Volume 4 Chapter 66 The Visit of the Bull ①
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
The castle gates churned with chaos. White and gold armor flashed in the sun as the Western Church’s envoys pressed forward, hemmed in by the formal robes of Scipio and Crete’s officials, all flapping in the wind as they tried to keep up.
Kian, unfortunately, had chosen this exact moment to arrive with three massive wagons piled high with salamander heads. Without meaning to, he had blocked the road entirely, his trophies a wall of gore right across the path.
The guards stiffened. Behind them, heavy shields rose with a scrape of metal. Church knights, armed and armored like a moving fortress, stepped forward to protect the portly cardinal in their center.
Homolka blinked in surprise, but before Kian could call out, one of the knights barked, “Stand back! This stench of magic—he cannot be trusted!”
”Wait,” Homolka said, laying a plump hand on the knight’s shoulder. “He is my friend. This is Kian of Izerland, the Hero of Ramsey, Duke of Valor of Dacia.”
The knights didn’t lower their weapons. Even with all magic power carefully hidden, the air around Kian’s group—Aliona with her golden hair, Isthbaran’s silver wolf’s mantle, Leanan Sidhe’s eerie glow, and Rou quiet at the back—was enough to prickle the skin.
The Burier of the Cursed in her black leather belts didn’t budge either, her gaze locked on him, lips curling faintly like she’d smelled blood. And the knights—these giants, close to two meters tall, steel boots grinding into the stone—didn’t need magic to be terrifying. A sheer wall of men and iron could crush any foe in this tight space. It was simple, brutal violence.
”Stop this! I said he isn’t an enemy!” Homolka’s voice cracked with irritation.
”Your Eminence, step back. That magic reeks of death. If anything happens—”
”Nothing will happen! You fools!” Homolka snapped, sweat dripping from his temple. “Lord Mist Eater, Lady Sick Cat, get them to stand down.”
”Back! Back, you bastards!” A roar ripped through the square.
From behind the knightly wall lumbered a monster of a man. Blond hair oiled to stand like spears, smoky quartz sunglasses catching the light, and a monk’s robe ripped wide across his chest, showing off slabs of muscle.
His fists were wrapped in layer after layer of white bandages. He seized the nearest knight in one hand, lifted him like a toy, and tossed him to the ground with a crash of armor. The ground shuddered where he landed.
A warrior monk. Not the trickster kind like Linca who mixed sorcery with swordplay, but the raw, iron-fist type whose body itself was the weapon. His presence was suffocating.
Beside him stepped a girl in dark blue sister’s robes, twin tails trailing over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, almost sickly. Catlike eyes fixed on Kian, narrow and glinting with something unreadable. Sick Cat. She looked like she hadn’t smiled in years.
”Lord Kian,” Homolka called out suddenly, spreading his arms wide with a smile that was all warmth. “It really has been too long! You look well, my boy!”
With Mist Eater, Sick Cat, and the Burier shadowing him, Homolka waddled forward. The knights stayed in formation, tense, but his cheer seemed to melt the edge off the air.
Behind him, Scipio and the Crete bureaucrats circled awkwardly around, only to freeze when they saw the mountain of salamander heads filling the wagons. Their faces drained of color. Some stared as though they’d stumbled upon a massacre. The stench of roasted scales and blood was enough to turn stomachs.
”I’m glad to see you in good health too,” Kian replied evenly. “I heard rumors you were coming as the Western Church’s envoy.”
”A rumor, hmm?” Homolka’s voice dipped low for a second, but then he was beaming again, wrapping Kian in a heavy hug that smelled faintly of incense and sweat. “Nothing makes me happier than running into a friend on foreign soil. My son said he spoke with you, yes?”
”He did. A lively man, very open. We had a good time.”
”Then keep him close, will you? You’re of the same age, you’ll find plenty to share. Faith doesn’t matter when it comes to friendship.”
”I don’t have any religion myself,” Kian said. “But… what happened here? What brings you?”
