Chapter 488: Spoils, Bracelets, Gifts, and Food
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 488: Spoils, Bracelets, Gifts, and Food
Whether the Eldest Shaman woke up or not, Encrid went about his business.
His "business" began with the Isolation Technique—a process of tightening his muscles and oiling his skin—followed by having Luagarne pummel him with a blunt club.
Thud!
Even though she struck with moderate force, the impact knocked the wind out of him. But this was exactly what he needed.
It had to hurt. If it didn't hurt, he wouldn't grow tougher.
Having been beaten so many times, it felt as though his Will of Rejection was beginning to trigger automatically at the point of impact. He wasn't entirely sure yet; he would only know for certain after consistent, repeated practice.
As he was in the middle of this striking method training, the twins approached him.
"Do you actually enjoy being a punching bag?" they asked.
"I'm training to strike with my ribs," Encrid replied half-jokingly, causing the twins to furrow their brows in unison.
Is that really a helpful training method? It was a fair question.
"If anyone else tries to copy him, they'll ruin their body," Luagarne gently advised them.
"Then how did you do it, Honored Hero?"
This time, it was another Western warrior who spoke. He was a man with three deep scars running from his forehead, past his left eye, and down to his cheek. He had supposedly been tricked and mauled by a Cavicat when he was a child. Since then, his name had become Three Claws.
"I started with something soft, like a cotton ball, then gradually moved on to harder things," Encrid replied, straightening his back.
There was no secret to it. When Audin taught him, he hadn't called it some secret technique or anything of the sort. Honestly, it couldn't possibly be one.
He had said "cotton ball," but it wasn't actually cotton. You couldn't exactly call Audin's fists "soft," even when he was striking with moderate force.
Thinking back on it now, it was an incredibly primitive way to train. If he were told to do it again? He would, given what he had gained from it. But if asked if he wanted to do it? Even Encrid would hesitate. It was that kind of training. It hurt like hell, and there was no telling what the payoff would be at the start. He had only done it because Audin egged him on. Once he felt its effectiveness later, it was fine, but still.
"Still, it looks painful."
After some idle chatter, the twins brought up something more personal. Geomnarae was their father, and they were talking about how Encrid had saved him.
"Thank you so much."
For two men who looked like they could wrestle a bull to death with their bare hands, they seemed remarkably simple and earnest. Though Encrid didn't realize it, the twins had every reason to be profoundly grateful. In fact, all the Westerners felt the same way.
If Rem hadn't returned, if Encrid hadn't been there, if Frok and the beastmen hadn't come along...
Under that worst-case scenario, Geomnarae would have burned his own life force to cast his sorcery. He would have fought like a hero for a brief moment, only to quickly wither away and die like a mummy. Such was the price of defying the natural order. Some even said that dying that way brought such excruciating pain that the karma would follow one into the next life.
So they were grateful that Encrid hadn't let their father meet such a fate, and they were grateful that he had saved the West.
"Right."
Encrid brushed it off as usual. He didn't have much to say. What was he supposed to say? Now that I've saved your lives, pay me back? He hadn't done it expecting anything in return. Besides, Encrid himself had been the first to receive help.
After finishing his morning session of the Isolation Technique, he trained his swordsmanship, spent time with Luagarne, and occasionally sparred with Dunchabel. He had also sparred with Geomnarae in the meantime. The man's skills were decent; he fought with an axe in one hand and a spear in the other, wielding both with high proficiency.
"Who do you think taught Rem?"
"He told me he was self-taught."
"That little bastard."
"I can certainly agree with that."
They had paused their sparring to bond over a shared grievance. Cursing Rem was always a pleasant pastime. Geomnarae was fundamentally a cheerful man, as most Westerners tended to be.
The battle was over, and Encrid had seen everyone bow their heads to the ground, calling him an Honored Hero. Many, including the twins, had expressed their gratitude. There were even a few women who said they would marry him if he just gave the word.
Luagarne shook her head at them. "Don't even bother."
Once she told them that he had a black-haired beauty and an elf waiting for him back home, they all gave up. Jiba still showed an indomitable will, but it didn't mean much.
