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ArabicArknights: Prime Minister of Kjerag — Chapter 20
Chapter 20: Kjeragandr Declares Me Innocent
“What’s happening down the mountain?”
Someone in the crowd was the first to notice the spreading commotion. Gradually, the already restless gathering on the mountaintop began to spiral out of control, murmurs swelling into a tide of panic.
Enciodes furrowed his brow.
According to his carefully calculated schedule, the Snowcap Patrol should have already stormed Holy Stone Plaza by now, engaging the Paleroche family’s forces in a decisive clash.
Yet anyone with eyes could see that the military conflict was not erupting in the plaza, nor anywhere on the Holy Mountain itself. The clash was happening at the very foot of the mountain.
Was there a flaw in Degenbrecher’s execution, or had Matterhorn encountered a sudden hitch?
These two possibilities flashed through Enciodes’s calculating mind, but he quickly dismissed them with a subtle shake of his head.
Impossible. Matterhorn was his most trusted confidant; the man’s loyalty was absolute and required no testing. As for Degenbrecher, though he had only recently redeemed the Black Knight from Kazimierz at an astronomical price, Enciodes possessed unwavering faith in his own judgment of character. Degenbrecher was the type of warrior who chose her own employers. If she found someone unworthy, no amount of capital could buy her blade. Conversely, once she committed, she would execute her mission with ruthless, careful perfection, even without direct oversight.
The variable, then, had to be elsewhere.
Had the Paleroche family anticipated his move, setting up an ambush at the base to halt the Snowcap Patrol’s ascent?
Enciodes’s sharp gaze swept toward Arctosz. The towering Ursus man’s face was etched with undisguised anxiety, clearly alarmed by the escalating scale of the riot below. Catching Enciodes’s stare, Arctosz whipped his head around, his booming voice cutting through the noise.
“Enciodes, didn’t you say your people were coming? The crowd is on the verge of a stampede! Where are your forces?”
Enciodes smoothly withdrew his gaze. “They should be arriving shortly.”
It couldn’t be Arctosz. The Paleroche patriarch lacked the sheer cunning required to fake such raw, unpolished panic.
Could it be the Browntails?
He glanced at Ratatos, but the Sciurus woman appeared equally blindsided. If she had orchestrated this, her cautious yet opportunistic nature would have driven her to expose Enciodes’s troop deployment from the start, rallying the others to take him down on the spot.
How bizarre. Where exactly had the grand design fractured?
For a fleeting moment, Enciodes found himself at a total loss. Having eliminated all logical variables, his eyes inevitably drifted toward the lone figure standing upon the Holy Stone judgment platform.
It could only be him.
Ernest stood tall and unbothered upon the elevated stone. Even as the chaotic din from the mountain’s base drifted up to the peak, and the plaza around him descended into disarray, he did not exhibit a single trace of panic.
He had no reason to worry about the mortal squabbles below.
Because, at this very moment, he was engaged in a private conversation with someone else entirely.
Or rather, another ‘God.’
Kjeragandr’s voice was a paradox. In one breath, it rolled like the majestic thunder of the high heavens; in the next, it flowed like a gentle, trickling stream winding through a secluded valley. These two contradictory aspects—absolute authority and tender grace—intertwined flawlessly. It was the obvious signature of divinity, leaving an indelible mark on the soul.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
She asked the question in a hushed, intimate tone, carrying the deep concern of a mother checking on her child.
Ernest shook his head, though a wry, bitter smile soon tugged at his lips. He gave a slow nod.
“If you’re asking whether I fear failure, then no. I’m not afraid. If I fail here, there will always be other opportunities. I refuse to let success be an orphan.” He paused, his expression turning grounded and pragmatic. “But if you’re asking whether I’m afraid of dying? Yes. I absolutely am.”
Who wouldn’t fear death? Perhaps the hardened warriors bleeding against the demonic horrors in the Sami Icefield felt no fear. Perhaps the Emperor’s Blades, those monstrous Internal Guards stalking the Ursus domain, felt no fear. Perhaps those noble martyrs who clung to an ideal worth dying for felt no fear.
