Preparation (1)
Today, as always, the camp's soldiers kicked off their day at dawn with physical training. Half a month into the regimen, they seemed somewhat acclimated now. But today, the ranks kept falling apart.
“One, one, one. Align! Align!”
No matter how much Carlson bellowed, it did no good. The reason was Isaac.
To save their own skins, the soldiers were slinking away from him bit by bit. It was laughable, grown men cowering and keeping their distance from a mere twelve-year-old boy, but no one called them out on it. Pride didn't outweigh survival.
When word of the Baitur tribe village spread from Gunther's mouth, no one bought it straight away. They figured he was exaggerating. But once they started cornering Bessimer for confirmation, one by one, the whole camp erupted in chaos.
The soldiers stitched together every rumor they'd heard, twisting and warping the tale. Now Isaac went by “Frost Devil” among the ranks.
“Milord. Run a ways off, yeah?”
“Sure.”
Isaac peeled away from the formation, keeping about twenty paces' distance in a flat voice.
“Huff... huff... Young master... you here... ugh... now?”
“You good?”
Lagging far behind the running column, Hans was panting along as usual. Half a month should've built him some stamina by now, but he was still barely hanging on.
“I'm... fine... then who... gulp... ugh... would... urp—”
Hans heaved up the bitter water without fail.
“You'll croak like that.”
“I'm... urp... fine.”
“Why not head back to the manor already?”
“Absolutely not. No way in hell.”
Even Isaac's icy tone couldn't shake Hans's resolve.
Only once the sun had fully crested did the first training block wrap up.
“Half an hour rest. Then combat drills. Dismissed!”
Carlson bellowed. He'd run with the soldiers but showed no sign of fatigue.
The men shook their heads, muttering curses as they scattered to their tents. They needed every minute of that half hour to nap or recover if they wanted to survive the next round. No whining allowed—mutineers got beaten bloody and locked in the stocks.
“Training with us again today?”
“Gotta.”
“Pushing too hard, aren't you?”
“Necessary. What, hate it 'cause I screw up the drills again?”
“Part of it. Truth is, it's too brutal for you to keep up. Didn't you sprain your wrist yesterday?”
“Worried about me now?”
“Worried about myself. You stay in one piece, you can bail me out when it counts.”
“Working on it. I'll rest in the tent—go fetch Bessimer.”
“Won't come. How many of his tribesmen'd you ice? He's barely keeping his knife sheathed. Why face you?”
“Tell him I'll spill how to kill the Wolf King. He'll show. Company commander's orders. Military law's law, right?”
Isaac clapped Carlson's arm a few times and headed for his tent.
“Wash up! You reek worse than Bessimer!”
Isaac waved it off over his shoulder at Carlson's shout.
“Nngh.”
Back in the tent, Isaac face-planted onto his blanket. The clothes—sweat-soaked, dried, repeat—gave off a sour, rank stench.
“Held out longer this time. Should've pulled my punches.”
The moment the Baitur tribesmen and wolves had him surrounded, Isaac got curious. How far could he push before the vessel cracked? What power could he unleash right at the edge?
But he'd gone too far. Repairing the vessel dragged on. Mana leaked constantly through the fissures, putting off relief from the mage's melancholy even longer.
He'd blacked out before checking, but Hans and Gunther's accounts painted the picture: a frost hell blanketed the whole village. Bessimer had cleared over thirty frozen tribesmen and a dozen hell wolves. Fifty-two iced in a blink.
Which meant Isaac spent the next ten days magic-free, grinding through the soldiers' drills just to endure the melancholy. Moving the body kept him anchored to reality, at least.
But the melancholy clung like damp rot. Powerlessness. Futility. Void. He'd slaughtered dozens, yet no weight, no guilt—just numbness.
Nears. Bishop Lebonius. Dead by his hand. What made him different? Weren't they all monsters?
Vain thoughts gnawed at him day and night, heedless of the hour. Worse, the inevitable whisper of fates to come: endless deaths he'd witness, deal, or drown in.
Felt like something human inside was fraying away.
“Fuck it.”
Isaac shook his head and hauled himself up. He yanked the blade from its sheath amid the clutter on the floor and set to honing it with whetstone.
Mindless repetition was perfect for drowning stray thoughts.
Shing, shing.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The clamor in his skull quieted. He sensed the mana resonating inside the vessel with each breath.
Still the same.
Frost mana coursed through the circuits. The frost rune stone had shattered in the rampage, yet the density in his vessel hadn't budged.
