The sun crawled over the horizon as if embarrassed to be caught witnessing the aftermath.

  I leaned against a supply wagon that smelled like horse sweat and regret. It was mostly the horse's, but some of it was mine too. I watched Isolde climb onto a broken cart someone had dragged to the center of camp. She looked like she had aged a decade overnight.

  Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a braid that was more functional than elegant, and her breastplate still streaked with ash. She looked like hell, but she stood straight, chin up, and when she opened her mouth her voice carried across the battered remains of twenty thousand men who had just watched their dead king try to murder them.

  "Soldiers of Thalassaria," she began. No magic amplification this time, but the rawness of her voice was enough. "Many of you knew my father. Served under him and respected him. Last night, you watched him rise from death to slaughter you."

  The camp was silent except for the crackling of fires and the occasional low groan of the wounded. I counted maybe fifteen thousand still standing, with five thousand corpses scattered across the battlefield and only the Gods knew how many more were destined to die from infections in the coming days.

  "My brother Kaelan did this," Isolde continued, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the cart. "He desecrated our father's body. He turned him into a weapon and he murdered your comrades with the corpse of the man who led you to victory after victory."

  Ragna shifted beside me. “She’s real mad.”

  She had cleaned most of the blood off but still looked like she had been through a meat grinder. Her club was propped against her shoulder, the haft repaired with iron bands that Marius's artificers had hammered on an hour ago, looking ugly but functional.

  "This is treason," Isolde said, and her voice cracked just slightly before she wrestled it back under control. "This is blasphemy. This is evil so profound that even the Church of Darkness would hesitate to commit it."

  A few soldiers nodded. Others just stared at the ground. It wasn't the fiery rebellion speech from the storybooks, but it was honest.

  "Kaelan Thalasson, the shame of our family, will answer for this crime," Isolde declared. "He will stand trial before the throne. He will face justice for what he has done to our family, to our kingdom, to the memory of a man who deserved better than this."

  Better than this. I wondered if Asharion really deserved better. From what Isolde had told me, the old king wasn't exactly father of the year, but she was right that no one deserved to be puppeted as an undead murder machine.

  "We march on Solstara," Isolde said. "We reclaim the capital. We restore order. And we make certain that the man responsible for last night's horror never sits another day on the throne."

  She paused, looking out over the assembled troops.

  "I know you are tired. And I know you are scared. I know some of you are thinking about deserting, going home to your families, pretending this nightmare never happened." Her voice softened. "I wouldn't blame you. But I am asking you to stay. I am asking you to fight. Not for me and not for glory. But because what my brother did last night proves he is unfit to rule. He is dangerous. And if we don't stop him now, this kingdom will drown in darkness."

  The speech wasn't particularly inspiring.

  No grand rhetoric about destiny or honor, no golden light from the heavens. Just a tired woman asking exhausted soldiers to keep bleeding for a cause most of them probably didn't care about.

  But it worked.

  Maybe because it was honest. Probably because the soldiers were too shell-shocked to do anything else.

  Or because watching a princess stand up after her father tried to kill her twice in one night was the kind of stubborn refusal to quit that soldiers understood. People started nodding. A few even managed weak cheers, though they sounded more like coughs.

  Isolde stepped down from the cart and disappeared into the command tent with Marius, Yasafina, and a handful of generals trailing behind her like ducklings. Planning session, probably. Figuring out how to march a battered army to the capital without everyone dying of dysentery along the way.

  "You should go after her," Ragna said.

  I glanced at her. "Should I?"

  "Yup." She wiped blood off her nose with the back of her hand. "You're 5th Ascension now. More than ever, just your presence can console her better."

  Is that how it works? I wasn't sure higher levels made me better at emotional support, but Ragna had a point. Isolde had leaned on me last night. She had cried into my armor for a solid ten minutes before pulling herself together enough to plan this speech.

  "Fine," I said. "But just so you know, I’ve been good at consoling death."

  "Really? I’m surprised."

  "Me too."

