The Barbarian of the Count’s Family Is Too Strong

Chapter 2: Barbaroi (1)

The departure was livelier than expected.

Agron could only exchange farewells after all the tribe members, including those who had gone hunting, had gathered.

"The land of warriors is forged of swords and shields."

"Our blood is the price of rest, and death is but another journey."

Agron pressed his forehead against each tribe member's, exchanging these words like breaths.

The tribe members closed their eyes and embraced Agron’s head or shoulders as their foreheads met.

It was simple, yet solemn and profound.

Each word, each breath intertwined, forming a comforting bond between them.

"Farewell, my friend."

"Thank you, ‘White Bison.’ Stay well yourself."

At last, Agron stood before Dumurka.

His hair, now frosted white, and the wrinkles carved by time came into view.

At first, he had looked like a middle-aged man, but now he had stepped into old age.

Agron spoke first.

"The land of warriors is forged of swords and—"

"Damn disciple, don’t die."

"That response seems different from the others."

"Hmph, more important than words is direct aid."

Dumurka picked up an old bag from the ground and handed it over.

Taking it, Agron realized it was quite heavy.

"This is…?"

"Your ‘child support.’ The money your parents sent me every month."

"I thought they only sent letters?"

Agron knew they had occasionally sent clothes, food, or books, but he had never heard about child support.

"They sent a considerable amount, telling me to take good care of you. Take it and use it."

"But that money was meant for you, Master."

"I already got my payment by raising you. You caught several times more game than others."

Dumurka let out a chuckle, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

It was a relief to finally be rid of his troublesome disciple.

"Well, I thought so too. I’ve done the work of five men."

"Can’t you at least deny it, even as a courtesy?"

"No."

"You little…! So, your answer should be ‘Thank you,’ right?"

"You’re too kind."

"Not me—you! You should be the one saying thank you!"

There was one good thing about raising Agron—he never had to worry about collapsing from low blood pressure.

Dumurka massaged the back of his neck, barely suppressing the urge to land one last hit on his disciple.

‘Should’ve beaten him more while I had the chance.’

Ever since Agron had grown stronger, he couldn't even use lessons as an excuse to hit him.

"Master…"

Agron’s voice was thick with emotion.

His shoulders sagged, sensing that this was their final farewell.

Dumurka waved a hand and spoke.

If they talked any longer, he might actually break down in tears.

"Enough, I’ve no patience for sentimental nonsense. Go. I enjoyed our time together."

"That’s not it…"

"What is it?"

"Do you have anything else to give me?"

"Get lost! Now!"

Thus, after his heartfelt farewells with the tribe, Agron left what had been his second home.

***

The outskirts of the ‘Snowridge Labyrinth,’ where the brutal cold still rained down like a baptism.

Agron walked forward, clad in an elk-hide coat, bracing against the howling wind.

Whooosh!

The northern gale showed no mercy, sending one final trial upon the departing traveler.

This northern wasteland was so severe that even atheists found themselves seeking gods.

The cold wrapped around the elk-hide coat, threatening to freeze every last cell of his skin.

A chill so sharp it bordered on fear.

"What a warm day. Perfect for drying laundry."

Yet, Agron felt no cold.

If anything, he was slightly warm. He loosened his tightly fastened coat.

For a member of the [Winter Wardens] tribe, this level of cold was nothing.

Dumurka had offered him sled dogs, but Agron had refused.

He had no idea what lay ahead, and dragging a sled and a pack of dogs wasn’t feasible.

He walked on for a while longer.

"The perpetual snow ends here."

The land, once divided into white and not-white, shed its icy grip and blended with flora.

Agron had lived in the ‘Snowridge Labyrinth’ for nearly ten years, never once leaving.

A world without snow.

The landscape, once only a distant memory from his early childhood, now stretched before him.

An indescribable emotion surged within him.

"This is just the beginning."

With a smirk, Agron stepped onto land untouched by snow.

***

The crisp sunlight sliced through the cold air, filtering through the leaves of the winter forest.

Agron strolled leisurely, having stowed away his elk-hide coat.

His sweat-dampened, muscular frame flexed with each movement, radiating an overwhelming presence.

"Quite warm."

Despite the chilly air that still produced visible breaths, he pulled his long hair back, cooling off.

Having lived only in the freezing north, temperatures above -10°C felt warm to him.

"Hmm, this must be ‘Blue Moss Herb.’ As the book said, it has a faintly fishy scent."

Agron crouched, book in hand, comparing the clustered plants on the ground.

The moment knowledge turned into reality.

For him, nothing was more exhilarating.

‘Fascinating. It’s always best when I can confirm what I read with my own eyes.’

Many called the barbarian tribes primitive, ruled by instinct.

While some tribes did chase only base pleasures, the [Winter Wardens] held reverence for nature and warrior discipline.

Agron had been thoroughly trained in the ways of war, respect for nature, and the strength of the body.

‘Dumurka always said the world is vast and knowledge endless. Books alone won’t be enough to understand it all.’

Among all the northern tribes, Dumurka was the only one who had traveled beyond the kingdom, past the empire, even to other continents.

Pushing through the forest, Agron noticed a peculiar scene.

An overturned carriage, panicked horses, and several men surrounding a lone woman.

"Hmm."

Ignoring the flustered men, Agron quickly flipped through another book.

Then, with a knowing expression, he greeted them.

