Academy’s Barbarian

Of course, if it were just talent, Hersela wouldn’t have rated that fake so highly either.

Indecisive attitude, fragile spirit, missing opportunities while trying to avoid danger—none of it resembled a warrior.

The Ai-shan Gi-or of Ka`har.

She too was a woman who lived by the values of a warrior. Even if she disliked her own bloodline, her own tribe, she couldn’t deny the deep-rooted essence of her soul.

To Hersela, the fake’s antics were unbearably frustrating. Hesitating and failing, stumbling and making mistakes, even blaming misfortune on themselves and wallowing in self-pity—it was all too much.

It was unbearable.

Because it was, from start to finish, too much like her own weak past. The unpleasant pain of reopening old wounds stirred up anger.

What a cruel joke. She had hated her own helplessness back then, pushing herself to gain strength, only to end up staring at her old self in the mirror, muttering helplessly.

It was truly miserable.

—

‘…Not anymore. Right. At this point… you can’t say they’re not a warrior.’

Yes, that fake had gradually transformed into something resembling a warrior. Bold and fierce, proving themselves through strength.

No, perhaps even too bold. When they leaped off the barrier without hesitation, even Hersela was shocked by their recklessness.

Though weakness still lingered within them, even that weakness could no longer be scorned. It was impossible to mock the pitiful words they occasionally revealed to themselves, or the confessions they made to Lacey, the white-haired woman, as if they were about to cry.

Because Hersela had come to understand the heart behind it all.

‘…Useless chatter.’

/I want to save people. The weak who are helplessly swept away by the world’s cruelty./

…At first, she thought it was just the ramblings of a weakling with too much time on their hands. That they were wasting time when they should be getting stronger.

But that woman proved her resolve through actions, not words. She even passed the final test Hersela had given as advice, standing tall through her own strength.

Then it was no longer stubbornness—it had to be called a warrior’s conviction.

Hersela had no choice but to acknowledge it. This woman genuinely, as desperately as Hersela herself sought revenge, wanted to protect people.

Still, Hersela couldn’t understand that sentiment. In her world, the weak were prey.

But not understanding didn’t mean she could deny it.

Because she had started remembering someone who had said the same thing…

– Mom used to say, she couldn’t turn away from those who were suffering. She wanted to protect them, to keep them from getting hurt, like the heroes in old stories.

Right. She couldn’t mock it.

Mocking that mindset would be like mocking Hersela’s own mother.

‘Really… what an unpleasant person. From start to finish, bringing up old memories like this…’

Every word she spoke overlapped with memories of her mother. Faded memories, cherished but forever out of reach.

That’s why she couldn’t hate her anymore.

This mysterious woman, who seemed to gather all the fragments of her past into one place.

‘An unpleasant… person…’

By this point, Hersela’s resentment toward the fake had almost completely faded.

‘…Maybe I should ask for her name later…? I can’t keep calling her “that fake.”‘

She had even started thinking like this without realizing it.

—

The only thing that bothered her was that she had left her own subordinates, the 4th Imperial Guard Cavalry, behind…

Jahan and Mersin would handle things well enough.

Mersin was quite clever, and Jahan had reached the level of a grand warrior. As for the rest of the subordinates, she didn’t care what happened to them.

In truth, the only one among her subordinates that Hersela trusted was Jahan.

Though they were called her Imperial Guard Cavalry, most of them were just followers who had joined after she became strong—untrustworthy types. And even among them, there were spies sent by Or-han’s children mixed in.

She had naturally weeded them out, but no matter how many she killed, they never stopped coming.

Jahan, however, was different. He had been on her side since before she had even grown her claws, back when she was still weak.

He had found her mother’s half-abandoned grave and supported her when she was on the verge of collapse. Even Hersela, who rarely trusted anyone, could trust Jahan.

Though she had never expressed it herself, she held something akin to familial affection for Jahan. As if he were the older brother she never had.

…Though the ones who actually shared her bloodline were all scoundrels.

In any case, the battle at the barrier would have reached Or-dos by now, so they would have learned that their master, Princess Ha-shal-leur Ai-shan Gi-or, had fully defected to the Empire. Most would likely find new masters and turn against her.

The warriors who would follow her, even at the cost of betraying Ai-shan, would number at most two or three. Jahan was a certainty, but the others were uncertain.

Mersin had obeyed her out of worship for her strength, much like the shamans here worshipped gods. Though his mind worked well, he was fundamentally a warrior who believed that the strong were right.

But now that her betrayal was known, how his loyalty might change… even Hersela couldn’t predict.

