Two Monstrosities
Through Uln's trial, Isaac had finally sensed aura with his own senses. For someone who had lived his life as a mage until now, aura had been something he understood only intellectually—a realm beyond theory, shrouded in mystery. But now, after meditating and reliving Uln's trial and his duel with Brunscar, aura had become a tangible will coursing through his blood and flesh.
If magic belonged to the world of perception and concepts, then aura was the realm of will and imagery. Magic defined the world; aura defined the self.
Take a single battle, for example. There was no such thing as "winning with magic." First, you had to define the very concept of "victory." Whether scorching the enemy with fire magic to render them helpless, or piercing their vital points with a phase change spell turned projectile to neutralize them—you had to establish that concept. Then, you recognized the conditions needed to fulfill it, and logically redesigned reality to match. In a form nature could comprehend, the mage's will-infused mana became magical power.
Aura, by contrast, was the manifestation of the will to win. While a mage manipulated the external world, an aura user manipulated their own body. This was where imagery came into play. To manifest and realize that will, they envisioned the power they desired.
"What the hell have you been up to now?"
Bessimer's axe blade clashed against Isaac's sword.
"Just figured something out."
"Funny timing, that. I've been havin' one of those moments myself."
Bessimer laughed coldly. Clang— Sparks flew in the darkness. Two wills collided. Both Bessimer and Isaac staggered back, only to charge at each other again.
Bessimer grew even more wolf-like. The Baitur had defined themselves over long ages within their tribe—an imagery etched into their collective psyche: relentless hunters who never released their prey, pursuing to the bitter end. Sometimes ferocious, sometimes cunning.
Asra's instruction to focus on breathing had been spot on. Lost in excitement and swinging his axe harder and harder wouldn't reach that realm. Bessimer had severed himself from the world and found the wolf within. The unconscious instincts, fears, wills, and memories of his tribe flowing in his blood. He excavated them, restored them, imprinted them.
He pondered what he'd never considered before. Aura. It wasn't just superhuman strength. It was the form of the existence they believed in most deeply—the self they truly wanted to become, or the thing they feared most. A shape carved into their very bones.
Bessimer realized he was a wolf. A massive, savage, ferocious wolf. In that wolf's hunt, there was no discipline, no morality, no justice, no honor. Only an endless hunger for battle, sated by devouring prey.
Thud— The ground cratered beneath Isaac's foot. Amid the clash of axe and sword blade, two utterly different auras collided, bursting the air. Thud! Thud! Thud!
Bessimer's axe hammered Isaac's sword with brutish honesty—no twists, no feints, always the same direction. Arrogant offense: block it if you can. Cunning offense too: focus on blocking that bone-jarring strike, and you'd have no way to dodge the kick that followed.
"Guh—"
Isaac twisted, blocking Bessimer's shin with his arm and shoulder. Even wrapped in aura for defense, it felt like his arm would snap.
He's a completely different beast now.
The arrogant warrior Isaac had first seen in Binvelt was gone. The golden light in Bessimer's eyes matched the wolf king's that Isaac had absorbed—true inherited power, not something stolen via rune stone. Just clashing with it left Isaac's guts churning. Sour bile and blood filled his mouth; the impact had torn his cheek and brought up stomach acid.
"Not bad. If you'd been your old self, that last hit would've ended it."
Bessimer grinned at Isaac, who had been pushed back and barely regained his balance.
"Sorry I didn't warn ya—lose here, and I ain't callin' you boss no more."
"Hah, like that matters."
Isaac caught his breath and settled his stomach.
"You get it. Those hellwolves you sacrificed to protect Goethe? They were my brothers once. Can't face my brothers servin' a kid like you as boss... and if that kid's weaker than me? No way I can stomach that."
The moonlight was faint. In the wasteland far from Binvelt's camp, they sparred to avoid disturbing the camp or villages at night. In the dim hills where only silhouettes were visible, a massive form glowing blue flashed golden eyes.
"Hah, gotten smarter in the meantime, have you?"
Isaac let out a hollow laugh.
"Don't worry. I won't kill ya. You're still my eldest brother's firstborn son."
"But only if you win, right?"
"Still brimming with confidence, eh? You gettin' dumber in the meantime? Whatever. I'll teach ya till you get it. With my body."
Bessimer growled, lowering his stance. Whoosh— The massive form leaped, slicing wind. The axe came like a claw. Clang— Isaac barely blocked the diagonal slash, but the axe shifted trajectory, sweeping horizontally to bisect him. No time to block; Isaac leaned back and retreated, but it was all within Bessimer's calculations—or rather, instincts. The instincts of a beast toying with prey.
Bessimer's body sprang sideways, closing the distance. Isaac hurried to block the axe, but it didn't come as expected. In that instant, ice gripped Isaac's spine—a prickling chill, instinct's warning of death.
Instead of attacking, Bessimer stepped to Isaac's flank, overtook him, and seized his rear. Isaac's back was exposed. One axe strike, and no amount of circulation paths or heart-aura would save him. Death. Death. As the reality loomed, Isaac's heart throbbed like it would burst. Breath caught; every fiber tore and burned.