"Good day."

"Ah…"

"Uh, yes…"

The men answered in bewilderment.

As Agron prepared to walk past, the woman trapped among them cried out.

"Wait, hold on!"

"Hmm?"

"No, please, help me!"

"Help you…?"

Agron tilted his head.

"Aren’t I interrupting? You all seem to be enjoying yourselves."

"This isn’t enjoyment!"

"Strange. The book describes it differently."

"Several men and women tangled together, wearing lecherous smiles, while rough moans filled the air, leaving the surroundings in complete disarray… - Excerpt from City Dwellers’ Culture"*

Agron scratched his head awkwardly.

It seemed his master was right—books and reality were quite different.

"What exactly do you need help with?"

"C-Can’t you see?! These men…!"

"Hey, can’t you count? Get lost!"

One of the men surrounding the woman pulled out a short knife, his gaze menacing.

Ordinarily, when robbing someone, any unexpected third party should be eliminated immediately. But when that third party was a barbarian wandering shirtless through the midwinter forest, the rules changed.

The bandits secretly hoped this well-built young man would just pass by, avoiding unnecessary trouble.

"Don’t act tough just because there’s a woman here. Scram!"

"Ah-ha! So, this is what they call a robbery? Interesting, interesting."

"What…?"

Agron’s delighted tone made the men exchange looks, as if wondering whether he was insane.

"Or maybe you want in on the fun too?"

"It doesn’t look very fun to me."

"This crazy barbarian bastard—just get lost!"

The world ran on the law of the strong.

The woman's plight was unfortunate, but it wasn’t reason enough for Agron to interfere.

Yet, he decided to act for two reasons.

One, he was curious about the strength of outsiders.

The other, they had insulted his tribe.

"Barbarian, huh."

Agron stepped toward them.

His taut muscles were riddled with scars, each telling its own tale.

"W-What the—? You wanna fight?!"

The man with the short knife lunged forward.

It was a fairly sharp strike—just not to Agron.

To him, the sluggish, flailing attack was yawn-inducingly slow. The attacker’s stance and balance were worse than a three-year-old from the [Winter Wardens] tribe.

This was why Agron hadn’t considered this situation a robbery that required intervention.

‘You call this thievery?’

Even the weakest women of his homeland wouldn’t fall prey to such clumsy bandits.

Agron grabbed the man’s outstretched arm and yanked him forward while his other hand struck the man’s chin with an open palm.

Crack!

A gruesome sound echoed as the man’s neck twisted unnaturally, blood spurting everywhere.

"W-What the hell…?"

The other bandits swallowed hard at the unbelievable sight.

Could a human’s neck really be shattered by a mere slap?

"That damn barbarian killed my friend!"

"Barbarian, huh."

Agron knew that word’s meaning.

Barbaroi (βάρβαροι)—"those who bark like dogs."

The term had evolved over time, becoming barbarian in some regions.

"Strange. I thought I hid it well. How did you figure it out?"

"It’s obvious just looking at you, you barbarian bastard!"

A spear-wielding man charged at him, thrusting the tip forward.

Agron simply twisted his foot to sidestep the attack, grabbing the shaft and pulling it, throwing the man off balance before kicking him squarely in the chest.

Thud!

The sound resembled a bear’s paw striking prey as the man was sent flying over ten meters.

"Guh…!"

Struggling to rise, he clutched his chest before vomiting blood and collapsing.

"K-Kill him!"

Seeing two of their comrades fall in seconds, the remaining bandits charged in desperation.

They prided themselves on being ruthless killers. Surely, overwhelming him with numbers would work.

Rusty swords, axes, and a morning star came crashing toward him simultaneously.

Clang!

But the clumsy swings of amateurs clashed and tangled, getting in each other's way, and Agron wasted no time exploiting the opening.

He grabbed the morning star wielder’s hand, struck his elbow with a sharp blow, and shattered the joint, making the weapon slip free.

"Aaargh!"

"Too loud."

Crack!

The morning star smashed down on the man’s head, turning it into pulp.

"W-Wait—!"

"I—I surrender—!"

Splat! Splat!

Agron remained expressionless as he crushed their skulls one by one.

"Hiiik!"

The last bandit dropped his weapon and bolted.

"Unfit to be a warrior."

Clicking his tongue, Agron hurled the morning star at the fleeing man.

The heavy metal spike pierced straight through his torso.

Afterward, he tore a strip of cloth from one of the dead bandits and wiped the blood off his face and body.

Then, he turned to the woman.

"I helped. That’s enough, right?"

"Ah—y-yes, thank you…."

"Then I’ll be going."

"W-Wait!"

The woman jumped up, grabbing his arm as he prepared to leave.

She had assumed he would turn on her next, treating her no differently than the bandits.

A barbaroi!

Yet, Agron had merely offered a clean farewell and was about to walk away.

"Can I ask for one more favor? I’ll pay you properly!"

"I’m a bit busy."

"Uh… where are you headed? Could we travel together to the city?"

"The Veilain Territory."

"That’s where I’m going too! If you let me accompany you, I’ll make sure you’re rewarded when we arrive!"

Agron hesitated for a moment before recalling his father’s words:

A lord must protect his people and heed their earnest pleas.

"I see. Are you one of my people? Then I’ll grant your request."

"Your… people? Th-Thank you."

Still puzzled, she quickly followed behind him.