Rem had been nowhere to be seen ever since word got out that the Eldest Shaman had awakened. Having nothing better to do, Encrid focused on his training, which naturally drew a crowd of Westerners. Since they all trained their bodies in their own ways, they watched him and even joined in for some sparring.
"Hiya!"
"Take this!"
"Hup!"
Among them, some children were playing at fighting with wooden sticks. Beside them, a group of girls gathered to play a quiet game of house.
"Husband, where have you been all this time?"
One girl chopped a grey-haired boy on the back with the edge of her hand. Encrid wondered if that could really be called playing house, but the roleplay fit. It seemed to be the story of Rem and Ayul. It would likely remain a legend passed down through oral tradition—the legend of a husband who ran away in the dead of night, returned home, survived, and went right back to being lovey-dovey with his wife.
Not a bad title.
He thought it might make for a decent story. If his dream had been to become a bard, he would have fulfilled his calling as a storyteller, but since it wasn't, Encrid simply swung his sword.
Then, he paused. A stray thought had crossed his mind. Resting the tip of Aker on the ground, Encrid let his mind wander, following the fragments of his thoughts.
What was that voice back then?
It had happened during his fight with the Apostle.
"Trying to slash an opponent in astral form? You're pretty ignorant."
He had heard those words clearly. On the battlefield, hearing voices or seeing illusions was common. In the heat of a desperate struggle, he had once seen a comrade scream for his mother, charge out, and get skewered by an enemy spear. Fear and terror could conjure illusions and push a man over the edge. Dunchabel had shown a similar state when they fought in the Gray Forest of the Demon Realm. Overwhelmed by fear, she had bolted.
So, was that voice just another hallucination?
No.
Encrid had never seen illusions or heard voices. His mind had never broken or fallen into disarray. The sturdy wall of his mind, built upon his Will, had never crumbled. Therefore, unless it was a spell, he would never be deceived by illusions.
Then what was that voice? He didn't know. It hadn't spoken to him again since.
So what should he do? Ignore it. That was his decision.
Instead, he turned his thoughts to the items he had gathered after the battle—the things the Apostle had planted in the ground and the items recovered from his corpse. Among them was a peculiar object: a silver cup. The exterior was embossed with the shape of tree roots, crafted so exquisitely that it felt as though a tree ought to be growing right out of the metal.
But there was no tree; instead, the inside of the cup was stained a deep purple. It was the exact color of giant's blood.
"It smells awful."
Just as Dunchabel had remarked beside him, it gave off a musty odor. It was an unpleasant scent, yet somehow, it lingered in the mind, drawing one back.
"Can I smell it one more time?" Dunchabel had asked that several times.
Seeing her doze off and space out all day, only to suddenly ask to smell the cup, made it obvious that either Dunchabel, the Tree Root Embossed Silver Cup, or both were highly unusual.
"Have you lost your mind?"
Encrid reasoned with her gently—using his hands and feet to drive the point home. He kicked her shin with his left foot while slapping her forehead with his right palm. It was a variation of the Valen-style Mercenary Sword, extending both limbs simultaneously.
Dunchabel managed to dodge the foot but couldn't avoid the hand. She took the slap to the forehead and backed away with a groan. Even she must have realized she was acting strange.
"That thing is weird. I keep thinking about the smell, like I have to sniff it again. I even felt like stealing it and running away."
"Endure it."
"Uh, okay."
Encrid persuaded Dunchabel by refusing to use any tool other than his trusty fists, and she was convinced far more easily than expected.
The Tree Root Embossed Silver Cup had come from the Apostle's person. Though it belonged to a cultist, its exterior possessed a strange sense of nobility. In other words, there was no way in hell it was an item from the Demon Realm.
"It'd be best to find a proper priest to deal with it. It's not related to sorcery, so you should take it with you," Rem had said.
Naturally, it fell to Encrid to keep it. It wasn't that Dunchabel lacked self-control.
"Sometimes, there are objects that beguile people simply by existing. This appears to be one of them," even Luagarne agreed.
A corrupted holy relic, perhaps?
If he returned to the continent and handed it over to a temple, wouldn't they take care of it? Or perhaps he would need to find a truly noble priest. A noble priest... finding one would be exceptionally difficult. They were about as common as an honest thief, a good-natured bandit, or a king who put his people first.
