Chapter 37 (37) The Cave Of The Blade And The Army of Orden: 04

As they reached the place, Fern and Sein were not sure where they were. The landscape had become a stretch of white hills and frozen valleys that all looked the same after hours of walking. They had followed Kraft without question, trusting that he knew the way, though Sein had started to wonder if the elf was simply walking in a straight line and calling it a destination.

Kraft stopped atop a low hill. The wind pushed against his cloak, but he stood steady, looking down at something below. "We are here," he said.

The cheftess stood beside him, her small frame nearly swallowed by the thick coat she wore. She peered down the slope. "So you really were coming here."

Fern and Sein moved closer, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. Below them, the hill dropped into a shallow valley. At the bottom, a cave mouth gaped open, dark against the white snow that covered everything else. The entrance was wide, tall enough for two people to walk through side by side, and it seemed to sink into the earth like a mouth waiting to swallow something.

In front of the cave, a pack of wolves moved in restless circles. Their fur was white, blending almost perfectly with the snow, and their breath came out in clouds of steam. They barked and growled, their bodies tense, but none of them stepped into the cave. They moved around the entrance like something was holding them back.

Sein frowned. Something pressed against his senses, a weight in the air that made his skin prickle. He closed his eyes for a moment, reaching out with the awareness he had trained for years. When he opened them again, his expression had shifted. "I can feel an extraordinary amount of divine mana emanating from that cave," he said. "It is strong. Very strong. Like standing near something that should not be disturbed."

"That is correct," Kraft said.

Before anyone could ask another question, Kraft stepped forward. He did not walk down the slope. He simply dropped.

His body fell from the hill, boots hitting the snow below with a force that sent white powder exploding outward. The wolves turned instantly, their heads snapping toward the sudden noise. They did not hesitate. They lunged.

Kraft moved.

His fist drove into the first wolf's chest before it could close its jaws. The impact lifted the creature off its feet and sent it flying backward into a snowdrift. It did not get up. Another wolf came from his left, teeth bared. Kraft caught it by the throat mid leap, his hand closing around its neck, and slammed it into the ground so hard the snow cracked beneath it.

The third wolf tried to circle around him. Kraft spun, his leg sweeping out in an arc that caught the animal across the ribs. It tumbled sideways, rolling twice before coming to a stop against a rock. Its side rose and fell, but it did not move again.

The remaining wolves hesitated. They had been hunting these lands longer than most creatures, and they understood danger. But instinct pushed them forward. Two lunged together, one high, one low. Kraft dropped into a crouch, letting the first wolf pass over him, then shot upward, his shoulder driving into the second wolf's belly. The creature let out a sharp yelp as it was thrown into the air. Before it landed, Kraft was already moving, his hand catching the first wolf by the tail and swinging it like a weight into the other.

They crashed together and lay still.

From the hill above, Frieren watched for a moment. Then she raised her staff. A beam of pale light shot from its tip, thin and precise, cutting through the air toward the wolves that had begun to retreat. One of them fell. Another stumbled, a line of frost spreading across its side. She fired again, and again, each bolt finding its mark.

The wolves scattered, but not fast enough. Frieren moved her staff in a slow arc, and a wall of ice rose from the snow, blocking their escape. They turned, confused, snapping at the air, and Kraft was already among them, his fists and feet moving with a speed that did not seem possible for someone his size. Bone cracked. Snow sprayed. The sounds of the fight echoed across the valley, sharp and brief.

Within moments, the wolves were down.

Fern stayed close to Sein and the cheftess, her staff raised not for attack but for warmth. A soft glow emanated from its tip, spreading outward in gentle waves that pushed back the cold. The cheftess stood near Stark, who remained unconscious on Sein's back, his breathing shallow but steady. She watched the fight below with wide eyes, her hands tucked into her sleeves.

"He is a monk?" she asked.

"He is a monk," Fern confirmed.

"I thought monks were peaceful."

Fern did not answer.

Below, Kraft straightened and brushed the snow from his sleeves. He looked around at the wolves lying still in the white, then up at the hill. "The place is cleared," he called. His voice carried easily across the distance.

Sein started down the slope, careful with each step, one hand supporting Stark's weight. Fern followed, the cheftess close behind her. Frieren came last, her staff resting against her shoulder, her expression calm.

When they reached the cave entrance, Sein stopped. He looked at the dark opening, then at Kraft. "Alright," he said, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Enough mysteries. Tell us what this is about."

He turned to face Kraft fully, expecting an answer, some explanation for why they had walked through a blizzard, why they had followed an elf they barely knew, why Stark was not being taken to the Capital of Magic but in front of a cave that pulsed with mana so strong it made him baffle.

Then he looked inside.

The cave was not deep. The light from outside reached far enough to illuminate most of it, casting the walls in shades of gray and white. The floor was stone, worn smooth by time. And at the center, resting on a pedestal of natural rock, stood a stone.

No, not just a stone. A stone with a sword stuck in it. The blade was long and straight, its edge catching the faint light with a gleam that seemed too bright for something that should have been sitting in a cave for decades. The hilt was simple, unadorned, wrapped in leather that had not rotted or faded. It rested in the stone like it had been placed there yesterday.

Sein's words died in his throat.

The Hero's Sword.

He knew it. Not because he had seen it before. No one alive had seen it before, not really. But the stories were everywhere. The songs. The paintings. Every child in every village had heard the tale of Himmel and his companions, of the sword that chose the hero, of the blade that was pulled from its resting place to defeat the Demon King. Sein had grown up with those stories. He had heard them a hundred times, a thousand times.

And here it was. Still in the stone.

"Frieren-sama," Fern said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She stood beside Sein, her eyes fixed on the sword. "Why is the Hero's Sword still here? Did not Himmel-sama already claim it eighty years ago?"

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