Chapter 501: Catalyst
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 501: Catalyst
Esther ran a hand through her black hair, the strands falling back into place like a silken ebony curtain.
Between those dark tresses, her full, pink lips parted, and a voice drifted out.
"A gift?"
Though he hadn't explicitly called it that, Encrid gave a vague nod.
Her demeanor remained casual, but Esther’s eyes shone with an exceptional brilliance, like stars fallen from the firmament. For some reason, he could sense a faint trace of excitement radiating from her.
Was she in a good mood? Sometimes people were just like that—waking up feeling exceptionally refreshed for no particular reason.
Encrid had already unpacked his bag and laid out the contents. He had acquired a mountain of spoils from killing the Apostle. There were holy relics, of course, but other artifacts as well. He knew instinctively that they were magical items.
He hadn't even opened several of the drawstring pouches yet.
"It's either poison or something similar."
This was thanks to Hira's warning. He had originally planned to leave them behind in the West, but after hearing that a mage would appreciate them, he had packed them along.
Some were intact, but many were broken: a cracked pearl necklace, a ring split in half, a handkerchief embroidered with a woman weeping tears of blood, demonic beast fangs, and more.
Some of them were truly precious treasures. Esther recognized their value at a glance.
Though he hadn't been able to put up a proper fight, the Apostle Encrid had encountered in the West was a mage who, with proper preparation, could have easily rivaled Count Molsen. After all, the difference between a prepared mage and an unprepared one was night and day. It also hadn't helped the Apostle that Encrid had lunged at him without warning, cornering him instantly. Mages, by nature, tended to be slower at split-second situational judgment than swordsmen.
In any case, these were the possessions of an Apostle. He had been a madman and a necromancer who dedicated his life to turning untainted land into the Demonic Realm. To be called mad, or to appear mad, was often just another way of describing an incomprehensible genius. Though his specialty was tinkering with corpses, his genius matched his madness, bringing his insane ambitions to the very brink of realization.
Unfortunately for him—or perhaps as a stroke of bad luck finally catching up to him—he had run into Encrid and Rem.
Esther opened one of the pouches with her slender, pale fingers and began neatly organizing the items Encrid had laid out on the floor.
"Not bad."
Her eyes were already calculating the value of the artifacts. Mages were people dedicated to research and inquiry; no one in their right mind would dislike items that could aid their spells and studies.
But where on earth had he been, and what had he done to obtain such rare treasures? From a broken talisman that could ward off curses to amulets imbued with Western-style sorcery, it looked as if he had decapitated a high-level mage and plundered their belongings.
In fact, that was undoubtedly exactly what had happened.
"The method for dealing with mages... it was useful," Encrid spoke calmly.
Hearing him speak so casually made it certain.
"I see."
Esther finished packing the items and returned to her seat. She seemed to be doing nothing, but she was busy—so busy that she wouldn't be able to spare a moment for anything else for a while.
In Encrid's absence, she had discovered that a portion of the curse she had received in the past had permanently eroded her spell world. Even if you patch a broken doll with needle and thread, the scars remain. The erosion was precisely that kind of scar.
To a mage, their spell world had to be absolutely flawless. If the caster felt that the world they had constructed was flawed, it was like playing chess without your knights and bishops. As time passed, the eroded portion would only worsen rather than heal.
Esther had to choose between two paths.
The first was to somehow repair her eroded world. It would take a long time, but it wasn't impossible. However, as in the chess analogy, it would be like a swordsman fighting with a missing arm and leg. If she made a mistake and drew power from the eroded section, it would mean self-destruction. At best, she would die a clean death; at worst, she would become a monster, neither dead nor alive.
So, what should she do?
The first method was to live by carefully regulating and utilizing her spells—the easy path.
The second path was the difficult one.
‘Rebuilding the spell world from scratch.’
Not patching the torn parts of the doll, but dismantling it entirely to create a new one. It was something an ordinary mage wouldn't even dare to dream of, but Esther could see a way.
And for that, she needed artifacts. She needed items imbued with the unique spells of other mages—precisely the kind of things Encrid had brought back in abundance.
"Enki."
Esther called out to him from where she sat. When Encrid looked back, the black-haired beauty finished her thought.
"Welcome back."
Bringing back the items was impressive, but her joy at his return came first. Seeing him made one of the two paths crystal clear. A sense of certainty washed over her, as if the god of magic itself had handed down a revelation.
Esther herself didn't fully understand it, but looking at the returned Encrid, she knew. She had been waiting for this man.
‘Instead of wasting time worrying, take even a single step forward.’
Was walking a harder, more difficult path really a problem? That man always spoke through his actions and his life. Even now, his presence said it all: If it's the path you believe is right, what does it matter if it's difficult?
