Yet... amidst the raucous laughter and the flickering warmth of the victory fires, a solitary figure detached himself from the revelry.
Born, the young commander of the Heavy Armored Vanguard, trudged slowly toward the eastern gate concealed behind the veil of the waterfall. He remained clad in his full plate armor, encrusted with layers of dried blood and the mire of battle. Beside him moved "Slatan," his massive red-brown boar—a loyal mount that trod beside him in predatory silence.
The song from the camp drifted on the wind, reaching its swelling crescendo: "But behold! The Army of Magnison gathers, shoulder to shoulder! The Grandfather leads one hundred ten... the Son leads one hundred ten... the Grandson leads the final one hundred ten. Three hundred thirty-three souls... to pierce, to penetrate, to destroy... Until the enemy is nothing but dust!"
Born halted. He spat onto the ground with bitter disdain. "One hundred ten... Bullshit!" he growled low in his throat, eyes bloodshot with suppressed fury. "My unit... there is barely anyone left to breathe."
The cold arithmetic of reality reflected the true cruelty of this war. Of the 333 lives that marched into enemy territory, only 183 remained. The Grandfather's main host, commanding from the rear, held 93 survivors. The mobile unit of his father, Grimm the Swift, had 61 left. But his own Heavy Vanguard—those who had to trade their flesh against arrows and blades to shield the others—stood at a mere 29 lives.
Born gritted his teeth until the muscles in his jaw bulged. With practiced agility, he vaulted onto the boar's back. His perfect balance was a legacy of the grueling training from his father, Grimm—a skill that made him one of the finest riders in the army. The Dwarves of Midgard differed from their kin in Svartalfheim, who favored dragons; in Midgard, a single dragon egg cost more than 400 gold coins, a price far beyond reach.
"Let's go..." Born nudged the boar's flanks gently with his heels. He did not rush, nor did he hurry, for he wanted no sound of hooves to draw anyone from the light and the song. Tonight, he desired no witnesses, no blessings, and no knowledge of his departure.
The silhouette of Born and his boar was slowly swallowed by the darkness.
The High Elven army that had descended upon the plains of Luna-Grad was indeed magnificent. In truth, they had not been defeated by the Dwarven army at all; everything that transpired was solely the result of the maddening, cataclysmic power of the god Modi.
Born, having witnessed Modi's martial prowess, could not help but offer his wholehearted reverence. The storms that flung enemies from the earth, the lightning that lashed at everything in sight, and the unstoppable force of Mj?lnir... The war might have ended then and there, had the god Vidar not appeared to stem the tide.
Tracking the hastily retreating army was as easy as Born had anticipated. The High Elves remained arrogant, trusting in their footsteps that were light as down feathers, forgetting the truth that war does not move on warriors' legs alone. Rutted tracks from supply wagons, drag marks from heavy siege weapons, and the dripping blood of the wounded left a trail so obvious it was laughable.
Born swept his gaze over the tracks with scorn before urging Slatan to pick up the pace. He was no foolish Dwarf chasing shadows. This was his specialty... hunting wounded prey on the run.
Finally, Born found his target. The enemy army had encamped on a high ridge beside a stream. The location was surrounded by fragrant wildflowers, and the sound of the flowing water lulled the ear like an endless song. It was a taste of high nobility, typical of the Elves. But in the eyes of a field commander like him, it was "pathetic weakness."
The sound of the stream easily masked the clanking of his heavy armor. Born took a handful of flower pollen and rubbed it vigorously over his armor and skin to mask the distinct metallic musk of a Dwarf. Then, utilizing the shadows and tall grass, he infiltrated the lax defensive lines, slipping into the heart of the enemy camp like a malevolent spirit.
He observed cautiously until his eyes snagged on a massive pavilion at the far left corner. It was adorned with a banner bearing a Black Sword. Its sheer size and sigil indicated a status far from ordinary—likely a high-ranking general or a member of the royal family.
The pavilion was isolated, set apart for privacy in accordance with the noble love for solitude. Strategically, however, this was a fatal flaw that offered him the easiest path for assassination and extraction.
Born sneered, condemning them in his thoughts: 'What foolish taste.'
As Born moved to press against the wall of the target tent, a heated argument leaking from within caused him to freeze and listen.
"You promised to lead the army to slay Valen and return the Kingdom of Ellasia to me!" a man's voice shrieked, driven by an emotion barely contained.
