What Does Alcohol Have to Do with Aura?
The grand hall where the knighting ceremony had been held was now lined with wide, round tables. Each was draped in white cloth and set with matching white plates bearing a riot of colorful dishes. Salads, tomato pasta, whole roasted duck, and even wine jelly crafted by filling a slime’s core with vintage. Naturally, the first thing Rood did was tear off a leg of the roasted duck and sink his teeth into it.
It’s good.
Since arriving at the Voenac estate, Rood had tasted many things, yet every time it was the meat that moved him. On the battlefield, “meat” had meant shriveled jerky. The finest he had ever eaten was the steak served in the prisoner-of-war camp after his death sentence. Having lived in such harsh conditions, the moist, tender flesh still sent a strange thrill through him with every bite.
“Lord Rood, would you care to share a drink with me?”
He had just finished stripping the leg clean and was reaching for the greens with a pair of tongs when Moneck shook a bottle in front of him.
“It has been quite a while since two knights shared a cup, has it not? Hehe.”
“As you know, I cannot use Aura. I am only half a knight at best.”
“Half a knight is still a knight. When it comes to pure understanding of the sword, are you not clearly my superior, Lord Rood?”
Rood’s eyebrows twitched. He suspected the older knight’s words were a deliberate provocation; after all, Moneck had overwhelmed him with pure swordsmanship countless times without ever resorting to Aura.
“Are you mocking me?”
“I had no such intention. I merely stated a fact.”
“We have already crossed blades hundreds of times. Have you never learned that excessive humility is itself a form of arrogance and contempt for your opponent?”
Moneck said nothing. He simply uncorked a bottle of wine and filled Rood’s glass. The rich glug of pouring liquid was punctuated by his quiet voice.
“I apologize for causing any misunderstanding.”
He filled his own glass to the brim as well.
“What I meant was that, although I may be more accustomed to the blade at present, your ability to comprehend the sword is greater than mine.”
Rood let out a low groan. “How could anyone possibly know a thing like that?”
Moneck simply smiled, raised his glass in silence, and drained it in one smooth motion. Only then did he speak again.
“After awakening my Aura, I realized something interesting. The sensation of that awakening. Do you know what it resembles?”
The sensation of Aura awakening. Rood’s eyes sharpened. The secret manual he had been studying also described the signs and feelings that accompanied an awakening, yet every passage was veiled in cryptic metaphors and vague allusions. The text had read:
A single awakening of Aura resolves disputes faster than any judge. Therefore, only those who can wield Aura may discern the optimal choice. It is difficult to expect rational judgment from those who cannot. The power of Aura, the taste of Aura, the splendor of Aura. Pour the immortal life into your own blood. If one lists them in the order they are hardest to suppress, they are poetry, women, and Aura. Thus we must remember the sensation. It is like inhaling honey through the nose while a sharp, burning heat spreads through every limb…
Rood asked quickly, “What is it?”
“It feels exactly like becoming drunk on wine.”
Rood stared down at the full glass in his hand.
“…Wine?”
“I have spoken with several other Aura users. After hearing my description they all laughed and said the comparison was remarkably apt.”
“Sir Moneck, one day you may mistake the greatest drunkard in the world for the greatest swordsman.”
Moneck burst into hearty laughter. “Hehe! That may well be true.”
Yet on the final words his smile faded. Seeing the knight’s sudden seriousness, Rood’s own interest was piqued.
What in the world does alcohol have to do with Aura?
If wielding Aura was like intoxication, then drinking might actually aid him on his path. Yet Rood had never once lost control of his body to wine. He had always been a heavy drinker, and he had always lived with iron restraint.
He clicked his tongue, raised the full glass, and emptied it. Despite its deep, rich bouquet the wine slid down clean and light, never cloying. Moneck refilled the glass without a word. Rood drank again in silence.
One glass. Two. One bottle. Three.
The two men sat facing each other, steadily drinking themselves into a stupor.
“Not yet. Aura is far more chaotic than this.”
“I can still… drink more…”
As Rood’s tongue began to slur, Moneck’s lips curved into a faint smile.
