Chapter 475: Human Totem
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 475: Human Totem
"Ever heard of a totem?"
Rem had described it as a tool used in sorcery.
"You’re the one who told me about them," Encrid replied, sitting on a chair in the middle of the tent. It was a low, backless stool, but it wasn't particularly uncomfortable.
Standing before him, Rem spoke with the gravity of a stern instructor, playing the role of a one-day sorcery teacher.
"Alright, Captain. From now on, you are a human totem. You eat, sleep, and hang out right here."
Encrid, quick-witted as always, grasped the situation immediately. It seemed he had no choice but to do as Rem said.
Naturally, it had taken a few experiments to reach this conclusion—experiments that had concluded only a short while ago.
Rem, who had stepped in to mediate the situation, had blurted out without preamble: "Go outside. Hurry."
Encrid had complied, stepping out of the tent. Once he was about three paces away, Rem, standing with one foot over the tent's threshold, called out again. The man waved him away with the back of his hand.
"Shoo. Further away."
Encrid moved further back.
Dunchabel emerged from the tent and sat to one side, watching while pinching her nose with one hand. Luagarne followed behind Encrid.
"They seem to believe you are blocking the curse," she said, taking frequent sips of water.
"No way."
It had to be a coincidence. He had joked about awakening divine power, but there was no way that was true. Furthermore, he had never even touched sorcery. There was no need to look back on his past life; he had been far too busy swinging a sword.
Even now, he desperately wanted to review the thoughts he had been pondering.
The twins had attacked with a very peculiar tempo. One threw spears in a single tempo with precise breathing, while the other used a half-tempo. Watching them had sparked a flurry of ideas.
What if I mix the tempos?
His thoughts naturally drifted back to what Oara had shown him.
Oara's swordsmanship was faithful to the basics, and one of those basics was tempo. There was the standard single tempo, the counter that struck back against it, the half-tempo that split the single beat, and the double tempo that packed two movements into one.
In other words, tempo was a single breath.
Ragna would sometimes fit three or even four movements into a single breath. Would that be called a triple or quadruple tempo? He didn't care about the names.
Oara had done the same. She split the tempo, but she also did the opposite.
Slower, longer, continuous strikes. She took long breaths, stretching the tempo out. If he had to name it, it would be a slow tempo.
Instead of splitting the beat, she stretched it. By blending her footwork and body movements, she made the trajectory of her sword flow endlessly. Against the fragment of Balrog, Oara had demonstrated that very kind of uninterrupted swordsmanship. Her blade never stopped; it connected again and again. It had been deeply impressive.
After Oara, others flashed through his mind.
Ragna used to swing his sword for a single, heavy blow. For that one strike, he would engage in a battle of wits to deceive his opponent. But the goal always converged to one thing: landing his strike, whether with sword or shield, squarely on the mark.
The King of the East was skilled at using disjointed movements. Abruptly halting only to thrust his spearhead from bizarre angles, he would repeatedly breach the distance. It was an irregular style, one where it was difficult to find any set pattern.
Think, and think again. Ponder, and ponder again. Devise, and devise again. Recreate it with the body. Correct the errors. Strike with the sword. Repeat.
As he walked, making sword-like gestures with his hands, Luagarne rolled her large eyes and watched him.
A training maniac.
Some people called Encrid that. Luagarne agreed with the description.
Training, and more training. Encrid was someone who did this without ever getting tired of it, even cutting into his sleep schedule. It was no different now. Encrid's mind was entirely filled with thoughts of swordsmanship. Sorcery or whatever else be damned; his mind was occupied.
Besides, this was incredibly fun.
His thoughts flowed on. What if he split the tempo like crazy, just as one would split a breath? There actually was a swordsmanship style like that: Valen-style swordsmanship.
I used to think it was complete bullshit.
Valen-style swordsmanship: mixing breaths at will. It was a method of adjusting the tempo as one pleased—a technique of playing with breath and rhythm.
How was that possible? One simply had to execute all basic techniques with absolute mastery.
Was it an easy path? No. It was a difficult, grueling path. Yet, a smile rose to his lips. For Encrid, it was an incredibly enjoyable path.
Thinking about it now, there was no swordsmanship style that emphasized mastering the basics as much as Valen-style. Its nagging was even worse than Luagarne's. He hadn't heard it with his own ears, but he might as well have. When learning Valen-style swordsmanship, he had read a secret manual, and on every single page, there was a line about the basics.
"Adopt a proper stance first. If you do not know the basics, you cannot deceive your opponent."
"If you do not know how to swing with a precise posture, you cannot even cut a piece of straw."
"Build your body so that you can hold a proper stance."
