Alus The Star Runner - 1

Even a man like Harghent the Still, Sixth General of Aureatia, in rare moments pondered the definition of evil.

A definition of evil to put his stock in during the current age, with the sole and absolute evil of the True Demon King now defeated.

To betray oneself.

This was what Harghent thought. With the ruins of the three kingdoms being unified under the Aureatia name and the political system on the verge of major change, he had still not cast aside his personal desires. Now was a perfect and unique opportunity to claim new achievements for himself.

Though bit players spoke ill of him behind closed doors, though the schemes and treachery wore at his soul, it was all a necessity to maintain a power and authority beyond his station. Further treasures, higher fame, and a stabler life.

If he continued as he had without a care for the looks of those around him, he could slowly expand his undeserved power.

Therefore, he had to carry out his current punitive expedition without asking for aid from the other generals. His intended enemy was a true legend

—a god among the ancient black dragons—Vikeon the Smoldering.

Deployed to the Tileet Ravine in the northern frontier, the whole expedition force numbered thirty-six soldiers. The battlefield encampments, engulfed in the dry wind, were set up to host the brigade.

"You seem tired, Commander."

The owner of the voice placed a cup of amber tea in front of the general. The color in the chief of staff's cheeks always looked the same, without a hint of fatigue. His gentle smile suited his somewhat androgynous features.

It served as a perfect contrast to the dark circles under Harghent's eyes. "You appeared to have nodded off for a moment there, sir. Thankfully,

none of the soldiers saw you do so."

"Yeah. Peke, listen. It's to be expected."

Taking a sip of the tea, he felt the faint sweetness permeate deep through his body.

Harghent shrugged and tried his best to put on a dignified look.

"Well, it was a five days' march from Aureatia to get here. And along the way…we had to camp out at a poorhouse, too. A big burden for anyone to bear, surely."

"Yes, I am perfectly aware, sir. Shall I add a fruity aroma?"

"After actually setting out, I've realized that this distance itself may be a factor as to why the Smoldering has escaped attacks against him for hundreds of years... Hmm… Yes, add some."

"As you ordered, the guards have taken up their positions. They've tempered their bodies, unlike yourself, Commander, so there is no need for concern over their fatigue."

The chief of staff had hit the nail on the head. While his ambition swelled, Harghent's fitness only continued to wither with age.

"…Yes. That's enough. How many radzio soldiers on patrol?"

"The personnel are divided into three groups. Two soldiers are on constant patrol at the top of the ravine, with four always resting at the troop quarters to be ready to take over shifts, with one of them staying at the receiver."

"That's low. Not good to reduce scouting when up against a dragon. Put three outside starting tomorrow. Have them take day and night shifts."

"Understood, sir."

Harghent the Still also had the nickname of Wing Clipper. It was an honorary title, earned from the hundreds of successful wyvern-culling expeditions he had commanded—though there was a chance the moniker was a derogatory one, too.

Harghent's wyvern hunting employed a slightly different set of tactics from normal. He didn't make a move while they were in their nests, instead waiting until the swarm took off and then blocking their paths of escape with arrows and Word Arts before stationing concealed marksmen around the valley to finish them off.

He believed that although a raid on their nests looked like the safest strategy, that wasn't actually the case. There was a striking difference in intelligence among individual wyverns. A particularly crafty one could set up

traps to waylay attacks on its nest and turn the hunters into the hunted. Another possibility was that the material inside their nests could also be used as a focal point for the wyverns' Word Arts.

Given their opponent was Vikeon the Smoldering, an evil dragon known for his tremendous power, the natural course of action was to take even more precautions than when going up against flocks of wyverns.

"Vikeon is wounded, is he? I haven't heard such a rumor in my twenty years of life."

"I'm fifty-five. This expedition's happening after investigating the findings of the survey troops and getting proof. This is a golden opportunity to wrest the advantage before the other generals catch on."

"Left eye's clouded. Left foreleg's gone. And something that looks to be a long spear is stuck in his gut. His tail is decomposing. Very hard to believe… Supposing all this is true, do you think he'll show his face while he's in such a state?"

The terror of Tileet Ravine—burning down human villages on a whim, massacring ten thousand mighty adversaries in a single breath, and hoarding inexhaustible treasure for himself—Vikeon the Smoldering.

