The first thing he saw was three girls playing with a rope twisted from tree bark, and one boy. The girls were playing together, while the boy had appointed himself their nuisance. He hooked a foot around one girl's ankle, then ran away.

"Stop it!"

The girl's eyes slanted sharply upward. She seemed truly furious. Her expression resembled Ayul's when she had swung her axe at Rem.

The boy took to his heels and darted between the large tents. He was quick on his feet, plainly accustomed to running about since he was little. His skinny frame made him look faster still.

"Little bastard. Even a Velopter wouldn't carry you off."

The girl holding the rope glared. Most of the adults had patterns painted on their faces, but the children had none, which made their skin look clearer. Being young would account for some of that clarity, too.

Dark-brown eyes gleamed viciously in her lightly tanned face. Someone had interrupted her fun. If she caught him, he looked likely to get more than a scratch.

To Encrid, it looked as though the boy simply wanted to join them. Like children that age often did, he was trying to get their attention with a mischievous prank.

Four men working hides watched and laughed.

"Keep that up and she'll break something."

"Don't run, boy. Stand your ground. Better to let her hit you."

"You'll get worse if she catches you."

They were teasing him. Yet there seemed to be something somber about their laughter. That was how it struck Encrid, at least.

The boy poked his head out from between two large tents.

"Then I just won't get caught."

The adults teased him that he couldn't spend his whole life running away. He paid them no mind.

As Encrid watched, an animal's rattling cry sounded behind him. Naturally, he had sensed its approach long before.

"Hyah!"

A child rode up on a Velopter. Encrid turned around. He met the eyes of the child astride the young creature, whose scales were still soft and whose body stood low to the ground. They were at roughly the same eye level.

"Make way for a Hero."

Encrid obligingly stepped aside at the child's declaration.

A huge ox, nearly as tall as the child's eye level, passed in front of them, pulling a loaded cart.

"Whoa, let's stay clear of that."

The child patted the Velopter's neck to steer it away from the bull, and the creature stepped aside.

It was fully grown, big enough to crush most humans with a charge. But its bright, gentle eyes suggested it was unlikely to lose its temper. The man leading it also paused to let the child through.

All sorts of other people caught his eye. A woman carried a woven wooden basket on her back, perhaps returning from gathering herbs. A man was drying plants. An old man shaved a long pole with a work knife, making something. A one-armed man with an empty sleeve held a piece of leather down with his foot, engrossed in carefully stitching it.

"Feels welcoming," Encrid said after a quick look around.

A certain gloom lingered, but the place was full of life overall.

"Told you it was a good place," Rem replied beside him.

He had indeed. Not prosperous, but peaceful. It looked that way to Encrid, too: a pastoral scene suffused with simple warmth.

BAAAA.

Sheep bleated.

MOOOO.

Cattle lowed.

He saw a few horses, too, but all had short legs and thick bodies. They were a breed suited to carrying loads rather than running fast. Was it because there was no need for riding horses, leaving only packhorses? He had been told there were wild horses in the West, but people didn't bother taming them to ride.

Open spaces dotted the mass of tents. In one, a dozen or so Velopters rested with their short forelegs lowered, their heads buried in feed buckets. Those were the westerners' mounts.

One vertically slit eye turned toward Encrid in curiosity. The creature gave a series of rattling cries, its scales shifting.

They were cold-blooded creatures and would simply die if the temperature fell. That was why Velopters could only be seen here. The West was a land without snow, generally warm. No, hot.

Even now, the weather had sweat dripping off him. Yet a breeze in the shade would be enough to cool it.

Not everyone walking about looked cheerful. As the one-armed fellow wiped his sweat and smiled, a woman passed right in front of him with a gloomy face. She had gray eyes and short gray hair, similar in color to Rem's.

She walked along with a basket of plants and an utterly grave expression. Three children stood in her path, inadvertently blocking her way.

"Move."

She spoke quietly and trudged on, staring into the distance as though she could see nothing but the path ahead. She looked rather out of her mind. Gray smoke rose from the direction she was heading.

Once she had passed, the three children glanced about warily before returning to their game, all smiles again. They stretched the rope out and took turns jumping over it, apparently following some set of rules. They seemed to be having fun, wholly absorbed.

