Chapter 317: Crusader (2)

Midgard was a nation composed of multiple clans. They revered warrior culture, and the concept of legitimacy was tenuous at best.

If a warrior had made great contributions to the community and possessed the ability, he could challenge the lord to a duel and usurp his position.

The residents did not view this as treason but as a Challenge. When a warrior and lord faced each other in equal arms, the entire village would form a circle and cheer.

Thwack!

The challenger’s axe struck the lord in the ribs. His exhausted body collapsed onto the cold ground.

“Khaah… I’ve… come this far.”

The lord lying on the ground looked up at the sky and spoke.

“This is it.”

He said the same to his former champion, the challenger. They had once been close friends who cooperated for the village’s prosperity, but their methods had diverged, leading to this day.

The axe blade had shattered his ribs, but his lung damage was not severe. He had enough time for final words.

“From now on, no one will starve in this village.”

The challenger whispered, kneeling before the lord.

“I will lead the warriors across the sea. To a place where the earth is soft, rain falls heavily, and the sea does not freeze.”

“Kaha… that stubbornness of yours! I’ll watch from above to see if things work out, while feasting on the Sovereign’s prepared banquet.”

Blood was beginning to fill his lungs. The lord struggled to speak and to breathe.

“Send me off, then.”

“As you wish.”

The axe fell once more, and the new lord rose.

“Yarl Sigurd!”

A warrior watching from the crowd knelt.

“Pay homage to the lord!”

“Sovereign, guide Sigurd!”

Everyone knelt and praised their new lord.

Caw—!

At that moment, a crow flew in. Even on this joyous occasion of a new lord’s birth, all heads turned to find the crow.

It was rude, but no one stopped them. Even Sigurd, the guest of honor, was watching the crow.

Caw—!

After circling the dueling ground twice, the raven landed on the dead lord’s chest. Not a common crow (Crow), but a raven (Raven).

“Oh my!”

The villagers’ eyes widened.

“The Sovereign has sent a messenger.”

“He’s inviting the former lord to the feast.”

The raven held special significance for the Vikings. It was the primary creature employed by the Sovereign, the chief god of Midgard.

While the villagers murmured in awe, only Sigurd maintained his composure. His gaze was fixed on the letter tied to the raven’s leg.

“My lord! You must not touch the divine messenger carelessly!”

When Sigurd extended his palm, the alarmed priest tried to stop him.

Hop.

But when the raven hopped onto Sigurd’s hand, the priest fell silent.

“The Sovereign seems to prefer direct methods. Not vague approaches like natural disasters or dreams.”

With a faint smile, Sigurd pulled out the letter. The raven even lifted its foot slightly, as if to say, go ahead and take it.

“Clever creature.”

Caw—!

When Sigurd scratched its head with his index finger, the raven shook its head as if bothered. When he unfolded the letter, his face froze rigid.

“It’s truly direct. Far more than I expected. Far, far more.”

At that same moment, similar events were unfolding across other domains.

“We go to Britainia.”

At the fierce Viking lord’s words, the residents cheered. They were in the midst of a feast in the great hall.

“We’ll swing wide around the left side of the North Sea. Land on the southwestern tip.”

“Brilliant! They’ll have no defenses there at all!”

“When squirrels diligently gather acorns, it’s only polite to collect them for them. Isn’t that right?”

“Those Britainian rat bastards. Small as they are, they’re quick runners.”

Contempt and mockery erupted from all sides. Not just warriors pounding the floor with their spear shafts—even women laughed.

“Do you know how long we’ve waited?!”

From teenage girls to nursing mothers, sturdy matrons and grandmothers all trembled with anticipation of the raid.

The spoils seized by brothers, husbands, and sons were the finest dowry. These women lacked slaves to wash clothes in Midgard’s icy waters in their place.

Caw—!

At that moment, all eyes turned to the hall’s entrance. A raven sat on the ground.

Flutter flutter.

It flew up onto the long banquet table and hopped along between the dishes, seemingly unafraid of the crowded people.

“Look at this! The Sovereign blesses our raid—”

The excited lord was cut off when his wife stomped on his foot.

“What?”

“Honey. There’s a letter on its leg…”

Caw—!

The raven that reached the lord extended the leg with the letter tied to it, as if to say, take it already.