Before Homolka could answer, Scipio adjusted his glasses with a nervous click and stepped forward. His face pinched at the sight of the wagons. “These block the way. What are they?”
”The results of our preliminary survey of Fire Island,” Kian said simply. He turned half-side, pointing to the heads stacked high. “We found an efficient way to cull the salamanders. Almost no cost. And if needed, we can bring down the magma wyrms too, and reclaim the island entirely.”
Homolka gave a low whistle, his cheeks puffing. “The same frightening strength as always. With you around, Izerland will be safe for decades.”
”Not me,” Kian said. “It was this old knight.” He gestured, and Isthbaran swept his mantle aside and strode forward.
”An honor to meet you, Your Eminence. I am Silver Wolf, Knight of Sir Kian.”
The name rolled heavy in the air. Mist Eater’s muscles tensed, his face a mask, but Kian’s vampiric senses caught the shift. Instinct told him what his eyes already knew—this warrior monk recognized Isthbaran as a danger greater than himself. Not a poser. A killer.
Homolka chuckled, his gaze sliding. “Well met, Silver Wolf. And Lady Aliona, you shine as bright as ever.”
”Yes, Your Eminence,” Aliona answered softly, stepping to Isthbaran’s side. Her golden hair rippled, and though she pressed down her aura, it leaked in cold waves. Every knight in view stiffened, jaws tight. Even Scipio, who hadn’t flinched before Asterios, paled and edged back two steps, breath shallow.
At last Homolka sighed. “Lord Kian, to answer you plain: bodies from Crete have washed up in our territory. We came to protest. I had hoped to discuss compensation and the end of this barbaric corpse-dumping. But Lord Scipio—” his lips twitched—”he brought up Azrael instead.”
”I understood, Your Eminence,” Scipio said quickly. His hands clutched his robe. “But my father ordered me to propose a defensive alliance, so I—”
”Ah. So you were only following your father’s orders, and hold no fault yourself? Is that what a representative of a kingdom should say?” Homolka’s eyes hardened. The weight of the rebuke silenced the whole square.
Scipio fumbled, face sour, but he pressed on. “We do not take the matter of the corpses lightly. We intend to investigate, to prevent any repeat. As for compensation, we will deliberate and send a fair answer soon. If you would return to the castle until then—”
”The sun is setting. I do not intend to stay.”
”But Crete is dangerous lately. Bandits in the streets—”
”We have strong guards. You need not worry.” Homolka’s dismissal cracked like a whip. Scipio’s face twisted, all his earnestness collapsing into frustration. He had misplayed his hand and they all knew it.
Homolka turned back to Kian with a gentler smile. “So, Lord Kian. It seems you are busy as well. I won’t take more of your time. Let’s speak again, properly, when chance allows.”
”Of course. I’ve founded a merchant guild here. Our base is on Grass Island’s eastern coast, just north of the fishing village. You’ll find us there, or I’ll come running to your inn or tavern whenever you call. There’s much to talk about.”
”Good. Very good. Forgive me, then, I must take my leave. Thank you for the welcome, Lord Scipio. I will wait for your deliberation.”
”Wait! During deliberation we may have further questions. Please, return to the castle—”
”I will leave Sister Sick Cat here. Speak to her. She will summon me at once.”
”That is unacceptable! We need your direct—!”
Scipio lunged forward, blocking Homolka’s way, arms wide. But it was pointless. Homolka brushed by him without even a ripple of hesitation. To touch the cardinal would have been a scandal, and Scipio knew it. His hands fell helplessly to his sides as the cardinal swept past.
The Western Church entourage followed, leaving Sick Cat and a few vassal knights behind. As they passed the wagons, every one of them turned their eyes to the heap of severed salamander heads, their expressions caught between awe and horror. The air hung thick with blood and silence.
The twin-tailed sister and a few vassal knights were left behind while the Western Church procession shuffled past the wagons, their robes brushing against the wheels.