But Ernest was, quite frankly, a little terrified.
At his admission, Kjeragandr’s tone shifted, taking on the stern, demanding weight of a strict father interrogating a wayward son.
“Why? I have watched those reformers of the past. They did not fear death.”
“And did they succeed?” Ernest shot back, his tone casual but sharp.
“Some succeeded. Some failed,” Kjeragandr replied evenly.
Ernest shook his head. “The successful ones are a statistical anomaly; the failures are countless. From your divine vantage point, it might be hard to grasp, but when it comes to grand historical undertakings—especially systemic reforms—the greatest terror is that the policy dies the moment the reformer stops breathing.”
A policy dying with its creator. For humanity and the fragile nations they built, it was an inescapable curse.
Historical miracles like Shang Yang’s reforms—where the architect was executed but his laws survived to shape a thousand years of empire—were virtually unique. Far more common were the tragedies. Brilliant initiatives that would have secured a nation’s prosperity for centuries were abruptly suffocated, or outright reversed, the moment their champion died.
The conservative forces entrenched within Kjerag were massive, and the backward-leaning populace was too vast. Ernest had absolutely no intention of pinning his hopes on the ‘wisdom of future generations.’ He refused to become the Che Guevara of Terra—a romanticized martyr remembered only on commemorative t-shirts and in tragic folk songs.
It was always better to live a messy life than to die a beautiful death. If survival was an option, why choose the grave?
Kjeragandr fell silent. Just as Ernest began to wonder if the Goddess had withdrawn Her presence, She spoke again. This time, Her voice carried the light, melodious cadence of a young maiden, instantly washing away the heavy, suffocating tension in Ernest’s chest.
“Truthfully, I have been pondering this as well. Because of my protection, because of their unwavering faith in me, Kjerag has slumbered in a thousand years of stagnation. Is this a blessing, or a curse?”
Ernest lowered his head in a gesture of genuine respect. “Your greatness and your love are beyond doubt. But humans are creatures that must, eventually, step out of the cradle.”
“And so, I have been waiting for your answer.”
Kjeragandr’s voice shifted once more. Now, She felt like an ancient, immovable mountain. The words echoed as if rolling through a vast, distant valley.
“The Grand Elder’s answer to me was to keep Kjerag exactly as it is. He believes nothing needs to change; that under my eternal protection, Kjerag can prosper in peace for another ten thousand years.”
The heavy resonance faded, replaced by the delicate, distant chiming of wind bells.
“Enya told me that Kjerag might indeed require change. She believes the people need freedom and independent thought, yet she insists that everything must still revolve around me. Faith must maintain its absolute dominance over Kjerag, and she will not permit anyone to overstep the boundaries of those sacred rules.”
Then, the voice boomed, startling and sharp as a thunderclap.
“And Enciodes… he gave me a ruthless answer. He believes Kjerag requires a total, violent purge. The Tri-Clan Council should be abolished. The Karlan Temple should be burned to the ground. He views my very existence as an obstacle to Kjerag’s survival, declaring that I should be expelled from this snowy realm, leaving behind nothing but hollow statues. In his eyes, Kjerag must be guided by the Columbian-style free market established by Karlan Trade, and the minds of the people should be ruled by profit.”
The overwhelming divine pressure slowly receded. In the unseen space between them, Ernest felt a quiet, expectant gaze studying him through the surface of the Holy Stone.
“What about you?”
Ernest pursed his lips, organizing his thoughts.
“The Grand Elder is far too conservative. He treats humanity like fragile infants, praying for the Great God to provide careful, endless care. But he never stops to consider whether the Great God Herself might eventually grow weary.”
He took a breath. “Enya’s personality is gentle, and her proposals reflect that softness. If she had made these suggestions a century ago, they could have guaranteed Kjerag’s orderly, peaceful growth. But times have changed, and Kjerag has fallen dangerously behind. If we follow her gradual path now, it will be too late to save anything.”