“Well, well! Would you look at this fellow?”

It pecked at the chicken on the table, apparently gathering strength for the return trip. Children who had rushed over eagerly tore pieces and fed them to the bird.

“Hey, Ink! Come read this!”

Unlike Sigurd, most Viking lords could not read. A Britainian scribe who had been captured and brought to the island received the letter.

“To Midgard, which worships murder and plunder…”

“What are you doing? Read it!”

When the scribe hesitated, the lord lashed him with a whip. After a scream and the clink of the chain around his neck, he continued.

“To—To Midgard, which worships murder and plunder: We rise to avenge every Britainian who died at your hands…”

Dozens of familiars flown across the North Sea to Midgard delivered the proclamation to lords throughout the region, each receiving the strange declaration under different circumstances.

*

Some time later.

The powerful Viking lords gathered in one place. This was unusual for a people who constantly fractured.

“Rumors spread that the Sovereign sent his messengers to punish us. He is furious that we allied with the Kruger family, who betrayed our faith.”

A deeply devout lord spoke.

Unlike external civilizations where multiple gods coexisted, Midgard served only the Sovereign.

Therefore, just as outsiders viewed them as barbarians, Vikings also looked down on external civilizations. They criticized them for picking and choosing their faiths like harlots.

Some were critical of those who had been crushed in the civil war. They had consorted with pests and suffered divine punishment, they said.

“Now, look at the bottom of this letter. It says ‘M.E.Y.E.R. D.U.K.E.’ It wasn’t sent by a god—it was sent by a man.”

Sigurd tapped the signature line of the proclamation with his index finger. A few lords near the interior supported him.

“I heard Barcia uses birds to deliver letters. Isn’t this similar?”

“Yarl Innar, that exploits the homing instinct of pigeons. But ravens are sacred birds. Their only home to return to is one place.”

Sigurd pointed to the sky beyond the ceiling. He tickled his cheek with a feather the raven had shed.

“In a situation like this, I would say it’s a kind of magic.”

“Yarl Sigurd is right. My shaman read the thoughts lingering in the raven. It was manipulated by humans and sent to us.”

Lords with mystic shamans as advisors voiced their support.

“Magic! They dare to corrupt our faith with such heretical methods!”

“Divine lightning will strike the blasphemers!”

When the devout lords grew angry, Sigurd calmed them.

“This is a king who sends such a terse and terrifying letter. He doesn’t seem the type for petty schemes. He probably thought we would receive the letter well since we hold ravens in such high regard. If an envoy had delivered this, his head would have been cut off on the spot.”

“None of us would have gathered like this either. I also agree with Yarl Sigurd.”

King Skal, who had been listening quietly, spoke. He was the most powerful sovereign among those gathered.

When it became clear this was not a divine warning, several lords let out sighs of relief. The agenda moved to how to respond to this brazen letter.

“Then are they insane? Who attacks whom?”

The relationship between Midgard’s people and Britainians was a kind of natural law. Predator and prey. That was the belief the Vikings had held for three hundred years.

“The southern king is not a mere lord. Every noble in Britainia defers to him.”

“The scouts we sent to the Plunderer Archipelago have gone silent. Rumors say it was the southern king’s doing.”

Eugene was currently the most famous foreigner in Midgard.

-He must be a descendant of the Jotunn. He wielded an axe that could cleave even bulls, and it seemed like storms followed him.

-Even the warriors blessed by frenzy returned to their senses and fled.

The Vikings crushed in the Britainian civil war had spread his notoriety far and wide.

“If the southern king leads the invasion, warriors will follow him like grains of sand.”

“I acknowledge he is a great hero, but all his renown was earned on land. How could he dare cross the North Sea? The Sovereign will not tolerate the sight of revolting Britainians ruling the waves.”

Britainia had not simply endured the beatings. Occasionally, lords who could no longer contain their fury had pooled their forces for expeditions.

But all three expeditions had failed. The first was met by storms and became fish food. The second took a wrong course and vanished into the open sea of the north.

Only in the third did they manage to land in southwestern Midgard. But half the warhorses had died in transit, and the other half starved in Midgard’s barren landscape.

Losing their strategic advantage of heavy cavalry, they could not face the Vikings. They managed to burn one village before retreating.