Every single one of them, without fail, cast wide-eyed glances at the mountain of salamander heads stacked high. Shock and awe twisted together on their faces. They couldn’t have known that Underworld Smoke Crystal had been used; in their minds, Kian’s group had crushed the salamander horde by sheer force alone, and without even resorting to grand magic. Even knights of the Western Church, famed for their fearlessness, could not help but feel a chill.
”Your Excellency Scipio,” Kian said smoothly, his tone cutting through the murmur of the crowd. “These are the ‘results’ I informed you of beforehand. The merchant guild desires the stuffed trophies of these proofs of subjugation. If your side wishes some as well, then the division of numbers should be settled directly between the parties.”
”…It seems I have underestimated you.” Scipio’s eyes narrowed behind his clicking glasses.
”You are far too dangerous,” he muttered. “I want you out of Malc Territory at once.”
Kian’s brows lifted. “We slew the salamanders, yet those are your words to us? Isn’t that inappropriate?”
Scipio’s lips pressed tight. His instinct was to roar back—”Appropriate, you fool!”—but his gaze flicked to the onlookers gathering across the street. He clicked his tongue softly instead. The people were watching. And no one would accept seeing their heroes—the ones who had slain dozens of salamanders at the guild and the crown’s request—sent away without reward.
”…A magnificent feat, Lord Kian!” Scipio raised his voice, the edges twitching at his eyes. “You have our gratitude for your efforts!”
He forced a smile, though his jaw looked ready to snap in half. “We will have specialists verify the proofs of subjugation. Afterward, we will make a comprehensive evaluation of Kian Merchant Guild’s work and decide both your reward and whether you are to continue investigating Fire Island.”
”I leave it in your hands,” Kian replied with an easy bow.
”Guards! Move the wagons inside! Lord Kian, this way, please.”
”I must apologize,” Kian said, shifting aside. “The remaining procedures will be handled by my subordinates. —Rou.”
”Yes, sir.” Rou stepped forward at once, his tone sharp.
”Silver Wolf, Lady Aliona, Lady Leanan Sidhe,” Kian added, “I ask you to protect Rou. I know you’re all tired, but I trust you. When you’re done, you may all go out for drinks together.”
Aliona tilted her head. “And you, Kian? …Ah. I see.”
Her golden eyes flicked toward Scipio and she nodded knowingly. Yes, it was time. With Scipio’s failure in negotiations with the Western Church still raw—though not entirely sealed—this was the hour of Asterios. Kian would return to the guildhouse at once, don the bull’s guise, and storm the castle with Guria. He would bully Scipio thoroughly, and then, with the air cleared, Kian himself would sit across from Homolka and begin the real talks. That was the plan.
”Silver Wolf, I must rely on you,” Kian said quietly. “In case of trouble, I trust in your strength.”
”Consider it done,” Isthbaran replied. His cloak shifted as he gave a small, dignified bow. “Just buy me mead afterward.”
”Of course. Lady Leanan Sidhe, I ask the same of you. Or… would you rather return with me?”
”Return to do what? Better I watch over this one,” she said, flicking her eyes at Rou. “Safer than wasting time in the slave markets. I will guard him.”
”I appreciate it.” With a final nod, Kian turned back to Scipio. “Excuse me.” And that was all he left before striding away, boots clicking briskly against the stones as he disappeared up the boulevard.
* * *
At the northwestern pier, Chin-Chin was waiting, hidden among the fishing boats. Kian mounted up and pushed toward Grass Island. By the time he arrived at the guildhouse, the sun was sinking red against the sea.
On the sandy beach, Guria was already at work. She had been assembling the new golems Mrs. Camilla had sent, their frames lined along the shore. Dressed in a loose shirt and black shorts, she was smearing red clay across the shell of a finished wyvern golem. Her arms, her legs, even her cheeks were streaked in red, green, and black paint.
”Kian! What’s going on?” She set down the bucket and rubbed her cheek, leaving another smear.
