The Hunt of Arrogance
Climbing the narrow hillside path, Alessandro, king of Parvije, looked up at the gate.
Above the road that passed between two rocky mountains stood the fortress gate. And atop the gate, along the walls, the defenders were packed shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the four approaching figures.
The clatter of hooves echoed as the four horses ascended the slope.
They had entered arrow range.
Still, there was no response.
The soldiers simply watched.
Alessandro turned his head slightly. He could see the flags carried by the two riders behind them—the banner of the Kormilius family and that of the Parvije royal house, both hanging limp in the still air.
That must be why the defenders hesitated.
Which one is it?
Which of the two flags was making them waver?
The lineage that had ruled for over a thousand years? Or the lineage said to carry divine blood?
He found it a rather amusing question—but only for a moment.
Doesn't matter either way.
It wasn't in his nature to dwell on such things. He would simply take whatever opportunity lay before him.
Turning his gaze away from the banners, he looked to the man riding beside him.
Ulrich—was that his name?
At first, he had introduced himself as Ulrich, Duke of Dithmarschen, but later he used the name Carmelo Kormilius.
By appearance, he looked to be around Alessandro's age—but that was far from the truth.
Though he had never heard his exact age, he was undoubtedly an old being who had lived well over a thousand years. Perhaps even that estimate was laughably small.
Beyond those two names, he likely hid many more identities and titles.
Like peeling an onion…
Carmelo—no, Ulrich—glanced at Alessandro.
"Are you nervous?"
His expression was calm, devoid of emotion.
"It feels like walking into a dragon's jaws."
Ulrich nodded.
"Depending on the timing, a few arrows may come your way. Be careful."
"Should've brought a shield."
Alessandro pulled the reins and stopped his horse.
A short distance—no more than a dozen steps—from the fortress gate, the four men stood still. The eyes of the soldiers watching them trembled slightly.
The gate was unnaturally quiet.
It wasn't just that the wind that usually swept through the gorge had suddenly died down.
Lord Basaletto knew there was more to it than that.
His gaze fixed on the man standing at the front right of the riders.
Dark brown hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin.
A young man who appeared to be about twenty.
Yet the strange sense of familiarity in his appearance, the banners behind him, and the message that had arrived days earlier told Basaletto exactly who he was.
Alessandro Parvije—the third son of the late king, and the deposed monarch.
He had come to reclaim the throne that had been taken from him.
So, you've come after all.
Stroking his beard, Basaletto swallowed a sigh.
He had expected this.
The signs had begun when the late king and his heirs died one after another, and the third prince—dismissed as a reckless fool—had taken the throne.
Not long after, when Alessandro fled to the Empire, those signs had turned into certainty.
A king driven from his throne would never accept defeat so easily. He would return, one way or another, to reclaim what was his.
But why here, of all places?
Basaletto had heard that Alessandro was gathering forces with the aid of Kormilius. He had assumed they would move near the end of spring.
Yet here they were—in the dead of winter—with a force that wasn't even particularly large.
He couldn't understand it.
Of all the routes available, why choose a narrow gorge blocked by a fortress?
Did he truly believe the gate would be opened for him?
Foolish. Truly foolish.
Even if he pitied him, Basaletto had no intention of opening the gate.
A new king already sat on the throne. There might be controversy, but a king was still a king.
Alessandro, on the other hand, had been deposed and fled the country—only to return with foreign forces.
Letting him in would only bring chaos.
It could plunge the kingdom into a long civil war, like Osnover in the north. And recovering from that would take an unimaginably long time.
That mage named Shwab, who had installed a child king on a whim, displeased him—but inviting foreign-backed conflict was out of the question.
"My lord," a vassal whispered from behind.
"Wait. Let's at least hear what he has to say."
Basaletto looked into the distance. The army Alessandro had brought came into view.
This was a natural fortress.
With a force like that, it couldn't be easily breached. If they had the will to endure, they could hold out until reinforcements arrived.
"Open the gate!"
Alessandro's voice rang out.
"I am Alessandro Parvije! The late King Eugene Parvije was my father! My lineage has ruled this land for generations, and I was crowned as his rightful successor!"
Leaning forward slightly, the lord looked down at the young king.
"I was forced to withdraw due to false accusations that drove me from this land—but now I have returned as the rightful heir to reclaim what was taken from me! People of Parvije—if you understand my legitimacy, open the gate and welcome me!"
He watched the soldiers' reactions.
As expected, many hesitated.
Most exchanged silent glances, uncertain.
The Parvije royal house had ruled this land since before the Third Age of humanity. Even without extraordinary ability, that long history alone carried immense weight—enough that ordinary people could not easily disregard it.
Clicking his tongue, Basaletto rested a hand on the battlement.
"Alessandro, you ran. You abandoned the throne you claim to have rightfully obtained and fled the country like a coward. And now there is a new king in the palace. What legitimacy can you possibly claim?"
"A man who hasn't even been crowned—do you call him king?"
Alessandro glared up at him.
"If he carries the blood of the late king, wears the crown, and sits upon the throne, then he is king. Who else would be?"
With a crooked smirk, Basaletto sneered.
"Not a king—a pawn. A puppet controlled by some mage."
"And yet you serve that very puppet."