She’d have to meet him to find out.

—

“Round up the unconscious conscripts and bind them! Make sure they can’t cause trouble when they wake up!”

Leopold’s booming voice snapped Hersela out of her reverie, bringing her back to reality.

Though his voice was as powerful as a great warrior’s, his actual combat skills were, at best, average for a warrior.

“Those people are not rebels but imperial citizens sacrificed to the witch’s evil deeds! Keep that in mind and show as much restraint as possible!”

The command was repeated.

The knights and soldiers, who had been marveling at the miraculous divine power unfolding before their eyes, finally snapped out of it and began to rush forward in a hurry.

Hersela once again viewed the world through Hasalleur’s eyes.

She saw countless humans bowing down and prostrating themselves before her.

It was a scene so solemn it felt almost sacred, as if their deity had descended before the faithful.

…Though in reality, they had all fainted from sheer terror.

The fake one hadn’t noticed, but among the weaker ones, some had even died from the overwhelming killing intent.

They must have been the particularly timid ones among the farmers.

Their deaths were, well, unavoidable.

If she had lowered the intensity of her killing intent to save them, others might have endured, and that would have been even more troublesome.

As she passed by them all, an open plain finally came into view…

And at that moment, her steps came to a halt.

[It seems we succeeded. How about it? Isn’t this a sight you could never achieve with just a single sword?]

“…Indeed. I didn’t think this was possible.”

The enemy commanders on the other side seemed to have fled in the meantime, as there was no trace of the mounted soldiers.

The archers, who had nothing but their two legs to rely on, had even thrown down their bows and were hastily scurrying away.

There was no one left with the will to fight, nor anyone capable of continuing the battle.

The fight was over.

—

As the fake one sheathed his sword and caught his breath to recover his stamina, Hersela pondered what to name this technique.

The fake one probably wouldn’t bother naming something as simple as a walking technique, but this was one of Hersela’s few hobbies.

A ruler’s stride, shrouded in a killing intent so vast it could blot out the sky, casting a terror akin to that of a demon, advancing like a god amidst the worship of all.

‘Heaven… demon… worship…’

If she had to name it—

‘Heavenly Demon’s Reign…? Yes, this technique shall be called the Heavenly Demon’s Reign Step. No word suits this spectacle better than “reign.” Hmm, I think I’ve come up with a pretty good name!’

Hersela once again praised her own naming sense as she crafted another grandiose technique name.

Heavenly Demon’s Reign Step. It had a truly satisfying ring to it.

A technique that merely emanated killing intent to knock out the weak around her—hardly something worthy of being called a martial art.

But if it could take down over ten thousand people, it was certainly deserving of being called a secret technique.

Though, unlike Hersela, the actual user couldn’t normally contain this level of killing intent, so it would be difficult to use effectively unless he was in a state of extreme rage.

[Remember this sight well. This is the Heavenly Demon’s Reign Step.]

“…Heavenly Demon’s Reign Step? Hmm… it’s quite grandiose.”

Hersela confidently told the fake one the name she had just come up with, but he responded with a lackluster reaction, seemingly unimpressed.

Of course, a clueless imperial soldier like him wouldn’t understand the boldness and grandeur this name carried.

A woman who names her secret techniques after swords that must kill—what else could you expect?

‘…I guess I’ll have to name the secret technique you’ve realized too. Someday, you’ll have to thank me for this.’

The battle was now concluded, and all that remained was the cleanup.

There was nothing left to advise or watch, so there was nothing else to do.

As the fake one caught his breath and headed back to the base, Hersela silently pondered the name of the technique she had compressed time with.

—

The duel on the Zeren Plains.

The war, expected to flow with rivers of blood, was concluded with minimal casualties thanks to the power of a single individual.

A miraculous strength that halted the clash of tens of thousands of troops single-handedly.

Of course, it wasn’t that he fought and cut them all down, but rather that he sequentially crushed their morale and broke their will to fight… but that didn’t make it any less remarkable.

It was something no one in this era could have achieved.

No one could deny her divinity.

The descendant of the Medean family. The princess of Aishangior. A knight blessed by the goddess.

The birth of the new Empire’s greatest sword, a new legend etched into this era, comparable to the myths of the Twelve Knights.

And.

—

The emergence of a hero.

It was an omen.

The era of masters, where the number of troops had become the unchanging truth of war for hundreds of years.

Against all odds, the era of heroes, long relegated to legend, was returning.

Though people did not yet realize it…

Those who remembered that era would have understood.

That their time was finally returning.

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