”We need to leave immediately,” he said. With a flick of ((Penetration))—Talia’s magic flowing through him—he brushed the paint off her skin in quick swipes.
”Scipio failed in his negotiations with the Western Church. We need to follow up.”
”…!” Her eyes went wide. Then she nodded quickly. “Got it. But, um, the clay—it’ll harden if I leave it like this.”
”Forget it. Don’t worry. I see you’ve been putting together the golems. That’s a big help.”
”I was bored. Hold on! Give me five minutes, I’ll get ready!” She dashed back inside the guildhouse.
By the time she returned, Kian had already shed his clothes and transformed into Asterios. He pulled out the oversized toga from the arms of a waiting wraith and wrapped it tightly around his bull form. While Guria changed, he had to speak with the girls of the Order of the Lightning Knights stationed outside.
Stepping past the iron fence, he found the ten young knights already alert, their weapons half-raised the moment they saw him. “General Asterios,” one asked, “what is the matter?”
”I need to teleport to Water Island at once, n’mo. Who among you can open the gate?”
Their eyes widened. “So suddenly? What’s going on?”
Kian descended the stairs and went down on one knee, the gesture meant to calm their nerves. “By now Scipio is speaking with the Western Church’s envoys. And the messengers to Chatillon and Izerland should be returning. Whether we secure allies from the neighboring states will decide the whole war. I can’t win this fight by myself, n’mo—!”
The short-haired knight swallowed. “Then… we’ll send word and confirm the situation. In the meantime, General, please wait here.”
He brushed aside her restraining hand and fixed her with steady eyes. “If Scipio has failed, then I must step in. That was the arrangement.”
”…Ugh.”
”If you won’t open the gate, fine. I’ve told you my intent. When Guria is ready, she’ll open it herself.”
”…Understood. Then I will explain. You—report to the garrison and the castle.” The short-haired girl pointed at another. “We will accompany you. I’ll handle the explanation.”
”Roger. Everyone, be careful.”
They were wary—of course they were. If Asterios went berserk, they were ready to sacrifice nine of their number just to get one back alive to report. The tension was natural.
A gate shimmered open. Kian sat down cross-legged on the sand and waited. Scipio would be bullied first, then the talks with Homolka, then, depending on Chatillon’s answer, perhaps even Lord Blumer afterward. Drinking with Isthbaran and the others was out of the question tonight.
”—Sorry to keep you waiting!” Guria’s voice rang out. She strode back in a toga matching his, fresh and eager.
”We’ll open the gate,” the short-haired knight said. “Princess, we will escort you.”
”Thanks. Let’s go, Sir Asterios.”
”N’mo.” He moved beside Guria. Together they stepped through the gate, and in a blink the beach vanished, replaced with the wide boulevard before the castle.
* * *
”You must be joking. Absolutely not.”
Minutes later, Kian and Guria climbed the slope, slipped through a side tunnel, and found themselves ushered into the palace’s war council chamber. White tables gleamed under lantern light. Circe, Medea, Balinars—all the royals of Crete—sat in a row, Scipio fuming among them.
”I will speak with the Western Church, n’mo,” Asterios declared the moment he entered. And immediately Scipio had barked back, voice sharp enough to make the chamber tremble. Medea and Balinars looked at him like he was a madman. The other mages and officials exchanged glances, confused, whispering.
”…Boy,” Circe said, cold as ice. “This isn’t a game.”
”I know that, n’mo,” Kian shot back. He almost tacked on “you old hag” for effect, but Guria’s heel stomped down on his foot, hard. He forced himself to smirk like a gentlemanly bull.
”I’m the one who fights. Allies? I’ll gather them.”
”Hand over the power of lightning first, you damn bull!” Scipio snapped.
”Scipio!” Circe gasped, eyes round. Her gaze darted nervously to Kian.
The bull-headed man grinned, wicked and sharp. “You’re awfully upset, Scipio. Ah, I see, n’mo. You failed your talks with the Western Church, didn’t you?”
