Contradiction
Magic studies may seem to exist as an independent system of knowledge, but in truth, it is a multilayered discipline built upon diverse theoretical and practical traditions. To understand this, one must have at least a minimal awareness of the surrounding bodies of knowledge that fundamentally shaped its formation. …… Primitive shamanism and spirit arts are alike yet profoundly different. Primitive shamanism begins from the belief that the world and the self are one. The shaman draws power by directly resonating with nature and spirits, ancestors' souls, or through possession. Where magic perceives the world and calculates and manipulates it through the caster's will, primitive shamanism resonates with the very fact of oneness between world and self. If magic employs the ancient tongue, shamanism addresses the world with howls, hides and bones, blood and entrails. Spirits, gods, and the shaman themselves are all parts of the world. The shaman is mediator and resonater.
In contrast, spirit arts recognize entities with will within the world. It negotiates and contracts with them. Here, the practitioner is an active agent and architect.
"Your world is not one."
Brunscar spoke amid the blizzard. Even the savage howl of the wind seemed to part before his voice. This was truly the realm of imagery.
The raging snowstorm was, in truth, nothing more than shamanic symbols. Torrents of years pelting down like arrows, memories weathered within them, the songs, roars, and groans of souls slumbering in the northern earth. Ulern's trial demanded that Isaac prove himself within it all—before the souls of the chieftains.
The deep blue flames blooming from Isaac's body burned with such intensity that they could incinerate the blizzard itself. In contrast, the aura enveloping Brunscar rippled like crimson waves. The immense feral power coursing through his blood flowed like a raging torrent.
Each time their two rusted swords clashed, ringing with a sharp resonance, two timelines intertwined and blended. The battle between the sword-wielding boy and the giant resembled an impromptu dance. There was a rhythmic footwork, and the swordplay flowed smoothly yet unpredictably, ever-changing. It was like a ritual to soothe spirits, or a playful display before the ancestors.
But amid it all, the clouds blanketing the sky split open, and the snowy landscape shifted moment by moment.
"Dragan was within you."
Brunscar said, gazing at the golden flash in Isaac's eyes. The fight had paused in a lull. Even the snowfall had eased.
"Dragan?"
"The last chieftain of the Baitur. A great warrior who once matched me."
Isaac finally learned the name of the Wolf King. He was also Bessimer's father. The man had refused to reveal the Wolf King's name to the end, saying he hoped his own father would be remembered differently.
"You're enjoying this fight. More precisely, Dragan is."
"Is that so."
"You're trying to devour me. The demon within you hungers."
"……."
Isaac realized it was the Winter Spider Queen.
"You're trying to purify me. There's a shaman within you who serves a foreign god."
A shaman serving a foreign god would be the fallen saint. Through the holy relic Light of Atonement, the saint's will had also been imprinted in Isaac's vessel. Brunscar was tracing the time, will, and soul Isaac had passed through—like reading a tree's age from its rings, discerning the seasons and climates it endured, how much sunlight it received, and what illnesses it suffered.
"And you……."
Brunscar's words halted for a moment. His white hair fluttered like falling snowflakes.
"You gaze upon me with nameless, formless years spent in obscurity. Conceived yet never born. In that darkness, you grew, feeding on layer upon layer of sorrow, living and dying again. Within you flutters a butterfly dampened by spring rain."
"……How do you know that?"
"I don't know it. I see it."
The moment Brunscar finished speaking—
Whoosh—
Ripples spread through Ulern's world, whipping up a gust. Snow and clouds cleared in an instant. Spring rain fell. Countless droplets poured from the sky. Whether imagery, sensation, emotion, or synesthesia, Isaac couldn't tell—but the raindrops wetting his face were warm.
Butterflies fluttered into being. Thousands upon thousands rose from Isaac's body, his heart, the very center of Ulern.
Silence spread like disarming weapons. The distant horizon remained a snowfield, a wasteland—but around Isaac and Brunscar, fresh grass and wildflowers bloomed. The snowflakes melted into softly seeping rainwater. The plain grew damp. The storm slumbered, and the earth quietly caught its breath. A gentle darkness gathered, stars twinkled, and the wind turned benevolent. Ulern's world sank into the spring rain.
"You are a contradiction."
Brunscar said. A butterfly alighted on his shoulder, his blade, feather-light. On the white wolf spewing dust and ash, its mate the bison, the owl with wings of scripture, the black serpent, bear and lion, fox and badger, eagle and raven…… Butterflies settled upon every chieftain's soul.
Those creepy, cloying multitudes were Isaac's wishes, his hopes, his will. Not the fighter struggling to survive, nor the conqueror toppling to dominate—but the heart yearning for even one moment of quiet breath. The heart wishing peace for loved ones, then rest. Like the weary butterfly alighting on the foal that final spring.
Yet, may that day's scene not become a ruined nest. May it be utterly comfortable and peaceful. The fervent wish of a ragged old man.
"You are no warrior. No mage. No shaman. You embrace all of them—and more. And you know that all of it is one."
An aurora shimmered in the night sky. The golden light of the Wolf King's eyes, the white and purple radiance from the saint, the deep blue of endless winter—all blazed simultaneously, draping a curtain in the air. The chieftains' souls, each in beastly form, began to howl in unison. No form, no language. Pure sound.
