You've Left Something Precious (1)

The eve of the storm. The Holy War, set to truly begin with the Demon King Struggle as its turning point.

Yet time flowed on as ever.

From Yusra and Frost to Muon, the Mage Tower, and even the rifts. Players pushed their growth from their respective positions.

"Ugh, I'm seriously gonna die!"

It was a daily life unlike any I'd experienced before. No rest even after clearing rifts? The free schedule, early quits, and evenings to myself—the biggest reason I'd chosen to become a player—were gone these days.

"What the hell is up with that guy's pride anyway?"

How could it make a person this exhausted?

But I had to endure. Grit my teeth and push through with sheer grit.

"Quit your whining. I don't wanna get kicked out just for hanging with you."

"What? Kicked out? No one's getting kicked out. I'll last till the end."

"Yeah, if you could just shut up."

This was a rare opportunity, after all.

The Lion Heart Knights, publicly acknowledged as the empire's strongest order.

Back when Arcana was just a game, players couldn't even converse with them unless they had serious fame. Hell, they couldn't even make contact.

But with the Holy War looming, in this special situation? Conversation was the least of it. They were training under the direct guidance of the Lion Heart Knights.

"Basic stamina is the foundation of all things. Now, run, you lot!"

Harcon Kingsguard's booming ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice echoed through Frost's training grounds.

"No chatting during training."

Jessica Bright's stern voice rang out in Yusra's training grounds.

Muon's situation was no different.

"...How many hours of penitential prayer is this?"

"Damn, my legs are numb."

"Mine lost sensation ages ago."

Groans escaped the lips of priests kneeling in prayer.

"Why'd I ever pick holy knight?!"

"At least barbarians can go shirtless."

"I hate this plate armor so much..."

Holy knights sweated buckets.

The Mage Tower's plight was much the same.

In the Mage Tower's library, players first marveled at the sheer volume of magic tomes. Then they were stunned by their depth.

So many books on advanced magic?

"...But what the hell does this even mean?"

"Exploration, interference, manifestation...?"

"It's so beyond me, it's slapping my pride."

It was only natural.

Magic and [skills] were entirely different concepts.

Even Chief Mage Marcelo didn't fully grasp it yet. How could newbie apprentice mages—players—just get it?

"Feels like studying for the college entrance exam again."

"...Did you even study?"

"If I had, I'd be a ranker in Arcana by now."

"Pfft."

The content was so esoteric, it drew idle laughs.

In the old Mage Tower, no one would have cared about apprentice mages' struggles. Everyone chased truths that eluded them, ignoring the fallen behind.

But.

"What? An irregular seminar in the Crystal Hall?!"

The Mage Tower had changed. It no longer chased vain truths, neglecting those around it.

In the vast Crystal Hall, Chief Mage Marcelo stood at the center. Thanks to the players, it felt fuller than usual.

I pride myself on thinking more than anyone.

The founder of theoretical magic, who systematized all magic through theory. Marcelo always viewed everything from multiple angles.

Naturally, myriad thoughts followed.

But even in those countless imaginings, he'd never pictured a seminar before adventurers. Or his current self.

His body was still gaunt, but it no longer creaked. No blood rose in his throat, no pain lingered. Above all, his mind was clear.

Was my head always this sharp? He realized anew.

That brought it back to mind.

...Did the terminal curse really vanish?

One of the millions of demons Sir Hoyeol slew carrying the curse? An absurd coincidence.

He hadn't taken it seriously. No vain hopes.

Do I deserve such fortune?

The Simuarga family curse. Faces of the departed flashed by.

"......"

Long-forgotten emotions resurfaced.

Marcelo shrugged.

No, this isn't the time for sentiment.

Too far and treacherous a path lay ahead. And the fortune Sir Hoyeol brought from the Arcana continent—he wouldn't waste a moment of it.

Marcelo spoke.

"Theoretical magic was established to aid understanding of abstract magic structures. What is exploration? What is interference? How to manifest magic from mana..."

......

Yusra Kingdom, Golden Calf Tavern.

With Rackid healing from injury, an unexpected peace had settled.

Gulp—ale washing away fatigue.

As they downed it, players whined competitively.

"No joke, you guys don't know Harcon's personality. He's a lion for a reason. Staring with those piercing eyes...!"

"Running's better."

"What?"

Thwack-thwack-thwack. A priest pounding his thigh roughly. But his face didn't twitch.

"From dawn till just now. Kneeling and praying. Look, no feeling in my legs. Hell, blood not flowing made my head spin."

Poor guy. No, I'm poorer.

Amid the complaints came a thud!

Not Rackid, anyway.

