so fierce it seemed to burrow into their bones. With the blizzard whirling in every direction, it was impossible to make out what lay ahead.
Yet amid that terrible weather, there was a group of people trudging on in silence. Each wore a thick overcoat and devoted themselves wordlessly to the march. Their number was roughly three hundred. Judging by the glimpses of steel armor visible through their coats, they did not appear to be ordinary travelers.
They walked on silently, their faces buried deep between the collars of their coats to avoid the blizzard. The one walking at the very front slowly raised his head and looked around. The eyes revealed through the visor of his helmet were as sharp as a snake’s.
They were like the eyes of a well-trained hunting dog. But now, deep bewilderment lay in them. To be precise, it was at a fork in the road split beneath a gigantic mountain of ice.
“Stop.”
When he raised his hand and spread it open, the party that had been walking in silence halted all at once. From the look of it, he seemed to be serving as their guide.
“Truly dreadful weather. I believe the direction is right, but…”
The guide tilted his head and looked around in every direction, then turned and hurried toward the middle of the line. At that, someone stepped forward and addressed him.
“What is it?”
Judging by his tone, he seemed to be the one of highest status. The guide immediately dropped to one knee before him.
“M-my apologies. It seems I have lost our direction…”
“You fool. Are you telling me you cannot find the way even after coming here once before?”
“Because of the blizzard, the terrain has changed completely from that time…”
“You useless parasite.”
After being rebuked, the guide bowed his head deeply. His reaction was as if he had nothing to say even if he had ten mouths. The one looking down at him kept breathing heavily, as though his anger was boiling up. And no wonder—the man before him was a talent raised at truly enormous expense. Since such a man could not even serve as a simple guide properly, there was no way he would not be enraged. The face that slipped into view between the collar of the coat was none other than Sergei’s.
The group marching through the blizzard was, in fact, the heroes escorting the Saintess to the Temple of Berhazel.
The guide’s true identity was an assassin. Sergei had already mobilized all the assassins under his command to scout the Temple of Berhazel in Northwood. There had been no other way to make use of them now that they had become useless. If they had not been assassins trained to survive in any environment, it was certain they would not have obtained even this much information…
The funds and effort Sergei had poured into training assassins were truly astronomical. After all, the assassins were absolutely indispensable to the survival of the Intelligence Department under his command. To carry out the Intelligence Department’s main duties—shadowing, investigation, abduction and assassination, and torture—assassins were almost absolutely necessary. The role of those professionally trained men was something even knights with outstanding swordsmanship could not replace.
But once the Second Racial War broke out, the assassins became unnecessary. Of course, it was true that assassins were superior to ordinary people in stealth and infiltration, but against orcs who moved by instinct, those abilities were useless. In terms of hearing and smell, orcs actually had a far greater advantage than assassins. Therefore, the assassins had no choice but to become utter nuisances in the Racial War.
The assassins had stayed idly in Feldrian, doing nothing but consuming food. The only work they had was carrying out the occasional assassination order handed down to them. But after the existence of the Saintess was revealed, they finally came to bear an important mission. They were needed to scout the condition of the northern holy land, Northwood.
Sergei had dispatched all one hundred and sixty-two assassins there. Of course, sending assassins, whose senses and survival abilities were superior to ordinary men, had undoubtedly been an excellent decision. The problem was that only seven assassins had returned alive. The rest had all been buried in Northwood, along with the astronomical sum spent training them. That was how dangerous Northwood was.
But Sergei did not particularly care. He considered it enough that they had managed to obtain information about the place. There was a world of difference between going with information and going without it… And yet the leader of the assassins he had trusted had lost the way. On a road he had traveled once before, no less.
Anger surged all the way to the top of Sergei’s head, but he forced it down. Expressing his rage in this situation would be utterly useless. In the end, he decided to split his forces again.
“Groups Eleven and Twelve will take one guide and go left. The rest will go right.”
Naturally, the guide would, of course, be one of the surviving assassins. Because they had split their forces like this each time they came to a fork, their numbers had inevitably diminished greatly compared to when they first set out. Of course, if the correct path was found, they would rejoin one after another through magical communication.
“We move out.”
After sending two groups down the other path, the party soon began marching again, toward the road that seemed relatively likely to be the right one.
The heroes had warped directly to Northwood through spatial movement. But the road ahead of them was by no means smooth. The first thing to greet them was a bitter cold that pierced down to the bone. A terrifying cold struck them, cold enough that even the breath they exhaled froze instantly. Because of that, a few fashionable men had to shave against their will. Their breath froze on their beards and caused breathing difficulties. The knights who had grown mustaches were forced, without exception, to shave off the beards they had so carefully cultivated.
Of course, for the Sword Masters who made up the majority of the hero party, the cold was not much of a problem. They had the ability to keep their bodies sufficiently warm with mana. The mages, too, could protect themselves from the cold, albeit with some effort. With magic, their trademark. The problem was the fifty or so guardsmen who had accompanied them as porters.
Of course, judging purely by swordsmanship, they could be considered thoroughly elite. They had been selected from among thousands of guardsmen as the very best. But swordsmanship was utterly useless when it came to enduring the cold. It was something even Sergei had not foreseen—that not long after the march began, the porters would start collapsing one by one.
Thud.
The faces of the fallen guardsmen were blackened as if dead. Though no one could say for certain, their feet were likely in a state where all the flesh had necrotized from frostbite. Under the pressure of their mission, they had not voiced any complaint about the pain, and when they finally reached their limit, they collapsed.
