While Seiji navigated the intricate politics and arcane deceptions of Magitopia, Tsurugi's journey to Valhalla was a testament to raw, unvarnished survival. The land route through the Dragon's Tooth mountains was as merciless as the stories claimed. Bandits, drawn by the lure of a lone merchant's carriage, were a constant, if fleeting, presence. They would emerge from the crags with guttural cries, only to be met with a silence more terrifying than their own threats. Tsurugi never once had to emerge from the carriage. The Aura Soldiers—Z and his two companions—dealt with each ambush with dispassionate, brutal efficiency. The sounds of conflict were always brief: the sharp ring of steel, a few choked cries, and then the unsettling quiet would return. When Tsurugi occasionally glanced out, he would see only the retreating backs of his guards, wiping their blades clean, and the still forms of the would-be robbers already being picked over by carrion birds. It was a grim, monotonous rhythm that spoke volumes about the nature of the land he was entering.
Upon reaching the border, his cover as a spice merchant from the southern empires served him perfectly. The Valhallan border guards, massive men and women clad in practical furs and steel, cared little for politics and everything for goods. They inspected his cargo of saffron, cardamom, and fiery pepper flakes with grunts of approval, their stern faces softening at the promise of flavor for their bland, sustaining diets. He was waved through with a respectful nod—a merchant bringing worthy tribute was always welcome.
The capital city of Valhalla, simply named "The Fortress," was a place that resonated with Tsurugi's very soul. It was a city forged from granite and iron will. There were no delicate spires or floating gardens here. Instead, the skyline was a forest of sturdy, functional towers flying banners depicting wolves, bears, and axes. The air rang not with spells, but with the relentless, percussive symphony of a thousand forges—the clang-clang-clang of hammers on steel, the hiss of hot metal being quenched, the roar of bellows. The streets were broad and clean, filled with the scent of oil, leather, and roasting meat. Armories and weapon smiths were as common as bakeries, their wares displayed not for beauty, but for deadly utility. Taverns overflowed with boisterous warriors, their laughter loud and genuine, their boasts echoing off the stone buildings. It was a society that worshipped at the altar of strength, and Tsurugi felt an immediate, primal understanding.
To gather intelligence, he chose the noisiest, most crowded tavern he could find, "The Grumbling Giant." He took a seat in a corner, ordering a plate of roasted Wyvern ribs and a tankard of thick, black ale. He didn't need to ask questions; he simply listened, his senses, honed by the Strizier system, filtering the cacophony into streams of valuable data.
"...pushed the imperial dogs back past the Serpent's River, we did! Took the head of their commander myself!" a scarred veteran bellowed, slamming his tankard on the table.
"Bah, that's nothing," another countered. "The Skull-Splitter clan brought down a Frost Troll last week. Now that's a trophy!"
The conversations were a tapestry of border skirmishes and legendary hunts, painting a picture of a nation in a state of perpetual, low-level war with the empire and the monstrous denizens of the northern wastes.
But the most interesting news, the one that made Tsurugi pause with a rib halfway to his mouth, was about the recent power shift.
"...still can't believe the old man is gone," a younger warrior said, his voice somber. "King Sigurd... felling a Behemoth, but at that cost."
"Aye. A warrior's death. The only one fit for him," his companion replied, draining his mug. "Leaves a power vacuum, though. The Guilds are squabbling like old women."
"The Queen is handling it," the first one said, a note of respect in his voice. "Brynhildr's no mere figurehead. The Tournament of Ascension is her solution. Smart."
Tsurugi listened intently, piecing it together. King Sigurd, a legend who had ruled for decades, was dead. Valhalla's monarchy was not hereditary; it was a position earned, a mantle bestowed upon the strongest to lead in times of war. With no heir, the title was vacant. Queen Brynhildr, Sigurd's widow by tradition rather than romance, was holding a tournament. The victor would not only win the crown but her hand in marriage, becoming the new Warrior King.
This was not just an opportunity; it was a divine alignment of purpose and method. To ally with Valhalla, he needed to speak to its ruler. And the only language Valhalla respected was that of overwhelming strength. The tournament was a direct channel to the seat of power, a chance to prove Grimgar's worth in the most fundamental way possible. He could fulfill his diplomatic mission and sate his own burning need to test his limits against the finest warriors this land had to offer.
The merchant's disguise had served its purpose, allowing him to slip into the heart of the nation unseen. It was a useful skin, but it was time to shed it. Now, it was time for the Grand Marshal of Grimgar to step into the light.
He finished his ale, the dark brew fortifying his resolve. He stood up, the simple wooden chair scraping against the stone floor. The conversations around him continued, unaware that the balance of their kingdom had just shifted with the quiet decision of a silver-haired stranger in the corner. He left a few coins on the table and walked out of "The Grumbling Giant," his path now clear. He would find the tournament registry and enter his name. The arena awaited.