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Chapter – 31
“Aura of Savagery?”
He couldn’t understand what that was supposed to mean.
Ding!
Another notification window appeared.
[Aura Detection]
Grimungand senses the killing intent lurking nearby and alerts its master.
As the master’s stats increase, the range and precision of aura detection will expand.
“A cheat item, huh.”
If the sword could detect hostile intent around him, that meant the chance of being ambushed would drop dramatically.
It really was no ordinary sword—an inheritance imbued with the will of the Chaos King, Cain. Even its hidden abilities were extraordinary.
“So there are barbarian warriors nearby, huh…”
A memory of his conversation with Russell came to mind.
“Do you ever run into barbarians?”
“Sure~ sometimes. When you’re real unlucky.”
It seemed today was one of those unlucky days. Fortunately, Grimungand had given him a warning in advance—otherwise, they could’ve been caught off guard and forced into battle unprepared.
“I have something to report.”
“Hm?”
Begman frowned.
“What, you got a question?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“I think enemies are approaching.”
“What are you talking about all of a sudden?”
“I can feel them.”
“You feel them?”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to believe that nonsense?”
“Not me—this.”
Carlyle drew Grimungand from his belt.
“This sword is the Sigmund family’s heirloom blade. You’d probably trust it more than me, right?”
“That rusty scrap metal… an heirloom sword?”
Begman’s face twisted in disbelief.
Its edge was chipped, and the blade was covered in rust. It looked more like a discarded relic than a weapon.
“You trying to get yourself killed, you idiot?”
The curse burst from Begman’s mouth before he could stop himself.
To a warrior, a weapon was life itself. And here was a supposed knight of the Sigmund family wielding a rust-eaten blade? Unthinkable.
“What a moron.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Pathetic.”
Even the scouts nearby clicked their tongues.
“I told you—it’s an heirloom sword.”
“You want me to believe that?”
“You might not know this, but heirloom weapons come in all kinds of forms. Some are whips, some are scythes.”
“…That so.”
“You can insult me if you like, but surely you wouldn’t insult Lord Rompen, the ancestor who forged this weapon, right?”
“Insult?! Never! I’d never dare!”
Begman shook his head furiously.
He could treat a low-ranking soldier roughly—but insulting the Sigmund family? That was beyond forgiveness.
Every Northerner revered the Sigmund line.
“Then you won’t ignore the warning from my heirloom sword, the Wanderer.”
Clang, clang.
A faint metallic hum resonated from Grimungand.
“Hm.”
Begman thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Fine. I’ll trust your hunk of junk—just this once. But if you’re wrong…”
“I’ll accept any punishment you see fit.”
“Good.”
Begman turned to his men.
“Everyone, prepare an ambush. Take positions.”
“Yes, sir!”
At his command, the scouts scattered and concealed themselves among rocks and bushes.
“This way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carlyle followed Begman behind a large boulder.
“You sure that sword’s reliable?”
“Not really—it’s my first time using this ability.”
“…”
“But it’s an heirloom blade. It wouldn’t toy with its master… I hope.”
“Fair enough.”
Begman nodded.
He might not trust Carlyle—the North’s infamous delinquent—but a Sigmund heirloom blade was a different matter.
Still, he couldn’t help but eye the sword skeptically.
“Doesn’t look trustworthy at all,” he thought.
The chipped and rusted sword suited Carlyle perfectly: the North’s most notorious troublemaker paired with a broken heirloom—like attracts like.
“If this turns out to be nonsense…”
Begman clenched his fist.
And then—
Rustle, rustle.
Massive figures emerged from the brush—barbarian warriors.
Carlyle’s warning—no, Grimungand’s warning—had been right.
Six barbarians.
Carlyle’s squad had ten men, including him—numerically superior.
And thanks to the early warning, they had the advantage of ambush.
“So you were right after all.”
Begman whispered.
“Seems that way.”