"You saw it yourself today... we fell before Modi," a woman's voice replied. It was calm, yet so cold that Born, standing outside, could feel the aura of someone who held absolute power, someone who viewed the speaker as nothing more than dust.
"But Magni is long dead! You still haven't kept your word!" The man's voice began to tremble, filled with vengeance yet laced with an unconcealable cowardice.
"Your brother is different from you... He is both a skilled leader and a master warrior. We have sent assassins to kill him many times, but none have ever succeeded. Not a single soul has ever returned alive." The woman retorted without flinching, her words deliberately insulting her companion.
"Are you mocking me?!" The man roared in fury.
Born, crouching outside, could deduce enough. The man could be none other than Torvin, the Prince of Ellasia who had committed patricide to seize the throne. He did not know who the woman was, but her daring to belittle royalty without fear suggested a power that vastly eclipsed the Prince's.
"You always say your brother is vile and wicked. Surely, he must be different from you, no?" The woman's voice continued its mockery.
"Enya... You!" Torvin called her name in rage before storming away, his footsteps indicating he was leaving the tent in a temper.
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Hearing the name, Born realized instantly: this woman was Enya, the sister of the Elven Queen, famous as the Elven assassin who bore the title "Night Blade."
"Walk the Prince back to his quarters," Enya ordered one of her servants to follow Torvin.
Born frowned in the dark. He was surprised; throughout his eavesdropping, he hadn't sensed a third presence in the tent. But he dismissed the doubt quickly—a royal Elf would naturally have close personal servants.
The tent flap lifted. Prince Torvin stomped out, fuming, followed closely by a tall, slender young man in golden attire, keeping a distance of four or five paces. The man, though tall, looked frail. He wore thin, light fabrics, devoid of armor or weapons. He looked more like a bedchamber servant than a warrior. Born dismissed him as a non-threat.
Born crouched motionless, his eyes shifting between the back of Prince Torvin disappearing into the shadows, and the dim lantern light glowing from Enya's tent.
If he chose Torvin... Victory was certain. The wicked Prince might have a warrior's build, but human strength meant nothing against a Dwarf. And that golden servant carried no weapon—he wasn't worth considering. Born only needed to snap the servant's neck, then slay the patricidal Prince. His fame in Midgard would surely grow a little.
But if he chose Enya... It was a reckless challenge. The title "Night Blade" spoke of supreme martial skill. He didn't know how many weapons or servants remained inside. Yet, if he could carry the head of an "Elven Royal" back to camp, his standing in the Dwarven army would change forever.
The Decision
(Choice A: Prince Torvin of Ellasia | Choice B: Enya, Sister of the Queen)
Route A: The Prince & The Servant
Born decided on the easiest prey. His eyes locked onto Torvin's back. The two hand-axes at the Prince's waist looked like toys, and his leather armor was fragile. As for the slender figure in gold trailing behind? A single punch would cave in his skull.
Born moved like a seasoned hunter, abandoning Enya's tent. He used the brush and rocks to shadow his targets. The sound of the stream masked the clatter of his armor. He waited until they moved away from the camp and into the deep gloom of the woods.
Fifteen steps... ten steps... five steps...
Born sprang from cover, rushing the man in gold from behind. He aimed his massive, vice-like hand at the man's neck, intending to crush it instantly!
But then, the impossible happened. Born felt his body being effortlessly hurled over the golden man's shoulder.
Torvin turned to see the clash between the mysterious Dwarf and Enya's servant. Instead of drawing his axes, the cowardly Prince fled back to his quarters in terror.
Born scrambled up from the dirt. He drew the short sword, lunging back into the fight! Click! He triggered the mechanism. The spring-loaded blade shot out like an arrow, aimed to pierce the slender man's chest. It was a surprise attack that should have been fatal, yet the man in gold moved with blurring speed, his hand swatting the flying blade away before it could touch him.
Born used the momentum to tackle the man, locking his arms around the torso. He used his immense Dwarven strength to spin the man around to disorient him, then shifted his grip to a chokehold, intending to snap the enemy's neck with brute force!
But Born's eyes widened in shock again... The golden figure contorted at an angle that defied anatomy, slipping out of the lock as if he were made of water. In the next instant, the man's right hand thrust forward, striking Born's chest plate.
CRACK!
The sound of shattering metal rang out. Born stumbled back, confusion flooding his mind. This armor was a family heirloom, gifted by God Magni, forged by God Modi himself from the toughest ore in Midgard. It was said to rival Mythril. Yet... the bare hand of the man before him had punched right through it?
