Chapter Ninety-Three: The Last Endurance

When the first rays of morning sunlight spilled across the earth, the slaughter at dawn seemed already to have faded into distant memory.

Standing in a small grove just an arrow’s flight from the battlefield, tall tents had long since been erected. Several enormous, pure gold horn-shaped stakes were driven forcefully into the soil. The sturdiest hemp skins were stretched taut, forming a canopy-like frame, and dozens of fine sheepskin rugs were laid atop the grass, so soft underfoot one might imagine treading upon clouds.

More than a dozen Odin attendants, barefoot and shaven, with massive golden rings dangling from their ears, worked busily, their bare torsos revealing robust muscles as they handled various tools with practiced urgency.

Kerkelan stood at the edge of the woods. Behind him, four attendants knelt, each holding a round tray of pure silver in their hands.

He gently brushed his hair aside; his long locks had been woven into countless slender braids. Today, he wore his most sumptuous robe: a cloak made from the snow fox pelts of the frigid northern plains draped elegantly around his neck, its silvery fabric sewn from hundreds of the finest silver fox skins. Beneath the cloak, he wore bright crimson armor engraved with exquisite patterns. Upon the breastplate, a blooming snow lotus, its petals inlaid with pure silver, stood in stark contrast to the red armor—under the sunlight, the flower’s intricate lines seemed to shimmer with flowing light.

His boots were crafted from the finest sharkskin, sourced from the royal fleet of Atlantis, and even the spurs on them were forged from pure gold.

Kerkelan gazed calmly into the distance, then casually took a golden goblet filled with red wine from one of the attendants’ silver trays and brought it to his lips. Nearby, the shirtless Odin attendants had lit a campfire and erected an iron spit, placing a smooth-skinned lamb atop it. As the lamb turned over the flames, they brushed layer after layer of the finest honey and spices onto its flesh with enormous brushes.

“Ah… Why is it that every time I witness such slaughter, my heart softens?” Kerkelan set down the goblet, smiling wryly. His fair face, so unlike any Odin’s, bore a hint of melancholy. Turning, he took up his delicate lyre from another attendant.

“Ah, how I long to hear the sound of the lyre…”

Just as Kerkelan sighed at the sunrise, urgent hoofbeats echoed from the distant woodland. A rider on a black stallion surged forward, and wherever he passed, the dense ranks of Odin warriors bowed and parted like a tide, quickly opening a path for him.

Hastin, clad in his customary black robe, rode straight to Kerkelan, dismounting less than ten meters away. He thrust his trident war lance heavily into the ground, his flowing robe whipping about him, his entire figure resembling a storm of black flame. He strode calmly to Kerkelan’s side.

Stopping only a few steps away, Hastin fixed his slightly androgynous gaze on Kerkelan’s profile. At that moment, Hastin narrowed his eyes and, in his uniquely hoarse and tranquil voice, spoke softly:

“I don’t know why, but every time I come this close to you, I always feel the urge to draw my blade and slay you on the spot.”

In that instant, Kerkelan felt a surge of murderous intent engulf him. Yet his brows relaxed, and he turned to meet Hastin’s eyes. He bowed gracefully, a smile upon his pale face, though his emerald eyes were as deep and mysterious as a dark pool. “Oh, our mighty Odin god of war. I was just gazing at the sunrise, reflecting that it is your wisdom and the brilliance of your valor that illuminate this land. However…”

He wrinkled his nose and gave a bitter laugh. “Couldn’t you have changed clothes before meeting me? You know how much I detest the smell of blood.”

The murderous aura around Hastin gradually dissipated, and his eyes opened, scrutinizing Kerkelan as if the earlier threat was nothing more than a casual greeting between them. He pondered a moment, then said in a low voice, “How long must I tolerate you, Prince Kerkelan?”

A sly glimmer flickered in Kerkelan’s emerald eyes. He laughed easily, snapped his fingers, and feigned surprise. “Is that a question for me to answer? The answer is simple: First, if I inherit my great father’s throne, you’ll no longer need to tolerate me—you’ll simply submit to me. Second, if my dear elder brother becomes the Odin Emperor, then your blade may finally claim my head. If that day comes, I hope you’ll strike gently, for I dread pain.”