“There is no need for a naval approach. The southern king possesses a magical castle. That castle loves its master so much that it moves its massive body. Always to wherever the master desires.”

King Skal glanced at Sigurd, whose eyes gleamed with fascination.

“Yarl Sigurd.”

“Yes, my king.”

“You alone seem unangered by our enemy? Or am I mistaken?”

“I won’t deny that my curiosity far outweighs my anger. A conqueror who travels the world in a magical castle. I can’t even imagine how much he has seen and taken.”

The Vikings were a seafaring people. Their yearning for adventure rivaled even their hunger for plunder. But the other lords’ reactions were lukewarm.

“That’s all nonsense. The castle doesn’t have legs—what are you talking about?”

Midgard’s people had stopped receiving updates from Britainia after the latter half of the civil war.

Those who fled during the civil war had only heard of the Moving Castle through rumors. Lords who heard it passed mouth to mouth dismissed it as fiction.

“What if the magical castle truly exists and comes to our land? What then?”

At Sigurd’s question, the lords drained their cups in one gulp and hurled them aside.

“We fight, of course!”

“Even if the southern king is formidable, the moment he sets foot here, he’s dead.”

Long-distance expeditions came with severe constraints. Even so, the Vikings had inflicted massive damage on Britainia.

But what if Britainia bore the expedition’s penalty and came to them? Even a monster like Eugene gave them no cause for fear.

“I would attempt negotiation.”

“Negotiation? After receiving a letter like this? Some things never change—you can’t hide your blood.”

Sigurd’s mother was a merchant abducted from Britainia. Some lords looked down on him largely because of the blood of a slave and a merchant flowing in his veins.

“Yarl Sigurd. A lord’s duty is to always face the enemy with courage. Now act in accordance with your station.”

Even the lords who were relatively favorable gave Sigurd cold looks.

“I am acting in accordance with my station. Considering negotiation even in seemingly impossible situations—that is surely a lord’s virtue, isn’t it?”

*

“You’ve all worked hard.”

Eugene consoled the exhausted Dark Elf witches.

They provided tremendous convenience in diplomatic work. Familiar magic was not limited by the homing instinct or type of bird.

Compared to pigeons, ravens and hawks were different in scale entirely. They could carry long letters and even small parcels.

“The North Sea is truly treacherous and capricious. The wind and rain nearly broke the possession several times.”

The young ladies’ long ears drooped, and their clothes were soaked with sweat.

“I prepared something cool for you. Drink up.”

Eugene personally distributed beverages on a tray, having tailored each to individual tastes.

These young ladies assisted Eugene in all fields—combat, administration, diplomacy. Behind his brilliant success, the witches who silently carried his words everywhere deserved much credit.

“My lord. I’m grateful for your kindness, but I fear this will become a bad habit.”

Sonadel, the leader, accepted the cup with proper courtesy. She was the only one who could simultaneously command three familiars. The faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes hinted at her experience.

“It’s fine. Before long, even if I wanted to, I won’t be able to do this anymore.”

“That’s bittersweet, yet happy news.”

The hottest topic among the residents recently was the lord’s kingship. Not a single soul opposed it, but the moment Eugene donned the crown, many things taken for granted would change.

“Shall we release the ravens’ links if departure will take long?”

Except for Sonadel, the witches could only command one familiar at a time. Since they couldn’t send messengers during the retrieval, they often cut the connection one way.

Catching large birds of prey was difficult, and the catalysts used for synchronization were expensive, but there was no alternative.

“No. Everyone who’s coming seems to have arrived, so we’ll depart soon. Have the birds rest in a suitable spot.”

“They’re clamoring with hunger.”

Only Sonadel had the control to hunt on their behalf.

Grrrrgle.

Gurgle.

The witches’ stomachs growled in succession. The familiars’ thoughts flowed back into their brains, causing reactions. It was not yet mealtime, but the constant stomach movement was quite annoying.

“They never do this back at the castle.”

“M-My lord.”

When Eugene pressed his ear near Sonadel’s slender midsection, she blushed. A witch of her caliber could block even the reflux of thoughts.

“Send them to some prosperous-looking Viking village.”

After pondering for a moment, Eugene raised his index finger.

