Through the Shamanic Fog
Thud, thud.
Arteon made his way up the mountain path with heavy, deliberate footsteps.
For a trail that saw little human traffic, it was far too well maintained. Almost no rocks jutted out unexpectedly, and no branches reached out to slap at a traveler’s face. The dirt path was packed smooth and even, while the trees and grass along either side had been carefully trimmed so they never crossed a certain line.
“...I think I can see his personality in this.”
He had no way of knowing how long the path had been tended, but in a certain sense “eccentric” felt exactly right.
How long had he been climbing while studying the surroundings?
“...?”
Arteon stopped mid-stride, frowning at the sudden sense of an alien flow of mana. It was as if something strange had mixed into the air entering his lungs with every breath—a faintly sticky energy clinging to the cold, clear mountain air.
“...”
He narrowed his eyes and focused on the mana currents around him. The disturbance was so faint an ordinary person would never have noticed. But as someone who had already reached 6-Star, Arteon sensed it clearly.
The flow of mana... is twisted.
Mana that should have moved naturally was clumping and knotting in places all around him. Disrupting mana flow was common enough when constructing magic circles.
“But this...”
What he felt now was of an entirely different nature. Rather than a precisely woven magical structure, it felt rough... more primal.
In that instant Arteon’s eyes flashed.
“...Shamanism?”
A quiet mutter escaped his lips. It was similar to the power used by the shamans of the Kar Tribe he had faced on the battlefield in his previous life. Suddenly every sense of wrongness made sense.
“...Damn. I never imagined shamanism would be cast in a place like this mountain.”
A short shiver ran down his spine. Anyone who blundered into Kar Tribe shamanism could end up circling the same stretch of ground for hours—no, days—until they collapsed from exhaustion.
No...
In the worst cases, they never escaped at all and died there. Arteon drew up his mana and concentrated fully on the surrounding currents.
Swaaaaaah.
The white vapor slowly rising before his eyes no longer looked like a mere natural phenomenon. The fog that had reached his knees surged upward and in an instant swallowed half his field of vision.
“This is no joke...?”
The path ahead blurred; the outlines of the trees began to smear. Arteon drew Iglis from his waist and fed it a thread of mana.
Clank!
With a familiar friction sound the short wooden rod transformed into its true form. He was not preparing for a fight so much as sharpening his tension for any eventuality.
“...Hoo.”
He exhaled lightly and advanced one careful step at a time.
Thud, thud, thud.
The earth underfoot remained firm; he could still feel himself moving forward.
...I trust myself.
Even though the shamanism might have him walking in circles, Arteon calmly pushed through. Experience with Kar shamanism from his past life proved invaluable. As the fog thickened, sound itself died. No wind, no rustle of leaves, no bird calls—only a crushing isolation, as if he alone had been cut away from the world. A heaviness settled in his chest, yet he did not stop.
In the past, when he had first been caught in Kar shamanism, he had not even recognized it for what it was...
But it’s different now.
Now he knew exactly what to watch for and how to break the working.
To maintain shamanism of this scale... a medium is absolutely necessary.
Unlike magic circles built with ordinary formulas, shamanism always required a medium. Arteon scanned the fog-choked surroundings. Finding anything was harder with his vision blocked. If that was how it was going to be...
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Boldly abandoning sight, he heightened every other sense to the extreme—the texture of the wind, the density of the air, the flow of mana against his skin. Shamanism disrupted an entire space, yet around the medium the twisted power always gathered, like the eye of a whirlpool.
If I find the place where it gathers rather than flows...
Fog could blind him, but it could not smother senses refined to this degree. With every step the subtle feedback through his feet changed. In some spots the ground felt oddly heavy; in others it clung stickily. Moving toward the concentration of mana, Arteon finally halted.
“...Found it.”
Among the bushes stood a palm-sized stele, neatly upright. This was the medium sustaining the shamanism. Destroy it, and the working would collapse.
Swoosh.
He raised Iglis and leveled the spear at the stone, intending to shatter it in a single stroke and end the spell.
Swaaaaaash!
A fierce wind suddenly whipped up, dragging the fog away and clearing his vision.
“...?”
Arteon warily scanned his surroundings at the abrupt change. Then—
“Quite the outstanding fellow. Don’t tell me you already knew about this?”
The mountain path beneath him vanished. In its place stood a man.
Golden hair, trimmed short enough that the wind could only stir it lightly. Cold, settled eyes sharp as blades. Despite an indifferent expression, his gaze seemed to pierce through everything.
“...”
It was not an extremely trained physique, nor was the man’s mana particularly overwhelming. Yet the presence he radiated was unmistakable. Even without asking a name, Arteon knew at a glance who stood before him.
