Chapter 341: Marquis Severus Wallace

The next day, after resting for one night, Aen set out with his Iron Guards, leaving Rivers Territory and continuing eastward.

Zeke did not follow him.

“The sooner we end the wars of the Northland, the sooner the people of the Northland can be freed from hunger. Therefore, I shall remain here to prepare the army for your next western campaign,” Zeke had said.

“This is a matter for us, the people of the Northland,” Aen had replied.

…

The further east they went, the colder the climate became.

Even the Iron Guards, who had long grown accustomed to the Northland’s chill, could not help trembling from the cold.

When they finally reached the foot of the frozen mountain, one of the Iron Guards collapsed to the ground.

“My King… perhaps that place is rejecting us,” Bazle’s skin was flushed red from the cold, and his face was filled with unwillingness.

Aen exhaled a puff of white frost, gazing at the distant glacier.

The horses had long since been unable to endure the cold. Early on, Aen had released them, and so he had been walking on foot all the way until now. His legs trembled with fatigue.

He was not a powerful warrior, nor a Northland fighter—just a merchant. Even calling his life tier a mere Tier Two was stretching it.

Yet though his legs trembled, he did not feel an unbearable cold. In fact, he felt a continuous warmth rising from within, supporting him to keep moving forward.

Some will seemed to whisper within him—that only he needed to go forward alone.

Aen did not know whether it was Hode or some unknown existence calling to him.

But Aen knew—it was the revelation given to him by the Lord through Bishop Jeven. It was his destined path.

Aen said, “Return from here… or wait in a place where you can still endure.”

Halfway through, he remembered who they were—his Iron Guards.

He thought he should try to trust them, just as he had told Zeke before: the Iron Guards were his sharpest sword and his strongest shield.

Bazle’s face flushed red with pain and frustration, but he understood. The power that blocked them was not something Iron Guards could oppose.

He only said, “We shall wait here for your return.”

Aen said nothing more and turned to continue forward.

The gale howled, carrying biting frost.

It was the coldest breath Aen had ever felt since coming to the Northland.

And within that wind seemed to be countless whispers, murmuring to him—the stories of the Northland.

It was as if they told him: only by letting one’s blood boil amidst the biting cold could one endure and survive here. This was the cruelty of the Northland—unchanged from past to present.

Aen’s chest rose and fell violently as his breath quickened. His pupils were unfocused, and amid the roaring wind, he felt as though the storm’s howls were the roars of a dragon.

Though the warmth within his body continued to sustain him, his consciousness blurred. His legs felt heavy—his entire body moved as if pushed forward by inertia or by some unseen force—compelling him to keep climbing that enormous frozen mountain.

Upward he climbed, and kept climbing, until he finally saw a body sealed within the mountain ice.

It was Hode. But Hode’s eyes were closed, and the lower half of his body was embedded within the head of some colossal creature.

That creature was too enormous for Aen to make out clearly. It was so vast that he felt the entire mountain might merely be covering its body.

“That’s a dragon—the legendary Phantasm, the dragon of the Northland’s Final Trial. Sadly, even it was slain in the end… nothing more than a dragon’s corpse, a bone dragon,” came a familiar voice from behind him.

Even without turning around, Aen knew who it was.

“Are you dead… or alive? Is the one within this ice you? Or the one speaking outside?” Aen asked, his neck stiff with frost, his body barely responsive, eyes locked upon the frozen Hode before him.

“I am dead. Frozen within this snowy mountain, slain utterly by the Dragon Soul’s Will,” Hode’s voice answered from behind, while the frozen figure before him did not move in the slightest.

Aen said, “But I can still hear your voice—and speak with you.”

“Because I have become a Heroic Spirit. I was recognized by the Lord,” Hode’s tone brimmed with pride.

Aen murmured softly, “I see…”

Then he suddenly inhaled sharply, his voice rising into a shout:

“Gate of Annihilation, sever the chains, let the battle roar shake the heavens; Wings of Frost, birth of dragonkin, extinction of dragon souls; Bridge of Heroes, fight to the death, hall of heroes; Wrath of the Northland, freeze the earth, crown of thorns!”