Carlyle answered calmly.
He didn’t sound proud or boastful—just detached.
“We’ll attack soon. It won’t be easy, but the odds are in our favor. First battle, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then stay by me. Support, don’t overextend. You’re a Sigmund—you can handle that much.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good. Stand by.”
Begman didn’t rush. He watched, patient and cautious—a seasoned veteran waiting for the right moment.
The barbarians, unaware of the ambush, were digging holes and burying something the size of a fist.
“Crafty bastards,” Carlyle muttered.
Mana traps.
Crude explosives created by barbarian shamans. Step on one, and you’d lose a leg. Perfect for crippling scouts near the fortress.
Carlyle steadied his breathing as he watched.
He hadn’t expected to see combat this soon—and certainly wasn’t mentally prepared.
But the battlefield waited for no one.
Begman nudged him.
‘Ready.’
Begman signaled to Marder, the archer positioned on higher ground.
Three… two… one.
Thwip!
Thunk!
The arrow pierced the barbarian leader’s skull clean through.
“—!”
The others froze in shock.
Peeeeeeep!
Begman’s whistle rang out.
“WAAAAAAAHHH!”
The scouts charged as one, shouting battle cries.
“Let’s go, rookie!”
“Yes, sir!”
Carlyle followed Begman into the fray.
“HYAAAH!”
Begman roared, swinging his halberd.
Thwack!
The weapon cleaved through a barbarian’s shoulder, spraying blood and bone.
“Die, you bastard!”
The head flew, blood fountaining into the air.
Thud.
‘…He’s dead.’
Carlyle flinched at the sight.
To see someone’s head cleaved from their body—it was surreal.
But that was all.
The sight shocked him—but not deeply.
There was no fear. No guilt.
“RAAAAGH!”
Another barbarian charged at him like a raging boar.
“Move!” Begman shouted, reaching to shove Carlyle aside—
But—
“Now.”
Carlyle saw the opening. His sword moved instinctively.
Grimungand, the Blade of Creation—
The same sword once wielded by the hero who saved Decaron two centuries ago.
Its dark arc sliced through the barbarian’s chest—cleanly in half.
SPLASH!
Blood exploded, showering Carlyle.
“—!”
The entire squad froze.
The rookie—Carlyle—had just cleaved a barbarian warrior in two with a single swing.
“R-rookie?”
Begman’s eyes widened in disbelief.
But Carlyle didn’t react.
He stood still, drenched in blood.
‘Not much to it.’
No guilt. No horror.
His heart just beat a little faster than usual.
‘Maybe because they’re the enemy.’
That must be it.
This was war. Kill or be killed.
No one called a soldier a murderer for fighting in a war.
“Hey! Rookie!”
Begman hurried over.
“Rookie! Rookie!”
He waved a hand in front of Carlyle’s face.
“Completely spaced out.”
Begman sighed. He’d seen it countless times—first kills often broke new soldiers.
And he knew the cure: shock.
A good slap usually did the trick.
“Snap out of it, you son of—”
Begman raised his hand.
But—
“Why are you about to hit me? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Huh?”
“You shouldn’t hit someone without a reason.”
“I… uh…”
Begman froze.
Carlyle was glaring at him—focused, alert, perfectly lucid.
Carlyle hadn’t lost his mind after his first kill.
He’d just been thinking. That was all.
“You back with us?”
“I never left.”
“Really…?”
Begman studied him.
The kid’s eyes—those strange violet eyes—were clear.
No emptiness, no trauma.
He was perfectly fine.
“So that really was your first kill?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be so calm?”
“Do I have to lose my mind?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Then it’s fine. Anyway, I’m fine. Just annoyed, that’s all.”
Carlyle wiped at the blood on his face, grimacing.
But blood doesn’t wipe off so easily. Soon, his face was a mask of red.
‘Maybe he’s just completely insane,’ Begman thought.
And maybe—he was right.
