Beneath the ashen clouds, the people’s voices roared. These were the cries of adventurers—the city’s scream itself.
Ottar gazed to the sky, taking them in, before lowering his gaze to the man before him.
“Zald…”
In Central Park, just south of Babel’s gates, the defeated conqueror was lying on the ground. All around, the scars of their fight were carved into the land. Flagstones had been uprooted, revealing the bare earth beneath. By now, the sparks of war were fewer in number, and the hell this man had wrought was beginning to fade.
Ottar’s right hand gripped his sword, though he no longer possessed the strength to wield it. With unsteady movements, he made his way to Zald’s side.
“…You bested me, then.”
“Yes… I did.”
Zald was staring death in the face. His armor was battered and torn, and the flesh beneath was blackened with blood. It was obvious he was not in good health.
Perhaps he never had been.
“Hah. Mewling…brat…”
His face was slick with blood, and the light in his eyes was fading fast. It was clear he was trying to laugh, but most of the muscles in his face no longer worked, and all he could manage was a slight twisting of his lips.
There was no trace of the fierce, imposing figure who had blocked Ottar’s path for so many years—just a dying hero on his way out.
“Things would have been different ten years ago,” Ottar said, casting his mind back to the past. “Besting you now means very little to me.”
“Spare me your pity…” Zald grunted. “Before this war, I feasted well… Never have I felt as strong as I did today…”
The one thing Zald didn’t want to listen to was the boaz downplaying his own achievements.
“You bested me regardless,” he said. “Take pride in that…and never forget it…”
“…As you wish.”
Even on his deathbed, the warrior had more to teach. Ottar fell silent, his mind swarmed by unnecessary thoughts and feelings.
His keen nose picked out a trace of rot amid the stench of blackened blood, and it brought to mind a memory—a memory of a time prior to the Black Dragon’s onslaught—when Ottar stood with Finn on a plain of black sand. Thinking back to that time, he asked the man a question.
“Zald, do you regret slaying the Behemoth?”
“…I do not.”
A question the man denied.
“I only played my part. For the good of this world…and for my fellow man. What…is there…to regret…? If there is one thing I regret, it is…Cough! Hack!”
As he tried to speak, Zald retched horrifically, spluttering black ooze that washed away the crimson blood.
“…Sleep now, Zald,” came the voice of Freya, standing silently by her warlord’s side. “I may not be your god, but I shall be here for you in the end regardless.”
“Heh. What spirit of fortune I should thank…to behold you in my final moments…instead of that boorish old man…”
Zald managed to crack somewhat of a smile, taking one last parting shot at his familia’s god.
“…Ottar,” he said.
It took Ottar a moment to realize what sounded so odd. The man had called him by name for the very first time.
“…What is it?” he asked.
“Do not…rest easy. You have far…to go. Greater heights still…await…”
“…I know.”
“Good…”
With his receding gaze fixed on the ashen skies above, the old hero left his final words.
“Never stop…fighting. Never stop…growing… Leave us…all… behind…”
With that, Zald breathed his last. There was no funeral song; instead, only the hymn of war resonated in the background. However, just for a moment, it seemed to grow in intensity, as if fulfilling his wish.
A gentle smile remained on Zald’s lips, even after he passed. The goddess kneeled, reached out her hand, and softly closed his eyelids.
“The final remnant of Zeus Familia is no more,” she said. “At last.”
“Yes…”
Ottar stood, half listening to his goddess’s words, as a thousand years of history crumbled in his presence. He craned his neck upward, beholding the same ash-laden sky Zald saw in his final moments.
“Zald…” he said. “I will always be grateful to you.”