His voice echoed across the icy peaks.

The Iron Guards, huddled together against the cold, all lifted their heads, as though they could hear his call.

Aen’s tone softened once more. “So you’ve been waiting here for me, haven’t you? I who accomplished the great work of unifying the Northland—and you who completed the final trial. Who, then, is the Wrath of the Northland? How shall the earth be frozen? Perhaps only one of us can leave this mountain alive, and the victor will wear the Crown of Thorns?”

Hode replied, “The roar of the Northlanders is the Wrath of the Northland. The Northland itself lies frozen beneath the tundra. As for the Crown of Thorns, I believe that is why I remain here—my mission, my purpose.”

Aen said, “That does not fulfill the Prophecy.”

Hode answered, “Prophecies are open to interpretation. This is my understanding of the Lord’s prophecy.”

Aen asked, “Will you wear the Crown of Thorns?”

“No. I am already dead. My resting place is within the Hall of Heroes,” Hode said.

Silence fell for a while. Then Hode spoke again. “You must have met Zeke. He should have told you about the Will of the Northland.”

Aen did not answer.

Hode continued, “When the Great Work and the Final Trial collided, the Will of the Northland was completely dissipated—it returned freedom to this land. I am dead, but you shall carry forward the Northland as its Supreme King.”

“Therefore, I shall place the Crown of Thorns upon you—here, where the Will of the Northland perished.”

As his words faded, Aen felt the broken finger hidden in his chest emerge slowly, rising upward.

It was the Holy Relic he carried.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his chest. Aen lowered his head slowly, seeing a faintly golden-red spectral hand thrust through his body, clutching his heart.

Before he could react in shock or anger, he felt his chest swell with an overwhelming fullness.

The hand withdrew—and from his heart surged forth an endless flow of power, flooding through his body.

He felt his feet again; his limbs no longer stiffened. Even the freezing storm seemed to cheer for him.

Aen turned slowly toward Hode.

Before his eyes stood a powerful Northland Warrior—bare-chested, his figure surrounded by faint phantasmal light. Upon his head gleamed the illusory shape of fierce dragon horns; his arms bore the glint of hardened dragon scales, and behind him swayed the shadow of a long tail.

“Dragonkin—when the body of a Northland Warrior binds the Dragon Soul, it gains the dragon’s power. This is the final gift bestowed upon the people of the Northland by the Will of the Northland.” Hode spoke.

“I can feel the strength,” Aen said.

“It is power beyond Tier Five,” Hode replied.

“Then… what about my heart?” Aen asked.

“That is the Heart of Frost,” Hode said. “It is not like other Holy Relics originating from the churches of the Northland. It was a gift from the Frost Giant to King Aureus.”

“When King Aureus died, he passed this heart to me. And now, I shall give this Heart of Frost to you.”

Aen pressed his hand against his chest. With each heartbeat, he felt his blood surge through his body, and from it, a pure, overwhelming power continuously flowed forth, strengthening his entire being.

He felt his body growing stronger every passing moment.

Lifting his head, Aen gazed upon the eleven Holy Relics suspended in the sky, floating as if held aloft by some unseen power.

The nine relics he had brought, Hode’s battleaxe, and the Hoover Family’s twin-bladed axe—all hovered above.

“‘With the Heart of the Northland, forge the Crown of Thorns.’ I’ve heard this parable before, and also the interpretations from the West. But now, I wish to add my own understanding—the so-called Heart of the Northland should be the Will of the Northland itself, for only that deserves the name Heart of the Northland.”

“Thus, the prophecy must mean that the Crown of Thorns is to be forged with the Will of the Northland. But since you’ve brought all these relics, let these mighty Holy Relics serve as the materials for the crown.”

As Hode’s voice fell, the eleven relics above began to spin under some unseen will, swirling faster and faster until they merged together, transforming into streams of radiant light.

The light streams shrank continuously—smaller, smaller still—until they became the size of a circlet, descending slowly.

As the glow faded, what appeared was a crown of a pallid hue unique to the Northland.

It seemed woven from eleven intertwining silver-white thorn branches, twisted together, with a blue gem embedded at its center.

