Chapter 325: Hero's Tomb (1)

The Britannian invasion also entered a temporary lull.

The expedition had swept through villages like locusts, and only the lords who had surrendered and allied with Eugene retained their villages.

The only remaining prey was under King Skal’s protection. With a powerful coalition front formed, it was impossible to proceed without Eugene’s main force.

“This is as far as we go. Return to the Moving Castle and rest the troops. Sell off the spoils too.”

“Yes sir! When Skal falls, the real money celebration begins. We can’t be weak then.”

Nobles and mercenary captains withdrew their forces with satisfied expressions. Both sides were making their final power plays before the decisive battle. The one who gained more from this was clearly Eugene.

“Can he really win this?”

“He must be able to—that’s why the lords joined him. If it’s Sigurd’s judgment, it’s worth trusting. I’ve never seen anyone so cautious in my life.”

As a foreigner, he needed time to bring the converts under control.

-Choose! Surrender or burn!

Many lords, seeing the current situation as an opportunity rather than a threat, had surrendered simply to preserve their lives and territories. Outwardly they bowed, but they were suspicious in many ways.

To reduce the possibility of defection during battle and make them fight more fervently, some kind of assurance was needed.

‘He said he had no intention of staying to rule? Then the land of those swept away by war…’

‘This man is far more terrifying than Skal and the like.’

He needed to inspire through gain or crush through fear. And the Moving Castle gave bonus points on both fronts.

“The King of the South lives here? Indeed! This is what a true palace looks like.”

A group of lords who arrived to swear oaths didn’t enter the hall immediately. They touched the immortal walls and looked up at the dizzying heights.

“I wonder what Skal’s reaction would be seeing this? He’s always spouting ‘By the king’s command!’ all the time! And yet he lives in a wooden mansion just like ours?”

“I want to show this to Knut instead. That smug look on his face whenever he brags about his city walls at banquets.”

“He’s probably enjoying a feast in Valhalla now. Killed by the king’s axe.”

The Moving Castle itself inspired faith. Whether they came willingly or were forced, it told them their bet was the right choice.

“Who built this, I wonder?”

“Obviously the Ancient Kingdom. Who else could build mountains from bricks?”

It was natural for the Moving Castle to intimidate visitors, but for Vikings, the meaning was special.

The Hall of the Gods.

The Hall of Glory.

The resting place of ancestors.

It resembled the image of Valhalla they had heard countless times since childhood in many ways.

Rumble-!

The sight of the massive gate opening on its own to receive the warriors—it was a kind of experiential learning. For the day when they would nobly fall on the battlefield and go to meet their ancestors.

*

The lords who had offered blood oaths to Eugene gathered for a luncheon together.

“I may not be old, but my life experience rivals anyone’s. And in my opinion, few peoples are as blessed warriors as the Vikings. Your physique, strength, ferocity, and indomitable will.”

The lords around the table bowed at Eugene’s assessment.

“But no matter how well you fight, it matters who and what you fight for. Over the past 300 years, your choices have not been appropriate, so from now on I will decide. That alone is the contract between us.”

Eugene, respecting Midgard’s traditions, did not demand the same loyalty oath as in Britannia.

-Your Excellency. The completion of conquest is collecting taxes. We must remind these barbarians each year who their master is.

-The money collected from barren land would be pocket change. Taxing across the sea would only breed rebellion for no reason, so forget it.

Naturally, there was no vassal contract and no obligation to pay taxes. He judged the drawbacks outweighed the benefits.

Eugene held up the still-wet oath documents, and the Bargeant lords displayed their wounded areas to Eugene.

“I swear.”

“I will remember this promise with my last drop of blood.”

They had all stamped it with their blood.

“Then let’s have a pleasant meal?”

When Eugene rang the golden bell, attendants served food. There were none of the skewered roasted meats that Viking lords typically served. Dryness and toughness were not Eugene’s options.

“I considered serving Midgard’s food to respect your traditions, but decided against it. You all eat it regularly anyway.”

Veal steaks were placed before the lords.

In Midgard, beef was a rare food seen only at harvest festivals. A veal dish was something even a lord couldn’t see unless an unfortunate death occurred.

Beside the steaks were croissants and fresh green grapes. Everyone eagerly picked up their forks.

“Count. While there are many things, our food culture deserves at least this much respect.”

“Absolutely! I love Britannia! I always have, but now I love it even more!”

Eugene gave a wry smile.

“From now on, express it as ‘I love Britannia’s culture.’ When you say it, it sounds somewhat terrifying.”

“Ahahahaha!”

“What could possibly frighten the Count? Our axes will split all of the Count’s enemies.”

When Eugene raised his glass, everyone toasted together.

“I didn’t know what everyone would like, so I prepared various kinds. Choose to your taste.”

Glass bottles of wine, beer, mead, and cider stood on the table. Grapes, barley, honeycombs, and apples were embossed around the transparent containers, allowing instant identification without smelling.

It was the mark of a truly high-class banquet to inspire wonder and admiration even in such small details.

“From today, I will no longer call Skal ‘king.'”