"Stance first."
"Focus on your stance while holding the sword. Start from there."
"What must you do before practicing techniques? Think. Yes, that's right. Stance."
If the parts about basic stances and foot placement had been omitted, the manual would have been half as thick. But that was how important it was. Most people who read it ignored those words, skipping past them as useless chatter.
Encrid had not done that. He couldn't afford to. It was a time when he had to grasp at straws just to survive, swinging whatever he could. So he had followed it to the letter. To master Valen-style swordsmanship, he refined his stance and did exactly as instructed.
It was a truly magnificent stance. So much so that if Valen were to return and see it, he would say, "This bastard is the only one worthy of being called my disciple."
Of course, if they had met in the past, Valen would have likely asked: "You expect to make a living with a sword with this pathetic excuse for talent?"
But still.
Anyway, there was a saying that to deceive an opponent, one must mix in the truth. Valen-style swordsmanship was faithful to that saying. Honing the basics to execute various deceptions through them—that was the Illusion Sword, Valen-style swordsmanship.
Lost in these thoughts, he had walked quite a distance from the tent.
"Come back over here!" Rem called out from afar.
Encrid turned around and headed back. Along the way, eyes watched him. Some were hollow, while others stared blankly. The weather was fine, and the sun was dazzling. Encrid walked, seeking out shaded spots and keeping close to the side of a large tent.
This would probably turn out to be a pointless exercise. Some other factor must have intervened. Why would a curse vanish just because he was present?
As he drew closer, he saw that Rem's face was devoid of expression. He had become serious.
"Go. Over there."
The playfulness had vanished from Rem's tone. The woman, who appeared to be the child's mother, remained kneeling. Hira, the shaman, repeatedly brought a tobacco pipe to her lips. Puff after puff, the smoke shrouded her face.
Encrid did as Rem instructed. After repeating the back-and-forth three times, Rem muttered, "Fuck, is this actually possible?"
But he soon nodded. The situation was as baffling as a blind man stumbling onto the right path. With something as absurd as this happening right before their eyes, there was no point in questioning it.
So, casting the reasons aside, Rem decided to set up a human totem, and Encrid had to agree. Looking around, there were quite a few sick people—more than twenty.
Encrid looked at them and thought: Should I bring a healer—no, a shaman, to this place?
In any case, acting as a human totem was several times easier than tracking down a shaman and threatening them with a blade to their throat.
After Rem's experiment, Hira conducted her own. Encrid made contact with those afflicted by the curse and sat quietly. And so, the conclusion was reached. He would become a human totem in the middle of the tent.
A proper chair was provided, replacing the low stool. It was his own exclusive seat. A soft cushion was laid out, and instead of the grass that produced acrid smoke, they began burning a herb native only to the West, which emitted a subtle, pleasant fragrance.
An earthenware vessel made of baked yellow clay was moved here from the chief's tent. It was a device designed to light a fire at the bottom and slowly burn the herbs using residual heat, with four holes pierced at the top. From those holes, the burning herbs sent up a gentle trail of smoke.
"Ah, this smells nice," Dunchabel said.
Encrid took a deep breath of the fragrance, which warded off the sour odor emanating from Dunchabel's body. As she said, it smelled good—so good that it made him want to scold Dunchabel immediately.
"Go wash up."
"Ah, why?"
"Right now."
"In our village, they say washing too often brings bad luck."
"There's a saying like that in a beastman village?" Luagarne asked.
Luagarne was well-acquainted with the lifestyle of beastmen. While they didn't particularly enjoy washing, she knew they didn't throw around claims about bad luck so lightly. Dunchabel didn't say anything more. To be fair, she hadn't lived in the village for very long anyway, having been driven out when she was young.
"Shall I wash her?"
The child's mother, who had somehow become something of a follower, approached. Encrid was a tiny bit wary of her. It was because her attitude had flipped like a coin, and her temperament seemed to have changed just as quickly. Then again, Westerners tended to be like this—passionate, blunt, and with little use for formalities.
The middle-aged man who had come to him upon hearing that he had blocked the curse was the same.
"My gratitude... I express my deepest gratitude."
Encrid hadn't even known who the man was, only giving him a brief nod.
The child's mother stared at Dunchabel. Encrid read the look in her eyes: Will she listen if I tell her? What if she doesn't?
The mother's hand slipped into her shirt. She seemed lost in thought, subtly gripping her karambit dagger.
"Hey, go wash. Don't make things difficult," Encrid said, kicking Dunchabel's backside to send her on her way.
Other than that, he had nothing much to do. His main task was watching Hira, who would occasionally mutter with forceful emphasis as she looked over those who were recovering.