Hastin suddenly raised a single finger, his expression serious, his gaze locked onto Kerkelan’s face and those emerald eyes. “For the last time, Prince Kerkelan. I swear by my heart, this is the last time I will tolerate your mischief. If it happens again, anywhere—even in the palace, before His Majesty—I swear your neck will taste my blade. I am not jesting; remember my words today.”

Kerkelan fell silent, as if earnestly weighing Hastin’s threat—yet not a trace of anxiety or fear appeared on his face. After a moment, the Odin noble smiled again. “Very well, I’ll heed your warning. I promise this is the last time… and next time I plot against you, I’ll do my best to keep it hidden. Does that answer satisfy you?”

Hastin’s eyes grew cold; he no longer glanced at Kerkelan. Turning away, he shook his arm, pulled the trident war lance from the ground, and bits of flying mud even splattered onto Kerkelan’s cheek.

Only after Hastin had mounted his horse did Kerkelan suddenly call out, “Lord Hastin, may I ask where you are headed?”

Hastin sat astride his steed, looking down coldly at Kerkelan. He was silent at first, then took a deep breath and replied, “Back.”

“Back?” Kerkelan exclaimed with exaggerated surprise. “We’ve ridden day and night for thousands of miles, trapping the strongest legion of the Byzantine Empire in this fortress. Are we just going to leave?”

Hastin fixed his gaze on Kerkelan and snorted. “My men depart tomorrow. If you wish to stay and earn your glory, I wish you luck.”

With that, Hastin seemed unwilling to remain another moment. It was as if lingering any longer would tempt him to swing his war lance and slay the man who so infuriated him.

Watching Hastin ride away, Kerkelan wiped the mud from his cheeks with a finger.

A strange light shone in Kerkelan’s eyes. He mumbled, “If we had truly fought just now, how confident am I that I could have kept him here?”

Then his tone shifted to a mocking sneer. “Kept him? What nonsense! If I could withstand just one strike from his black-flame war lance, I’d count myself lucky!”

He shook his head, his expression changing again. “No, no, Kerkelan, don’t belittle yourself. Remember, with my skills, even if I can’t defeat him, I can still save my own life… and if all else fails, I can always call for help…”

The attendants nearby stood straight, not daring to lift their heads. This prince’s temperament was notoriously eccentric, and his habit of talking to himself had long since become routine.

After a while, Kerkelan sighed, his face showing dissatisfaction, and called out loudly, “Enough, enough! No need to finish setting up the damned tent. It seems we must depart immediately… Ah, had I known, why bother? If I hadn’t schemed against Hastin, perhaps we’d already be celebrating victory at the enemy’s stronghold. So, I truly am a despicable man.”

The attendants who had been busily working stopped, staring in bewilderment.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Kerkelan waved impatiently. “Prepare the baggage at once, we must set out again!”

He paused, his eyelids suddenly lowering as he took a deep breath. “Hmm… Light all the candles I brought.”

Candles?

An attendant couldn’t help but remind him quietly, “Your Highness, it’s daytime…”

“I know perfectly well it’s daytime.” Kerkelan gazed toward the distant battlefield, where a blood-red mist still lingered, and squads of Odin warriors were conducting the final cleanup.

“Light them… to guide the souls of the dead.” Kerkelan smiled earnestly. “I am, after all, a very soft-hearted person.”

With that, he ignored the wide-eyed attendants and strode into the woods, his lyre cradled in his arms. From afar, his melancholy sigh drifted back.

“Ah… How I long to hear the sound of the lyre…”

Hastin galloped back to the camp, riding straight to the ranks of Odin warriors already assembled. Seated atop his horse, he surveyed the officers’ expectant faces.

“Pass the order… We are preparing to withdraw.”

At this command, everyone was struck with disbelief, but Hastin’s face was stern as water, and none dared question the order of the Odin God of War.

“Move quickly.” As the officers prepared to disperse and carry out the command, Hastin, most uncharacteristically, added, “I don’t want to be caught by that fellow’s machinations and left behind as the rear guard. Hmph… It’s not yet time to kill him.”