As its name suggested—the Crown of Thorns—floated quietly before Aen.

“Then, as the Supreme King of the Northland, will you don this Crown of Thorns that symbolizes the Royal Authority of the Northland?” Hode asked, his gaze fixed firmly on Aen.

Aen’s eyes, however, rested solely upon the crown.

At last, he reached out his trembling hand and took up the Crown of Thorns.

In an instant, it felt as though icy needles pierced his fingers, stabbing deep to the bone.

No blood fell—it was as if the pain itself were but an illusion.

Yet Aen could feel agony that reached into his marrow. The biting cold and pain stiffened his fingers, and his wrists trembled uncontrollably.

Perhaps it was the heartbeat of the Heart of Frost that gave him strength—for Aen endured the pain and placed the Crown of Thorns upon his head.

The torment repeated itself; it was as though countless icicles speared through his skull, tearing flesh, shattering bone, and twisting deep within his head.

Aen felt as if his skull had been torn open, laid bare beneath the freezing wind.

The pain was unbearable—his face distorted, his teeth clenched—but he did not remove the crown. His hands shook as they withdrew, leaving the crown upon his head.

“This Crown of Thorns is akin to the Will of the Northland itself. It will allow you to feel the will of the Northlanders. When they suffer, you too shall feel their pain. Only when they find happiness will you know peace,” Hode said, his eyes complex as he looked at Aen. “But tell me, when has there ever been a time when no one suffered? Even now, in the Kingdom of Greenwood, there are still those living in agony…”

“I am the Supreme King of the Northland,” Aen said through gritted teeth, his tone heavy and resolute. “The people of the Northland are my children. I shall bring them civilization. I shall bring them wealth. I shall see that none among them suffer hunger again. I shall see them clothed in warm cotton, sheltered from the Northland’s cold—until their suffering ends, and joy becomes eternal.”

Hode bowed his head deeply. “You shall become a great king—one whom the Northlanders will forever sing of.”

“And you are the pride of the Northland, Commander Hode. The people shall never forget you or the Comrades Group you founded—nor the glory you have earned,” Aen said.

“If that can aid you, then so be it.” Hode’s voice faded, and so did his figure.

Only then did Aen’s body give way—he knelt upon the icy ground, trembling, letting out a deep, pained roar.

“Ugh… Aahhh—!” It was both a cry of agony and a roar of fury. His voice grew louder and louder, echoing through the mountains, until it became the thunderous roar of a dragon.

Upon his body gradually appeared the same spectral dragon shadow that had surrounded Hode.

…

When at last the pain subsided enough that he could bear it without screaming, Aen descended the mountain.

“My King, the Holy Relics have been taken from us,” said Bazle, kneeling in the snow with the Iron Guards, their voices heavy with guilt.

Moments ago, the relics they carried had flown from their hands, summoned by some mysterious force.

Aen said, “Those relics have fulfilled their purpose. Your task was only to bring them here.”

Only then did Bazle notice the Crown of Thorns upon Aen’s head.

He remembered the prophecy—and the words Aen had spoken back in Frozen Furnace City.

A smile of excitement slowly spread across his face.

“Then… are we to return west, to the Pale Castle, where you shall be crowned as Supreme King?” he asked eagerly.

Aen shook his head, looking southward. “No. There’s still something we must do first.”

…

Over a hundred men were gathering at the border between Greenwood and the Northland, each clad in armor and mounted on warhorses—every one of them an elite among elites.

Marquis Severus Wallace—one of the Five Great Marquises of Greenwood.

After the Eastern Crusade, Priest Agamemnon had manipulated the Senate to complete the ennoblement of most of the territories between Northland and Greenwood, creating four marquises and five earls.

Marquis Severus Wallace had once been one of Lord Pegira’s Personal Guards. After the death of Rivers’ First Warrior, Weilin, he became Pegira’s foremost guard.

Thus, when the seven of them returned with their surviving soldiers, many chose to follow him. Yet upon arriving in this newly granted territory—now called the Marquisate of Wallace—life was anything but easy.

For no other reason than this: poverty.

No people. No money. No resources.

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