But what about a priest who could use Divine Power? He could at least find one of those.
Audin might know someone.
The man did nothing but pray all day. Although he seemed to dodge and weave whenever a priest visited the city, he might still have some connections. It would be best to ask Audin later.
There were several other items that appeared to be magical tools, all of which he stuffed into his backpack. It felt like his luggage had grown heavier since he first set out, and that was no illusion. He had the items he received from the City of Oara and the spoils he had gathered after fighting in the West.
Could he even call them spoils? It felt more like he had only collected troublesome items that were difficult to dispose of. On top of that, he had the Carmen Collection piece with the transparent blade to deliver to Sachsen.
If I travel like this for another year, I might need a cart instead of a backpack.
This was no exaggeration.
"A long journey always requires good fortune."
Jiba's mother, along with several other women, presented him with a bracelet woven from leather, cloth, and hair. It was a bracelet to wish him luck, as well as a sorcerous tool to ward off insects. Such items only succeeded as sorcerous tools when woven with pure, well-wishing intentions, and this one had succeeded. Everyone involved in its making had prayed with one heart, elevating it into a true artifact.
Wishing luck to the stranger, the Honored Hero.
A colorful woven band now adorned Encrid's arm. It was generously sized, meant to be tied around his upper arm, just above the elbow.
He had also received a bizarre-looking dried fish. However it had been dried, its flesh was rock-hard. Its tail was crispy, and its eyes had been plucked from its head. It looked sturdy enough to be swung like a weapon. As he stared at it, wondering if it was meant to be a blunt instrument, the man who gave it to him spoke up.
"It's a dried fish caught from the great lake. Strange-looking, isn't it? If you do this, it becomes much easier to carry around."
As he spoke, he snapped off the head and tail, slipping them into a dry cloth pouch. Then, he pried the flesh open from both sides and deftly plucked out the dry bones with his fingers. Seeing the opened body after this simple preparation, Encrid could guess how it was made. The head, tail, and entrails had been removed, leaving only the flesh to dry. It didn't seem to be smoked.
Since the wind blows so fiercely here...
It was a method known as wind-drying. If they were by the sea, they would have salted it and let the sea breeze dry it, but the people here had developed their own method. Perhaps it was dried by the sandy winds? He didn't know the details, nor did he care to.
"You just tear it like this," the man demonstrated.
It was a type of dried ration, meant to be torn into strips and carried in a pouch.
"If you boil it in water, it makes a savory broth."
Despite being dried fish, it barely smelled. Even the faint scent it did have was far from fishy.
"Smells good, right? We sprinkle herb powder all over the outside. It'll make your mouth water."
The man wiped his nose as he spoke. Encrid just listened. Since it was offered, he tore off a piece and tried it. Chewing it revealed a unique flavor. It was the kind of food you had to soften with saliva as you ate. It was hard, but once he started chewing, it was manageable. He had eaten it boiled before, but this was his first time eating it raw.
The initial texture was strange. But the more he chewed, the softer it became, until it eventually dissolved smoothly. The more he chewed, the richer and more savory it tasted.
Apparently, it was a precious food that not just anyone could carry around. Dried fish meant for boiling in stews could be made rather crudely, but to carry it around like this required various treatments to prevent it from spoiling. A food that could be carried for a year or two without spoiling was certainly fascinating.
It was similar to the pemmican commonly eaten on the continent, but it was cleaner in taste and much easier to eat. Pemmican would start to smell foul after a while, and its taste was beyond awful. On the battlefield, the combination of sand-gritted black bread and pemmican was often said to be more threatening than the enemy army.
And aged pemmican? You'd only eat it if you were on the verge of starving to death, and even Encrid felt his tongue go numb just thinking about it. Of course, quietly choking it down when food was scarce was the proper attitude of a soldier.
"How is it? Haha."
The man who gave him the food smiled brightly. He explained that it was highly nutritious and portable, making it the staple food for hunters operating in this region. There was more lore and tradition behind the food, and it made for an interesting story. The man who gave it to him was quite a good storyteller, too.