Isaac looked down at his hands. The frail, withered old man's hands he had forgotten for so long. A crack formed in the blade of Ulern gripped in those hands. It spiderwebbed outward, engulfing the sword. Ulern shattered.
Isaac opened his eyes. He felt his heart's wild pounding. He looked down at his hands. A boy's hands. Slender but vibrant. A tingling sensation prickled his fingertips.
—You are a contradiction.
Brunscar's voice echoed like a remnant.
—One who knows all of it is one.
He had pierced through Isaac. Perhaps more than Isaac himself. He must have seen the power within Ulern.
Isaac felt it pulsing from his beating heart, flowing through his veins.
Absurd. To gain such insight from Asra's trial, of all things.
The holy relic Light of Atonement. The seventh circulation path forged by the fallen saint's lingering will. Isaac belatedly realized it had formed in quite an alien place.
He lifted Ulern before him. A shabby, rusted sword. Before meditation, it had been impossible even to touch—but now it felt like any ordinary blade.
Is this how it works?
Isaac recalled Lucas's words from his past life. When asked what using aura felt like, Lucas had replied:
—It feels like veins sprouting in the metal you're gripping, your own blood flowing into it.
"Now I understand a bit."
A faint blue sword-glow rimmed Ulern's blade. The seventh circulation path hadn't formed inside a mage's vessel. It was in the heart—what knights called their vessel.
Gurgle.
How many days had he spent in meditation? Isaac's stomach growled. Clutching Ulern, he stepped out of the tent.
Upon Adel’s return, the first thing she checked was the blue flowers planted in the central courtyard. Transplanted from the Demon Realm, those blue flowers thrived on high-density mana. The more Isaac's vessel cracked or leaked mana, the more vibrantly they bloomed. No matter the cold, those tenacious blooms grew lushly.
But the blue flowers were gone. As if they had never been planted. Only a few wilted snow lilies, drooping in the bitter cold, dotted the courtyard garden sparsely.
"It's winter."
Adel said, eyes fixed on the snow lilies.
"Yes. Goethe's winter has returned."
As ever impeccably dressed, Head Butler Schrader approached with slow steps. He carried a folded blanket in his arms. Snow began to fall again.
"Around late autumn, I received a letter from Helmut. Is its content true?"
"If it's about Young Master Isaac, then yes, it is."
"Really…… Is he truly alright now?"
"The young master is now a proper lord. Though the land is barren, what he has achieved there—and what he will achieve—is nothing short of astonishing."
"……Hoo……."
Adel inhaled and exhaled deeply, like someone who hadn't breathed properly in ages. Her iron-cold expression melted away softly.
"It's cold. Let's continue inside, crybaby miss."
"……."
"You've worked hard."
Schrader draped the blanket over Adel's shoulders. She worked her chapped lips, then wiped her eyes. Schrader gently patted her shoulder, just as he had shown kindness to the tribal girl sold to this place like a slave for the sake of peace between tribe and Goethe. Only time had changed.
"It's a relief. Truly……."
Adel cried twice that day. Once upon hearing of Isaac. And once more.
"Smells like horse dung, Mom."
While hugging Yonas.
"Waaah, Yonas. My baby. Leaving this little one behind."
"Ugh, can't breathe."
The nine-year-old Yonas pinched his nose, but Adel sobbed while clutching him.
"Mom's sorry. Too busy with the big one, couldn't look after you."
"Ah, Mom!"
Only after pouring out snot and tears did Adel bathe. Her first bath in nearly a month. The wandering warrior's face transformed into that of a noble lady. She donned the neat dress Schrader prepared, in place of her rag-like clothes and armor, and pinned on the brooch Helmut had gifted her long ago. She had returned from wanderer to countess.
"Ah, come quick! I have something to show you!"
"Mm, Yonas. Mom's sleepy. Can't I sleep first and see it later?"
"No. I waited to show Mom."
Accustomed to cold, exposure, and sleepless nights, she could endure—but after returning home and bathing, drowsiness overwhelmed her. Yet Yonas stubbornly tugged her hand and led her.
"Whyy? What's it?"
Adel mumbled.
"This spot shows it best."
Yonas led her to the public study. Snow whipped outside the window, rattling the panes.
"What are you……."
Yonas stood on tiptoe and opened the window.
"Why open the window? You'll catch a cold."
Adel's eyes were already half-closed. The biting gale poured in, but she could sleep on the bare floor right then.
"Mom, look closely."
Yonas whispered softly.
In that instant.
The intruding snow and wind vanished like a lie. Then, beyond the window, a clear, transparent space formed. Like a glass hemisphere, no wind or snow pierced within. A space Yonas had secured through spirits.
"How……."
Adel's eyes widened gradually. Into the utterly serene hemisphere floated one snowflake, then two. Unlike the frantic flurry outside, the flakes within drifted lightly like petals. And as they gathered, they began to take shape. Oval clusters of snowflakes. Soon splitting leaf by leaf into a flower bud. Anemones. The flowers that bloomed only in spring, Adel's favorite.