Mythical Hero's Otherworld Chronicles: Volume 11 (eBook)

Tatematsuri (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025
250 Seiten
J-Novel Club (Verlag)
978-1-7183-0350-8 (ISBN)

Infos

The Grantzian Empire faces its darkest hour. To the south, the Vanir Triumvirate and the Free Folk march to war. To the north, the treacherous House Brommel schemes to overthrow House Scharm, its supposed opportunism concealing a far more malign and ancient darkness. Hordes of monsters beat upon the wall of Friedhof and none come to its aid. Soon, the curtain will rise on a climactic battle for the fate of Soleil. Yet first comes a prelude. Far to the west, Liz and Hiro meet once more-not as allies but as foes. When Lævateinn clashes with its fellow Spiritblades, who will emerge victorious?

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The Grantzian Empire faces its darkest hour. To the south, the Vanir Triumvirate and the Free Folk march to war. To the north, the treacherous House Brommel schemes to overthrow House Scharm, its supposed opportunism concealing a far more malign and ancient darkness. Hordes of monsters beat upon the wall of Friedhof and none come to its aid. Soon, the curtain will rise on a climactic battle for the fate of Soleil. Yet first comes a prelude. Far to the west, Liz and Hiro meet once more-not as allies but as foes. When Laevateinn clashes with its fellow Spiritblades, who will emerge victorious?

Textauszug

Chapter 1: Unrest in Soleil

The northernmost swathe of the Grantzian Empire’s northern territories was shrouded in never-ending blizzards. Most people made their homes in the more temperate south. The land there was blessed with fertile black soil, and its agricultural bounties supported the rest of the region.

Three noble houses ruled this land of snow and earth: House Scharm, House Brommel, and House Heimdall. The most prestigious was House Scharm, which counted itself as one of the empire’s five great houses and had produced many imperial chancellors. Next was House Heimdall, which, as the guardian of the great wall of Friedhof to the west, enjoyed even greater fame. Last came House Brommel. Although known chiefly for being overshadowed by the other two, its staunch service to House Scharm had earned it a quiet reputation as an indispensable pillar of the north—at least until recent years, when House Brommel took advantage of House Scharm’s decline to swell its faction’s ranks. A rift had formed between the two houses. Now, they were on the brink of open war.

House Brommel’s seat of power lay in Logue, in the east of the northern territories. The city’s proximity to the Lebering border made it a vital strategic location, and it could rival any of the great cities of the south in size. Oddly, however, its people were gray of face and lacking in joy. They had little enthusiasm for their profit at House Scharm’s expense. All of them could sense war on the horizon. Word had come that Lebering was mustering its forces, which only added to their unease. What was more, their lord seemed to have no intention of avoiding conflict. Indeed, he had been amassing troops from loyal nobles, and more soldiers gathered at the encampment at Castle Himinbjörg with every passing day.

“A formidable number,” Typhos von Brommel remarked. “Truly, there are no limits to human greed.”

A smile pulled at his lips as he gazed down from the balcony. His courtyard was filled with soldiers. What poor fools—they would ride to war because their masters wished it, and they had no choice but to obey. If they fled, they would be hounded. If they hid, they would be found out and sent to the block. Defeat in battle would mean a cruel fate for their families at home. How did it feel, he wondered, to live at the mercy of lords who could twist their lives out of shape on a whim?

“Yet it remains impressive how firmly these humans band together,” he murmured, “if not always for noble reasons. That unity of thought is how they prevailed over my zlosta’s strength. Bested by those we looked down on as lesser, by those we deemed beneath us... Had we the same capacity for exponential growth, we would have been the victors a thousand years ago. Do you not agree, Ceryneia?”

He glanced back. Behind him, the hooded figure of the primozlosta Ceryneia knelt with his head bowed.

“Yes, my lord. But it was only with a man as powerful as Artheus at their head that they could unleash their true potential. And had Schwartz the Hero King not sat at his right hand, the humans would have had no future to speak of. There will be no such champions in modern times.”

“You believe the present age can birth no heroes?”

“The humans have grown complacent, my lord. Peace makes poor soil. With no turmoil in the heavens, even emperors need not be exceptional when their only duty is to preserve their post for the next generation. Indeed, they are best when they are ordinary. All of history proves this, not least the third emperor’s purges.”

“He was no exceptional man, merely an ordinary one overshadowed by his father. And while the present age has produced no heroes, that has not stopped one returning from the past.”

Ceryneia raised his head. “If I may, my lord, without Artheus, there is no one to save the Grantzian Empire from its plight. Even Schwartz could not do it. For a thousand years, our Lord has woven his web across the land. None remain who can stop us.”

Hatred dripped from every word he spoke. Elation quickened his tongue, and his voice radiated confidence. Typhos was not unsympathetic. They had indeed spent a thousand years undermining the empire. There had even been several occasions when they might have destroyed it. Yet success had never been certain, and so they had bided their time, resisting temptation until the day they could ensure the downfall of von Grantz beyond a doubt.

