Lord of Caldera - Chapter 189

Chapter 189: Chapter 189

“A… salamander!”

“Unbelievable… it’s real!”

Despite its smaller size compared to other dragons, the salamander was one of the most dangerous, with a body that radiated intense heat even in death. Bjorn’s casual return stunned everyone.

“Well done, Lord Bjorn!”

“Fortune was on my side,” he replied modestly.

Luck had indeed played a role. The salamander had been a young specimen overly reliant on its fire abilities, lacking in other attacks. But, above all, it was the artifact Sylas had provided that had made the difference. While the nobles marveled at Bjorn’s feat, Ragnar became the fourth to return.

Thud.

“A Flame Dragon. Verify it.”

The sight of the Flame Dragon’s enormous head left everyone speechless. It was by far the largest of the trophies, confirming Ragnar’s accomplishment.

Flame Dragons were already considered the most powerful of their kind, thought the nobles. Known for dominating even larger dragons through sheer power, Ragnar’s Flame Dragon was the largest of any dragon the candidates had brought back. A remarkable feat, leaving the nobles awestruck, feeling as though they’d just witnessed the reincarnation of a legend.

Could it be… will a barbarian truly become king?

To think the North’s great unification would come at the hands of the barbarians.

While the nobles remained in stunned silence, Ragnar wore an expression of discomfort. This wasn’t the dragon he’d intended to kill.

The one I wanted was even larger.

When he’d reached the lair, his target Flame Dragon had vanished, leaving only another one curled up in its place. While some might argue that a Flame Dragon was a Flame Dragon, Ragnar couldn’t help but feel that his achievement had been diminished.

The others seem impressed, but it’s not enough, he thought.

Ragnar wanted to replicate the feats of Godfrey, to become more than a hero—a living legend. While this Flame Dragon might secure him a heroic reputation, it was far from mythic.

There’s nothing to be done. This trial will have to do for now. Later…

“What… what is that?”

A noble’s voice broke through Ragnar’s thoughts. Looking up, he saw a noble pointing with a gaping expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“There, look! The heads! Look at those heads!”

The noble stammered and gestured in disbelief. Could there be anything more impressive than the Flame Dragon’s head Ragnar had brought?

All eyes turned in the direction the noble pointed, and what they saw left them paralyzed. An impossible sight unfolded before them.

“…Dear gods.”

Someone murmured in awe. At the end of their gaze was Sylas, struggling to haul nine severed Hydra heads bound together into camp.

“Phew, I’m about to drop dead from exhaustion.” Sylas tugged on the strap across his back, sweat streaming down his face. The taut strap stretched, pulling along the nine heads tied behind him. They left a long, narrow trail in the snow as they followed.

“It’s a relief that its tendons are so strong,” he thought.

When he first captured the Hydra, Sylas had worried about how to move its nine heads. He considered chopping down trees to make a cylinder to roll them, or rolling them along as if they were wheels. But after attempting both, he realized they were unworkable solutions. The northern terrain was too hilly to set logs underneath, and rolling each head individually had proved to be an exhausting ordeal.

“Screw it; moving them by brute force is better,” he finally concluded.

In the end, Sylas fashioned a rope out of the Hydra’s tendons, bundling the nine heads together and slinging them over his shoulder to transport them here. With no easy way to move them, he had no other choice, and it ended up taking much longer than expected, even though he had captured them early on.

“Phew, I’m here at last!”

Exhausted, Sylas looked up at the hilltop. The other candidates had already gathered, likely having been waiting for some time.

“Don’t just stand there gawking—how about lending a hand?” he grumbled at the nobles, who were staring at him blankly. He tugged on the strap once more and began climbing the steep hill, a task that took him several minutes of sheer effort.

The entire time, the nobles could only stare, mesmerized.

“I’ve caught the Hydra. Here’s the evidence.”

Silence met his announcement. His words were devoid of the formality he usually maintained, but no one cared to criticize his tone. The surreal sight before them had robbed everyone of words.

“Nobles of the North?”

Still, silence.

“I said I caught the Hydra.”

No response.

“Hey! You all!”

At last, his booming voice snapped them from their stupor. Slowly, as if moving in a trance, the nobles turned their heads. Even then, their movements were stiff, like broken puppets.

Viscount Torben tried to speak, but his tongue struggled to follow his intentions. “Y-you did… I mean, how… this is… what on earth…?”

“Pull yourself together,” Sylas clapped his hands sharply in front of the viscount’s face, the loud sound jarring him back to his senses.

“Ah… Ah, yes. Sorry. I must have looked quite a fool.”

“Good. So, do you acknowledge this as proof?”

“I do. Absolutely, without question.”

“Then I’ve passed the trial. I’m off to rest,” Sylas said with a wry smile as he walked toward his campsite. He noted their reactions with some satisfaction but was too tired to relish the moment.

“I’ll enjoy this later. First, a good rest.”

He longed for a hot bath, a well-cooked meal, and a soft bed. Even after Sylas had disappeared from view, the nobles remained silent, unable to find words.

That night, the northern nobles, along with Ragnar and Logain, gathered in one place. Though the candidates were excluded, the two representatives of the barbarians were exceptions.

In the heavy silence, Marquess Serge spoke first.

“The second trial has come to an end.”

No one replied. Even the marquess, who usually held others in contempt, found himself overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Each word he spoke felt laden with the weight of a thousand pounds.