"Who... who the hell are you?!" Born gasped, drawing his final dagger for a last stand.
There was no answer. The figure in gold rushed at Born with a speed that made "lightning" seem slow.
Born saw only a blur. It was faster than a blink. Faster than thought. The body of Dark Asanee swung his hand just once...
SLASH—!
Born's consciousness was extinguished as his head was severed from his shoulders. His dark blood sprayed across the Elven wildflowers. He stood headless for a moment, then fell. He died without ever knowing... that even God Magni, the legend, had been beheaded by this very same hand.
The man in gold was none other than Dark Asanee.
Route B: The Night Blade
Born let Torvin and the servant disappear into the woods. He moved like a ghost, using the knife at his belt to slit the tent canvas, slipping inside silently.
But luck was not with him tonight. The spot he chose to enter brought him directly face-to-face with his target. Enya.
She sat on her bed, relaxed, clad in a sheer white silk nightgown that glowed like mist in the lantern light. She was stretching her shoulder, easing the fatigue of battle. Her demeanor was calm, simple, and utterly devoid of caution. As their eyes met—time seemed to freeze. The air in the tent grew heavy. Born felt his heart hammering like a war drum.
"A Dwarven assassin? I was getting bored!" Enya laughed, reaching under her bed and drawing a pale blue Mythril sword.
"I, Born Magnison, will be your end!" Born declared his name, following the Dwarven belief of announcing oneself before facing the God of the Underworld.
"A Magnison... of Dodan's kin..." Before she finished speaking, Enya lunged.
The "Night Blade" lived up to her name. Her strike was fast and beautiful, an arc designed to bisect the Dwarf from knee to neck in a single motion. Born realized his weapon was too short to parry. He scrambled back, the blade whistling past his face by a hair's breadth. He threw his dagger to create an opening, then drew his short sword, thrusting forward.
Enya flicked her sword, knocking the throwing knife away effortlessly. She turned her blade to intercept his thrust. But in that split second, Born triggered his trap. Click! The hidden blade shot from the hilt, propelled by a powerful spring. It flew like a bolt, striking Enya's abdomen without warning.
Enya's eyes widened—not in mockery, but in genuine shock. She screamed, her body curling in pain. Born didn't hesitate. He grabbed a sword hanging from the tent pole and swung it with all his might at her exposed neck.
But Enya countered. Despite her wound, she thrust her Mythril sword with blinding speed. Born was forced to abort his attack and dodge, but he was too slow. The tip of her blade struck his chest and stomach armor repeatedly. He rolled away to survive.
Then, something strange happened. Enya stopped attacking. She stood looking at her Mythril sword with a sigh. Born stood up and saw why she had survived: she wore a metal belt over her nightgown. The buckle had stopped his hidden blade.
"You... are lucky. That buckle saved your life," Born scolded, frustrated by fate.
"I am lucky. But you are not," Enya replied, eyes fixed on her sword.
"Are you trying to talk to buy time for help?" Born asked, needing a breath himself. Moving in heavy armor was exhausting.
Enya sighed. "It seems the age of Mythril is over... I struck you so many times, yet all I have is a chipped blade."
Born laughed triumphantly. "Ha! My armor was forged by God Modi! Your Mythril is nothing against it!"
Enya looked at him with admiration, then nodded with a smile. "You are right about one thing." She spoke slowly. "It is time I called for help."
Born frowned. He listened intently for guards, weapons, footsteps. Nothing.
Enya stood smiling. "Return... Dark Asanee."
BOOM!
A sound like a thunderclap detonated inside the tent. In a fraction of a second, a Golden Spear pierced the air, moving faster than Born could comprehend. It flew into Enya's hand. But on its way... it had passed through Born.
A hole the size of a fist appeared in his torso. Blood poured out. Born did not die immediately. His fading vision watched Enya place the Golden Spear beside her. Slowly, the spear morphed into the tall, slender man in gold who had followed Torvin earlier.
This was the last thing a Dwarf of Clan Magnison ever saw.
"Don't feel bad," Enya sneered. "Even Magni... died by his hand."
Previously, when Enya faced Prince Adam (Episode 11), she could not control Dark Asanee with such precision. But now, her mastery was absolute. She had stepped into the realm of the All-Father Odin—the true wielder of Gungnir.