  Ragna snorted. Before I could walk into the tent, she reminded me of something. "By the way, that Mantle thing. Did you get it now that you’re 5th Ascension? The Naga woman was talking about it."

  I blinked.

  Oh yeah.

  I had been so focused on not dying, then on comforting Isolde, then on making sure we didn't all bleed out from a thousand cuts, that I had completely forgotten the rest of the System notifications. They were still there.

  "Hang on," I muttered, pulling up the backlog.

  [You've leveled up!]

  [You've leveled up!]

  [You've reached Level 55.]

  [You’ve partially unlocked your sealed bloodline! Your Valtherian Physique has ranked up to [A]. You’re a step closer to its true rank!]

  [Skill: Aura Manipulation (F) has been unlocked.]

  [Strange Occurrence, Chemistry of Bloodlines…!!!]

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  [Skill: Valtherian Physique is reacting to Aura Manipulation!]

  [Aura Manipulation has evolved.]

  [Skill: Royal Mantle of Valteria (A) has been unlocked.]

  “...Huh?”

  “What?”

  “I…” I paused. Did I just get a A-ranked Skill that evolved directly from F-rank? I rubbed my eyes a little. The notifications didn’t change. Probably it’s related to the Valtherian Physique rank, I’m assuming?

  I had nothing to complain about, of course! With a happy smile, I opened the Skill description and my smile dropped.

  ===

  Royal Mantle of Valteria (A)

  A sovereign's fury awakened in barbarian blood. The user's aura erupts into a colossal crimson mantle that lashes behind them like a storm-torn cape. It howls upward, tearing at the sky, echoing the ancient truth buried in their blood.

  The mantle strengthens the body, grants the user access to [Aura], and crushes weaker enemy wills while increasing the morale of allies in its presence.

  Legends call it a slayer's crown without metal, worn by warriors who’ve lost the need for thrones to be feared.

  Warning: Overusage can cause internal injuries, including but not limited to – death.

  ===

  "Holy shit," I whispered.

  "Good holy or bad holy?" Ragna asked.

  I didn’t have the attention to answer, I activated it before I could think better of it. The change was immediate and violent. Something erupted from my shoulders.

  It wasn’t cloth, not magic, but something in between; a massive crimson cloak of raw energy that billowed upward, ten feet tall, twenty, and then howling at the sky like a living thing. It crackled and roared like some primordial beast, and I felt power flood through my veins like molten iron, intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

  Every head in camp turned toward me. Soldiers scrambled to their feet, wounded men sat up, and even the horses stopped fidgeting to stare. They were all shocked.

  The mantle didn't just look impressive. It felt impressive. Like standing in the presence of something ancient and terrible and utterly unstoppable. It was reminiscent of the willpower pressure that Yrsa had displayed, although in a different manner.

  My Valtherian blood sang in my veins, and for the first time since I'd arrived in this world, I felt like I belonged…. that I am a Barbarian.

  I threw my head back and howled at the sky. The clouds scattered.

  It wasn't planned nor was it tactical. It was pure barbarian instinct, a roar of defiance and triumph and fury that tore from my throat and echoed across the camp.

  The soldiers answered.

  They howled back. They screamed after me, their voice growing with hope. It had the opposite effect of Yrsa’s willpower, it was inspiring people rather than crushing their wills. They slammed swords against shields, clubs against the ground, fists against their chests. The sound built and built until it was deafening, a wave of noise that shook the air.

  Ragna was staring widely at me. "T-that is it! That is the Valterian fire! I saw Mother use it once!!"

  I’d seen my father use it too in my memories. The Mantle of Valteria, the aura of royal barbarians who could claim the world. I grinned, feeling the mantle ripple around me. It was heavy but not constraining, powerful but not overwhelming. It felt like wearing my own soul on the outside.

  Isolde rushed out from the command tent, her eyes wide.

  She stared at me, at the crimson aura towering behind me. Her eyes flickered at her screaming soldiers, who cheered for victory and cried as they roared. Isolde froze.

  Then, slowly, a smile erupted on her face "Well," she said, loud enough for me to hear over the cheering. "I can’t remain sad at a sight like this..."