Esther allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. Seeing that smile, Encrid tilted his head slightly. Were the things he brought back really that expensive? He had heard mages would like them, but were they truly that precious?
Esther's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She closed her eyes, setting off on the new path to reconstruct her world. It was a journey no one, including Encrid, could possibly comprehend.
Night deepened. Sinar had received her gift and returned home, and Esther remained still with her eyes closed. As Encrid settled down to sleep, Rem, who had just finished washing his hair, sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
"Looks like those bastards ran away."
"...Go to sleep."
Rem grunted twice more before falling into a deep slumber. Encrid closed his eyes as well, and sleep claimed him instantly—a deep, dreamless rest.
*
"Your greatest strength is likely your adaptability."
These were the words Luagarne spoke at dawn while he was practicing the Isolation Technique.
The rain had stopped, and the temperature had dropped, filling the morning with a crisp, fresh air. It was a perfect morning for training. Not that Encrid was the type to skip training just because of the weather. He didn't do this just because he felt comfortable returning to his home city.
‘He sleeps well, eats well, and runs well anywhere.’
This was one of the things Luagarne had observed about Encrid. It had been the same on his way to the West, while he was there, and even now in Thousand Bricks—which had recently changed its name to Ohara.
Encrid simply nodded and went back to his routine. He was in the middle of a deep squat, finding his center with his legs spread wide before rising back up. Resting on his shoulders was a stone pillar handcrafted by Audin. A stone so thick that a single hand couldn't even wrap around it could hardly be called a mere bar; it was a pillar, plain and simple.
Watching this, Luagarne counted adaptability and steadfastness as Encrid's greatest strengths. Just watching him was fascinating. Though she had taught countless people, she had never found it as delightful as she did now.
Luagarne knew all too well what complete idiots the so-called "talented" ones could be. The world was full of bastards who swung a sword a few times, declared swordsmanship easy, and spent their days drinking. She wanted to show Encrid to those who swaggered around relying solely on their natural gifts.
‘Look at him.’
Even if the sky split in two tomorrow, he would move exactly the same way. His unwavering mindset stood out above all else. Even with a stone pillar on his shoulders and sweat dripping down, his eyes were never consumed by agony. Even without words, it was palpable: he was always yearning, always hungering.
Luagarne brought up the topic of tactics. She wanted to teach him how to fight properly, going beyond his physical gifts. Tactics was the art of combat. While there were times one had to rely on instinct, the advantage naturally went to the one who thought and prepared.
"It is good to know exactly what you want before a fight begins. Why do you think that is?" Luagarne asked.
"So that instead of blindly rushing into the fray, one can calculate how to achieve their objective."
His answer was swift. He was constantly pondering these things.
"Only half correct. The other half is to avoid becoming intoxicated by the sword."
There was a common saying about becoming drunk on the blade. A person who found joy in killing was nothing but a murderer. Yet, surprisingly, talented martial artists often became exactly that.
If I thrust like this, they just collapse and die? What if I sever the neck? Next time, should I try cutting off a leg?
As one's skills improved, it was only natural to find a dark amusement in it. To Luagarne, Encrid looked more poised for that dangerous moment now than ever before, as everyone's growth spurt happened at different times. She viewed the present as Encrid's golden age. It was a word of concern she offered, even though she knew deep down he would never lose himself to the blade.
"I understand," Encrid replied readily.
Because he had a dream and a purpose, he would never succumb to such folly. She knew it, and Encrid knew it, yet he still nodded. He understood why Luagarne had said it.
‘What an endearing fellow.’
With a personality like that, who could possibly dislike him? Luagarne felt she finally understood why the atmosphere of the barracks had become this way. Every single soldier spared no time when it came to training, never hesitating to push forward under his influence. No ordinary barracks, no order of knights, ever became like this. Some would ruin themselves by competing and dragging each other down; others would die on the battlefield, having relied solely on their talent.
But that was impossible here. Among the soldiers, there were those who knew exactly how Encrid had reached his current height. And even if they didn't, they knew he was a man who, despite his formidable strength and status as a general, greeted the morning earlier than anyone else.
A new recruit who had been thoroughly beaten yesterday was watching this now. His name was Marco, though neither Luagarne nor Encrid knew it yet. He had been about to head back after finishing his final guard duty shift in front of the general's barracks, but sensing signs of life, he had stepped inside and witnessed this.
Marco's pupils trembled.
‘He just got back yesterday, didn't he?’
Doesn't doing that just pile up fatigue? Isn't it highly inefficient?
True. But for some, this was the only way. And Encrid was so accustomed to this routine that resting was actually poison to him. Only by moving did his fatigue dissipate. That was precisely one of the effects of the Isolation Technique.
As Marco stared blankly, completely captivated—
"Brother, you need to squat deeper."