“The difference is too much—this is just…”

Military power, dignity, armies, wealth, and the castle.

In the hearts of the lords reborn as Bargeant, the qualifications required to be called ‘king’ had risen immeasurably.

“Your Excellency. My late father always taught me that honesty was the greatest virtue.”

“You had an excellent father.”

“Therefore, on this joyous day, I must first offer my apology.”

“Oh?”

“When I heard of the Count’s achievements, I harbored doubt. How could a single man defeat those monsters one after another? But today, seeing the trophies displayed in the hall, I learned it was true.”

It wasn’t just his own life at stake—his family’s and village’s future hung in the balance. No matter how impressive the Moving Castle, the more elements that inspired confidence, the better.

Trophies displayed beyond the main hall—demons and champions who had once threatened the world but were now reduced to spoils—captured the Vikings’ attention immediately.

“It was no fault from the start, so there’s no need to grant forgiveness. As a Jarl, you should naturally possess such prudence and honesty.”

“Um, so about that…”

The lord who spoke swallowed nervously. Seeing the anticipation flooding his face, Eugene could guess what he was about to say.

“You want to see the Hydra in the Bone Museum?”

“How did you know?!”

“Based on the reactions of guests who’ve seen the hall’s trophies, you all have the same expression when you bring it up. I’d be a fool not to know.”

After the meal, Eugene led the lords on a tour. The burly, rough-looking men with wild beards followed docilely. Their hearts pounded like those of young girls, impossible to contain.

“It’s a dragon.”

“They truly felled an immortal dragon.”

The Vikings who entered the museum stared up with blank faces. Skulls ferocious enough to swallow bulls whole glowered at them—and there were seven of them.

Monsters called dragons due to their resemblance to dragons or their power were numerous. Even Sandworms, technically insects, were called earth dragons. Sandworms differed from dragons starting at the taxonomic rank of class, the second level.

And among creatures granted the title of dragon, the Hydra was universally placed at the very top. Subjugation at the national level was standard practice, and merely driving them away was considered an achievement.

“Your Excellency, the feat of slaying a dragon holds great meaning for us Midgardians.”

“Because of your mythology, I imagine. The great serpent that will one day lead the world’s end.”

Conservative lords nodded with satisfaction. Midgard was a region where faith and mythology coexisted. Knowing these legends well was considered a sign of respect for the faith.

“I know well the region where King Skal’s army is stationed. Please entrust the guide role to me.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I have no intention of walking there.”

After a moment of confusion, the lords grasped the meaning and laughed heartily.

*

Eugene tried to win the hearts of the lords who had joined. There were many ways to treat people who had lived in rural areas generously, but there was one area where he fell short of Skal.

Only in boosting morale through human sacrifice could Skal not be matched.

“Today, we offer a sacrifice to the Sovereign against those vicious invaders!”

The gathered Vikings cheered at Skal’s words, axe in hand.

A specially selected naked young man stepped forward. His body was covered in ritual tattoos, and his expression was reverent.

“Do not fear. From today, you will live eternally in the dwelling of the gods.”

“I will tell the Sovereign to watch over this glorious battle.”

The role of sacred messenger was not for just anyone. Physical health was required, even minor disabilities were not tolerated, and one had to be freeborn.

“Kneel.”

Kneel.

The word a ruler spoke when granting glory to a subject.

In civilized cultures like Britannia, Barcia, or Roman, it was used to signify a new beginning, but in Midgard it was used to signify an end.

The young man knelt and placed his head in a wooden block resembling a mortar. A wooden pipe was connected to the bottom.

“Receive this noble youth into your embrace and grant us victory.”

Skal’s axe flashed. The young man’s head fell, and the severed neck stump was slammed into the mortar.

Blood spurting from his neck poured through the pipe into a wooden bowl. It was a ritual vessel made from the sacred tree that Vikings revered.

“Uoooooh!”

“Almighty Sovereign!”

“Long live King Skal!”

Countless Jarls and warriors cheered, raising their weapons, while their young sons and daughters jumped up and down, clapping.

“Go quickly. Receive the blessings of the King and the Sovereign.”

“Yes, Father.”

Successors from each Jarl lined up before Skal.

“It’s an honor to fight alongside you!”

Skal dipped his hands in the sacred plate and stamped their faces.

*

“Count. If I may be so bold, would you consider offering cattle or horses to the heavens?”

A Bargeant lord spoke cautiously. They had some tact, at least—they didn’t dare suggest human sacrifice to Eugene.

“The doctrine of Goddess Banas does not permit any kind of blood sacrifice. As her champion, I can’t lead the way in violating it.”

“I misspoke.”

“No. I appreciate the advice. There are parts that can’t be filled by demonstrating strength and holding lavish feasts alone.”

A long-standing tradition couldn’t disappear overnight. News that Skal’s army was unified and solidly bound with divine favor left the Bargeant lords uneasy.

Spiritual thirst and hunger—only tradition could satisfy them.

‘If only this could be resolved, it would be perfect. Should I just close my eyes and perform the rites? No, that’s still…’

Perhaps gaining confidence from Eugene’s troubled expression, an elderly lord approached.