“As for Enciodes… he saw the brutal reality that Enya missed, yet he completely overlooked the spiritual foundation the Grand Elder understands. He tied the sheer urgency of the geopolitical situation directly to Kjerag’s survival, and he gambled the entire nation’s future on himself. He wants to force a potent, toxic medicine down Kjerag’s throat to shock it awake, demanding absolute obedience, or else letting it perish in the attempt. But his grand calculation missed one critical variable.”
“What variable?” Kjeragandr’s voice returned to its initial, maternal warmth.
Ernest looked up, his tone entirely sincere. “That You are also a part of Kjerag.”
In turbulent times, harsh measures were often necessary. Enciodes’s core logic wasn’t entirely wrong. If Kjerag couldn’t rapidly centralize its power and industrialize, it would inevitably be swallowed whole by the encroaching behemoths of Victoria, Columbia, or Kazimierz.
Enciodes believed that to achieve this—to shatter the archaic Tri-Clan Council, subjugate the Three Great Houses, dismantle the ideological chains of the Karlan Temple, and forcibly unify the people—there was only one viable method.
Absolute, overwhelming force.
But was military subjugation truly the only path?
If one actually analyzed the board, it wasn’t. Whether it was the Tri-Clan Council, the noble houses, the Temple, or the hearts of the common folk, their entire foundation rested upon a single pillar: Kjeragandr.
If Kjeragandr could be persuaded, the ultimate ‘enemy’ could instantly be transformed into the ultimate ally.
A famous statesman from Ernest’s previous life had once said: Politics is the art of making your enemies few and your friends many.
Enciodes naturally viewed the source of Kjerag’s traditionalism—Kjeragandr—as the final boss to be defeated, taking it upon himself to violently overthrow divine authority. But he failed to realize that Kjeragandr, as a true deity, had zero interest in worldly political domination. She and the Karlan Temple—which merely borrowed Her name to hoard power—were two entirely separate entities.
This was the fundamental difference between Kjerag’s faith and the medieval churches of Earth.
Kjerag possessed a living God. And this God had a mind, a heart, and a willingness to listen. She could be won over!
Ernest’s pragmatic yet deeply empathetic answer seemed to strike directly at the softest, most vulnerable part of Kjeragandr’s heart.
Thousands of years ago, She had carved out this sanctuary amidst the lethal, freezing peaks, guiding the starving, war-torn ancestors of Kjerag to settle in the valley. She had shielded them from the apocalyptic natural disasters that ravaged the rest of Terra, turning this small snow country into an untouched paradise.
Why?
Because the Goddess loved the world.
Modern cynics always tried to attach transactional motives to divinity—claiming gods only acted for the sake of incense, blind faith, blood sacrifices, or some hidden, selfish agenda.
But Kjeragandr loved the people of Kjerag simply because they were Her people.
She would summon apocalyptic blizzards to crush the palace of a tyrant who dared to enslave Her children, and She would weep silent tears of pity for the suffering of the common folk.
She worried constantly about Kjerag’s future, keeping Her vigil even when Her divine spirit grew exhausted. Yet She also cared for the individual, gently catching Enya when the young girl fainted during her grueling pilgrimage up the mountain.
She agonized over whether Her overprotective nature was the very thing crippling Her children, keeping them from standing on their own two feet. Yet, like any mother, She selfishly hoped they would remember Her, care for Her, and not abandon Her to the cold.
That was why, when the Grand Elder insisted nothing should change, She remained silent, refusing to manifest miracles to correct him. It was out of love; She believed She could just keep bearing the weight.
And it was also why She hadn’t struck down Enciodes’s blasphemous scheme to march the Snowcap Patrol up the mountain. She had prepared Herself. If Her children truly wanted to leave the cradle and no longer needed Her, She was willing to gracefully fade into the snow.
It was just that… offering so much unconditional love, receiving no warmth in return, and being actively plotted against as a tyrannical villain… was incredibly lonely.
