Nathanaël slowly got back on his feet after a rough landing. His head hurt like hell. He couldn't believe he had survived, but the pain was stronger than any sense of relief. He didn't even want to think about how he was supposed to walk after that.
He held his head for a full minute, trying to control the pain. Mission impossible.
"Landing... successful."
He looked around, his mind still not fully recovered from the shock. The trees he saw were doubled, and he could barely see ten meters ahead.
"Ah."
He stood up with difficulty, glancing around, not really remembering why he had jumped so stupidly in the first place.
"What was I thinking? I'm not the kind of guy who would—"
Suddenly, he heard screams of pain and remembered why he had done it.
"Oh right, that weird guy."
Nathanaël ran toward the source of the sound. The trees were spaced far enough apart that he could slip between them without trouble. He still moved awkwardly and even slammed into one tree along the way, but thanks to his unusual abilities, he advanced at impressive speed nonetheless.
As he got closer to the source of the noise, he froze at the sight before him.
"Well, well. It's you again. You finally decided to jump."
Nathanaël couldn't believe what he was seeing. Technically, he understood the cause, but it still didn't make sense. The warrior was holding a man by the head. Others were lying on the ground, apparently dead. There were about nine of them, spears scattered across the floor, and some of the trees nearby were heavily damaged—some even cleanly sliced, not by a blade, but by that massive club.
The young man looked at Nathanaël with a devouring gaze, while the warrior in his hand was slowly losing consciousness.
"Hey, foreigner. Before you go back home, you should know who I am. I am Gazor Azraüs, son of Gazor Reno and Rita Obu. I've defeated the clan of Riot, the small kingdom of Scar, the clan of Hika, the clan of Hima, and the Land of handes—all with my own two hands, because I am..."
Azraüs gave a wide grin.
"...the greatest warrior of all time."
Nathanaël, shocked, spoke with his mouth hanging open.
"I... I still don't understand a single thing you're saying."
He looked at Azraüs. That was the only thing he had understood—the names.
Nathanaël had always been a model student. He knew quite a few of the different dialects spoken around the world, but Nozras was an exception. The country was so closed off that no one outside truly knew the language. There were a few books that talked about the North, but they weren't nearly enough to allow someone to communicate with a native. Nathanaël had read that the Northern tongue had once been split into so many similar languages that it had almost disappeared entirely. But in the end, for the sake of easier communication, the people had decided to keep one as the official language. Even so, each region spoke its own variation.
Azraüs quickly realized that his grand declaration had completely fallen flat, and looked genuinely disappointed.
"Rah, this isn't gonna work. You need to learn to speak Nord."
"I know."
"I stink? Well, that's normal. Everyone stinks a bit."
"So… you're going to lead me to the book?"
"No, I'm not gonna eat you. That's ridiculous. I know we look like barbarians to outsiders, but not that much."
"I don't understand… but thanks."
"I'll take you to someone who can probably translate for us—what I say, and what you say."
"I already said thank you."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm amazing. Come on, follow me, young warrior who escaped the cave and jumped off the cliff. I can say it now—you're a real warrior."
"What the hell is this guy even talking about…?"
Their conversation wasn't exactly… coherent. The language barrier was going to be a real problem. But Nathanaël accepted it anyway.
Eventually, Nathanaël followed Azraüs into the thick forest. Even though he hadn't fully understood what the warrior had said.
At some point, he turned toward him to confirm his name, just to make sure he'd heard it right.
"Azraüs?"
The young warrior turned toward him with a surprised look on his face.
"Yes."
"Azraüs Gazor?"
"Yes, that's me. Wait—you understood what I said?"
"No."
"Huh? So you did or didn't?"
"No."
"Then how did you understand my name?"
"At least I know it's your name."
"I don't get it. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you… we've got a long journey ahead. It should take a full day on foot, so I'd rather run it. I'll take breaks when you're tired, okay?"
Nathanaël didn't understand a word, but he nodded anyway to make it seem like he did.
"Okay! Let's go!"
Suddenly, Azraüs took off like a cannon, leaving a crater where his feet had been.
Nathanaël just stood there, completely stunned.
It took him a moment to realize he was supposed to follow. Azraüs sprinted through the forest, dodging trees and roots, grabbing vines to gain height, laughing like a wild child. He didn't even notice that Nathanaël wasn't behind him.
