Chapter 184
Chapter 184
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 184
Chapter Title: The Road to Sampoh (8)
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Room 101.
No one knew who started calling it that first, but anyone who knew of this place referred to it by that name.
In that room, barren of even the most common decorations or a clock, with only a desk placed in it, an old man took out an inkwell and a quill pen.
He carefully dipped the quill into the ink, then began scribbling words onto the parchment laid out on the desk.
Scratch, scratch.
Elegant hand movements, an antique script.
In a world dominated by smartphones and keyboards, the writing produced by old tools was beautiful.
However, the story those letters conveyed was far from beautiful.
Someone's death, the ruin of a place, the fall of a world.
It was a verdict because it pronounced judgment.
A history book because it recorded the past, a prophecy because it wrote the future.
But whatever it was written on that parchment, and whatever others called it, the old man didn't care.
He simply wrote down what had happened and what was happening, over and over.
—Manchu Hunting Grounds, border region. Cause: Saintess.
—Reincarnator, border region. Cause...
—Prologue, border region...
—Seoul's...
At some point amid the ceaseless scratching of the pen, the old man paused and looked toward the door.
Soon after, the rusted iron door creaked open, and a black man in a suit entered the room.
Had he rushed here? Panting for breath, he sat down opposite the old man.
"Special Advisor? What brings you here?"
The old man asked as he resumed moving his pen. The black man caught his breath for a moment before answering very cautiously.
"...The scenario has twisted again."
Despite the shocking news, the old man showed no particular reaction.
Instead, as if it were only natural, he slowly nodded.
"It's all as expected, isn't it? A butterfly's wingbeat always brings another storm, so don't be alarmed."
The scratching of the pen continued, but the black man fell silent.
As if he had no idea how to explain it.
In the end, the old man spoke first.
"Perhaps the princess survived? If so, kill that wench before she crosses the dimensional gate. The imperial family has enough with the third prince at Lord Howe Academy..."
"No."
"...Then did the crown prince survive? Rare, but not impossible. Leave him be. The player by the third prince's side will gladly kill him."
Just then, the ink in the quill ran dry. The old man picked up the inkwell to refill it.
Or rather, he tried to.
But at that exact moment, the black man spoke in a strained voice.
"...The nukes are gone. Not just one—all thirteen from underground Dreiterial."
The old man froze in place, holding the inkwell, and glared at the man across from him.
His gleaming eyes scanned the man's face with murderous intensity.
"The reason?"
"Still investigating."
Still investigating—meaning they knew nothing yet. Feeling a slight headache, the old man neatly set the quill down on the parchment.
The smell of ink, the leather scent from the parchment, the scent of distortion wandering through the silence.
After a moment, composing himself, the old man picked up the quill again.
"What of Juga Shibili? Is he dead?"
"Bikov opened a red dimensional gate and fled to Baltua. The CIA is convinced he's planning to attack the northern territories and spark a revolution."
Communists always moved like communists, it seemed. At least that was some relief.
"And those pesky energy beings?"
"The dimensional satellites caught some movements. The ones behind this nuclear incident are probably..."
The conversation continued from there.
The Empire, the Academy, elves, dwarves, and... Korea.
"...Relay this to the president: the main scenario has changed."
It was the old man's unilateral dismissal, but the black man obediently left the room.
He had already obtained the information he and the government wanted.
As silence returned to the room once more, the old man scribbled new words at the edge of the parchment.
Where the Saintess and princess gather, dragon...
At that moment, snap—the quill broke.
An overtly ominous sign.
Gazing briefly at the ink dripping between the broken quill feathers, the old man clicked his tongue shortly at the shadow pooling on the ceiling.
Tsk.
***
The difference between traditional martial arts and superhuman martial arts was, without question, mana.
It was thanks to mana that superhumans could surpass their innate physical limits and possess abnormal regenerative abilities.
But what if they didn't use mana?
Superhuman martial arts were no different from ordinary ones.
No—in fact, they often fell short, having been designed with the assumption of mana use.
Thus, Dawn's martial arts without mana looked pathetic.
Flying Leg Art, without mana pooled in the calves and plantar fascia, was nothing but clumsy footwork and kicks.
Comet Sword, treating a tree branch as a blade, and the swordsmanship stolen from the player were mere brutish swings of a stick, while Wave Yang Art and Black Wing Style couldn't even be used.
Nevertheless, Dawn silently performed his martial arts.
Sweat dripping from his forehead, breath ragged to his jaw, he continued.
