The Mad Spearman of the Northern Front - Chapter 242

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Mad Spearman of the Northern Front (242)
Preldior, the Imperial Army’s Camp.
The frenzied clamor of war had settled like a lie.
The haphazardly erected tents had been arranged into some semblance of order, and the supply routes had begun to take provisional shape.
The soldiers’ movements no longer bore the mark of panic.
It was the familiar time of reorganization that came after victory.
Yet that did not mean all problems had vanished.
The greatest problem was the simple fact that this place was Preldior.
The terrain was excessively jagged, and the wind currents were inconsistent.
Surrounded by layers of rocky mountains, visibility was limited; expand the formation and supplies were cut off, contract it and troops became constrained.
It was nearly the worst terrain imaginable for establishing a fortress.
“This narrow pass has angles too acute for shield walls.”
“If we leave the upper ridge unguarded, the risk of surprise attack becomes severe.”
Wherever officers gathered, low-voiced disputes continued.
Though we had achieved victory in war, holding and maintaining this place was another challenge entirely.
In this state, when the Kar Tribe arrived with fresh forces, it was certain that catastrophic casualties would occur once more.
Yet removed somewhat from such turmoil and debate, at the far edge of the camp.
Arteon sat alone in the shadow of a boulder where the wind penetrated less.
Eyes closed.
Back straight, both hands resting upon his knees.
His breathing was long and measured.
Through the war at Preldior, Arteon had definitively crossed a threshold.
7th Star.
And beyond it.
8th Star.
The realm where Vargas, once called the Ruler of the North, was said to have dwelled.
Arteon now stood upon that same plane.
‘Yet….’
As consciousness deepened, what emerged before joy was a sense of incongruity.
He had felt it since reaching 6-Star.
How flimsy such a classification truly was.
6-Star, 7th Star.
The names were the same, yet within them lay multiple stages, layered upon one another.
Indeed, in the battle against Krelmuuk at Preldior.
And when fighting Barg, the Supreme Commander, it had been the same.
Though they seemed to occupy the same realm, the gap between Arteon and them was unmistakable.
Within battles where life and death hung in balance, I had managed to grow further and prevail through fortunate circumstance….
‘How long will such fortune continue to favor me….’
No, one could not rely upon fortune in battle.
That doubt pierced deep into my chest.
Of course, such rapid growth could not have been mere coincidence.
Arteon himself was aware of this.
There was some form of intervention—something he did not understand.
But the state of not knowing itself was already dangerous.
‘From the beginning… I must verify each element, one by one.’
The relic that Vargas left behind.
The memories and Spear Technique contained within his life’s chronicle.
And the Mana Cultivation Method that could be honed to its absolute peak in this harsh, frozen Northern Region.
Beyond that, there was even the Heart of Ether—something Vargas himself had never obtained.
I needed to understand how all these elements intertwined and what result they were producing.
“Haaaaaah.”
With a long exhale, white breath tinged with frost dispersed into the air.
Along with it, Arteon focused his consciousness inward upon the Mana Core residing within his body.
One of the greatest changes that had emerged from the battle with Barg was that the two separate Mana Cores—one in the lower abdomen and one in the heart—had merged into a single entity.
The Mana Core now positioned at the center of his body possessed a magnitude incomparable to what had existed before.
It was as though more than half of his torso was now filled with Mana Core.
This form…
‘…does not exist even in Vargas’s knowledge.’
Even from the experience gained in my past life, I had never heard of Mana Cores merging into a single entity positioned at the solar plexus.
There was wonder at this new phenomenon, but alongside it came fear.
I could not know what effect this would have upon me.
But then, it happened.
“…?”
Arteon slowly opened his eyes and turned his head toward the presence approaching from afar.
Soon, a solitary figure emerged between the skeletal trees and drew near to where Arteon stood.
“So you were here.”
A low, familiar voice.
At the sight of the man appearing beyond his field of vision, Arteon rose to his feet.
“Svein?”
Whoooosh!
In that instant, it felt as though the wind of Preldior swept past in a low whisper.
Arteon regarded Svein’s sudden arrival with a puzzled gaze.
‘He rarely leaves Crown Prince Sedrian’s side…’
Indeed, when he had participated in the war, I had been quite taken aback by this fact.
Whether on the Battlefield, in meetings, or even during moments of rest—had he not always remained like a shadow at his side?
But perhaps Svein had read the thoughts from Arteon’s expression?
Svein smiled faintly and spoke.
“Judging by that expression, I can tell what you’re thinking.”
To this, Arteon replied honestly.
“It’s unexpected that you would leave Crown Prince Sedrian’s side.”
“I came with permission.”
Svein’s voice was light, yet the weight behind it was anything but.
“It’s a matter of some importance to me.”
Arteon nodded and asked.
“What brings you here?”
As that question fell, the smile gradually faded from Svein’s face.
In its place settled a gaze so profound that only those who had walked the razor’s edge between life and death countless times on the battlefield could possess.
“You.”
Svein opened his mouth slowly.
“Have you ascended to the 8th Star realm?”
It was not mere curiosity.
Verification.
Or rather, something closer to scrutiny.
Yet Arteon did not answer immediately.
A moment of silence.
But soon he nodded slowly and replied.
“It appears so.”
It was too early to speak with certainty—the state itself still felt foreign to me.