He kept running, laughing as loudly as a lion, and broke out of the forest in less than a minute. They were several hundred meters apart, but Azraüs had crossed it effortlessly. He turned around, eager to share the moment with Nathanaël.
"Hey, did you see that? I—"
But no one came out of the forest.
"Oh right. If I go too fast, he won't be able to follow, and I'll lose him."
Azraüs wasn't stupid.
"Hey, where were you planning to go anyway?"
But he also didn't realize...
"Wha—!"
...that Nathanaël was just as fast.
He jumped back in shock, blocking with his club, pointing at Nathanaël and the direction he'd come from.
"How did you—"
"You really thought I was that slow?"
Azraüs was in total awe. After searching all of Nozras for someone who could match him, a young man had finally appeared before him.
However, he still didn't understand a word he said.
"What do you mean, my mother's fat!?"
Nathanaël felt the pressure rising again. He quickly realized that Azraüs's intellectual level wasn't exactly high—and that he must have misheard something, thinking Nathanaël had insulted him.
He waved his hands frantically to show his innocence.
"No!"
"Huh? My mother's not fat?"
"No."
"Oh, really?"
The famous "no" remained an international word.
"Oh good. Because my mother died when I was little. I wouldn't want you saying bad things about her."
Nathanaël felt a strange wave of empathy for the boy. For some reason, emotions were something easy to convey. He understood that Azraüs's mother was probably gone.
"No."
"Yeah, I know. Wait—so you do speak our language."
"No."
"Then how did you—"
Nathanaël had resorted to answering only with "no," but wasn't sure if that was a good idea. Azraüs finally understood that everything Nathanaël had said before probably wasn't in Nord at all.
He sighed and turned back toward their path.
"Alright then. Let's move."
Nathanaël watched the warrior's broad, muscular, tattooed back gleam under the sun. For some reason, that back was terrifying. But at the same time, it looked like something he could rely on one day—a shield of flesh and strength.
After all, he could tell just by looking—Azraüs was strong. So he followed him.
The two of them continued their journey, bound by a shared goal and a total lack of understanding.
**
Chris sat on a stone not far from where they had planted Zvenne's flag.The Balance, the Sword, and the Butterfly now ruled over the city.The last city of the North had fallen.
The North was Zvenne.And Zvenne was the North.
Chris let out a deep breath, raising his gaze to the sky. His soldiers removed their helmets one by one and drank water. Some sat down on the ground, others stayed standing, trying to catch their breath. They all needed rest after such a long campaign.
"So… Zvenne has conquered the North, just to silence all problems. It was a rather harsh method… but I guess you could say it worked."
One of the soldiers approached him, limping slightly but wearing a kind and respectful expression.
"Commander, sir. We've received orders to remain here for a while—until reinforcements arrive to secure the area and make sure the people obey."
"I see. Well then… we'll wait."
Chris looked toward the prisoners—the captured soldiers of his own nation.Their eyes pierced straight through him, heavy and accusing.But he didn't really care.
Even if this was his nation, it wasn't his home. He had no home anymore.No friends. No school.
Nothing.
He'd ended up following a rival… and a war as cold as the winter's breath.
And that rival… didn't even see him as one.
He had the good life where he was, but his spirit of comparison had led him to hate, challenge, act, and ultimately lose his way.
But was he truly lost?Or was this simply another long chapter in his life—one that led toward some grand, noble purpose?
No.
There was nothing noble about it. Nothing noble at all.
And yet…
"At that time," he murmured, "I saw everyone as pawns for my own popularity. I never truly considered anyone as my homeland, and I wasn't ready to defend it either."
"That's… hard to hear, Commander," the soldier replied softly.
"You didn't know I wasn't from Zvenne?"
"I did. But… many soldiers see you as one of us now. You've done so much for the Empire that we can only thank you. I hope you've changed your mind."
Chris looked down at his white armor, his gloved hands catching the light.
"I'm a commander. My duty is to lead you to victory—and to protect you. I suppose that makes me Zvennes… yes."
He chuckled faintly. "Marc wouldn't believe a word of it. He'd probably glare at me the way I used to glare at him. But now… I think I understand just how unbearable I must've been."
Chris leaned back against the stone and lifted his eyes to the sky once more.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something new—A faint sense of fulfillment.
Maybe, just maybe, he had finally achieved something greater than anything Marc had ever done.