“If they strut around looking important, they’ll be treated as auspicious omens and given food, won’t they? In Midgard, ravens seem to be treated better than most people.”

“That’s a great idea!”

The witches giggled and cast their eyes downward. Across hundreds of kilometers, their will was transmitted.

*

As the gathering of nobles for the expedition neared completion, uncomfortable tensions grew proportionally.

“What face do the Kruger lot have to show here…”

Nobles spat toward the great central family.

“They couldn’t contain themselves as knights when everyone else was setting out on a glorious expedition.”

“Put yourselves in their position. Given what they’ve done, if they abstained now, they’d be called traitors to their people.”

Only the northern nobles, who had no particular grudge, spoke with neutrality.

But not a single person challenged them to a duel or started a fight. Eugene had strictly forbidden every kind of disturbance before departure.

“Everyone, endure it.”

“But Your Excellency!”

“The humiliation you suffer now must be repaid with heroic deeds in Midgard.”

Count Cray comforted the indignant knights. He had inherited the position of Grand Duke of the Central Region after the civil war instigator King Kruger died.

“Look at the expressions on their faces. The moment a fight starts, they’ll be face-down in the dirt chewing soil…”

“Causing a scene here would be disrespectful to Duke Meyer. Do not kick away the final opportunity he has offered.”

Though nominally holding the same rank, they openly deferred to him. Everyone accepted this naturally.

Beyond gratitude, the gap in power and authority was too obvious. The sight of the second bridge under construction and the ever-majestic Moving Castle.

Everyone now knew that Eugene’s ducal title was a garment that fit him not at all. Many viewed this expedition as merit-building for his coronation.

“My lords. The sortie for glory and justice will begin soon.”

At Eugene’s words, the knights who had been glaring at each other turned their heads and bowed.

“I despise fratricide. When there is a clear external enemy, shedding each other’s blood is a tragedy. I trust this expedition will erase the grudges between you and plant at least a seed of comradeship.”

Eugene’s speech was brief. Everyone understood what this war meant, and they had already enjoyed several feasts.

“May fortune follow your paths.”

With those words, Eugene entered the Moving Castle’s core.

Ten minutes later. Countless Vikings in Midgard witnessed the lightning that descended upon their territory.

“Sovereign!”

“Father God is angered! We must offer sacrifices at once—”

The overwhelming majority of Vikings praised their god manifesting in the form of lightning. At altars everywhere, deer and goats with slit throats bled.

“Maintain vigilance.”

“Sharpen stakes outside the village. A cavalry charge cannot be stopped by a shield wall.”

Only the wise lords attended to religious rites while also preparing militarily. They had extensive worldly experience and knew that beings who commanded lightning existed beyond the Sovereign.

Caw—!

Caaaw—!

But even they felt fear watching the ravens that had been scattered across the land fly toward the areas where the lightning had struck.

*

After the castle gates opened, Eugene and his entourage stepped outside.

“Rex. How does it look?”

Rex crouched, plucked a handful of weeds from the ground, and popped them into his mouth. After chewing a few times, he spat them out and shook his head at Eugene.

“Not the taste our kids would enjoy. The nutrition isn’t great either.”

Rex’s “our kids” referred to the fairy race coursers.

“But there’s plenty of it, right?”

Eugene had brought the new family members—the Rock Steeds.

Despite their grand name, they were small and lacking in specs as warhorses. But having survived in Britainia’s harsh northern wastes, their appetites were remarkably undemanding.

They could traverse desolate wastelands and survive on nothing but grass and moss between rocks. Their diet and hardiness earned them the name Rock Steeds.

Crunch crunch.

While Rex’s horse sniffed and refused to touch the grass, the Rock Steeds eagerly tore into it.

“So cute.”

“Our beautiful ones! Sorry for calling you ugly.”

The tribal warriors stroked and kissed the Rock Steeds’ cheeks. The nickname “ugly” vanished quickly among them.

Soon, knights bearing various banners poured from the main gate behind Eugene. The clanking of armor created a tremendous din.

Grooan.

When the stable doors opened, the mounted knights dismounted in a swarm. Just the sound of their walking was enough to shake the world.

These alien sounds had no place in impoverished Midgard. They heralded the opening act of what would later be recorded as the Britainian Invasion.