Chapter 52

“...Or so the story goes.”

“That’s terrifying! What is wrong with him?!”

Lifa shuddered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as she listened to El’s tale. It was certainly an unsettling history.

Of course, that was exactly why El had told it to her.

With this, El had succeeded in painting a fragmented yet vivid picture of the circumstances surrounding Harold. Given her insatiable curiosity, she had taken the bait exactly as planned.

“So, what happens next?!”

“I think that’s enough for today. If I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll probably doze off during my turn at the watch.”

“Ehh...”

“Besides, we have to climb the rest of the mountain and fight monsters again tomorrow, right? We need our rest.”

“Fine, I get it...” Lifa muttered, acting a bit sulky. She rolled over and, before long, the rhythmic sounds of sleep began to drift from her.

El couldn't help but notice how defenseless she was. He had never revealed his gender to her; sleeping so soundly next to someone whose identity was a mystery seemed remarkably bold—or perhaps just naive.

Despite that brief interlude, the next day arrived.

Perhaps influenced by the previous night’s conversation, Lifa spent the entire morning stealing glances at Harold, only to look away the moment there was a chance of eye contact.

She was incredibly restless, clearly caught in a tug-of-war between her curiosity and her self-preservation.

Harold noticed her behavior but said nothing, trudging forward with relentless momentum. His destination was the summit. Since the Ice Dragon—the Hydra—was known to lair near the peak, his stride never wavered.

The monsters they encountered along the way were handled almost exclusively by Harold at the front. El and Lifa were essentially just along for the hike.

Progress was smooth, but the silence was heavy. Harold didn't care for idle chatter, Lifa couldn't find an opening to speak, and El was too occupied observing the pair with quiet fascination to break the quiet.

Eventually, unable to endure the atmosphere—or perhaps simply fed up with Lifa’s staring—Harold came to a sudden halt and turned around.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries.

“Hey.”

“Wh-what is it...?”

“You’ve been a nuisance all morning. If you have something to say, spit it out. If not, stop peeking at me. It’s irritating.”

It was a high-handed, abrasive demand. Normally, anyone would have been intimidated, but Lifa’s reaction was the exact opposite. Seeing an opening, she jumped straight to the point. El found her boldness quite impressive.

“Fine, I’ll stop beating around the bush. Is it true that you were almost executed?”

Harold’s sharp gaze immediately shifted and pierced through El.

It wasn't hard to do the math. Lifa hadn't known a thing about Harold yesterday; for her to ask such a specific question today, there was only one person who could have fed her the information.

“...How much did you hear?”

He didn't ask who told her, but how much. It was an indirect affirmation of the truth.

At the same time, it confirmed El’s suspicion: there was still a deeper secret hidden within this story. If it were a simple matter of a public trial, Harold wouldn't need to worry about the extent of her knowledge. The fact that he was checking suggested there were details he wanted to keep buried.

Harold’s response served a dual purpose—gauging Lifa’s information while simultaneously warning El. He was trying to determine if they had stumbled upon any "inconvenient" truths.

Lifa, seemingly oblivious to the underlying tension, recounted the story El had told her the night before. Harold listened with a look of growing displeasure.

“—And well, that’s the gist of it.”

“It’s mostly accurate. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, stop staring at me. Otherwise, I’ll sever the tendons in your legs and leave you to rot on this mountain.”

“Your threats are genuinely horrifying...”

After hearing her out, Harold gave a blunt confirmation. Lifa backed down, likely realizing that given his reputation for cruelty, he might actually follow through on the threat.

However, El, who had been watching Harold with eagle eyes, didn't miss his subtle reactions. There were two moments where Harold’s composure flickered: first, when Cody’s name was mentioned, and second, at the mention of the word “Subject.”

Judging by those tells, Harold had likely noticed the inconsistencies in the story. Yet, he chose to affirm the narrative without correcting the suspicious details.

He might eventually approach me himself, El thought.