He was calamity incarnate. Save for being blessed with a one-in-a-million opportunity such as this, one could never hope to best such a mighty opponent. If the expedition succeeded, Harghent's name was certain to be preserved in history forever.

Additionally, back in the unified Aureatia, the achievement would earn him a coveted position of power. No longer ridiculed as a small-time wyvern hunter, he would become a true dragon slayer.

"Peke. This is similar to a castle siege. The black dragon's leg and eye injuries aren't easily healed. The provisions in his lair aren't limitless, either. Hunger will eventually drive him to the skies."

"No doubt, provided this information is reliable."

Additionally, the troop numbers being flaunted in the ravine were in part to put pressure on Vikeon. The aim was to provoke him with their brazen presence, forcing him to stay on guard in case an attack came and draw himself into their hunting grounds.

Peke's apprehension also served as an indirect word of caution and reminder that by waiting for the perfect opportunity, they would deplete the patrols' morale. However, Harghent was thinking about a dragged-out battle

—in fact, believed the time would come soon.

Sure enough, before the sun had finished its descent, Harghent was proven right.

Rushing into the expedition headquarters, the radzio soldier's face was deathly pale.

"Chief of Staff! Commander! I have urgent news! Six of our marksmen are dead!"

No one had even announced that they'd spotted Vikeon. The bad news was very hard to believe.

"…What did you say?"

"We need communications first. Set up a link. Hurry!"

Following the chief of staff's orders, the soldier activated the radzio. The machinery employed a complex pattern of wires enclosed around a translucent stone. Radzio troops and their usage of long-distance communications were a vital part of Harghent's battle strategy.

"It's Harghent. Give me the situation! As precise as possible!"

"A-along the ground…?"

The haughty Vikeon the Smoldering…who used to burn everything with great gouts of black smoke billowing from the sky and look down on the rabble crawling on the ground below… Rather than flying out from his lair, he was weaving his way through on the surface of the ravine?

It was unthinkable for a dragon to use his breath to attack soldiers from their blind spot while crawling along the ground like some common lizard or snake.

"Wh-why…?! Why is this happening?! V-Vikeon the Smoldering, have you lost your pride as a dragon?!"

Harghent had thoroughly researched the topography of the Tileet Ravine.

The sky was a blind spot, so by using the elevation to guide the target's path, he could slay the enormous dragon with minimal losses. He had also secured paths of retreat to line up with the opponent's movements. It was the ultimate antiair formation, one that Harghent had compiled from his decades of combat experience.

Yet, because of his long years of experience, he couldn't help questioning how sound his tactics were. What was truly terrifying was his own inability to account for all possibilities.

"Commander. Please fall back. We've failed. I don't believe anyone knows how fast a dragon can move across land, but right now, these headquarters are in danger. Luck wasn't on our side."

"Y-you think… You think I'll let things end like this?! Th-this…this can't be happening! We need to make things right!"

Harghent knew it himself. His soldiers weren't stupid enough to spread false or incorrect information. Unlike Harghent, they weren't the type of men who refused to accept defeat.

Peke was right—this expedition had ended in failure. Six men had burned to death in scorching black smoke. At present, it was his own life that was in the most danger, yet—

"We don't have time to waver! Pike io Harghent himal walmirl!" (From Peke to Harghent. Sloping sun. Fly!)

The chief of staff's words changed into hastily woven Power Arts. Before Harghent had a moment to realize what had happened, the invisible force from the Power Arts buffeted him away.

"What in the—?"

A harsh wind blew through.

It was smoke, black as pitch.

Blown out of the main tent, Harghent caught sight of the jet-black smoke, like a curtain blotting out the sun.

The Breath Word Arts utilized by dragons. Vikeon the Smoldering used ultrahot Thermal Arts that enveloped everything in smoke before reducing all to ash, and the soldiers caught within that dark curtain were charred black, without so much as a single spark of flame.

Chief of Staff Peke. Radzio soldier Lainy. Imperial marksmen Milead and

Hikya.

"You…you must be the general."

The author of the near-instant massacre swaggered up through the smoke.

