He's Watching Us
The Santiago Knight Order wielded axes, hammers, and bows as their primary weapons. They'd left their usual swords back at the temple. Swords were great against humans, but they fell short against monsters. How could you fight a three- or four-meter beast with a toothpick that snapped at the slightest pressure? Longbows and spears were far superior.
"I'll cast a spell on them now. Everyone, apply the magic poison to your weapons."
The knights smeared the plant oil Mani had given them onto their weapons. As Mani chanted something in the Maronius Language, the oil transformed, taking on a potent toxicity. The knight order stared into the darkness, tense and alert. The forest was dim even in broad daylight. The manticore, hidden among the trees and shadows, was hard to pinpoint.
But they had two mages on their side.
"East! By the big rock! Next to the broken black oak!"
"...What's a black oak look like?"
"Study some botany, you ignorant brutes!"
They might not know black oaks, but they sure knew a snapped tree when they saw one. A knight with a bow nocked an arrow and loosed it into the gloom. Ian, who could pierce the darkness with his vision, watched the arrow's flight clearly.
"Hit it, but it bounced off!"
"!"
Animal hides are thick. An animal's body is layered: hide, fat, flesh, bone. And what we call "getting hurt" usually just scratches the hide. The wilder the beast, the thicker the hide—elephants, for instance, can have hides over thirty centimeters thick (which is why ordinary guns can't kill them). If real-world monsters like elephants could shrug off arrows, a true fantasy beast like a manticore barely registered it as a parlor trick.
Krrrr...
The manticore growled. The chilling sound sent shivers down their spines, like the sinister cackle of a mad old man.
Ian bellowed in the Maronius Language.
"Manticore!"
A tense silence stretched, like walking on thin ice. At last, the manticore responded to Ian's call.
"Oh ho. A human addressing me directly. How intriguing."
As Ian attempted to negotiate with the manticore, the knights caught their breath and reformed their lines. If Ian could persuade it, they might drive off the monster without casualties. The Elder even held a sliver of hope for that outcome.
"If this goes well, that'll be great."
But Mani knew it was impossible.
"Ian will fail."
"Why's that?"
Mani chuckled darkly. She planned to prepare a new spell while Ian bought time.
"He's too nice and polite."
"...? And that's a reason to fail?"
"You wouldn't get it—you're not a mage."
Just because you speak the same language doesn't mean you'll understand each other. It's common sense, a universal truth. Even in Korea, plenty of Koreans speak Korean but can't communicate.
"Good, you understand me. I'm the mage Ian."
Ian recalled convincing Drake Longtail and opened politely. It was perfectly reasonable—had the other party not been a manticore.
"Fuck off. Eat shit, you human bastard."
"...?"
"Oh! Fascinating. You understood that?"
Ian was dumbfounded. What the hell? Is this psycho for real? Why start with the abuse?
"I understood every curse, Manticore."
"Oh yeah? How was it? My cursing skills?"
"Savory."
Even as a Korean, Ian couldn't fathom calling curses "savory." Like, fermented soybean stink? Kinda shitty, sure.
But the manticore seemed to take it positively.
"You liked my curses? Are you retarded? You enjoy eating shit? No pride? Total loser."
"No, I meant your words..."
"Still with the polite bullshit. Orphan."
"..."
Krrrng. The manticore growled again, sounding eerily like human laughter. Ian figured it was mocking him. And he was right.
Ian fixed the manticore with calm, sunken eyes.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Hahaha! Now you're talking! Drop the polite crap. Mage Ian—what do you want from me?"
Your scalp. Say that, and it'd be on.
"Your scalp."
...Obviously. But at some point, Mage Ian had forgotten how to hold back. A symptom of mage privilege.
The manticore laughed gleefully at Ian's response.
"Can't say no to that!"
"For real?"
"But what'll you do with my hide? I've got a better idea, mage."
"Better idea?"
"You and I team up, rip these humans to shreds! I get the slaughter, you get the gold and girls! Sound good?"
Level 3 Summoning was impressive—even a monster like the manticore felt some affinity for Ian. Too bad that affinity was worthless to him.
"Terms?"
Intrigued despite himself, Ian asked. Not that he expected a real answer. Befriending a sinbi was like making a new friend (not Oberon-style). The first step? Common ground—gender, age, experiences, interests, hobbies, whatever.
But the manticore's proposal was pure shock and horror.
"I wanna see you go wild! First, fuck that old hag next to you."
"..."
"Rape every woman you meet. I'll kill the men. Head home, rape your sister, kid sister, mom..."