So I deliberately chose my words with care.
Svein regarded me quietly.
Nearly a decade had passed since he reached the 7th Star realm.
Throughout that long span, Svein had never crossed the threshold to the 8th Star.
No—he had not even stood properly before that door.
A life after ascending to the 7th Star, grasping wealth and honor, and leaving the battlefield behind.
He knew that his stable existence had gradually dulled the edge of his blade.
“When I look at you.”
Svein laughed softly.
“I see the reflection of my younger self.”
“You honor me too greatly.”
Arteon’s reply was measured.
Knowing already the extraordinary path Svein had walked, I answered with honesty.
But Svein shook his head.
“Yet now… I envy you desperately.”
Reaching this realm at such a young age, and more than anything…
“Having comrades beside you to traverse the battlefield together.”
At those words, a faint gleam seemed to flicker in Svein’s eyes.
And Arteon immediately grasped what that gleam signified.
An ember not yet extinguished.
A passion that once seemed destined to set the world ablaze was rising again.
Svein spoke.
“I have a request for you.”
“Please, speak freely.”
A brief silence fell.
But it did not last long.
Svein spoke to Arteon.
“Would you be willing to spar with me?”
“A sparring match?”
Arteon’s eyes widened.
He could not help but be surprised.
Svein, who was approaching fifty and counted among the Empire’s greatest warriors, was lowering himself to request instruction.
Arteon hesitated for a moment.
‘Surely….’
What Svein sought was not merely the clash of weapons.
It would be a sparring match to shatter a stagnant realm, to push each other’s limits beyond their boundaries.
Its intensity would be incomparable to an ordinary match.
If things went wrong, someone could be gravely wounded.
As if piercing through that hesitation, Svein spoke with unwavering resolve.
“Even if I become crippled in the process.”
After steadying his breath for a moment, he continued calmly.
“No—even if my life is forfeit, I will not resent you.”
There was no wavering in his gaze.
“I stake my name upon this promise. I have already sought the Crown Prince’s permission.”
Before such resolve, Arteon’s eyes too transformed.
Not with light respect, but as warrior regarding warrior.
And witnessing Svein’s bearing, Arteon himself wondered.
Perhaps….
‘Through this sparring match….’
I might discover something I too have long sought to understand.
Arteon then slowly nodded his head.
“I understand.”
A brief but definitive answer.
“Let us proceed.”
The wind of Preldior blew fiercely once more.
Within that wind, the moment of two warriors began to interlock in silence.
* * *
In the Northern Region, Grashkhal.
Within the massive Castle at the heart of the Northern Region where the harshest cold dwelt, a tension utterly unlike the ordinary hung heavy in the air.
“…Barg is dead, you say?”
A low, thick voice.
As that single utterance reverberated through the Conference Room, the air itself trembled faintly.
Brakthor Tamantiacum.
The Grand Taman who ruled the entire Kar Tribe, and the master of Grashkhal.
He sat upon a chair hewn from stone, gazing down at the warriors before him with narrowed eyes.
Barg.
He was among the strongest of his subordinate warriors.
A being who had traversed countless battlefields, etching the Kar Tribe’s name in blood, and a warrior whose strength ranked within the top ten across the entire Kar Tribe.
And he knew that within the Empire itself, there were only a handful of individuals who possessed the power to threaten such a Barg.
But….
‘There had been no reports of such a person entering this Northern Region.’
Brakthor slowly tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.
Though several of his intelligence networks had been severed recently, there were still those within the Empire who maintained secret communication with him.
Among the information that had come through them, there was no mention of anyone capable of bringing down Barg.
If that were the case, the answer was one of two possibilities.
“Had there been an unforeseen variable?”
Or did it mean that a new powerhouse, one even the Empire had failed to identify, had set foot in this Northern Region?
Either way, the situation was far from simple.
For the first time, Brakthor felt a subtle sense of frustration.
“Hah.”
With that rough exhalation, his aura flowed outward.
In that instant.
“Ugh!”
“Mmph….”
An invisible pressure spread throughout the Training Ground.
The expressions of the warriors standing in the Conference Room hardened in unison, and small groans escaped from various corners.
Merely being in his presence made their lungs feel compressed, their breath catching in their chests, and a sensation of immense weight settling upon their shoulders.
Not a single one of them dared to move.
Then, Brakthor opened his mouth.
“Halkansor.”
“Yes, Brakthor.”
The man standing before him bowed his head.
Halkansor.
Brakthor’s closest aide and the Supreme Commander overseeing all of Grashkhal.
A man who earned Brakthor’s trust in both warfare and administration.
Brakthor asked.
“What is the current status of the Imperial Army’s movements?”
“They are establishing a foothold at Preldior.”
Halkansor’s voice was measured.
“They appear to be in the process of fortification… and there are no other notable additional movements at this time.”
Brakthor’s gaze grew cold and distant.
Belikezel.
And Preldior.
Both locations were critical strategic points that cut across the Northern Region.
Which meant.
‘Those bastards have driven deep into the heart of the North.’
A brief silence fell.
“…We cannot simply stand by and watch.”
At those terse words, the air in the Conference Room shifted.
Brakjor’s aura converged, and a different current emerged.
Invisible yet unmistakable—a current mingled with killing intent and resolve—slowly spread across the floor of Grashkhal’s grand Conference Room.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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