”—!”
”Ussshhh shhh shhh. Nailed it, n’mo. Your face tells all. You’re not cut out for politics.”
”You—are you picking a fight with me?” The half-elf’s face burned red. His chest heaved, his whole body trembling. He shot to his feet, only for a mage beside him to grab his arm and force him back down.
”If you’re so bold,” he spat, “why don’t you do it yourself?”
”I said I would, n’mo.”
”I won’t allow it! You’re a walking international crisis! If you show your face, diplomacy ends here! You’re worthless if you won’t hand over the lightning! We will handle negotiations—just give us that power!”
Kian chuckled low. “And that’s why you fail every single talk. Minos, Circe. Handing negotiations to Scipio was a mistake.”
”What did you say!”
”Then what of Izerland and Chatillon? Circe?”
”Both failed.” The dark elf Head Magician leaned back, exhaling. “Chatillon slammed the gates in our faces. Izerland’s princess is away, so they delayed their reply. Likely they’re crafting a polite refusal, or simply waiting to see how the neighbors move.”
”Pathetic. You’re all useless without me, n’mo.”
”…I see. Then the general should do it himself.” The words came from Medea, silent until now. Her glasses glinted cold, eyes flashing nothing but killing intent as they fixed on Kian.
Scipio slammed his palm on the table with a sharp thud! “Are you insane, Medea!?”
”If General Asterios kills the cardinal, then we’re done for real,” Balinars muttered, exasperation dripping from his voice. “Azrael we can surrender to, if it comes to that. But killing a cardinal? That’s the end. Even if we win, the country dies. No one will deal with us. If we lose, it gives Azrael the perfect reason to strip everything away.”
”The cardinal won’t be killed, n’mo. That’s obvious, n’mo,” Asterios snorted.
”I won’t let him kill anyone. With the Staff of Dominion, I can stop him no matter what!” Guria shouted, her gaze snapping across the room. Her voice was sharp, strong enough to slice through the heavy air.
Medea gave one curt nod before she spoke again. “Then here is the arrangement. At the table will sit the Princess, myself, Circe, and Scipio. The general will handle the actual negotiation. If the general fails, he will hand over the power of lightning.”
”Fine, n’mo. If I fail.” Kian said it easily, though inside he added the words he could never speak aloud. (Even if I fail, I’ll never hand it over.) If that happened, the odds of Medea assassinating him shot straight up. A dangerous prospect—yet he found the thought oddly entertaining.
”But when negotiations are underway, I’ll be serious. So don’t interfere, n’mo. I get it, you’re worried I’ll spout nonsense and ruin Crete’s dignity. That’s why only Guria is allowed in with me. The rest of you wait outside. Negotiations will be me and her alone. If it looks dangerous, use your staff, use whatever, shut me up by force.”
”…Asterios. You do have a plan, don’t you?” King Minos rasped, his voice hoarse with age.
”Father!” Scipio cried, eyes wide.
”Let him… let him try,” the king coughed, chest rattling. “That look in his eyes… it’s the look of someone who knows he can do it…”
”Scipio,” Medea said smoothly, “let him go. If he fails, we gain the lightning.”
She flicked her fingers and a glowing magic contract unfurled before them. But the scroll had the wrong addressee and, besides, magic couldn’t force someone into the impossible. To Kian, it was a piece of parchment without effect.
Kian leaned over, tracing Asterios’s name in runes with Guria guiding his hand. Together, they signed. (Well, failure isn’t something I do.) His grin was sharp. (Homolka is my friend. And this time, we hold the strength to show him.)
Success was certain. The question was what price the Western Church would demand in return.
”Tch. Then do it, if you dare,” Scipio spat, scowling.
”Boy,” Circe purred, “at least let me sit in, to make sure you don’t disgrace us.”
”No. Only Guria Selda.”
Medea’s glasses glinted. “Princess, Asterios is in your hands. You can manage him, can’t you?”