The prospect of how much information he could extract from Harold was exhilarating. It was a thrill similar to a treasure hunter standing before a legendary chest in the deepest reaches of a labyrinth.

While El was internally buzzing with excitement, Harold’s pace never slowed. Shortly after noon, the trio reached the peak of Mount Giran.

“We made it!” Lifa cried out, her voice full of joy as if she had forgotten the grim reason for their journey.

The summit was relatively flat, though jagged rock formations broke through the snowy surface. Since it wasn't mid-winter, much of the terrain was exposed. At the center of the plateau sat a massive crater, roughly two hundred meters across.

Ignoring Lifa’s celebration, Harold marched toward the crater. El followed, curious about his intentions.

Harold peered over the edge, found a path of gentle slopes and rocky footholds, and began to descend. He moved with a rhythmic, effortless grace—tap, tap, tap—dropping down the side of the dormant volcano. Within moments, he had descended over a hundred meters to the crater floor.

At the center, Harold produced a mechanical device. From his vantage point, El couldn't be certain of its function, but Harold seemed to be installing it into the earth.

The task took only minutes. When he was finished, Harold returned as easily as he had gone, leaping from ledge to ledge back to the rim.

“Incredible athleticism,” El remarked. “I don’t think I could ever replicate that.”

“Hmph. If you say so.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“None of your business.”

A curt, expected rejection. El speculated it was a sensor or monitoring device for the research institute Harold was affiliated with.

“By the way, you...”

Harold’s eyes narrowed further. El braced himself, thinking Harold was finally going to address the "Subject" issue. But before another word could be spoken, a piercing shriek tore through the air.

The time for questions was over.

El looked around and spotted Lifa immediately. The problem was the massive creature she was facing: a dragon clad in a literal armor of ice.

The Hydra.

Whether it saw her as an intruder or merely prey, the Hydra began to relentlessly pursue her. Lifa narrowly evaded its lunges, throwing test tubes that triggered sharp explosions upon impact.

Her attacks landed, but they didn't seem to be doing much. At this rate, she was going to be overwhelmed.

Harold, meanwhile, stood with his arms crossed, calmly observing the struggle.

“Aren't you going to help her?” El asked.

“I never intended to carry her through this. If she can't reach her goal on her own, she should stop here.”

“That’s incredibly harsh.”

From El’s perspective, Lifa didn't have nearly enough firepower to slay a Hydra alone. Whether Harold stepped in now or in five minutes made no difference to the outcome—it only increased the risk of Lifa getting killed.

“...If she can’t even hold her own against a worm like this, she’s useless to me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

El tried to dig further, but Harold fell silent, his eyes fixed on the battle with a terrifyingly serious intensity.

Accepting that Harold wouldn't budge, El turned his attention back to Lifa, preparing to intervene himself if things turned fatal.

Lifa dodged a swipe of the Hydra’s talons and a blast of frost breath, then threw another test tube. This one didn't explode; it shattered, drenching the dragon's hide in a clear liquid. She repeated this several times before throwing a final tube into the space between them.

Instantly, a thick white mist erupted, obscuring the area. It was a brilliant smokescreen. The Hydra, blinded by the fog, began to thrash about in confusion.

Seizing the opening, Lifa put distance between them and finished a long incantation.

“This is it! 『Flame Burst』!”

Meteoric fireballs rained down from the sky. The moment they struck the liquid-soaked dragon, a deafening boom echoed across the summit as a massive explosion engulfed the beast.

The sheer power was far beyond any Flame Burst El had ever seen. The spell usually involved multiple fireballs followed by a moderate explosion, but this was a localized inferno. Lifa had clearly used some chemical catalyst to multiply the spell’s potency.

As the pillar of fire roared, Lifa stood panting, her eyes fixed on the center of the blaze.

Through the smoke, the silhouette of the Hydra lay still. It seemed she had actually done it.

But then, the shadow twitched. The Hydra forced itself up and let out a defiant roar toward the heavens.