"...Why'd you slam your head on the table?"

"Something happen at the Tower?"

"Yeah. Realized I'm thick-headed. Look. Slammed it this hard, still fine? Total self-loathing. Exploration my ass. Should explore what's in my skull first..."

What hell had he endured at the Tower? He looked wrecked.

Yeah, no easy paths in this world. Not enough time to console each other.

"Enough. Drink up."

Clink—they drained their glasses. One man suddenly spoke.

"But, Lee Hoyeol."

"Pfft! Lee Hoyeol? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Our Holy War Alliance Commander's."

"Just us here, c'mon. Anyway, Sir Hoyeol."

That damn title made talking a chore.

The man smacked his lips awkwardly and continued.

"How's he even alive?"

Hoyeol was always unflinching. No hesitation or hiding in his steps.

His routine—Yusra, Frost, Mage Tower—was widely known.

So it baffled them. Harcon had said it.

"Even the great Sir Hoyeol trains his stamina without fail, day after day..."

Not just Harcon.

"...Wait, you guys haven't heard? The rumor buzzing at the Tower about our Commander Lee Hoyeol. Couldn't believe it, checked multiple times."

Heroic tales of Hoyeol abounded in the Tower and Muon.

Now it made even less sense.

"Stamina training's not enough—he returns to the Tower, handles chief duties stuck in his office? Then rushes to rifts first when they spawn? And repeats that?!"

Was that even human?

......

I, Lee Hoyeol, declare: My previous statement that I don't need the First World Tree's Blessing is hereby retracted.

This isn't living...!

Without the World Tree's blessing,

I'd have keeled over from overwork and crossed the rainbow bridge.

First off, the drastically increased training volume was killer.

The blessing prevented fatigue buildup, but more volume meant more time invested. Look—even now, push-ups for dozens of minutes.

I stared at the rising message.

Finally, success. Survived today, sigh of relief.

But my mouth uttered something else.

"Without pain, there is no gain. To call this a blessing."

...That damn stubborn ass!

Fine, I get it somewhat. Sometimes shaky limbs make it feel like real training.

But recalling the next task made it the emptiest gripe.

Slide—straight to the desk without pause. Flipping through books.

So many knowledge gaps to fill, wells aplenty.

Daily reading spanned countless fields.

My brain alone couldn't grasp it in a lifetime.

But with Grandfell's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠intellect, I etched in the staggering volume just by glancing.

Of course, learning is endless? No end in sight.

Plus chief duties.

Luckily, Marcelo's full recovery lightened the load. He was busy adapting newbie players anyway.

If I'd dealt with players...

Nightmare. I'd spew worse venom than to the Tower's apprentices and adepts.

Internet headlines: "Lee Hoyeol's Vitriol, Personality Controversy."

"The gaze and judgment of others hold no meaning."

As you'd expect from the man himself.

And it didn't end there.

I was effectively the Holy War's supreme commander.

Yusra, Frost, Muon, Mage Tower. Plus players. Incredibly burdensome mantle.

Me, with my resume?

No need for the Tower. Harcon alone was level 600. Combat and war experience incomparable to mine.

But no excuses. Especially not now, before the massive Demon King Struggle.

"Numbers are but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠numbers."

Yes, shamelessly. I'd bear the weight.

I had confidence. Grandfell's unbreakable setting.

Underestimation met proof. Overestimation bent to reality.

Of course, I was the one dying for it.

Reading done, straight to Yusra for Holy War prep. Not for nothing I thanked the World Tree.

"Yet maintaining combat sense is vital."

Time permitting, enter rifts: sword auras, magic casts, hunting scraps for XP. No rest.

So thirsty for green tea. Craving tea time.

Thud—I closed the book, checked current rifts.

Let's see, highest appropriate level rift is...

...What the hell.

What's this article?

Already struggling to meet inflated expectations, and they balloon further.

But.

"Rumors without feet travel slow."

Who to blame? My own loose lips started it.

So, keep scrambling.

I straightened my attire. Immaculate and upright. To not buckle under the weight.

......

Despite vowing no wobbling.

Vow be damned. Entering the rift, I tensed without showing it.

High El bowed.

"The remains of the Quirnburk Mechanical Tower's core, as you requested."

Bowing still, added,

"The damage was severe. Dwarves tried restoring it, but no success. I, High El, failed your request utterly. My shame."

Too deferential, High El. You'd think I ran it like the World Tree.

I replied magnanimously.

"No need to bow."

"...?"

"This suffices."

The Quirnburk Mechanical Tower's core, shattered beyond dwarven repair.

No issue.

I had my trusty trick, from past to present.

Reversal Magic.