”Of course, Medea. I’m used to the staff’s backlash now. If things get ugly, I’ll use it and pull us out,” Guria promised.
”Then before the negotiations begin, I’ll speak with Cardinal Homolka myself,” Circe said. “If he understands Asterios’s temperament, he’ll be prepared.”
It was obvious: aside from King Minos, none of them believed Asterios would succeed. They only wanted the farce to play out, for the contract’s magic to kick in and give them the lightning. That was the real goal.
And that was fine. All that mattered was Circe softening the ground, and then Kian and Guria speaking alone with Homolka.
Several bureaucrats and Circe left the chamber, while Kian and Guria were shown into the next great hall to wait.
* * *
Asterios might have been a dangerous man, but the Church didn’t know that firsthand. To them, curiosity outweighed caution. Crete’s so-called hero was someone they wanted to see.
Circe returned sooner than expected, despite the sky already darkening. The answer was immediate. Of course Cardinal Homolka wished to meet Asterios.
Kian donned his new black armor, its sheen catching the lamplight, and together with Guria he teleported to the plateau village where the Western Church delegation lodged. It was the same plateau where Elder Gaius lived, though this village stood at its western edge. Wealthy homes lined the streets, more like manors than cottages—merchants’ houses, richly built.
The gate rose high, and beyond it loomed a mansion as large as Kian Merchant Guild’s headquarters. He remembered spotting it before, the grandest house in the village. Now, the Church had taken it.
Waiting outside were a merchant-looking man—the mansion’s master, perhaps—Cardinal Homolka, and his guards, Mist Eater and Burier of the Cursed. Four Church knights stood at the gate, two to each side, their spears gleaming in the Mana Lamps.
”So you are General Asterios! To meet Crete’s great hero in person—this is more than I ever hoped for!” Homolka spread his arms wide, the lamplight glowing against his plump cheeks, a smile warm and genuine.
”Congratulations on your marriage,” he added. “May happiness follow the both of you.”
”Thanks, n’mo. And sorry for barging in so late at night, n’mo. There’s something urgent I had to speak with you about.”
”Oh? And what matter is so pressing?”
”Something serious, n’mo. Not something to be discussed out here. I’ll bring only Guria Selda with me, n’mo.”
”Something serious, not to be spoken outside…” Homolka’s eyes gleamed. “Very well. This I must hear.”
”Please, honored guests,” the merchant host said, bowing. “Standing around like this will never do. Come, enter my home.”
And so they moved inside, into a lavish parlor painted in reds and golds. Circe and the others remained behind in the front room. Kian and Guria alone followed Homolka and Mist Eater into the chamber.
”I must ask to keep an Inquisitor present,” Homolka said as he sank into the couch. “I’m a weak old man, you see. If the general so much as pats my head, I might die of a broken neck. I need someone to stop such an accident.”
”No problem, n’mo. I brought Guria Selda as well.”
”Then, may I ask—what is this matter?” Homolka’s smile had faded into something more careful. Beside him, Mist Eater watched Kian with the sharp, hawk-like stare of a predator, their muscles tensed to spring.
Kian waited until the door was locked. Then he lifted a gauntleted hand. “Cardinal Homolka. Do not be shocked. Do not raise your voice.” His tone grew low, heavy.
And then—he broke the transformation. The black helmet came off, revealing the man beneath.
”—!”
”What… you’re Lord Kian?” Mist Eater’s voice cracked, eyes widening.
”Shhh.” Kian pressed a finger to his lips.
”Your Eminence,” Guria said quickly, “please listen to Asterios’s—Kian’s words.”
Homolka’s jaw worked uselessly, and then he nodded, nodding again, over and over. He was speechless.
”Sit, please,” he managed at last, waving a trembling hand toward the chairs. “Good heavens. Tonight has brought more shocks than salamanders ever could. The greatest surprise of the year, I daresay.”
Notes:
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Camilla – A woman; the subject of the chapter; her body was used to seal Erynys’ soul.
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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