“No way... even that didn't kill it...?” Lifa’s voice cracked with despair. She had poured everything into that strike, and it hadn't been enough.

She had reached her absolute limit.

The Hydra spread its tattered wings and took to the sky. Its body was charred and bleeding from dozens of deep wounds, but its eyes were still full of murderous intent.

The beast climbed rapidly into the air, then suddenly flipped its massive bulk over.

A vertical Freefall.

Using its wings to gain even more momentum, the dragon became a falling spear of ice and muscle. Lifa, exhausted and shaken, couldn't move in time to dodge.

A direct hit meant certain death. Even a grazing blow would take a limb.

But the certain-kill strike never landed. It was intercepted by a heavy, jarring metallic sound.

The Hydra, falling with the force of several tons, was suddenly swatted aside. It went tumbling across the summit, carving a deep furrow into the rock as it crashed.

Lifa stared in disbelief. Even El, watching from a distance, was stunned. Because he had been far enough away to see the whole movement, he found it even harder to believe his eyes.

Harold had knocked the massive dragon out of the sky using nothing but a dual-wielded slash.

Lifa collapsed to her knees, her strength finally failing her as a mixture of fatigue and shock set in.

“...What a nuisance.”

Harold’s voice was low. He was looking toward the horizon, where a second Hydra was flying toward them. The first one’s roar hadn't been a cry of pain—it had been a call for help.

By any logical metric, they were in a desperate situation. Yet Harold didn't show the slightest inclination to retreat.

In his right hand, he held a broad longsword. A blue fuller ran down the center of its heavy, dull-colored blade, with a jade crystal embedded at the hilt and a crossguard shaped like flickering flames. In his left hand was a slender black blade, devoid of any ornament—a weapon of pure, lethal efficiency that suited him perfectly.

Resting the broadsword on his shoulder and letting the black blade hang loosely at his side, Harold watched the first Hydra scramble back to its feet while the second closed in. The combined presence of the two dragons was enough to crush the spirit of any ordinary warrior.

Harold simply looked at them and spoke.

“Death is the only thing waiting for you. Give up and die quietly.”

They were monsters; they couldn't understand his words. But they could feel his intent. Enraged by their wounds and the invasion of their territory, the Hydras prepared to strike.

Their fury didn't last long.

A flash of steel flickered—or so it seemed, for it was too fast to truly see. A heartbeat later, the first Hydra’s head slid from its neck. It fell without a sound, offering no more resistance than a child's toy.

As the decapitated beast sprayed dark blood onto the snow, the second Hydra unleashed a breath of pure frost. The blast was cold enough to flash-freeze a man to the bone, but Harold was already gone.

A second later, a shriek of agony followed. The Hydra’s right eye had been opened by a jagged red line.

When had he moved? There wasn't even time to process the question before its left talons were severed in a single, blurred motion.

The dragon tried to flee into the sky, but as it rose a few meters, Harold shredded its wing membranes, sending it crashing back into the dirt.

Harold was a whirlwind. He moved in a blur of afterimages, attacking from every conceivable angle.

It wasn't a battle. It was an execution—a massacre of the weak by an overwhelmingly superior predator. Even with his wide field of vision, El couldn't track Harold’s exact path. The Hydra, trapped in the center of the storm, was likely being cut to pieces before it even realized it was being attacked.

This was the man known as Harold Stokes.

A Bad Boy? The Knight Killer? The youngest prodigy in the history of the Order?

Those words were woefully inadequate.

Something wet splashed against El’s cheek. He reached up and wiped it away. It was the fresh, hot blood of a dragon. His hand was trembling.

El had seen many men called "the strong." He had witnessed heroes of legend and warriors whose feats defied belief. But those men were shadows compared to this. This wasn't human strength; it was a localized disaster that breathed death.

In that moment, El—and undoubtedly Lifa—felt something more profound than respect. They felt a deep, chilling awe.