The Butcher of Sargon (LoL x Arknight Fanfiction)

The rainy season in the Hotlands was something they'd experienced upon first entering, although Garde knew later on that the reason the rains had arrived early was because Surtr, before losing her memory, had fought a monstrous tomb guardian deep within the Hotlands.

They had entered the region in early July, and now, approaching the end of the month, rain clouds once again loomed over the Hotlands' skies. 

Scout and his group had come in around mid-July, avoiding the misfortune of the rainy season, unlike Garde and his companions. 

Seeing the darkening sky at first, they had been curious; once the rains began, they quickly realized what real discomfort was.

The truck they had commandeered from a factory wasn't fully covered like other desert vehicles; the truck bed was open, so rain poured straight in. 

If Saria weren't injured, she could have coated the roof with a layer of hardened calcium to shield them, but the truck bed was wide. 

Without covering the entire roof, water would inevitably leak in. 

Prioritizing the injured, Kal'tsit and Saria were seated in the only sheltered front cab.

Garde wondered why an autonomous transport truck would even have a driver's seat.

Was it truly necessary?

With Kal'tsit and Saria up front, the remaining five were soaked in the back. Garde noticed Ascalon leaning in a corner and asked, "There's space in the cab; why don't you come inside?"

"No need!" Ascalon's tone was icy. 

Even though they were allies, she held no fondness for Garde—good looks didn't justify him doing as he pleased. 

Shrugging, Garde decided not to insist, thinking he was just being polite. 

If Ascalon came in, he worried it might be too cramped, disturbing Saria's rest.

In the driver's seat, Kal'tsit gazed out the window, her thoughts elsewhere. 

She was thinking of the factory and the knight who had escaped. 

They hadn't managed to stop him, but he had clearly recognized her. 

A thousand years had changed many things.

Once, she had deceived the Khagan of Nightzmoras, telling him there was a secret to immortality hidden in the Hotlands. 

Back then, the Grassland Lord, brimming with ambition, had conquered half of Terra and naturally dismissed the forbidden legends as mere stories. 

Sacrificing a brutal Nightzmora King for a millennium of peace across the land seemed a worthwhile trade.

Kal'tsit had once taught this tyrant who wreaked havoc upon the world. In the end, she herself had destroyed his grand empire. 

Life and death—such were the burdens of those bound to longevity.

From the back of the truck, she could hear Garde and Scout's laughter. 

Friendship among men sometimes blossomed just as quickly. 

The image of the crocodile man surfaced in her mind. 

Over her long life, she had encountered many remarkable individuals. 

Even the long-lived Kings of Kazdel, in their youth, might have once crossed paths with her.

To Kal'tsit, Garde was unique; before reaching adulthood, he possessed power on par with the leaders of the great royal courts. 

But he wasn't unique enough. 

This land held not only ordinary people but also beasts, gods, and demons far beyond human reach.

"Borbaia, are you still alive?" Time had eroded countless memories, yet Kal'tsit's mind was sharp. 

Even after a thousand years, she still recalled a child who had once eagerly chased after herding beasts during her lessons on the grasslands. 

That carefree child had grown, uniting the tribes of the plains, toppling many of Terra's nations, and ultimately reshaping the land's political landscape.

The Nightzmora Lord of the grasslands had forced Terra's many kings to step out of their closed worlds. 

His knights trampled the dignity of the land, oppressing the weak, and committed countless atrocities. 

Whatever his legacy, regardless of how future generations judged him, Kal'tsit knew one thing: he was her student.

"Borbaia, if you're still alive…"

For the first time, a ripple disturbed Kal'tsit's placid expression. "This time, I'll kill you myself."

Because of the rain, their journey was delayed; the path they had taken had flooded, so they had to make a large detour on the way back. 

In all, they'd been away only three or four days. 

Garde noticed that the rainy season had brought a bit of life to the Hotlands; on the desert plain where the Lizardmen's marketplace stood, patches of moss and grass had sprouted along the edges. 

They would wither and die as soon as the sun returned after the rainy season, yet they stubbornly grew for now.

A few Lizardmen took shelter from the rain in a tower outside the market, while two large dromedaries nestled in a corner, letting the rain beat down on them.

 When they saw the transport truck approaching, the dozing Lizardmen instantly sprang to alertness, grabbing their weapons and looking wary.

"It's me." Garde climbed onto the truck's roof, his scales shining smooth and slick in the rain. 

Seeing him, the Lizardmen's faces lit up with joy.

"It's Lord Garde!"

"Lord Garde is back!"

"Hurry, notify everyone!"

Hearing the excited calls of the Lizardmen, Garde didn't stop them. 

Time was tight, and he was unsure when the resurrected ancient civilization might strike. 

He needed to understand their current situation immediately. 

Given the rainy season, it was still unclear how many warriors the Lizardmen could muster.

Noticing the reverence with which the Lizardmen treated Garde, some of Babel's operatives couldn't help but ask, "Mr. Garde, aren't you from Adakrys in the rainforest? Why do these Hotlands locals listen to you so closely?"

During the journey, the men had nothing much to do; apart from the occasional skirmish to fend off disaster beasts awakened by the rainy season, they spent most of the time in the truck bed. Over time, they got familiar with each other. By now, Scout and the others knew Garde wasn't a native of the Hotlands but a Sargon native who had visited once before, now employed by Rhine Lab as a guide.

They had initially wondered what price Rhine Lab had paid to secure such a skilled guide as Garde. But after learning of Saria's identity, they weren't surprised. 

One of the two founders of Rhine Lab had practically delivered herself to Garde. 

