Ashanta’s warriors were in awe, yet they despaired.
The name “Usher Therbion” was a catastrophe engraved in their minds deeper than any paladin.
And it was not just them.
“Usher…?”
“The young lion…?”
This was Baern. Usher’s homeland, the land of the mentors who raised him.
Neither the ten years that had passed, nor his significantly matured appearance, nor even the divine aura surrounding him could serve as a veil.
Beyond the mercenaries of the Sandstorm, every soldier present at that moment realized who Usher Therbion was.
Thud!
He was alive.
The one who carried on the will of the lion they thought dead.
“Ah…!”
“Aah….”
Only after recognizing him did they see it.
The way Usher wielded his sword, and what was infused within its trajectory.
“…It’s Therbion’s sword.”
“It’s the commander’s blade…!”
Despair vanished at that moment.
For the Lion Corps of Therbion was an undefeated symbol that could not be forgotten, even in ten years.
All enemies focused solely on Usher.
Big Ten, who had suddenly stopped fighting, stared blankly at him, overwhelmed with emotion.
Somewhere, Gester knelt, biting his lip.
The king, who had been carried on his back—the old man who had been silently withering away since that day—finally opened his mouth.
“Ah…”
His voice was dry and cracked, yet emotion was embedded in it.
Gester held back tears and smiled.
Usher’s battle stirred a nostalgia buried deep in his memories.
His sweeping slash reminded them of the commander’s blade.
As the sword wind stirred up sand like waves, the image of the commander overlapped with Usher.
His swift, precise swordsmanship recalled the vice commander’s style.
The man who danced freely with dual curved swords overlapped with Usher’s figure.
Then came Hwaran, Windizer, Kyle, and Menton.
At the end of it all, Gester’s retinas engraved the image of Usher himself—the one who inherited everything.
A surge of emotions swelled within him.
His voice trembled as he spoke.
“Yes… Yes, Father.”
At last, after such a long void.
“The Lion of Baern has returned…!”
The true lion, who would drive out the fox, had returned to this land.
Swoosh—!
Only then could Gester let go.
But was it too soon to let his guard down?
Clang!
“…!”
[I’ve known from the start.]
“Usher!!!”
The Black Knight, Grost, charged at Usher head-on.
The two locked swords, staring each other down.
Grost’s body swelled.
Just like Usher, a dark divine aura spread from his form like mist.
[No matter how well you disguised yourself, I could tell. I knew you were alive. I never found your corpse, after all.]
Crack, crack.
Grost leaned in.
His voice, vibrating with intensity, held both euphoria and rage.
[Thank you. For coming back. For letting me end Therbion with my own hands.]
And then—
Boom!
An explosion erupted with a deafening roar.
Where had this cursed fate begun?
If one were to rewind time over and over again, it would lead back twenty years—when Grost was still just a promising young warrior of the Sandstorm.
—Hey there, friend! Can I ask for directions?
It was a chance encounter.
The man who would one day be called the greatest lion met Grost first in Baern.
Grost still vividly remembered that day.
A towering man nearly two meters tall, his muscles packed like sculpted stone, his body adorned with scars, his hair resembling a lion’s mane, and a bold, confident expression.
Baern was a place filled with young mercenaries seeking their fortunes, and from the moment he asked for directions, it was clear he was a newcomer.
Yet, his presence was anything but inexperienced.
Humans have an aura about them.
Gillius Therbion—he was exactly that kind of man.
—Do you know the way to the mercenary guild? You seem well-acquainted with the area.
For some reason, he made others feel small.
Grost, despite the awkwardness of a first meeting, extended kindness and lowered his gaze.
A humiliating memory.
It should have been something he could wash away with a drink.
But that encounter became the start of an unbreakable connection.
Gillius Therbion quickly became the center of Baern.
Arriving alone, he immediately gathered a handful of overlooked mercenaries and formed the Therbion Mercenary Corps.
That unit broke through missions deemed impossible, rapidly making a name for itself.
Before long, it was recognized as one of the Big Ten.
For three generations, the Sandstorm had failed to reclaim the Lion Corps position, and tensions ran high.
And they placed their hopes on Grost.
—Those nobodies who crawled in from who-knows-where, as the next Lion Corps? Don’t make me laugh.
—We have Grost!