He had been staring at the general without realizing it. Startled by the voice behind him, Marco whipped around. Standing there was a giant whose face could only be seen by tilting one's neck all the way back. No, not a giant—a human. But how had he not noticed him approaching so closely?
Audin smiled as he passed the soldier, and the general, still carrying the stone pillar, acknowledged him.
"Audin."
"Have you made any progress with the Striking Method?"
"Give me a hit and see," Encrid said as he set the pillar down. A sense of warmth and welcome could be felt in his gestures.
Behind Audin was Teresa, a true half-giant. She, too, brushed past Marco. Neither of them said a word to him.
Marco looked back at Encrid.
Thud!
His eyes widened in shock once more. The man named Audin had just slammed his fist into the general's flank. There was no warning, no prior agreement. He had simply struck him.
What are they doing? Why did he suddenly hit him?
"Oho," Audin admired his own work after striking without warning.
"How is it?" The general smiled despite the blow.
Are they all fucking crazy? Or do you have to be crazy to fight like that? Did the training instructor, Ropode, say yesterday that I could become like that if I worked hard? What a load of bullshit.
Marco realized his own talent was utterly insignificant. But if he had no talent, was this the end? Should he just quit and go back to beating up people weaker than him? He didn't want to do that. And so, Marco took a step forward. A surge of courage he didn't know he possessed welled up inside him.
"Why are you hitting him?" Marco asked.
No one had told him to leave, and they had let him watch. That meant silent permission, right? Even if it hadn't, he would have asked anyway. Marco grew desperate. He wanted to know. Why get hit? Why hit? Why smile? Just because they were crazy?
"That is training."
Marco flinched violently once more. He was so startled he almost jumped out of his skin. Where the hell did this guy come from?
Standing right beside him was an uncommonly handsome man with reddish-brown hair. His expression brought to mind a cold, hard block of ice. Without even glancing at Marco, he walked forward.
"Something has changed about you."
His name was Sachsen.
"If you want to test it, anytime."
The general reached his hand out to the side. At that, Frok placed a sword into his palm. It was a live blade with a razor-sharp edge. Though he didn't know it was a sword bestowed by the royal family named Aker, Marco could tell at a glance that it was a masterpiece. To a wandering swordsman, an excellent weapon was directly linked to survival. Naturally, his eye for blades was sharp.
The moment the general took his stance—
The reddish-brown-haired man vanished. Quite literally, in an instant. Marco blinked.
What?
He was clearly watching, yet the man had disappeared like a puff of smoke.
And then—
Thud.
A grey-haired beast appeared, kicking the spot where the man had just been standing. Marco couldn't see the entire movement; it was merely a picture his mind pieced together from the extended leg, the gouged earth, and the flying dirt.
The beast grinned from ear to ear. His voice dripped with sheer ecstasy.
"You're here! Stray cat!"
"Did you not leave that thing behind?"
Sachsen had appeared beside the general before anyone realized it. He held daggers in both hands.
An axe and two daggers. The beast and the ghost stared at each other. The grey-haired one wore a smirk; the reddish-brown-haired one remained expressionless. It was a silent exchange, but Marco felt as if he were standing in the eye of a hurricane.
"Keep it within limits," Encrid spoke from between them, and using that as a signal, the two clashed.
Clang! Clash!
An exchange of blows too fast for Marco's eyes to register took place. They swapped positions in a heartbeat.
"Mess with me again, and I'll skin you alive before you die," the grey-haired one, Rem, said with a laugh. He was now standing where Sachsen had been a moment ago.
Sachsen stared blankly at the blade of his dagger. Only half of it remained. The blade had shattered in a single clash. The weapon was one thing, but the level of skill was on an entirely different plane now. The broken piece of the blade was embedded deep in the ground.
"Did you awaken after taking a few hits?" Sachsen asked.
"Fuck yeah, I did. Blocked a few hits and awakened," Rem replied, his grin widening.
After clashing steel, it was time for a war of words. The two exchanged a few more biting remarks before Encrid stepped in.
"My turn."
It was a strange thing to say for someone trying to break up a fight.
Marco saw many things that day and gained a profound realization.
‘The place I was in was just a shallow well.’
If he wanted to escape that well, what must he do? He would have to crawl his way out, inch by agonizing inch.
Luagarne watched as Marco turned around. Though she didn't know his exact thoughts, she could tell from his stride and posture that he had made a firm resolve.
‘And that makes another.’
This was the magic Encrid worked. Looking at him, one could never remain complacent. He made you feel as though you had to keep moving forward. In that way, he made people surpass their limits.
‘What does it take to surpass one's limits?’
One must commit to training with all their heart and soul. And the thing most needed for that was a catalyst.
Encrid was everyone's catalyst. Whether he knew it himself or not.