared to trespass. Let them learn it was not weakness that made us yield, but pity!”

He roared and raised his thick fist, and the Urus seated in the crowd erupted in a chorus of howls. They were not alone. Those angered by the nomads’ trespass, those weary of peace and bored with calm—they joined the cry. A faintly pooled resentment burst into flame with just a few fanned sparks.

Of course, there were voices to douse the fire.

“Really now, do we need war?” Alice, chieftain of the Lepus—the rabbit beastkin—tilted her head. “A handful of hotheads itching for a fight is enough. Gather them up and make a show of force, and that should be plenty. Why go all the way to a barren desert with nothing worth taking, just to sweat and bleed for nothing?”

A few murmured assent. They bore no particular grudge against the nomads, nor dissatisfaction with their peaceful lives.

Unlike the more bellicose clans, these beastkin were content with the status quo. If there were profits to be gained, perhaps—but for no gain at all, they saw no reason to go through the suffering.

The third to take the floor was Basil, head of the Capri, a deer beastkin tribe of the peace faction. He pushed his glasses up like a scholar and spoke.

“Strengthening our defenses will suffice. Even if we struck first, the desert is a land starved of food and water. We would suffer great losses. Our power far surpasses that of the nomads; that is true. But there is no need to fight in an environment so unfavorable to us.”

He did not outright deny the war faction but carefully pointed out flaws in their plan. Those who had begun to nod along with Totuga’s cries now paused to wonder if the peace faction had a point.

The fourth turn belonged to Hati. Accepting the right to speak from Basil, she drew a deep breath.

She had prepared many words. After looking around the ten chieftains as well as her father, Hati leaned forward over the table, met their gazes, and declared something no one expected.

“War!”

The atmosphere in the council chamber flipped in an instant.

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