The Jenahe Magic Corps Departs
The Jenahe Tower, also known as the Jenahe Magic Soldier Corps of black mages, held an early morning send-off ceremony.
The Jenahe Magic Soldier Corps, assembled at the city gates, silently listened to Haellagos encouraging them from the platform above. It was the heavy silence of those prepared for death.
Jeron, the tower master and corps commander, swore victory to his liege, and Haellagos nodded. That was the end of the ceremony.
Leaving only a small number of black mages to defend the city, the Jenahe Magic Soldier Corps departed for the front lines.
And there was someone watching their procession from afar.
The Spire Tower at the city's center. Yoahim watched the Jenahe Magic Soldier Corps pass through the gates from the fifth-floor window.
I hope nothing dangerous happens to them.
Jeron, the tower master and magic soldier corps commander, was Yoahim's teacher. The two months they'd spent together weren't short or insignificant. On top of that, Jeron had been such an enthusiastic mentor that he'd even procured precious magic stones for his disciple.
Having received so much help from him, Yoahim knew he had to repay the favor someday. He prayed that Jeron would return safely.
I wonder...
After the Jenahe Magic Soldier Corps left the city and the gates closed, Yoahim turned his gaze from the window to his finger.
A shallow cut had formed, with a bead of blood welling up. Yoahim quietly watched the blood droplet form and trickle down his finger.
I just don't get it.
Yoahim used a short knife to widen the wound. Along with a stinging pain, blood began flowing steadily from the freshly opened gash.
It wasn't like he'd suddenly developed a hobby for self-harm.
Yoahim was thinking about the homework Jeron had assigned him yesterday.
How the hell do you turn blood into flames?
The assignment was to ignite flames using blood. Even those who knew black magic would find it mind-boggling to witness, and anyone hearing about it conceptually would call it absurd.
But Yoahim, who had personally experienced igniting flames with blood and casting magic that way, knew he had to complete this homework no matter what.
Thanks to that, he'd been tormenting his poor finger and wasting blood from morning until now.
Of course, like not getting full on the first bite, it wasn't going to work right away.
And now he didn't even have a teacher to ask.
He spouted some weird nonsense yesterday too.
Yoahim had asked Jeron yesterday about the knack to using blood magic.
But instead of properly teaching him, Jeron had given an utterly ridiculous answer.
'You already know the method, my lord. Recall it—what have you learned so far?'
What bullshit is that? Know what? I don't know jack.
Grumbling to himself, Yoahim tried recalling what he'd learned.
Memorize, practice, memorize, practice, memorize, practice... That was all he'd done so far: rote memorization of grimoires and endless repetitive drills.
Thanks to that, the variety of spells he could cast had increased dramatically, but it had nothing to do with blood magic.
Haah...
Yoahim let out a sigh as he watched the blood droplets fall.
Should I ask Haellagos?
Haellagos was a black mage beyond even Jeron. There was no way he wasn't proficient in blood magic.
But he's probably busy.
As the war dragged on and the enemy's resistance intensified, Haellagos's responsibilities had grown.
The Grand Duke of the Withered Land, stationed in the safest rear lines, was paradoxically the busiest man around. It was amusing to see a great demon buried in paperwork, but it was thanks to his efforts that they could overwhelm Alzahar's forces.
Yoahim knew it would be shameless to burden the already swamped Haellagos with guidance on blood magic.
Stuck struggling alone isn't getting me anywhere...
No method on his own, and no one to ask. Yoahim let out a frustrated groan and scratched his head vigorously.
Screw it, I don't know. Time to sweat it out.
When his mind was tangled, tormenting his body was the best solution. Yoahim threw on an outer garment and headed to the training grounds.
Leon and Sasha were already training under Kelcia since early morning.
Stronger subordinates were a commander's joy. Yoahim smiled warmly at Leon and Sasha, their faces twisted in agony from the grueling session.
"Ah, my lord!"
During a brief rest before the next drill, Leon and Sasha lay sprawled on the ground. Kelcia spotted Yoahim entering the training grounds and greeted him cheerfully.
"M-my lord..."
"You're here, my lord..."
At the sound of "my lord," Leon and Sasha laboriously hauled themselves up to bow.
Yoahim waved it off as he removed his outer garment.
"No need for greetings. Rest up. Rest when you can, or you'll regret it later."
"Haa..."
"Hoo..."
At the mention of more training, Leon and Sasha collapsed like deflated sacks.
Yoahim strapped sandbags to his wrists and ankles as usual and said,
"Kelcia, it's busier than usual today, huh?"
The training grounds were for drills. Naturally, new recruits trained here, and knights came for spars or sword practice.
But sessions usually followed a schedule, so it was typically empty at this hour.
Today, though, there were unusually many knights. Kelcia spoke up.
"Ah, Terriot is here at the training grounds right now."
"Terriot?"
A name he'd never heard before. And since Kelcia attached "sir" to it, he was clearly her senior.
"Who's that?"
"Ah, you've never met him, my lord. Terriot is a trainer. He's retired now, but I heard some knights begged him to impart his teachings, so he came."
Yoahim pursed his lips and whistled softly.
