The Ultimate Skill System: Absorb, Upgrade, Create, Transfer-Chapter 46 - : The Land of Unyielders

Keiran sat at the head of the round table, his sharp eyes scanning the letter in his hands. The parchment was crisp, the edges slightly frayed from handling, and the ink dark and bold, as if the writer had pressed down hard in their haste.

The words were clear, but their meaning was cold and dismissive. The Harheim, a proud and ancient tribe of Harengons, had rejected his offer of aid in their war against the demons.

Keiran's expression remained unreadable, his face a mask of calm indifference. He set the letter down gently on the table, the sound of paper against wood echoing softly in the quiet room.

The room itself was dimly lit, with a single chandelier hanging above the table, its candles flickering faintly, casting long shadows across the faces of those gathered.

"I didn't even ask for anything in return," Keiran said, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

His words hung in the air, met with a collective sigh from the others seated around the table. The room was filled with a mix of advisors and warriors, each dressed in varying degrees of formality, from polished armor to simple tunics.

Ihalot leaned back in his chair and shook his head. His red hair caught the light as he moved, and his deep-set eyes reflected a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Just as history has told us, Harengons are a difficult bunch. Stubborn and proud, they've always been. They don't trust outsiders, and they don't take kindly to offers of help, no matter how well-meaning."

Keiran stood up, his movements deliberate and unhurried. His chair scraped softly against the stone floor as he pushed it back. He walked over to the large map of Fiora that hung on the wall, his boots clicking softly against the polished floor.

The map was a masterpiece of cartography, filled with intricate details—forests, rivers, mountains, and settlements—all marked with precision.

His finger followed the route from Casimiro, their current stronghold, to the distant territory of Harheim.

The Harheim lands were vast, a sprawling expanse of dense forests and jagged mountains that served as a natural barrier against invaders.

The map showed the territory as a series of concentric circles, representing the three walls that protected the heart of Harheim.

If the demons managed to conquer Harheim, the entire forest of Fiora would be left vulnerable, open to destruction and chaos.

Greon stepped up behind Keiran. "We can't blame their confidence," Greon said, his tone respectful but firm. "They are one of the few tribes that have never been conquered, not by humans, not by Lionkin, not by anyone. Even my father, who led many campaigns, failed to bring them under his rule. Their defenses are impenetrable, and their warriors are unmatched in skill."

Keiran's gaze lingered on the red pins scattered across the map, each one marking a known demon camp. The Harheim territory, however, was conspicuously blank.

No scouts had been able to gather information there. The Harengons guarded their borders fiercely, and their lands remained a mystery to outsiders.

The blank space on the map seemed to taunt him, a challenge he was determined to overcome.

"Greon," Keiran said, his voice calm but commanding, "you mentioned that Harheim is an open settlement."

Greon nodded. "At least the first of their three walls is open to outsiders. Traders from other tribes are allowed to enter, though they are closely watched. I've been there myself to trade goods. The guards will let you in, but it's best to wear cloaks and keep a low profile. The other visitors... they don't take kindly to strangers. There's a tension in the air, a sense that you're always being watched, even when you can't see the eyes on you."

Keiran's lips twitched, almost as if he were about to smile, but the expression faded as quickly as it appeared. "I wonder what bunny girls look like in person," he said, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Greon blinked, caught off guard. "My lord?"

The others in the room exchanged glances, unsure if they had heard correctly. Keiran, their usually serious and focused leader, had just made a remark that seemed entirely out of character.

But Keiran didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned his attention back to the map, his finger tapping lightly on the spot where Harheim was marked.

"You said the Harengons are skilled at creating clothes," Keiran continued, his voice steady once more.

Greon nodded, recovering quickly. "Yes, their craftsmanship is unmatched. Their garments are similar in style to what humans wear, but the quality is far superior. The fabrics are softer, the stitching finer, and the designs more intricate. They take pride in their work, and it shows in every piece they create."

Keiran's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the map. "My main goal is to establish trade with the Harengons. An alliance with them would help our new nation thrive. Their resources, their skills—they could be invaluable to us. But more than that, I want to understand them. I want to see how they've managed to remain unconquered for so long."

Greon nodded in agreement. "That's a great plan, my lord."

Keiran's gaze remained fixed on the map, his mind clearly working through the details. "And even if they don't need our help," he added, "I want to be on the battlefield. I want to see what a full-scale war looks like, to understand how the Harengons fight. There's much we can learn from them, not just about war, but about resilience and unity."

The room fell silent as everyone absorbed Keiran's words. It was a bold plan, one that carried significant risks.

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But Keiran had never been one to shy away from danger. He turned to Greon and Agwil.

"Greon, Agwil, you will come with me," Keiran said. "We'll travel to Harheim—not as combatants, but as tourists. We'll observe, learn, and if the opportunity arises, we'll make our case. But for now, we go in peace."

Greon and Agwil exchanged a glance, then nodded in unison.

"As you wish, my lord," Greon said.

•••••

The next morning, Keiran, Greon, and Agwil set out on their journey. They rode in a sturdy carriage pulled by four white wolves, their fur gleaming in the early light.

The wolves were massive creatures, their muscles rippling beneath their sleek coats as they moved with a smooth, powerful gait. Their paws barely made a sound as they traversed the dirt paths that wound through the forest, their breath visible in the cool morning air.

The carriage itself was simple but well-made, its wooden frame reinforced with iron bands. The interior was lined with soft cushions, and the windows were covered with thick curtains to provide privacy.

The journey was long, taking an entire week, but it was uneventful. The landscape outside the carriage changed gradually, from rolling hills to dense forests, the trees growing taller and thicker the further they traveled.

Whenever they encountered an obstacle—a fallen tree, a pile of rocks—they simply cleared it and continued on their way.

The wolves were tireless, their strength and endurance unmatched. By the time they reached the boundary of Harheim, the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the landscape.

From a distance, they could see the first wall of Harheim—a massive structure made of sharp, towering spikes that seemed to pierce the sky.

The wall stretched as far as the eye could see, its surface rough and weathered, as if it had stood for centuries.

Guards patrolled the top of the wall, their movements precise and disciplined. They wore armor that gleamed in the sunlight, their helmets adorned with intricate designs.

Massive ballistae were positioned at regular intervals, their bolts ready to strike down any flying demons that dared to approach.

Greon gestured toward the wall. "Welcome to Harheim, my lord," he said. "The land of the Unyielders."

Keiran's expression remained impassive as he studied the settlement. His eyes, cold and calculating, took in every detail.

The wall, the guards, the ballistae—all of it spoke of a people who took their defense seriously.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice monotone and devoid of emotion. "The land of bunny girls."

Greon and Agwil exchanged another glance, then quickly looked away, pretending not to have heard.

Greon began whistling a tune, while Agwil busied himself with adjusting the straps on the carriage.

Keiran, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by their reaction. His focus was already on the task ahead.