He didn't know what he thought or envisioned. His body moved first. No swing, no dodge—just a minimal kick to Bessimer's gut. Like kicking a wall, Isaac was repelled. But it was enough to escape the axe's range.
"You really trying to kill me?"
"Misunderstanding."
Bessimer smacked his lips. Madness gleamed in his savagely glowing golden eyes.
Now I get it.
Isaac gasped, feeling as if a razor or awl sliced his organs.
Finally, he understood why warriors like Bessimer loved battle so much. Why aura users were brutal or aggressive, why most had killed in childhood. Aura was pain. Manifesting will pushed the body to its limits or deformed it, inevitably bringing agony. But with it came euphoria, pleasure. Masochistic joy in breaking and rebuilding oneself. Sadistic thrill in unleashing violence with the reconstructed body. Repressed impulses burst free.
"Damn, you're the only one who's ever surprised me this much in my life."
Bessimer clicked his tongue at the aura emanating from Isaac's body. It was a warrior's—raw and blazing like wildfire, not refined like Carlson's or a chevalier's.
"Bessimer. I think I get you now."
"You look itchy. I don't get you more and more, but... this'll be fun."
Two wills, two imageries clashed again. One was a wolf. The other shifted endlessly— a fledgling will not yet defined. At times it craved bear-like strength, snake-like flexibility, rock-like endurance, steel-like hardness. In those moments, his body transcended flesh. Heat of imagery flowed in his blood. Muscles obeyed will. Bones took form. Aura manifested will through imagery, incarnating it in flesh. He built and broke his desired self, over and over.
Clang—'If magic redefines victory to reshape the world...'
Clang—'Then aura is declaring victory with your whole body, imprinting your existence on the world.'
Wielding his blade like a limb, Isaac felt it: fighting spirit surging through his veins. A sensation utterly unlike magic. Magic brought no pain— the brain didn't register it. But aura came with crystal-clear agony. Pain paradoxically proved he was alive more vividly than any sense.
As axe and sword clashed, smiles deepened on Isaac's and Bessimer's lips. No restraints, no bonds—they unleashed impulses freely. At some point, words, thoughts, obsessions, and anguish vanished between them. Yet they naturally came to know each other: Isaac the wolf breathing in Bessimer; Bessimer the beast and warrior's soul in Isaac.
"Kuhahaha!"
Bessimer's laughter rode the wind, echoing far.
"……."
Sigbrand and his squad watched from afar, as always, with impassive gazes. Ordered to guard Isaac, they observed the two monstrosities.
Suddenly, their eyes caught a carriage racing through the darkness toward the camp, lanterns illuminating the way.
"Owl?"
One squad member with sharp eyes read the emblem.
"I ain't great with it myself, but y'know... mana laws or whatever? Makes the Demon Realm's mana density rise and such... uh."
Bergheim scratched his head with a bloodied axe handle. He sounded frustrated with his own rambling, but it wouldn't improve.
"Anyway, per the boss, beasts come in patterns. He senses mana flows to predict it. They'll come when the time's right."
Outside, the clamor continued. The commander's official reception room, closer to the outer walls, let them feel the booms and flashes of Goethe Count's magic more intensely.
"Hah."
Marcel Reich let out a hollow breath. Two days already. He'd requested an audience with Goethe Count but hadn't seen him. He couldn't complain. If the count left, Winterband would fall—or casualties would skyrocket.
This was Reich's first time at Winterband, experiencing Goethe's winter firsthand. He'd heard rumors, but not to this extent.
Capital nobles ignored the backwater count clinging to his title. Only some royal mages and history-savvy advisors grasped his danger and importance—but even they were ignored.
Now, spending two days here, Reich realized how absurdly they treated Goethe, how casually he accomplished feats dwarfing royal receptions. Hundreds of beasts assaulted the outer fort daily, blocking the canyon. Dozens breached to the inner keep. Squads of defenders fought desperately through winter. Casualties mounted steadily. Ranks filled with exiles, fugitives, shattered tribesmen, vagrants. It was a miracle Winterband endured.
Even that was at its limit, per Bergheim—the veteran survivors dwindling yearly.
To Reich's question why no royal pleas, Bergheim said they'd petitioned consistently for over a decade, only to be shelved. Even Reich, academy dean and royal advisor, had heard nothing.
The result: a mage needing utmost focus casting wide-area spells sleeplessly for three days. Reich never imagined 5th class would feel so diminished. He felt age-transcending respect for his old friend Goethe Count.
Since arriving, Reich could only marvel. Bergheim casually returning from shifts, slaughtering beasts like routine, checking on him. The screams, shouts, roars outside. Soldiers nonchalantly reporting deaths. Endless pyres burning corpses day and night. Reich felt his sanity fraying. Meals: hard bread and water. He suppressed the urge to flee until the second evening.
Thud— Something enormous, heavy, crashed outside the gate. The vibration crawled up the cold stone walls.
"He'll be here soon. My shift's next; I'm out."
Bergheim left. Time passed. The door opened. Winterband's heart entered, coat hem swaying.
"I've kept you waiting."
Goethe Count spoke in a weary tone.