"Fuck this, too disgusting. You Crowzer 2.0 or what? Rapist spam at thirty-two per second?"
"Krr... Rejecting my power? Figures. I've eaten my share of hypocrites like you."
In short, the manticore was a romantic. It just included grannies and kids in its targets, shredding Ian's sanity.
Hating suspiciously polite people and loving grannies... The manticore had the vibes of certain site users. If one of those pros reincarnated as a mage, they'd probably summon manticores.
"??? You speak Empire tongue?"
"I do, but the meaning doesn't click."
The manticore grinned. With a human face on a lion's body, twice human-sized, the horror was indescribable.
"Wondered if humans would freak at my words... Seems they do, from yours."
"...!"
Ian realized he'd been played. The manticore never wanted a real contract—just testing if its Empire speech landed on humans.
If Ian were a true villain plotting massacres, it might've agreed. Mani was right: pure malice incarnate, uncontrollable unless you matched it.
"Fucking dog-faced bastard."
Ian spat and cursed.
"Kkhuhu... Yes! Now you're worth killing!"
The manticore leaped at Ian, a strike his gym-rat physique couldn't dodge.
But seasoned ex-mercs and mages stood ready.
"Grow!"
While Ian stalled (?), Mani, having sown seeds earlier, unleashed rapid-growth magic. Beanstalks—bean sprouts—shot up wildly.
Beans were mages' ancient allies, as in Jack and the Beanstalk.
Sprouts blocking a manticore? But Mani wasn't that dumb. She'd planted tons.
"E-Elder! Mage!"
"What kind of beans grow like this...?!"
Sprouts exploded everywhere, filling the clearing, overtaking the forest, relentless.
"Krrrng!"
Blocked by the sprout wall, the manticore couldn't touch Ian. Good so far. Problem: the knights couldn't reach Ian either.
The Elder, sprout-blocked, couldn't hide his dismay.
"Mani! What have you done?!"
"Blind? I stopped the manticore!"
"What about the knights? How do they help?!"
"They five-year-olds? They'll manage!"
Mani embodied the cranky mage stereotype, all reckless eccentricity. I made the wall; you're on your own! Standard for era mages—Mani was average.
"We need to help them."
As the Elder moved, Ian followed.
"I'll come too."
The Elder felt a quiet warmth at Ian's initiative. He'd worried Ian might lose steam after failing to persuade the beast.
But Ian's motivation burned brighter than ever.
That fucking prick.
The manticore's bullshit curses replayed. Knowing it was pure evil, Ian wouldn't sleep without ripping out its tongue.
The fit men hurried; Mani strolled leisurely. She arrived at the sprouts' far side and paused in surprise.
"Ugh...!"
"Breathe slow. Relax."
Battle scars littered the site: knights battered, rolling on the ground. Broken limbs, poison stings.
"Not ordinary, indeed."
The Elder closed his eyes in guilt. Manticores were tough—lion body, tiger strength. Like Eastern panic over one tiger, medieval monsters overwhelmed human physiques. Over three meters, immense power, venom tail? Impossible.
He should've fought with them...
"Antidotes, now!"
Mani bustled, prioritizing life-saving detox.
"..."
She stopped at one: Brother Dehitri. Gut sliced open, entrails spilling, dying slow.
Uninjured knights gathered.
"Brother..."
To Mani, to them, he was done. Manticore shredded chainmail; shards pierced everywhere.
Dehitri's eyes fluttered.
"Prayers..."
Knights clasped hands in a circle—heavenly rite. As Heavenly God faithful, they'd send his soul skyward.
Then Ian seized Dehitri's hand.
"Ian...?"
"Dehitri. When you taught me scripture, you said: true faith and prayer open the heavens."
Dehitri smiled faintly.
"Yes..."
Ian said gravely, "Pray with me."
Ian's mood was utter shit. Never imagined witnessing a close acquaintance's death up close. Civilization's frailty.
This wasn't a peaceful daily world or advanced medicine. Medieval fantasy: monsters routine, war endless. Death, once movie fodder, now stared him in the face.
That shift in distance? Fucking awful.
"Almighty Heavens."
Yeah. The medieval sucked.
Yes, Ian. Your Heaven is right here.
"...?"
"Ian. Keep praying."
But fantasy... wasn't that bad.
"Heaven. Your diehard fan's dying—do something."
Hm. If Ian wants it. Shall I?
The knights gasped. Elder, Mani too—jaws dropped.
"I-Ian?"
"What in the..."
Because radiant heavenly light poured from Ian's hand. The glory of god.