"If that were true, do you think I'd still be standing here?!"
Even under Alessandro's killing glare, Basaletto remained unfazed.
It was better this way.
Better that his opponent lose control and attack in anger than continue appealing to emotion and stirring hesitation among the soldiers.
"If the throne is truly yours, then reclaim it yourself—without begging others for help."
He raised his right hand. The archers drew their bowstrings and aimed their arrows at Alessandro.
Alessandro's face flushed red as he ground his teeth, yet he showed no sign of retreat.
Foolish to the very end.
Even after being given a chance to withdraw, he couldn't recognize it?
Thinking that, Basaletto was just about to lower his hand and give the signal—
"Basaletto."
The young man standing beside the king urged his horse one step forward.
Who—?
The question formed in his mind, and at that moment, a wind rose behind him.
The wind that had briefly died returned, sweeping through the gorge and unfurling the limp banners behind the two young men.
The red banner of the Parvije royal house and the blue banner of the Kormilius family fluttered powerfully.
"Do you intend to reject the successor I have chosen?"
Basaletto turned his gaze to the young man.
He had heard the rumors. A man named Carmelo Kormilius had staked his lineage's blood to support Alessandro's restoration.
He looked… ordinary.
This was Basaletto's first time seeing someone of the Kormilius lineage in person, but he felt nothing special. He had expected something extraordinary from one who carried the Father's blood—yet he appeared to be nothing more than a young man.
"By what authority do you speak? This is Parvije. You have no place interfering here."
"Do you truly believe that? That I have no authority?"
Basaletto opened his mouth to answer—but hesitated.
His eyes met the young man's calm, expressionless black gaze.
"Do you think Parvije has endured through generations by its own strength alone?"
A wave of dizziness struck him, and Basaletto took a step back.
Suddenly—he could no longer feel mana.
Not the mana within his own body, nor the mana flowing through the air.
His body felt heavy. The armor he wore suddenly seemed unbearably weighty. The mana within him should have been reinforcing his body—but it wasn't.
Why?
Why could he no longer sense or control mana?
Breathing roughly, he gripped the battlement and leaned forward.
"…Impossible."
Basaletto muttered.
He had heard that the direct line of the Kormilius lineage possessed special abilities.
Could this be it?
Had his authority—granted by having his name inscribed in the celestial register—been taken from him?
It was hard to believe.
That young man below… the true heir of that lineage?
Even collateral members rarely revealed themselves—yet here stood a direct descendant, without even an escort.
And yet, nothing else could explain the severance Basaletto felt.
If the man bearing the name Kormilius was not of the direct line—then who else could he be?
"Basaletto, I will ask again."
The young man spoke, still calm.
"As one who connects heaven and earth—do you still believe I lack the authority?"
Basaletto's once-composed expression twisted, and he lowered his head.
He gave no answer.
No one understood what had happened—but it was clear that the lord had yielded.
Before long, the gate opened.
***
Six days passed after the fall of the gate fortress.
Afterward, they passed one city and two fortresses—but there was no battle.
It seemed the Parvije side had never imagined the gate would be breached. They had made no preparations at all. How could they have known that a fortress even the Empire could not break would fall without bloodshed?
When news spread that the gate fortress had surrendered and its garrison had joined Alessandro, the cities and fortresses lost their will to fight.
There was no longer any need for Ulrich or Alessandro to step forward. As the army approached, white flags were raised.
As they accepted those who surrendered, Alessandro's restoration force nearly doubled in size. Within days, their numbers reached over fourteen thousand.
Morale soared.
The army that had once worried about reaching the gate now advanced toward the heart of Parvije without a single battle. With food and drink provided by the cities, they could briefly forget the cold.
***
At one side of the camp set up on the plains, Roberta quietly watched the campfire before lifting her head.
Across from her, in the dim twilight among the trees, a familiar figure approached.
"It feels like it's been a while, Lord Ulrich."
Ulrich gave a faint smile.
"It has. May I sit?"
He gestured toward the seat across from her.
"Fritz seemed quite disappointed."
"My apologies. Until this is finished, it's difficult to keep him close."
"It can't be helped. There are many who would be jealous."
"That is troublesome."
Roberta picked up the metal kettle resting over the fire, poured tea into an empty cup, and handed it to him.
"Where is Fritz?"
"He stepped away for a bit with Priest Rinna—they needed an extra pair of hands."
"I see."
Ulrich murmured as he took a sip of tea.
"You didn't come to see me, did you?"
"I read your letter."
"What did you think?"
The letter he referred to was the one she had sent. After meeting Priest Rinna, she hadn't had the chance to see him, so she had written about the elderly priest instead.
"It was helpful. So much so that I didn't need to investigate further myself."
"I'm glad it helped."
Gazing at the yellow surface of the tea, he continued.
"However… judging by its contents, you missed the most important point."
Roberta watched him, waiting for him to continue.
"Roberta, do you know who she really is?"
"…She's a priest of Soutabalka."
"And from the remote region of Volakabor," she added.
"That part is true. But she didn't tell you everything. She played a little trick on you."
Ulrich's gaze shifted past Roberta's shoulder, toward the dim direction where Fritz and Rinna had gone.
"And it seems you let it slip past you."
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