Chapter 25

Every table was filled to the brim with plates, to the point where there wasn’t even room to place an extra glass. Hard bread with butter, stew, strong liquor, grilled meat, stir-fried meat, steamed meat, minced meat…

Unlike the diverse flavors and aromas of continental cuisine, which used a wide range of spices, vegetables, and fruits, food in the north was incredibly simple. But as a region that lived for meat, their mastery of meat dishes was unparalleled. The golden-brown grilled meat glistened with juices, and the rich, savory scent of seared fat intensified by fire stimulated all the senses.

Mariax’s mouth watered. She had been feeling hunger ever since Ulri and Ba’en had started rationing food, but now it came in waves of pain. Her stomach felt like it was being torn apart, and aches throbbed throughout her body. She had experienced hunger before, but it was never something one could get used to. Clutching her aching stomach, she thought of a man—Gart, who always wore a cool smile.

They said it would take at least a week…

His skills were too good—that was the problem. Just three days. That wasn’t enough time to even learn the castle layout under Oze’s guidance once a day. Just as she was about to seriously start looking for food, Gart returned. And in front of someone who got irritated just by eye contact, there wasn’t much she could do. She’d have to lay low, which meant she could no longer wander the castle looking for food.

In short, if she couldn’t get results in this tavern, she’d starve to death. Unlike Mariax’s growing desperation, the situation only seemed to get worse.

“Oh dear, Lady Mariax. You must’ve been upset.”

“He didn’t really mean it.”

Mariax felt a bit flustered inside as pitiful gazes turned toward her. Her plan had been to wait until the drunk warriors loosened up a little, then sneak some food—but now, with all the attention on her, even breathing felt like it drew suspicion.

“Anir always gets a little sensitive after a battle.”

It wasn’t just “a little” and not just after battle—he was constantly sensitive.

“The fear of death that clings after life-or-death combat… the resulting stress… something like that.”

Mariax blinked. She had no idea what they were talking about. Gart, feeling fear of death from battle? Looking closely, even they seemed uncomfortable, as if they knew they were saying nonsense.

The awkward air and pointless chatter dragged on. Only much later did Mariax realize they were trying to comfort her. It was because she had nearly collapsed from Gart’s murderous intent. She had indeed been terrified—truly thought she might die—but she didn’t consider it a particularly special event. The fear she’d felt was nothing new; ever since meeting Gart, she’d been afraid of him, to varying degrees.

His gaze was like a sword. Not just in color—but in essence. Just as a sword’s purpose was to kill, so too was the intent in Gart’s eyes. No matter how sweetly he smiled or gently kissed her cheek, the underlying nature never changed. His gaze was sharp, cold like the metallic chill of Olkiedpan. Mariax figured her survival so far was partly thanks to his mood swings—and a bit of luck. In short, she was really lucky.

The men didn’t seem to realize this. Their clumsy attempts at comfort showed that. For all their rugged appearances, they had a surprisingly delicate side. Thinking she should at least pretend to accept their comfort, Mariax nodded slightly. Even then, her gaze remained locked on the food atop the table.

Her doll-like face revealed no expression—no hint of thought or desire. To others, she appeared as if in a state of deep sorrow, unreachable by any form of comfort. Concerned gazes poured onto her.

What Mariax didn’t know was that among Gart’s subordinates, she was a very important figure. She had brought about a welcome change in him. She had somehow softened the sharpest edge of the infamous Gart. Even if just a little, it was a miracle to those who had known him. To them, it was like the sky and earth had swapped places.

Moreover, Gart, who seemed to live solely to oppose the gods, was now sharing a room with Mariax, the great god of Heimdrix. His subtle changes began only after that. So it wasn’t unreasonable to think that there might be an emotional current—possibly love—between the two.

Love was a concept that had never existed for Gart. Despite being a hero, there wasn’t a single scandal tied to his name. Not just romantic ones—even feelings of human warmth or compassion were absent from his interactions. Honestly, monsters that devoured humans probably had more love for them than Gart did. At least they liked humans for tasting good.

But love had a mysterious power—able to soften even gruff men into babbling fools. Surely something like that was at work here. And Mariax wasn’t just anyone. Even after traveling the continent and seeing countless divine beauties, they agreed—Mariax stood out. Her dazzling silver hair shimmered like scattered rainbows over snow. Her gentle eyes sparkled with divine clarity. Her pearl-like skin and delicate features looked sculpted by a god. Even the calm that surrounded her, as if she were separate from the noisy world, made her all the more ethereal.

A beauty that could blind, cloaked in mystery and secrets—it was almost unfair. While Mariax was just hungry and scouting for food, the men simply concluded: Of course our Anir would react to someone like that.

Gart’s behavior since returning from the subjugation seemed typical of him, but they couldn’t dismiss love’s power so easily. He was always irritable after battle, sure—but still.

What they really feared was this: if Mariax got upset and ended up fighting with Gart, what would happen? Love could soften a person—or drive them to extremes.

Gart was already temperamental. If things went wrong in his love life, how much worse would he get? They had to do whatever it took to slightly lift Mariax’s mood—and maybe make Gart seem a little less like a complete disaster of a person.

Five men began racking their brains for Gart’s redeeming qualities. Looks, wealth, strength.

“…”

Their eyes met in silence. They all seemed to be thinking the same thing. Sure, he had the important traits—but only those. And really, how useful were looks and wealth to a divine being living in snowy mountains? They were out of their depth.

With looks and wealth off the table, only one thing remained: strength. It was the very trait that made Gart heroic. But they despaired. What use was strength in love? Our Anir… really, he’s just the worst, they thought. Yet, regardless of their feelings, their mouths naturally began praising him, repeating the lines they’d used countless times before.

“We thought that subjugation would take at least a month—but he cleaned it up in just three days! Anir really is incredible.”

“You know how many parts of the fortress were destroyed and how many people died because of those monsters? We didn’t even dare touch them… but he went alone to deal with it! Unbelievable.”

“Probably didn’t even leave a bone behind. Even hundreds of monsters are no match for Anir! Ha!”

“Exactly! No god on this continent could stand against Anir!”

They kept going, completely forgetting that Mariax herself was the only god present. They recounted stories of Gart decapitating the giant god Libal in one strike, of toppling a half-god empire in a month, of defeating the ancient god of Faldoa after ten days of battle, and of smashing every joint of the crustacean god at Crescent Cape…

Their admiration for their commander poured out. Mariax, meanwhile, let it all flow in one ear and out the other. She wasn’t interested in Gart’s accomplishments. Not with food in front of her. As they spoke, she paid no attention, and the conversation circled back—eventually reaching the part titled “The Birth of Hero Gart.”

“When we say ‘a hero is born,’ we don’t mean from the womb—it refers to when someone first achieves a truly heroic feat.”

These men had a talent for chewing big cuts of meat just twice before swallowing. With every emptied plate, Mariax’s soul grew more and more void.

“Heroes are usually born in their late teens or early twenties. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later—depends on how much time they’ve had to hone their strength. After all, they’re fighting gods and monsters.”

Mariax glanced dreamily at the kitchen, where the chef was sharpening knives.

“But our Anir was, unbelievably, unbelievably…”

One of the men dragged the words out while the others banged the table with both hands. As the noise stopped, the man stretched out one hand fully, then raised the other with just his ring and pinky fingers folded.

“Eight years old! He became a hero at just eight!”