Kjerag.
Mount Karlan.
Sacred Stone Plaza.
According to legend, in ancient times, Kjeragandr created this land and guided its people toward virtue, before falling into a long slumber.
When the god finally awakened, the nation had changed beyond recognition.
A tyrant had risen to power.
He rejected Kjeragandr, instead promoting his own twisted cult.
He imposed heavy taxes, exploited the people, and built a palace as towering as the mountains themselves.
The land fell into misery, and countless devout followers of Kjeragandr perished.
Enraged, Kjeragandr summoned a month-long blizzard, burying the tyrant and his palace beneath endless snow.
When the tyrant was gone and the god once more received the prayers of the people, only a fraction of the faithful remained.
Moved to sorrow, Kjeragandr shed a tear.
That tear became the sacred stone, falling upon the buried palace.
To commemorate this miracle, the mountain formed from the tyrant’s palace was named the Sacred Mountain, and the plaza surrounding the stone became holy ground, where grand rituals were held year after year.
Of course, the truth of such legends was always questionable.
The only certain fact was that the Vine-Bead Court was established after this so-called miracle.
They conveniently added their own conclusion to the story: that Kjeragandr, wishing to prevent another tyrant, commanded the devout to form the Institute and govern Kjerag’s affairs.
Ernest could only admit that the Institute was quite skilled at crafting stories.
Their version felt no different from certain religious claims elsewhere, attributing worldly authority directly to divine command.
Thanks to their talent for shaping narratives, Ernest’s journey up the Sacred Mountain was anything but easy.
At six in the morning, after spending the entire night in his office, Ernest stepped out of the small building at the appointed time and began his walk toward Mount Karlan.
The first place he passed was Turicum.
As Kjerag’s only gateway to the outside world, its people had at least some exposure to external ideas.
They still believed in Kjeragandr, but their faith was far less fervent.
As Ernest walked alone along the road, they simply leaned out from their windows, watching him with puzzled and pitying expressions, as though witnessing a man marching calmly toward his own execution.
Compared to worrying about Ernest’s fate, most of them were little more than detached spectators.
Having benefited from the modernization pushed forward by Enciodes, they instinctively aligned themselves with the Silverash family’s position.
No one jeered at him, yet no one stepped forward to speak on his behalf either.
It had nothing to do with them, so they kept their distance.
Indifference was a common urban affliction, and they had already begun to catch it.
Ernest walked on in silence.
He knew this was only the beginning.
Heading northeast, he entered the undeveloped land that had already been mortgaged to the Magnus Bank.
What was once a sparsely populated area was now packed with people.
Even in the early hours, even in the biting cold, the fury in their hearts burned hot enough to draw them here.
The moment Ernest appeared, the crowd erupted.
At the front stood Gulo of the Paleroche family, holding up a wooden placard as he shouted:
“Traitor!
Ernest, you traitor!
That single shout was like opening floodgates.
In an instant, waves of voices surged forth.
“This land was given to us by the great Kjeragandr.
What right do you have to sell it?”
“How did the Silverash family end up producing someone like you?”
“You’ll bring shame to Enciodes and the Saintess!”
“*a barrage of crude Kjerag curses*”
For the first time, Ernest truly understood what it meant to feel like a thorn in one’s back.
Even after he passed through an area, people from that very crowd would chase after him, closing in at his sides and in front of him, venting their anger without restraint.
From time to time, stones, clumps of dirt, even firewood from their homes would be hurled from within the crowd toward him.
If Magnus Bank hadn’t come prepared, bringing in a considerable number of security personnel from Columbia to hold the line, Ernest might already have been caught by some hotheaded brute and beaten senseless.
It was only when he neared the outskirts beyond Turicum that he finally saw Luther Magnus waiting on the road.
The Columbian banking magnate looked at the disheveled Ernest and sighed, clearly frustrated.
“I told you to listen to me earlier.
These people don’t understand development, frontier expansion, or the future.”
He patted the imitation firearm at his waist as if stating an undeniable truth.
“No matter how much you try to reason with them, they won’t listen.
The only thing they understand is this.”
But Ernest shook his head.
“I expected this from the beginning, Mr.
Luther.”
“The people aren’t wrong.
From their perspective, they’re simply defending this land.”
Luther clicked his tongue.
“In such a foolish way?”
Ernest nodded.
“Yes.
And you should be grateful for that foolishness, Mr.
Luther.
If they were Columbians, their complaints would already be on the Vice President’s desk.
I’d be forced to step down by now.
But Kjerag’s people don’t know how to do that, so our contract can still proceed.”
Luther Magnus froze for a moment, then studied the stubborn smile on the young man’s face with clear astonishment.
In the end, he could only shake his head.
“Honestly, it would’ve been better if you were Columbian.
Over there, your achievements might even surpass mine.”
Ernest pressed his lips together, then lifted his gaze toward the distant, snow-covered holy mountain.
“If Columbia hadn’t once had someone who rose out of nowhere and chose to lead its resistance against Victoria’s rule, would it have become the land of opportunity and dreams it is today?” Find the original chapter at NovelPing.
Whether or not that “man from nowhere” truly existed didn’t matter.
They still chose to act.
Among them were Columbian natives, rebels from Victoria, and volunteers from Laterano, Leithania, Gaul, and beyond.
They succeeded.
And that is why Columbia has what it has today.
But what about Kjerag?
Its future was just as uncertain.
Surrounded by the three great powers of Columbia, Victoria, and Kazimierz, its starting position was hardly any better than Columbia’s had once been.
People might not realize it now, but in ten or twenty years, by the time they finally do, the landship cannons of those powers may already be aimed at the foot of the holy mountain.
This country, too, needs someone to rise out of nowhere.
That person could be Enciodes.
It could be Enya.
And of course, it could also be Ernest.
If no one else is willing to take the first step, then he will.
It is better than gambling his fate on the hope that, in this already altered timeline, Enciodes will still go on to launch that Snowcap Incident.
Leaving the now-silent Luther Magnus behind, Ernest continued toward the holy mountain.
Behind him, another figure approached Luther.
An elderly Sankta in a black trench coat and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
“Mr.
Cliff,” Luther Magnus greeted with a nod.
“I didn’t expect you to come in person.”
Cliff shook his head, his gaze fixed on Ernest’s retreating figure.
“That’s the one you want protected?”
Luther nodded.
“A piece of land untouched by catastrophes, with unique alpine scenery.
For any important figure, it would make a perfect retreat.
The deal Prime Minister Ernest signed with me is enough to earn me a fortune.
Hiring a Blacksteel squad for his protection is simply a sound investment.”
“Most of your requests have been about overthrowing things,” Cliff remarked flatly.
“Not often you ask my people to protect a regime.”
It was a chilling statement, but after a moment, he allowed himself a faint smile.
“Still, I think I understand now.”
He lifted his gaze toward the snow-covered mountain Ernest was heading toward, a trace of quiet approval in his eyes.
“I’m getting old.
Seeing scenery like this, and a young man like that… this trip wasn’t a waste.”
“When your resort is finished, save me a place.”