“Um…”

“Don’t get carried away for no reason.”

The hesitant old man was restrained by those around him.

“It’s fine. Speak freely. Whether I follow or not is my judgment.”

“Wh-what about visiting the Hero’s Tomb?”

“Hero’s Tomb? What’s that?”

Encouraged by the interested reaction, the old man raised his voice further.

“The Undying. A place established when the Ancient Kingdom conquered Midgard. They insulted Valhalla as a lie and an illusion.”

What the Ancient Kingdom imposed on conquered territories wasn’t just their language. Cultures deemed too warlike or barbaric for governance were also suppressed.

The Sovereign’s faith, where everything revolved around warrior culture, and its medium, Valhalla, were no exceptions.

“While under the Ancient Kingdom’s rule, when noble warriors met death, all were transferred to the Hero’s Tomb. No exceptions. Young Jarls who had achieved countless deeds, Huskarls dying slowly from grievous wounds, hunters corrupted by poison while fighting wicked monsters…”

Valhalla’s entry required the premise of ‘must die in battle.’

Therefore, a provision existed for those who qualified but couldn’t die on the battlefield due to circumstances.

The Ancient Kingdom banned all of it and ordered unconditional burial—by constructing massive ossuaries for the nobles.

“That’s excessive.”

“Yes. That grievance is so great that our ancestors have found no rest even after death. Wearing their living weapons and armor, they wander the massive tomb.”

“…?”

Eugene thought ‘Isn’t that just undead?’ but didn’t say it aloud.

“So it’s still maintained? Have there been no attempts to liberate them?”

“It’s a sacred site where only noble warriors are buried. The ancestors’ souls have erected barriers, so the unworthy cannot enter.”

Perk.

Valda’s long ears, listening intently, moved. As a mage, her interest had grown beyond control.

“A barrier of souls.”

“Lord Valda. This is a place where warriors who didn’t even know magic are buried—is that possible?”

“Souls that exerted great influence on the world during life inherently contain mystery. The amount each possesses may be small, but when accumulated in one place, it’s a different story.”

With the atmosphere like this, even those who had been discouraging now urged the old man on.

“We must release our ancestors from their bondage, but the sacred barrier prevents workers or armies from entering. Therefore, qualified heroes must step forward and break the barrier.”

“So we have to fight the ancestors who haven’t found rest?”

‘The undead must be purified first.’ Eugene, wrapping his words carefully, was met with a bow from the old man.

“Exactly. But although countless exceptional warriors have challenged it, few have returned alive.”

“That’s why it’s called the Hero’s Tomb.”

“Because Great Draugr guard it.”

Draugr were undead found only in Midgard. An intense desire to reach Valhalla—that was the existence of souls too distressed to find peace, who rose again.

It was an extraordinary case where the cause of origin stemmed from faith.

-Just an undead, what can it do?

-Don’t speak blasphemy! What faith in the world creates such twisted beings?

In the Apostle Kingdom, they didn’t even acknowledge the word ‘draugr,’ simply calling them wights.

More radical voices even advocated invading Midgard to eradicate the Sovereign’s faith entirely.

“The first king of Midgard, Ragnar, and his descendants are buried in the Hero’s Tomb. Even the crown he left behind.”

If someone retrieved that crown, they would be sung of forever—as Midgard’s greatest hero and liberator of the tormented ancestors.

“But isn’t it extremely dangerous?”

“Huh? Ah, yes. Well, naturally?”

For Eugene, being recommended to visit such a place was bewildering. But the Bargeant lords had their own reasons.

“There’s no need to go all the way. Bringing back even a small token would be sufficient.”

“How could it compare to the monsters the Count has felled?”

No matter how powerful the Draugr, they were nothing compared to the monsters before them. The lords were certain Eugene would return from the Hero’s Tomb without a scratch.

Moreover, for Vikings, entering and returning from the Hero’s Tomb was an immense honor. It couldn’t compare to the pond where they had bathed with Sigurd before.

“Even King Skal has never been there. Simply by challenging it, countless warriors will offer praise.”

“Even after the war?”

“Of course.”

Both Eugene and Skal needed more preparation before the full-scale battle.

A big event that would firmly bring the converts under control, deal a blow to Skal’s warriors, and aid future governance. For Eugene, who loved a knockout blow, the attraction was irresistible.

*

That night’s bedroom.

“What am I going to do?”

Eugene buried his face in Valda’s skin, troubled repeatedly.

“As your wife, I want to discourage this. Before a battle between armies, a ruler shouldn’t move recklessly.”

“But it’s perfect as a ritual before the decisive battle.”

Valda employed various means to change her husband’s mind.

“…”

Drifting to sleep amid pleasures that chased away his worries, a sacred whisper came.

[Even in the underground where the sun does not reach.]

Eugene scratched his ear at the holy ticklishness.

[My blessing will be with you. I will warm your flesh and guide your path.]

It seemed the pillow talk wasn’t Valda’s exclusive privilege after all.