In general, the armor worn by guardsmen was far thicker than that of Sword Masters. In addition, they were carrying a full load of food and equipment, so its weight was no ordinary matter. In such conditions, their feet were inevitably subjected to truly tremendous abuse.
On top of that, from the armor wrapped around their bodies—armor so cold that skin would peel away the moment one touched it—a biting chill seeped in. Metal armor offered no help whatsoever in keeping warm. Thus, one might say it was inevitable that the guardsmen could not endure it.
The soldiers, freezing from the tips of their feet upward, collapsed helplessly only after their hearts stopped. But Sergei continued the march without concern. He ordered them to retrieve only the supplies from the backs of the fallen porters and leave them there. Of course, under such brutal cold, the possibility that they would survive was, quite literally, nonexistent.
But because of the grave mission they bore, the heroes had to suppress their rage and continue marching. They knew well that, in the course of carrying out a mission on which the fate of all humanity depended, they could not cling to minor sacrifices.
The second thing that troubled them was the frozen lake. Assuming in advance that the lake would be frozen thick because of the cold weather, Sergei had the heroes march onto the ice without any hesitation. Contrary to his expectations, however, the ice covering the lake was not very thick.
Crack.
Not long after they had entered the frozen lake, the sound of ice splitting suddenly burst out. Along with it came an urgent scream.
“Uaaah!”
When they turned their heads, they saw a guardsman falling through the split ice. It seemed the ice had been unable to withstand the weight of his heavy armor and his load. The agile Sword Masters rushed over in large numbers and grabbed the flailing guardsman by the arms. But before they could pull him up, the guardsman’s head drooped limply. His heart had stopped from the temperature of the icy water.
“It can’t be helped.”
Under Sergei’s cold gaze, the knights had no choice but to pull the supplies from the dead guardsman’s back.
Gurgle, gurgle.
The blue-frozen corpse of the guardsman sank to the bottom of the lake, sending up bubbles. Incidents like this occurred quite frequently as they crossed the lake. Naturally, almost all those sacrificed were guardsmen. Each time a porter died, the faces of the heroes hardened. They had never imagined they would face the trials of nature before the interference of the dragon.
In the end, Sergei, unable to keep watching, had no choice but to devise a means of self-preservation. If things continued like this, even the Sword Masters might suffer casualties. After all, they had to carry the dead porters’ loads in their place.
“We will redistribute the supplies. Aside from the knights assigned to outer perimeter security, every one of you will lighten the porters’ loads.”
And so the heroes had to shoulder a certain amount of baggage regardless of rank or status. Except for the physically weak mages.
Daimon alone was an exception. He was already carrying a lovely burden(?).
Though the march had not gone on for very long, Daphne had long since been utterly exhausted. Although the magical coat protected her body from the cold, she could not endure the chill that seeped into her face and feet. How could she, who had lived in the warm subtropical climate of the Radenburg territory, ever have experienced cold like this? In the end, Daimon had no choice but to carry her exhausted body on his back. Among the party, Daimon was the only one useless in battle, and Daphne wanted it as well.
Daimon walked with Daphne’s body, wrapped tightly in a magical coat and furs, secured firmly to his back with leather straps. Of course, it was not as though he did not feel the cold, but having experienced the cold winters of the Central Plains several times, it was not unbearable for him. Naturally, since he was carrying the most important person, there was nothing he needed to worry about. To ensure he did not fall into the frozen lake, the mages took turns casting spells to lighten his body, and four Sword Masters supported him firmly with connected ropes, fully prepared to pull him back at once if there were any sign that the ice was about to crack.
After they took such measures, the sacrifices decreased somewhat. The party quickened its pace and finally managed to pass the terrifying frozen lake. Looking back at the frozen lake that had swallowed twenty guardsmen, the knights each muttered a word or two.
“What a truly cursed lake.”
“I fear I’ll see it again even in my dreams.”
After crossing the frozen lake, the heroes once again had to continue their long march toward the Temple of Berhazel. What blocked their path this time was a rugged mountain covered entirely in ice and snow.
The heroes had to cross that mountain. The road they had to take was extremely harsh. As if to prove it, here and there along the mountain paths lay the corpses of mountain goats that seemed to have died after losing their footing. It was a place where even beasts accustomed to mountains slipped and fell. If most of the heroes had not been agile Sword Masters, they would surely have had to give up the march already.
But the party had to lose all their remaining guardsmen here. Though their loads had been lightened, the guardsmen were so utterly exhausted that if they lost their footing even slightly, they could not control the weight of their armor.
“Uaaaah!”
As they crossed the rugged mountain range, the party often had to hear the brief screams of guardsmen who slipped and plunged to their deaths. The guardsmen who had safely crossed the frozen lake ultimately failed to overcome this place and entered eternal sleep.
The guardsmen brought from Feldrian as porters were wiped out in vain, unable to pass even two obstacles. Now, only Sword Masters and mages remained in the party. Except for two people, of course.
Even with Daphne on his back, Daimon made his way forward without any particular difficulty. He simply lacked internal energy; his movements were still nimble. Though they had lost every porter, the party still did not halt the march. Each of them, with a hardened expression, simply hastened their steps in silence.
“Just how great is the power of a god?”
A faint sigh escaped the mouth of someone walking in the middle of the party.