If She had been a mortal woman, Kjeragandr would have at least smacked Enciodes over the head and cursed him as a heartless brat.
But now, Ernest had seen through the politics and spoken directly to Her heart.
Though blessing a man who was actively undermining Her own brother felt a bit scandalous, Kjeragandr decided to forgive Ernest’s sheer audacity and reward his insight.
In mortal terms, this was what they called ‘Divine Favor.’
…
Back in the physical realm, the panic had reached a boiling point. Realizing a violent skirmish was breaking out below, the terrified crowd began surging toward the mountain paths, desperate to flee the plaza.
Enciodes stood perfectly still, his gloved fingers silently twirling his cane. Hidden within the polished wood was a high-grade Originium Arts core, custom-engineered in Columbia, designed to channel his devastating power at a moment’s notice.
Truesilver Slash.
That was what Matterhorn called the technique. It manifested a freezing gale sharp enough to shear through armor, flesh, and bone alike.
He was ready. If the situation below deteriorated any further, he would personally intervene. He would strike down Arctosz and Ratatos first, securing the peak before methodically purging the rest.
But just as his grip tightened on the cane, a fierce, unnatural gust of wind swept across the mountain range.
The gale did not originate from the weather. It surged outward from Mount Matterhorn, the highest peak in Kjerag, sweeping gracefully past Maiden Peak before crashing over the Karlan Holy Mountain. It stirred the powdery snow into a glittering, suspended mist, painting the sky as if a God were using the heavens as a canvas.
The terrified citizens who had been stumbling down the treacherous paths were gently, yet forcefully, swept back onto the safe, inner ledges by the wind. As the gale brushed against their panicked faces, it carried a deep, reassuring warmth that instantly quelled their racing hearts.
Down at the base of the mountain, the brutal melee between the Snowcap Patrol and the Blacksteel Worldwide mercenaries ground to a sudden, impossible halt.
The weapons in their hands instantly froze solid. Triggers locked up, bowstrings calcified into rigid ice, and razor-sharp blades were coated in a thick, smooth layer of frost that rendered them completely harmless.
Back on Holy Stone Plaza, Arctosz and Ratatos stared in absolute bewilderment. They watched as the rioting crowd was softly pushed back into their designated places by the ‘gentle gale,’ their faces slack with disbelief.
Only the Saintess, Enya, seemed to understand. As if guided by an unseen hand, she suddenly turned toward the altar, drew the ceremonial prayer bell from her robes, and raised it high above her head.
Ding-a-ling-ling—
She didn’t shake it. The holy bell rang entirely on its own.
The chime was piercingly clear, echoing like a pure spring gushing over the frozen peaks. The sound washed over the plaza, instantly cleansing every trace of fear, anger, and malice from the hearts of those who heard it.
If anyone present still failed to comprehend what was happening, they had no right to call themselves a citizen of Kjerag.
“The Goddess Kjeragandr has manifested!”
A single, awe-struck voice shattered the silence. The crowd, which had been on the verge of a bloody stampede moments prior, instantly fell to their knees in absolute reverence. Pious believers wept, fixing their eyes on the Saintess, the Holy Stone, and the glowing bell that now hovered gently in the air, chiming its heavenly melody.
The bell became the final brush in Kjeragandr’s hand.
Accompanied by the ethereal music, the drifting clouds and the swirling snow caught the brilliant sunlight, weaving together across the vast blue canvas of the sky to form two massive, obvious words of divine decree.
[Not Guilty]
The entire mountain fell into a stunned, breathless silence.
[Rhodes’s Note:
– Shang Yang’s reforms: A reference to the ancient Chinese statesman Shang Yang of the State of Qin. Though he was eventually executed by the nobility he suppressed, his systemic legal and military reforms survived his death, laying the foundation for Qin to eventually conquer all of China.
– Wang Anshi: A Chinese economist and chancellor of the Song dynasty who attempted major, controversial socioeconomic reforms. Unlike Shang Yang, his reforms were largely dismantled by conservative rivals after he lost power.]