“Of course you must. You did not accept the position of escort knight thinking you could not even manage this much, did you?”
“Ugh. One more.”
By now half the servants and soldiers enjoying the party had turned to watch them. From a short distance away Isabelle observed the scene with quiet satisfaction. Pete pressed a hand to his forehead and shook his head.
“My lady. Should you not stop them soon?”
“Oh come now. Is this not all part of a joyful moment? Besides, this sight… it feels like…”
Isabelle did not finish the thought. Instead she poured a small measure of wine into her own glass, swirled it gently, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled. The pleasant aroma drew an involuntary smile from her lips.
The lively clamor that had returned to the hall for the first time in ages pleased her more than anything else. With so little time left in her limited life, Isabelle wished her own days could become a festival where she might laugh without restraint, no matter how reckless. And because she did not want to forget even a single ordinary day like this, she drank in the moment without complaint, savoring it sip by sip.
“All right. Let us stand.”
At Moneck’s urging Rood rose unsteadily. When the knight glanced toward the musicians and gave a nod, a cheerful melody soon filled the hall.
“Lord Rood, a duel!”
Tap-tap-tap-tap. Moneck struck the floor with crisp, lively steps, dancing in perfect time with the music. The precise rhythm and the unique sound of his shoes—difficult for anyone else to imitate—shifted fluidly with the beat.
Rood watched the footwork through hazy eyes. Then he began to echo it with his own shoes.
When their steps fell into perfect harmony, Rood deliberately introduced a variation.
Tap-ta-ta-ta-tap-tap!
He gave a small nod.
So this is it?
Moneck maintained a casual expression, as though simply enjoying his dance, yet his eyes met Rood’s with clear intent.
This is the only hint I can give you, Lord Rood.
Having seen the steps once, Rood could replicate them perfectly. They were flawless, with nothing to add or remove; the more accurately he followed, the more acutely he felt the gap between them.
Is it truly only my own inadequacy that makes it so difficult to match ideal footwork?
All his life Rood had swung his sword while thinking only of his shortcomings. He had never fully trusted the ancient saying that all things are one, yet on the path of martial pursuit he had believed it fitting.
No matter how many times he swung—ten thousand times, a hundred thousand—the more he practiced, the further the principle of the sword seemed to slip away. He had never once found that strange. Could he really claim the gap came only from the difference between sharpened insight and actual skill?
No.
Rood realized that merely tasting his own inadequacy was not the path.
Like being drunk. Move like the greatest drinker in the world.
People say a drunkard’s movements are impossible to predict. They think so only because they see a body reeling beyond even the drunkard’s own control. But how does the drunkard actually step forward? In a world where mind and matter blur together, he simply takes the step that feels most natural to himself, most true to who he is.
Seeking one’s own nature. That is the moment one grows farthest from the world.
Even if it is hard to predict, hard to understand.
Even if it contradicts every widely accepted principle.
Rood danced with abandon. Forgetting speech, thought, strength, even action itself, he sought only the steps that belonged to him.
Those who cannot hear the music simply think the dancers have gone mad.
Every eye in the hall snapped toward Rood’s whirling figure.
“Th-that—!”
“Lady Isabelle, beware!”
Isabelle shot to her feet in alarm. Pete stepped protectively in front of her, glaring at Rood. A dense green energy coiled thickly around the bodyguard.
“I told you,” Moneck said with a satisfied smile, releasing his own Aura.
Blue and green clashed at the center of the hall and canceled each other out.
“Your comprehension is indeed superior.”
The Aura surging from Rood vanished in an instant. In that moment he understood: he possessed the power to wield Aura after all.
Then his vision flooded with darkness.
Just how many times have I fainted now?
Rood collapsed where he stood, unconscious.
The moon filled the sky in its perfect, unaltered form. Clouds drifted across the deep night, avoiding its light, while the summer air wrapped the two figures in a pleasant coolness. From a quiet corner of the terrace came the faint clink of dishware. Two people steeped in wine gazed at each other.
“You… What do you think of me?”
The one who had been frozen in the form of a girl gripped the man’s collar as she asked.
The man remained silent for a long time. At last he opened his heavy lips.
“I…”