His demonstration ended only after the elf's applause sounded amid the chirping of crickets.
"Enough, that's it."
Demeronde said, dusting himself off as he stood.
"The martial arts you've learned—most seem stolen, right?"
"...How did you know?"
"At my level, it's all clear. Anyway, how many of them do you truly understand the essence of?"
"About... half."
"You stole just the forms and mana usage without grasping the essence... Not even the Soviets would do that."
Juga Shibili—or killing intent. Piercing straight to the bottom of Dawn's arts in one glance, Demeronde held up the empty wine bottle upside down and said,
"Now, attack me using mana this time."
Dawn, catching his breath, raised the tree branch and replied.
"...Even if it breaks the oath?"
Tonight, no blood would be spilled... The oath Demeronde had just sworn on the World Tree.
Recalling it, the elf smirked. In short, it meant he'd make him bleed.
"Come at me."
Dawn gladly obliged.
Drawing up Wave Yang Art, the mana that had been dormant until now surged roughly through his veins like waves.
The time it took to blink once.
With mana surging through his entire body, Dawn swung the tree branch.
A strike powerful enough for the distant Saintess to notice.
Demeronde's response to it was simple. He thrust the empty wine bottle in his hand toward Dawn.
A simple thrust or push.
But seeing that simple attack, Dawn immediately withdrew the branch and took two steps back.
Out of worry that Demeronde might get hurt? No—because his instincts screamed it. Going further meant death.
Right after, the mana that had been about to burst along the branch lost its target and exploded within it.
Boom! Covered in splintered fragments, Dawn stared at Demeronde in stunned disbelief, not even thinking to brush them off.
A brief silence.
By the time the crickets chirped again, Dawn spoke.
"...That just now—was it elf swordsmanship?"
A gleam lit up Demeronde's face.
"You saw it in one move? Sharp eyes."
"..."
The unbelievable becoming reality gave Dawn a small shock.
That was elf swordsmanship?
If he didn't know elf swordsmanship at all, fine—but having seen Rime and Pinel's firsthand, even stolen them, Dawn knew.
What Demeronde had just shown was like launching a rocket with a toy car engine.
Swallowing his bewilderment, he asked again.
"Without mana— no, how exactly did you do it?"
"Like this."
Saying so, Demeronde swung the wine bottle through the air.
It seemed like a light swing again... but the result was astonishing.
Crack! Dozens of crickets flying around Dawn were sliced in half and pattered to the ground.
Not just one, but dozens at once.
"..."
While Dawn lost his words watching the falling insects, Demeronde spoke leisurely.
"Now do you understand?"
Dawn didn't answer right away.
Partly from shock sealing his mouth, but also because he spotted a hint in the clean cuts of the crickets.
After a moment, he ventured a hypothesis.
"...The essence."
"Oh?"
"...You performed elf swordsmanship infused with a different essence?"
He didn't know the exact method, but Demeronde had altered the true essence of elf swordsmanship. Nothing else explained it.
Demeronde replied in an admiring tone.
"Correct. Similar to how you perform martial arts with just forms and mana without essence, I can perform multiple martial arts with a single essence."
Multiple martial arts with one essence? Facing this paradigm shift, Dawn was awestruck.
For someone like him, who had mastered many arts without knowing their essences, no teaching could be more precious.
As his admiration stretched on, Demeronde chuckled.
"I know what you're thinking, but the lesson I'm giving you isn't that simple."
It wasn't? As Dawn tilted his head, the elf added,
"Among the essences of the martial arts you know, is there any that stirs your heart?"
"..."
None. At best, Wave Yang Art's essence of "Mind Dwells in Oblivion" had given him a slight enlightenment.
As Dawn fell silent, Demeronde nodded knowingly.
"Essence is ultimately the ideology that moves mana. No matter how good the ideology, if it doesn't move your own heart, it's just knowledge for using martial arts."
Saying that, Demeronde looked up at the night sky.
"To wield multiple martial arts with one essence, you must start by creating your own essence. That's the teaching I'll impart."
"..."
Dawn's eyes sparkled with anticipation, but he couldn't help asking.
"Demeronde, what is... your essence?"
The fearsome essence that, with just a wine bottle, had set Dawn's instincts on edge.
Caught off guard by the question? Demeronde paused a moment before answering.
"My essence? The essence I hold is... hatred."
"..."
"To put it a bit longer... yeah, this is it."
Under the night sky where crickets chirped and moonlight flickered, the elf's scarred face twisted.
"The World Tree is just a big tree."
* * *