  I let the mantle fade. The soldiers were still shouting, still energized, but the oppressive weight of despair that had hung over camp since last night had lifted.

  "You are welcome," I called back.

  Marius stepped out behind Isolde, staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Awe, maybe, or calculation. Possibly both. Yasafina just shook her head, her leonin ears flat against her skull. "Strange barbarians," she muttered.

  She looked envious.

  ****

  Domain-Lord Vexia sat on the edge of a crumbling tower three miles from the encampment, her tail flicking with irritation.

  Far and below, the battered Thalassian army began to stir, a defiant hum rising from the dust and ash. She had been watching the battle all night, enjoying chaos, watching the Dead King rise from his desecrated grave and watching the army shatter in panic.

  She enjoyed all that.

  What she didn’t enjoy was how that ridiculous barbarian and his companions somehow pulled off the impossible. Her pale lips, usually curved in a languid smirk, were now a thin, angry line.

  She had been ready to get involved. Her shadows were twitching, eager to descend into the fresh carnage. She had planned to swoop in during the aftermath, a vulture on a feast. The plan was to finish what Subject 001 had started and claim the royal soul of the tantalizingly pure Princess. And of course the Crown Jewel.

  But then the barbarian activated that damned... that damned aura.

  The shockwave of raw power ripped through the night like a constant explosion. Even from three miles away, atop a forgotten spire, Vexia felt it. The pressure.

  The crushing weight of the Valtherians.

  It wasn't just a burst of Mana or Aura. It was a thrum of ancient power, history and glory that vibrated in her bones. And… scarily enough, beneath the barbarian's burgeoning strength, she recognized it, the unmistakable presence of him.

  The ghost of a legend, echoing across generations. The sheer audacity of it made her growl low in her throat, a sound more serpentine than human.

  The Pillar of Valteria, Gerholt, the Magmaborn.

  One of the few mortals that even the Black Concord feared.

  The boy wasn't Gerholt, of course he wasn’t. He was weaker, untrained, and he was barely scratching the surface of what that bloodline could do. But the mantle was the same… No, was it a little special?

  The aura echoed the same song of past glory, when this group of Barbarians was more than that. And Vexia had no interest in fighting a proto-Pillar when she still had ninety-eight other opportunities to collect the Jewel.

  "Quite a sight, hm?"

  A voice appeared behind her.

  Vexia’s hair stood. She spun, claws extended, and found herself staring at a tall figure in black and red robes. Crimson eyes glowed beneath the hood, and though his face was hidden, she knew exactly who he was.

  "Where did you come from?" she hissed.

  Executor Thragg tilted his head. "You don't need to know that. I am curious, why didn't you attack them earlier? Before he erupted with that aura?"

  "That is none of your business."

  "Isn’t it?" He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "And are you scared now, after seeing that mantle? Does it remind you of the old man?"

  Vexia bared her fangs, raising her hands as shadows formed around her fingers. "I have zero reasons to attempt a conversation with you. Whatever you are here for, let's get it done with."

  Thragg didn't move. He just smiled beneath his mask, she noticed from the twinkle in his eyes. "What is the point? I know this isn't your real body," he said. "I don’t want to fight. But if you think your clone can handle that barbarian, go ahead and try."

  He stared at her for a bit and then turned to walk away, vanishing into the darkness. Vexia stood there, grumbling and trembling with rage.

  “That bastard,” she muttered to herself. “Who does he–”

  "Oops," Thragg’s voice came from behind her, "just joking."

  He slammed a sword through her heart, and the entire tower exploded from the gentle impact. Vexia tried to scream as the world was turned upside down but he held her mouth. Her eyes went wide in pain as her clone body began to crumble.

  Ash and smoke dissipated on the wind.

  Far away, in the royal castle, the real Vexia opened her eyes and screamed.

  Patreon chapters have been less than promised for a few weeks now, that's why didn't update this week to cover that. It's now back to 10!! And I hope you like the new cover!! Probably will keep it for a few weeks and then to a new one! (Or earlier...)

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