As one could tell from Kelcia, not just anyone could be a trainer. They needed exceptional skill and a talent for teaching.
But even the best trainers ranked below knights. No knight ever sought lessons from Kelcia, after all.
Yet knights are begging a retired trainer for instruction...
Yoahim felt a surge of interest.
Since defeating Haellagos's knight, he'd trained alone without a master. He was beyond familiar—expert—at honing his body, so no issues there, but the lack of sparring partners made it boring.
If he was skilled enough for knights to seek him out, maybe there was something Yoahim could learn too? Or at least a good spar?
"I'll be right back."
Yoahim tossed off the sandbags from his wrists and ankles and headed toward the cluster of knights.
Through the knights standing in a circular wall, he saw an elderly figure.
His hair was white, his face deeply wrinkled, and his long ears shriveled. For a dark elf with slow aging, that meant he was over two hundred years old.
But he didn't seem frail. His face might be aged, but his body was as robust as any young knight's.
Thorough self-maintenance even at his age.
Yoahim chuckled and said,
"You must be Terriot."
The knights whipped around at the voice behind them, then startled back in surprise.
Yoahim gave them a light nod and turned back to Terriot.
Lv. 84. Objectively, not insanely strong. At least on paper.
He's weakened with age. Must've been much stronger in his prime.
Levels didn't just rise; they could fall too. Even the mightiest weakened with age or injury, dropping levels accordingly.
But levels weren't everything. Kelcia proved that.
And Terriot was surely stronger than his level suggested.
Form was temporary; class was eternal, as they said. No matter how age weakened the flesh, accumulated experience over long years never vanished.
Veterancy was a weapon surpassing brute strength.
Worth sparring.
This man would provide a satisfying bout. Something to learn from it, too.
"Kelcia mentioned you're a trainer of great renown. Mind if I ask for a lesson too?"
Terriot looked straight up at Yoahim. His gaze was sharp and crooked.
"You're the Apostle, huh?"
"...What?"
"I said, are you the Apostle? Did the young punk go deaf in those ears too?"
No one had spoken to Yoahim so casually except Haellagos and his adjutants.
But a veteran like Terriot had every right. Differences in experience and age allowed it.
"Yeah, I'm Apostle Yoahim. Terriot, how about a light spar?"
"Young punks these days are such a hassle. Dragging out a retired old man to teach swordplay, now challenging me to a duel."
He grumbled, but Terriot didn't refuse Yoahim's spar request. He jerked his chin at one knight, ordering him to fetch practice swords.
The knight hurried to the shed and returned with two wooden bokken.
Terriot took one and swung it lightly. Even that simple motion hinted at his skill.
"Truth be told, I've been curious. Everyone's been buzzing about this Apostle, so I wondered what kinda guy you are."
Yoahim and Terriot spaced themselves appropriately and faced off.
Terriot aimed his bokken at Yoahim's body and said,
"Looks like you've trained some. But just upper body? Your legs are pathetic. Swordsmanship relies more on thigh power than you think. Tsk tsk. Grip's decent at least—basics are there. But for someone hyped as the Apostle, it's kinda disappointing. You really the real deal?"
Pointing out flaws was helpful, but the tone grated.
Yoahim twitched his facial muscles and took a deep breath.
Yeah, he's older, more experienced—gotta endure whatever he says...
"Hup!"
Whoosh!
With the sound of slicing air, a sword suddenly thrust forward. Yoahim reflexively backstepped, and Terriot pressed relentlessly without missing a beat.
"Y-you, sneaky—!"
"Sneaky my ass. You gonna bow and greet on the battlefield too?"
Fair point, but this was a spar, not a deathmatch.
Yoahim bit his lip and swung his sword. He parried Terriot's bokken, dodged an attack, then countered at the opening.
The motions flowed naturally like water, but Terriot blocked effortlessly, as if expecting it.
Though all attacks were repelled, Yoahim smirked faintly.
He hadn't gone all out, but blocking this level casually confirmed Terriot's strength.
Yoahim tracked Terriot's movements with his eyes: horizontal slashes, diagonal cuts, cross-guard blocks, entangling blades then releasing for reactive counters.
The veteran's seasoned techniques were a living swordsmanship manual to Yoahim.
He clashed swords moderately while focusing on mimicking the moves.
"Hoh..."
Terriot wasn't oblivious. He grinned at the cheeky Apostle.
"Stealing moves right in front of me? Cocky bastard."
Clack!
The bokken collided. Yoahim planned a brief test of strength, then push back and reset.
But plans fell through.
"Huh?"
Scrape.
A dull sound, and the upper half of his bokken clattered to the ground.
Yoahim gaped at his halved wooden sword.
"What's wrong?"
His gaze followed the voice. Terriot was chuckling.
But Yoahim wasn't looking at his face.
The blade—glowing green.
A blunt bokken, yet it emanated lethal intent like a honed master sword.
Yoahim knew what to call it.
Sword ki.
"Jealous? Use it yourself. What, you don't know how?"
More chuckling.
Yoahim twitched his face muscles, thinking,
What the hell? Has this damn geezer lost his mind?