Odd. Was the vessel generating frost mana on its own?
One hypothesis crystallized: maybe his mana rampage constitution could assimilate the properties of special magic stones into the vessel itself.
If so, he could absorb rare stones and slash the stages needed for all sorts of spells.
If only I can shake this damn melancholy.
Mage's melancholy was a defense mechanism, plain and simple. Push magic when your mind's fragile, and it shatters outright. The melancholy was the warning flare—survival instinct kicking in.
So all he could do was grit teeth through the impatience and misery till it burned out.
“You called, eh?”
Bessimer's voice rumbled from outside.
He's brooding too.
Far cry from the first impression: cackling berserker hacking hell wolves. This voice was low, shadowed.
“Yeah, come in.”
Isaac kept honing steady.
“Got a knack for that edge-work.”
“Picked it up here.”
“Heard you got a way to kill the Wolf King.”
“Yup.”
“Spill it.”
“Sit first. You're looming.”
His height made the tent ceiling scrape. He stood with head ducked.
“Fine standin'. Ain't that long a yarn.”
“It is. Sit.”
“...”
Bessimer plopped down, sour-faced.
“Keep it short. Ain't got oceans of patience for you.”
“We'll lure the Wolf King to camp.”
“How the hell you lure a Wolf King?”
“With you.”
“...?”
“You act at all?”
“Arms empty.”
“Ow—”
“Head empty.”
“Ow!”
Isaac's wooden sword whipped relentlessly; Hans could only scream.
Block high, it dives low. Feint low, cracks high. Hans was the camp piñata, as ever.
“Ease off, young master. Hans is the only one who'll spar with you.”
Combat training time. No one volunteered against Isaac, so it was Hans for ten straight days. Carlson sparred after hours, but he had soldiers to drill during.
“You learn by eating hits. Up, Hans.”
“Ugh... yes, young master.”
The gap was vast. Twelve or not, Isaac's near-decade of Lucas's underground swordplay didn't vanish. Hans had size and strength, but technique? No contest.
“Ow!”
“Ow!”
“Uwaaah!”
Hans's yelps echoed through sparring.
“Bessimer game?”
Carlson asked once combat wrapped.
“Says he'll mull it. He'll bite.”
“Might as well patricide.”
“That's why we cut his grudge now.”
Binvelt history scraps Isaac and Carlson pieced with Bessimer's tale painted 13 years back: Baitur on stage.
Goete poured everything into repelling outer tribes, crushing raids.
Then the old count died—plague, sepsis.
Crisis loomed, but tribes were ragged too. Weary of endless scraps with Goete, peace factions swelled.
Leading: Granak, mightiest big tribe. Coincidentally, their great chieftain lay dying from monster wounds right after old count's passing.
Worried for his people's future, he proposed marriage to the new count: his daughter for alliance.
New count, cornered, agreed. Most tribes made peace.
But Binvelt's hothead minorities balked. Fiercest foes: Baitur. “Never forget tribesblood spilled by Goete.”
Too late. Tide turned; minorities couldn't topple Goete alone.
Cornered pre-final stand, Baitur went nuclear: forbidden beastification rite. Warriors to wolves.
Stronger fighters, fiercer wolves.
They racked wins awhile. But taboos bite back. Beastified couldn't revert; feral rage eroded minds, birthing monsters.
Save the chief. Iron will kept his reason: the silver wolf. Wolf King.
He alone reined hell wolves—raw dominance.
No him? Just beasts.
“But will the Wolf King play your tune?”
“Bessimer says it had dozens of shots to gut him but always spared. If it still knows its son, it'll move like clockwork.”
“Worth the shot. Lots of bodies, though.”
“...Your job's minimizing that. Better than hell wolf horde wipe.”
Bessimer had chased the Wolf King for over a decade. Casualties every failure.
Couldn't stall forever. Hell wolves would multiply—Baitur prophet's doing.
Isaac wiped jaw sweat, eyed the sky. Gloomy since yesterday.
Heart leaden. But what comes, comes. What must, must.
“Just Bessimer's resolve left.”
“Pretty much.”
Then a giant lumbered from the clearing's edge toward Isaac. One hand gripped a double-headed axe: pitch-black blades, pumpkin gem on butt—priceless at a glance.
His feral stride spooked soldiers into flinching back.
Carlson even tugged Isaac behind, hand to hilt.
He halted within arm's reach.
“I'll do it.”
Bessimer said.