He looked the man straight in the eye.
“Greetings, Lord Rionhart.”
“You know me?”
The question carried a dry, emotionless edge. Arteon drew the letter of recommendation from his coat and held it out.
“I am Arteon. I have come here on the introduction of Sir Svein.”
“...Svein? That softy of a fellow writing a recommendation letter.”
How many people in the entire empire could call Svein a softy? Rionhart simply stared at Arteon without another word. His gaze was neither light nor wary—only pure observation. He took in Arteon’s build, the muscle visible beneath his clothes, and the presence of mana flowing from his body.
“...”
Rionhart felt a strange sensation.
...Curious.
On the surface the youth seemed to possess little in the way of talent. Yet the depth of the mana he kept so carefully contained was so profound that even Rionhart found it difficult to fully measure.
He asked,
“How old are you?”
“I am eighteen now.”
“Eighteen?”
For the first time his eyes wavered. The boy looked young, but could he truly be a greenhorn who had not even undergone the coming-of-age ceremony? Rionhart’s gaze traveled slowly from Arteon’s crown to his boots.
“Hoo.”
Was such a thing even possible? Mana of this depth at a mere eighteen years of age. Moreover, while nothing about him suggested exceptional talent at first glance, he had broken through the shamanism Rionhart himself had laid. That was a feat even veteran mages steeped in magic circles or long-trained knights would struggle to accomplish.
“...”
Silence stretched for a time. Then Rionhart slightly lifted his chin.
“Follow me. The air is growing cold.”
“Yes.”
Compared to the northern front, this chill was little more than a spring breeze. Arteon nodded and fell into step behind him toward the mansion.
And behind them...
Sssssssss.
In the place the two had left, fog began to gather once more. The shamanism that barred outsiders reformed, sealing the path anew.
At the foot of the mountain, in darkness that had not yet yielded to the first light of dawn, ash-gray clouds pressed low over the sky. Soldiers in black armor gathered in silence.
Thud, thud, thud.
The muted clash of iron plate leaked out as they swiftly formed ranks. A silence like that of hunters before the kill hung among them.
At their head stood Ziorkan.
Commander of the Lacosta Knights under Count Edrian Valenruuk, a key supporter of the Second Prince. The men in black armor were no ordinary soldiers; every one of them was a knight.
Ziorkan looked over his men.
“Is everyone ready?”
“Yes. Preparations are complete. Give the order.”
All of them were elites of 3-Star rank or higher. Ziorkan himself stood at the mid-4-Star level and could freely wield aura.
He turned his gaze toward the mid-slope of the mountain.
Now...
“We’re going to catch the old fox.”
The Lacosta Knights melted into the darkness and began racing up the mountain path.
Rionhart led him to the training ground in front of the mansion. Once they stepped onto the packed earth, the old master turned to Arteon.
“Whether I welcome you as a guest or simply drive you out, I’ll have to check right away.”
“Do you know why I have come?”
“If Svein sent you, there is only one reason. If you want something from me, you must first show you are qualified.”
Arteon nodded. With the purpose already clear, there was no need for pretense.
“What would you have me show you?”
“Nothing difficult. Just exchange a few blows.”
“...With you, Elder?”
Rionhart shook his head.
“I retired from the front lines long ago. Wait a moment and your opponent will arrive.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a figure came walking from the mansion, yawning widely.
“Yaaawn... I was just about to sleep after finishing my meal. Why call me all of a sudden?”
“If you don’t want extra night training, shut your mouth and cross blades with this fellow.”
“...Who is he?”
Kairon eyed Arteon with open curiosity. Even at a glance the newcomer carried an extraordinary presence. Yet...
Is he baby-faced... or just young?
He looked at least three or four years younger. At the faintly youthful cast of Arteon’s features, Kairon slightly furrowed his brow. Still, if the Master ordered a spar, there had to be a reason.
“With real swords?”
“If we used those, it would only end when one of you died. Use the wooden sparring weapons.”
Kairon walked without complaint to the weapon rack at the side of the training ground, selected a wooden sword, then glanced back.
“You too—a sword?”
“A staff.”
“...”
He grabbed a staff whose tip was wrapped in cotton and tossed it over.
Thwack!
Arteon caught it cleanly and spun it once, settling the balance. It had a solid, satisfying weight.
Rionhart spoke.
“Aura is forbidden. Do not use mana above the 2-Star level.”
He wanted to see how the match would unfold under identical conditions. As Arteon and Kairon faced each other, Rionhart glanced between them. Preparations looked complete.
Then—
“Begin.”
With that single word, Kairon’s figure vanished from where he stood.