“We stand upon the brink of success. Only a little longer and all our dreams will reach fruition. But that is all the more reason to be cautious. It would not do to fall at the final hurdle. No victory is ever certain.”

“I know, my lord.”

“We must act with the utmost care, now and in the future. The slightest mistake might cascade beyond our control.”

Ceryneia frowned. It was unusual for his master to be so talkative. “What are you suggesting, Lord Demiurgos?”

“So, you would use that name.” Typhos paused. “We may be called the Lords of Heaven, but while we have approached our creator’s might, we do not equal him. The people think us gods in their ignorance, but that does not mean we are.”

“Only the Spirit King has failed in truth, my lord. You might still claim the heavens. And I do not doubt that you will.”

“Indeed. I will not make his mistakes. I fully intend to become divine. To that end, I sought the power of the other Lords.” Typhos turned his attention from the world below and raised a hand to Ceryneia. “What became of the Iron Monarch?”

“He is here, my lord.”

Ceryneia revealed what he had kept concealed behind his back: a pedestal decorated with several dwarven heads. The gory trophies surrounded a large, glittering chunk of what looked like metal ore.

“The Iron Monarch’s heartsteel, my lord. The heads belong to the king who served as his medium, as well as the rest of the royal line.”

“Fine work. You have done well.” Typhos took the metal in hand and raised it to the sky, narrowing his eyes against its glow. “Ah, my brother. How beautifully you shine.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he lowered the ore into his mouth. Unpleasant crunching emerged from between his lips. He was crushing it between his teeth, taking his time as though savoring the flavor. Finally, he swallowed.

“An ignoble end for a sibling of mine. Yet it brings me one step closer to what I seek.”

Nothing outward about him changed. His appearance remained the same. Yet Ceryneia was accustomed to perceiving others through sense as much as sight, and Typhos’s shoulders trembled with mirth. He seemed struck by great joy.

“I have no need of the heads,” Typhos commanded. “Dispose of them.” He kicked them aside, went back to his chambers, and settled down into a chair. “You are the only one to return, Ceryneia. What of the rest?”

He reached for a silver goblet on the table. At once, Ceryneia was at his shoulder with a bottle of wine, filling the cup with indigo liquid.

“Augeas fell to the Iron Monarch, as did Stymphalides. Weakened he might have been, but he was still a Lord of Heaven. It took all of our strength to bring him low.”

“What of Erymanthos?”

“Burned alive in the fires of Mount Vyse. With the Iron Monarch fallen, nothing remained to suppress its eruption. The city beneath the mount must have been turned to ashes in an instant. Had I only my eyes, I might have witnessed that glorious moment for myself.”

“It was spectacular, I don’t doubt,” Typhos mused. “Yet now my twelve primozlosta are but three. Unless...” He drained his goblet and turned to a corner of the room, where unnatural shadow roiled. Ceryneia followed his gaze. “Four, perhaps. Welcome back, Ladon.”

A hooded figure emerged from the darkness—the primozlosta named Ladon. He approached Typhos on all fours, blood spilling from his abdomen.

Typhos rose, sensing something amiss. “There is a strange force within you. What has befallen you?”

Ladon could not answer. His groaning filled the room.

“That wound in your stomach... I see. Something is buried within.”

Typhos stooped down and rolled Ladon onto his back, setting a thoughtful hand to his chin. Beside him, Ceryneia waved a hand over Ladon, moving down the primozlosta’s flank and coming to a stop over the ragged tear in his side.

“I sense a fearsome curse, my lord.”

Typhos snorted. “I might guess its source. Allow me.”

He plunged his fingers into the wound. Ladon screamed in agony.

Ceryneia cried out in rare surprise as he held Ladon down. “That is not safe, my lord! You know not what it is!”

“Surtr would not send him back alive without a reason. I will take the gamble.”

“Did you not just advise me of the importance of caution?”

“This curse may be a threat to you, but not to me, as he well knows. Besides, he would not deprive himself of the opportunity to look me in the eyes as he slays me.”

Typhos’s hand stopped, then he yanked his arm back out. A gemstone emerged, tangled in Ladon’s entrails. A wordless howl tore from the primozlosta’s throat, but Typhos paid him no mind as he extracted the stone from the viscera. Blood splattered across the floor.

“A curious dharmastone. I have sensed this before...” A blue crystal with a...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 20.6.2025
• Reihe/Serie: The Mythical Hero’s Otherworld Chronicles
• Illustrationen: Tatematsuri
• Übersetzer: Tatematsuri
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction
• Schlagworte: action • High Fantasy • Isekai • Light Novel • Magic • Military Strategy • war
• ISBN-10: 1-7183-0350-5 / 1718303505
• ISBN-13: 978-1-7183-0350-8 / 9781718303508