It wasn’t that he felt pressure from their expectations.
He simply knew from the beginning that his real opponent would always be Gillius.
To overcome Therbion’s achievements, he pushed himself relentlessly.
Looking back, it was the hardest he had ever worked.
If only he hadn’t felt that unexplainable sense of inferiority toward Gillius the entire time.
He ran until he was out of breath.
Yet, he could never shake the feeling that someone was always chasing right behind him.
He had already been designated as the next commander of the Sandstorm.
His standing with the royal family was solid.
His achievements and reputation should have been unbeatable.
And yet, Grost was always afraid.
He had to endure countless moments where all his efforts felt like meaningless struggles.
It wasn’t an irrational fear.
Looking back now, he knew the reason all along—he just refused to admit it.
—And now, now, now!!! The grand champion of the tournament is…!!! The curly-haired Gillius!!!
—Kahahaha!!! Announcer, if you get stabbed on the street, I’ll assume it was you!!!
—Waaaaaah!!!
It was a time of transition for the Lion Corps.
A time when the royal throne was also being passed down.
The tournament—the most influential factor in selecting the new Lion Corps.
Grost made it to the finals.
There, he fought Gillius—and lost.
It was not a close fight.
I do not know how it appeared to others, but that battle ended entirely according to Gillius’s will.
From the moment they first met, he had felt uneasy around him.
He had felt intimidated.
And there was only one reason.
—Hey, that was fun, Grost!
Because he had realized, however faintly, that Gillius was a wall he would never overcome.
Because from the very beginning, he had felt that in front of him, he was nothing more than an ordinary man.
A superhuman.
To Grost, and to all of Baern, Gillius Therbion was a superhuman.
A man wrapped in radiance, standing alone in his own light.
The moment he acknowledged him, a suffocating sense of defeat coiled around his throat.
Every time he heard news of the Therbion Mercenary Corps rising to the Lion Corps and continuing their glory, he felt as if he would rather hang himself.
Why.
Why was it him and not me?
Beyond that, he even began to think—“Why did I have to be born in the same era as him?”
And when such thoughts arose, he felt nothing but disgust for himself.
Resenting being born in the same era meant, deep down, he had already admitted his defeat.
That sense of loss turned into hatred.
For someone who had been designated as the rightful heir to Sandstorm his entire life, having to live as the second-best was unbearable.
That was why he took the witch’s hand.
—Power? If you want it, I can give it to you.
He knew she had ulterior motives.
He knew she intended to use him.
But it did not matter.
—It is not power that I want.
—Then what is it?
—Can you make me a superhuman?
…Haha, what an amusing child you are.
If he could not rid himself of this feeling of inferiority, then even with power, he could never hold his head high.
Strength.
He needed even greater strength.
The strength to bring Gillius Therbion to his knees.
It was rebellion for that purpose.
But the outcome was not what Grost had expected.
[He was a bastard who deserved to be torn apart. Yet he never even swung his sword once.]
He did not resist.
Calling himself the guardian of Baern, he chose to face the mercenaries’ swords and die instead.
Even though Grost had overthrown the royal family and become the Lion Corps, the fact that he had never truly finished his battle with Gillius left him with an unshakable emptiness.
It still felt like Gillius Therbion’s shadow was strangling him from behind.
That was why, the moment he reunited with Usher, Grost felt his heart race again.
[I’m so glad to see you, Therbion.]
Disguises could not fool him.
He knew instantly.
This was Therbion.
Gillius’s adopted son, the one he had always carried on his shoulders.
The cub who had inherited everything from him, and from the entire Therbion Mercenary Corps.
[I will kill you with my own hands.
And when I do, I will finally be complete.]
At last, he would be able to call himself a perfect superhuman.
Grost unleashed his Ashanta divine power even further.
It was then.
“There is nothing uglier than a loser’s desperate struggle.”
[···!]
“There is nothing more disgraceful than arrogance that refuses to accept defeat.”
Crack.
Grost’s sword was pushed back.
He had been overpowered.
His eyes widened in sheer shock.
Beyond his helmet, he could see it.
“We both have unfinished business to settle.”
His appearance was delicate.
There was none of Gillius’s boldness in his features.
And yet—
“Let’s end this.
This grudge.
And that wretched life of yours.”
Grost saw Gillius in him.