Vikeon the Smoldering. His jet-black scales warded away nearly all methods of attack and shrugged off the heat from his own breath. His massive figure was nearly as tall as one of the large troop barracks in Aureatia.

"I hadn't planned on leaving anyone behind, but no matter."

Now, with the crackling, scorched air forming a barrier between the two, the legendary nightmare had blocked off the ravine. Despite the heat in the air, Harghent's biological instincts sent shivers through every synapse in his body.

His spirit overwhelmed all behind his presence. He was truly the strongest being beneath the sky.

"…Vikeon…! Damn you!"

Even with his right eye clouded over, his left front leg severed, a long spear sticking out of his gut, or his tail rotting away—his existence was different on a fundamental level when compared to the wyverns Harghent had hunted for so long.

"I shall let you respond. Are any more of your subjugation expeditions around?"

"What's this…?! Afraid of minia hunting parties, are you, Vikeon?! You shall be the laughingstock of all dragonkin for the rest of time! It seems your spirit has withered as much as that body of yours!"

"Go gipyaeis jyguegyuorg!" (Fly upon Tileet winds. Dry up the billowing moon!)

A lethal black cloud passed above Harghent's head. Vikeon had missed on purpose.

"Answer me. Are you…the only…expedition? If you do not answer…you will not burn. You will suffer…a slow…agonizing…death."

"...What?"

There was an uneasiness in the black dragon's words. Vikeon's tactics were very unusual for a dragon.

Wounds covered his body. He was said to be the evilest of the ancient dragons, having lived through hundreds of years of failed expeditions to slay him.

All alone and standing face-to-face with the dragon, Harghent asked— "…Wh-what's happened to your body? Smoldering…! Even as I…as I,

Harghent the Still, am met with your contempt and humiliation, you seek to conceal humiliation of your own! Who…who attacked you?!"

"...A champion."

With a splattering sound, the vile dragon pulled back his festering left arm.

The injury seemed to embarrass the dragon.

"A champion…! Have you seen such things with your eyes, weakling Harghent? A rare mutant strain, a numerical oddity, from among the masses. They…they serve none but themselves—their damnable greed. Their appetites lead them to amass power. Then, that hunger leads them far away to murder the powerful life-forms in our world…"

"You're saying a minia champion attacked you—?" "Arrogant fool!"

Vikeon roared with disdain.

No, not disdain. Even Harghent understood. What he heard was not hatred but fear.

"M-minia Heroes, ha! I've butchered more of those than I can remember! Ages pass, challengers appear… That brazenness has bestowed lives and treasure to me throughout the ages… Greedy in arrogance, hunted down, and killed—that is all Heroes are! All are but feed…trifling feed to sate my hunger!"

"Vikeon!"

"O, minia. Foolish minia! That perception of yours is itself an incurable brazenness, beyond even us dragons! Are there no other groups that give birth to Heroes beyond your own?! Are there no other places these powerful beings, blessed with talent and strength, appear besides those inhabited by you minia races?!"

As he howled in fear of his memories, groaning in pain from his injuries, the dragon's single fiery eye glared at Harghent.

The terror of Tileet Ravine. Burning down minia villages on a whim, massacring ten-thousand-strong armies in a single breath, and hoarding untold wealth for himself. This was Vikeon the Smoldering.

There was someone out there who had already defeated this creature, a nigh calamitous power.

No matter what Harghent tried to say, he could no longer avoid death. What Vikeon had made clear was that he would not back down from one pint-size minia, the last shred of the ancient dragon's remaining pride.

"All are powerless. Know the truth, minia! Heroes, favored by fate, are not limited to the minia… There are those just as powerful among the wyverns!"

Harghent knew. Why hadn't he realized it before? From the very start, as far as he knew, there should be only one singular creature capable of doing this to Vikeon.

He hadn't realized it because…for the general who had slain close to a hundred wyvern flocks in his time, it was the name he loathed most of all.

"For example…the wyvern Hero—Alus the Star Runner."

One creature had done all this? He had stolen the sight from one eye of this ancient dragon—a giant when compared to a wyvern—severed his left arm, pierced his flank, and caused the dragon's tail to fester?

Unlike the minia, who couldn't even hope to challenge the dragon without him being wounded and overwhelmed by numbers, a certain individual wyvern, surpassing all his fellow winged creatures, was able to do it?