"Please protect this land," she murmured, tirelessly tending to the patients.
Was that also sorcery? She applied a dull gray ointment under the patients' eyes, rolled them over, and wiped down their faces and limbs. It looked more like devoted nursing than sorcery.
"You may walk around near the tent," Hira said. Her attitude had changed as well; she was now respectful toward Encrid.
When he stepped outside, the twins were guarding the front of the tent. This was because of Rem's answer when asked what they needed.
"Just prepare a training ground and sparring partners."
"You're not doing it yourself?"
"I'm about to get busy."
Rem had said that and left. And so, Encrid became a totem. It wasn't particularly boring. When sitting, he trained in his mindscape. When going outside, he moved his body. Since they had cleared the space directly in front of the tent, there was plenty of room to swing his sword.
He didn't act awkward about adapting to this Western tribe, either. After spending so many years rolling around as a mercenary and making a living by the blade, why would he struggle to adapt? To put it simply, Encrid was doing just fine.
"Please, eat."
Beside him, the child's mother served him with utmost devotion. Indeed, this went beyond merely taking care of him; it was on the level of worship.
"Thank you for the food," Encrid replied casually, quenching his thirst with ground squirrel fruit and eating well-roasted lizard meat.
Their cooking methods were of a style he had experienced often with Rem. They would catch a brown-furred rabbit called a field rabbit, skin it, gut it, and then mash it whole to make meat porridge or meatballs. Unlike a noble's table, there was no wasted food. They ate just enough to satisfy their hunger. Still, it was plenty nutritious.
The taste? It was all quite good. The habit of eating animals whole was likely a tradition born from scarce resources.
About half a day passed, and before evening came, a few children lingered nearby. Encrid watched them quietly as he maintained his sword.
Did they come to watch me?
Because he was a fascinating foreigner? They hadn't seemed particularly interested until now. A few of the children did show curiosity, but he wasn't their target.
"Is Jiba okay?" one of the children asked toward the inside of the tent.
The mother came out and looked at the child. Encrid recognized her face; she was one of the girls who had been playing with a hanging rope earlier that morning.
"I told you not to come near here."
"But they said it's okay now?" one of the children said.
Concern was evident in their attitude, tone, and eyes. They had been lingering around because their friend had collapsed. Children were children, so they still ran around and played, but they also worried. Encrid simply watched. There was no place for him to intervene.
"Still, do not come close."
The mother, who had regained her senses and forgotten her resentment, sent the children away. It wouldn't do for them to catch any bad luck by hanging around.
"Benefactor, if you need something to chew on, please have this."
The mother then gave him some dried plums. Encrid popped one into his mouth and chewed. It was sweet. Beside him, Luagarne was constantly drinking water. Seeing this, the woman gave a gift to Luagarne as well. It was an insect that looked like a dried grasshopper. She had actually caught a live one and presented it in a basket made of twigs, causing Luagarne's cheeks to puff up with joy.
Come to think of it, Lua might actually be quite greedy when it came to food.
Except for the time spent eating, drinking, and relieving himself, Encrid spent the entire day swinging his sword, dedicating himself to training. He felt a certain change, which made training even more enjoyable than before.
The twins occasionally served as sparring partners. Rem also dropped by from time to time.
"I'm going to die," Rem groaned.
"From what?" Encrid asked, wondering if something difficult had happened. It was a night with a bright moon. Even without a single torch, eyes, noses, and mouths were perfectly visible.
"Ayul refuses to listen to a word I say."
"What did you do before you left home?"
Rem hesitated, uncharacteristically, before speaking. "About ten days after our Holy Matrimony..."
"After?"
"Just..."
"Just?"
"I ran away in the middle of the night."
This bastard was insane. And he had walked back here proudly on his own two feet? When he should have been crawling on his hands and knees, bowing his head to the ground just to hope for forgiveness?
Encrid gripped the hilt of the sharpened Aker.
"Offer your neck. Right here. Bend your waist."
As Encrid spoke, looking at the outer post securing the tent, Rem asked back, "What are you going to do?"
"To appease her anger. I think it would be faster to cut off your head and bring it to her."
There seemed to be no other way. Rem chuckled, but Encrid did not laugh.
"You weren't joking?"
"I am entirely serious."
"Hey, stop talking nonsense about other people's business."
It seemed he had teased him too much. Rem turned away, his face turning serious. After that, Rem was rarely seen. He seemed busy.
The first day passed like this, and it was now the second night. It was when he was trying to sleep in the middle of the tent.
At some point, his body swayed.
Slosh.
It came with the sound of moving river water.