Giving him half of Rhine Lab seemed price enough, didn't it?

The operatives found themselves joking that Dr. Kal'tsit looked like a third wheel, though from their apparent closeness, it didn't seem that way. 

They could only marvel at the lively, open culture of the rainforest. 

When they thought about it, it wasn't all that unusual—among the Sakaz nobles, having multiple spouses was far from rare.

Scout and Misery's refined looks, for instance, were rare among the Sakaz people. If they wished to find wives, it would hardly be a challenge. And an attractive older gentleman like Ace would surely have his share of admirers as well. But their principles and beliefs left them little room for marriage and children.

"I just did what I could." Garde left out that the Lizardmen revered him as a divine envoy because he had driven away a natural disaster from the Hotlands—anything more would feel like boasting. 

Anyway, Scout and the others would learn soon enough; no need for him to brag about it.

The group braved the downpour and entered the market, making their way to a building where a Lizardman, possibly a descendant of the Nightzmora tribe, resided. 

Just as they reached the doorway, Garde overheard the sounds inside:

Pong!

"Self-draw!"

Kong!

Pong!

"All one suit!"

Garde listened outside, finding the sounds more and more unusual. Was someone playing mahjong inside? Did Terra even have mahjong?

Entering, Garde found Surtr seated at the head of a makeshift table, three Rhine Lab operatives gathered around. 

They had carved several sets of mahjong tiles out of stones and were engrossed in the game. 

As soon as Garde opened the door, the operatives froze, their eyes shifting to Garde and then to the stone-faced Saria behind him. 

In an instant, they scattered, leaving Surtr alone at the head, looking defiant.

"Cowards!" she muttered, lifting her chin.

"Surtr, come over here."

"I refuse!"

"Refusal denied!"

As Garde walked toward her, Surtr looked a bit panicked, but she kept her defiant front. "It's not my fault you all left for days. This market is so dull; of course, I needed to find something to pass the time!"

"Where did you learn to play mahjong?"

"Can't remember!" Surtr replied matter-of-factly. "It's just in my memory, somehow."

"This is a traditional game from Yan," Kal'tsit remarked from the back, well-informed as always. "Surtr must have visited Yan at some point. Perhaps one day, Garde, you could take her to see it."

"Yan…" Garde sighed. 

This distant land bore a resemblance to the country he remembered as his homeland, filling him with a sense of longing.

However, Garde knew better. 

Yan was Yan, not the homeland of his memories. 

He wouldn't project his nostalgia onto a foreign land merely because it bore some resemblance to his last world home. 

For Garde, the rainforest—despite its harsh environment—was his true homeland, the place that raised him. 

Who would ever turn away from their roots?

"If you're feeling bored, why don't you join us for the next operation?" he offered to Surtr.

"Finally, you need me?" Surtr stood with arms crossed, chest puffed proudly. "Just don't expect me to hold back!" 

Despite her small frame, her words were bold. 

If she could fully unleash Laevatain, she'd certainly be formidable. But for now...

"Better focus on keeping yourself safe," Garde teased, flicking her forehead with a light tap.

"Ouch!" Surtr rubbed her head, glaring at Garde.

"Garde, fighting isn't child's play. You may be strong, but she," Ascalon interjected, eyeing Surtr, "is just an ordinary person." 

From her experience, Surtr was full of weak points. 

Her slender arms lacked the muscular build of someone who trained, unlike Saria, who, despite being injured, still showed the polish of disciplined training.

"Are you talking about me?" Surtr's hand rested on Laevatain's hilt, her gaze sharpening.

"Ascalon," Garde responded, "what you see isn't always the truth. Just as when you first saw Kal'tsit—did she strike you as a seasoned warrior?"

I did! Because her eyes revealed everything, Ascalon wanted to retort. But seeing the others' attention on her, she held her tongue and retreated into the shadows. 

She felt a pang of guilt; had she nearly lost her composure? Was it because she was frustrated at having been bested by that crocodile man? 

"Hmph." Surtr dismissed Ascalon's silent retreat, thinking, How could an ordinary person ever recognize my true strength? 

She failed to notice Garde's gaze shifting between her and Kal'tsit. 

To him, both Kal'tsit and Surtr seemed equally fragile, nearly indistinguishable from ordinary humans. 

But while Kal'tsit could summon Mon3tr, Surtr had Laevatain to grant her formidable power.

"Enough chatter. Can someone fill me in on the situation here?" Garde asked.

"Where's Carnelian? She's been communicating with Raya over the past few days, hasn't she?"

Garde saw Carnelian coming up and said calmly: "I'm just looking for something to do, because Raya's Sargon language is not fluent, and I'm the only one who can understand it here."

"Thanks for all your hard work these past days."

"What choice do I have? I'm weak, after all. If I don't find something useful to do, I'll have no value left." She let out a bitter laugh.

"Uh, it's not that extreme," Garde replied, catching a note of resentment in her tone. "I haven't forgotten my promise to teach you Columbian."

"And after that?" Carnelian asked, then answered her own question before Garde could reply. "The residents here in the Hotlands have gathered about five thousand people—the total fighting force from nearby settlements. As for those farther out, it's hard to say. With the rainy season, travel might be delayed."

"So, realistically, we won't see that number increase much over the next week."

Among the Lizardmen of the Hotlands, nearly everyone could fight; even young Raya, barely eight, was trained as a caravan guard. 

With that in mind, gathering five thousand fighters in such a short time was the upper limit. 

But would five thousand be enough to storm a resurrected ancient civilization?

Garde and Kal'tsit exchanged a look. 

They both understood that, regardless of the risks, they couldn't afford to delay any longer.

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