"I have spoken of my humiliation…! Harghent the Still!"

"Th-the expedition…ends with me. After my army…no more soldiers from Aureatia will come trying to exterminate you. Everything came from my foolish judgment, based on personal utilitarian value. There, I've answered your first question, Vikeon the Smoldering."

"Good. Then I shall feed your soul to the fire and forgive your minia folly."

"I won't let you. You can't even imagine how many wings I have plucked from the heavens…! The skies above my head are quiet! I shall teach you the power of the Sixth General of Aureatia!"

Together with his Word Arts incantation, he brought melted steel material together. The material of the temporary operation headquarters was steel carried from Harghent's homeland in Aureatia, and therefore, he was able to communicate with it to forge weapons with his Craft Arts.

His second name was Harghent the Still. The Craft Arts he prided himself on could create mounted mechanical bows, similar in size to a horse-drawn carriage. It was his ultimate antiair weapon—the Dragon Slayer ballista.

He understood that there was no telling if it would be enough to finish Vikeon without trying.

Nevertheless, for Harghent, betraying one's own self was the ultimate evil.

The black dragon opened his maw. "Grah, grah, grah… Weak. All is weak!"

The battle would be over in a single breath. Vikeon could change the mere act of exhaling into a powerful Thermal Arts breath that burned everything in its wake.

"—"

However, the evil dragon gulped back his exhalation.

He was looking behind the frail minia's back to the ravine winding away behind him.

There, the crimson evening stretched out before him.

The edge of the horizon hosted the sunset and the scene of the swollen sun flickering in the lingering hot air.

He saw a shadow silhouetted by the final moments of the setting sun. "Why did you come again? Why…?"

The lithe shadow was at the top of one of the summits of the ravine. Without a word, it spread out its wings.

The ominous shadow was like the incarnation of folkloric demons and monsters.

Moreover…to the ancient dragon god Vikeon the Smoldering, this singular winged creature was…

"Star Runner."

The biggest difference between wyverns and dragons is their forelimbs—or

lack thereof.

Dragons possessing two arms in addition to their wings meant their physical makeup had already surpassed other creatures significantly. But it could be argued that in this way, the wyverns, having lost their front arms and reducing their body mass over the generations, had recovered the true evolutionary path to improve their flight.

Additionally, similar to how the large reptiles of the Beyond replaced their bodies with avian forms, in this world, it was not the dragons but the wyverns who enjoyed prosperity.

Even while dragons were individually the strongest race of all, wyverns flew longer distances, energetically secured food, and adapted to their environment to reproduce.

In this manner, just as with the minia, the birth of an exceptional individual among their prosperous species was an inevitability.

The wyvern had three forelimb-like growths from birth.

In adolescence, they were thin and slender limbs—like a bug's—without any nerves running through them.

Reductive evolution was a curious thing.

Similar to the minia, who had diverged from their ancestors and begun walking on their hind legs, this wyvern naturally grew able to touch objects, manipulate them, and feel the tactile stimuli that resulted.

Therefore, he had been unable to tear off the meager organs, which only hindered his ability to fly and survive.

Eventually, his arms developed muscles and became able to grab and carry objects.

During the long time he'd spent handling weapons and tools, his arms acquired technical dexterity.

His arms longed for something new.

While the sun rose up high in the sky, that wyvern cast his flock aside and flew off from the seaside cliff where he had been born and raised.

His appetite, fostered by his arms, could no longer be sated within wyvern

territory. Being the only one among his wyvern flock—closer in biology to birds, as the word flock suggests—to possess a developing intelligence, if anything, made him closer to dragons than his own race.

He possessed neither the appetite to survive to see tomorrow nor a desire to breed and pass on his seed.

He wanted to grasp yet-unknown things in his hands. He wanted to prove to himself that he was not a mere wyvern. With this coincidentally bestowed power, he wanted to attain extraordinary glory. That's how he wanted to live in the vast skies that stretched out before his wings. This was the vague appetite that spurred him.

Without a swarm of his own, this one wyvern, in spite of his slender frame, wanted it all.

Somewhere along the way, this tiny creature acquired one town's treasure. He defeated an enemy. He conquered a dungeon. He subjugated a region. And now he was…