Tents, people, and a host of small tasks keeping them occupied. Looking around, most of the people seemed alike. Their well-defined muscles, shaped by regular labor and limited meals, gave that impression.

There were plenty of signs of scarcity: holes in tents, a lack of supplies, things he could see at a glance. Some faces were troubled, but most people were enjoying their own sort of happiness.

"Find it strange?" Rem asked.

Encrid quietly sank into thought. For some reason, he remembered Oara. She had wanted laughing children to run and play in her city, Oara. That was what he saw here. People who had little, but were content.

Seeing this, he understood why Rem had called them boring.

'Because they're enjoying the lives they have.'

They were satisfied with the present. That seemed to be their nature.

The party stood in one corner of the clearing, plainly outsiders, yet nobody showed much interest. Only a few passersby glanced their way. Some children were busy watching from a distance, apparently fascinated by the Frog.

"It's a frog."

"A frog person."

Clearly, they had never seen a Frog before.

Fortunately, Frogs didn't think of themselves as frogs and took no offense at such remarks. Generally, they caused little trouble unless something concerned their purpose or someone mentioned the word "heart."

In any case, all these things combined to create an unusual atmosphere. These were lives of settling rather than striving. Or, more precisely, a tendency to let things take their course? That was the impression Encrid got from this entire mobile city of tents.

He didn't find it unpleasant. Rem had warned that he might, but no one could force their own values or approach to life on others. Just as someone's dream deserved respect, he thought their attitude deserved it as well.

Wasn't that life? Everyone was similar yet different, different yet similar. There was no reason not to accept differences born of different lands, peoples, and traditions. Besides, not everyone here would be like that. Rem himself was proof enough. Surely there were others with ambition.

"What's this? Who's here?"

Now and then, someone greeted them. Naturally, plenty recognized Rem.

"What? Is that Rem?"

"The real Rem, not an impostor?"

"Wasn't Rem dead?"

"Ayul said he was dead. Or did she say she'd killed him?"

That last remark was particularly memorable. The speaker was a man with gray eyes like Rem's, though much paler. Rem's wife, Ayul, nodded in response.

"I will soon."

She sounded so sincere it was chilling.

"What have you been telling people?"

At Rem's question, Ayul smiled for the first time. Only one corner of her mouth rose. It went beyond chilling to downright ominous. Everyone's survival instincts stirred.

"It's all Rem's fault," Luagarne said.

Had she always been this quick to save her own skin?

"Exactly," Dunbachel agreed.

"Rem, apologize."

Encrid wasn't far behind.

By all appearances, Ayul wielded considerable influence here. They might come all this way without getting a single bite of meat. If she told them to get out, it looked as though they would have to leave. Nobody seemed likely to listen to what Rem had to say.

"... Do you even know what you're talking about?"

Rem turned to the party, looking incredulous.

No. But it was his fault. No matter what.

Encrid made his position clear with his eyes.

"You've got principles."

Ayul showed a little approval. Rem had ruined their first impression, but it had improved somewhat. As they sided with her, Rem muttered, "Risk your life fighting for people, and it's all for nothing."

With the mood slightly softened, Encrid said to Rem,

"Go beg her forgiveness. Bow your head every three steps."

"Why don't you just shut up and wait?"

Rem looked genuinely irritated, so Encrid said no more.

"I need to go see the chieftain. Stay here."

Rem took a breath before speaking. He looked far more at ease than he had when facing Ayul. Meeting the chieftain seemed to trouble him not at all.

Encrid recalled what Rem had said about going to the West. All he had been worried about was facing his wife.

"All right," Encrid replied.

Juol stepped forward and picked out somewhere for them to rest: a tent tucked away in a corner.

In the West, people customarily sat on broad cloths spread on the ground rather than chairs. One such cloth covered the floor inside the tent.

"You can rest here."

Encrid nodded at Juol's words. The thick cotton padding underneath made it quite soft.

He set his pack down to one side. A heavy cloak, wooden bowls and other utensils, and assorted belongings had made it a substantial load. His shoulders felt much lighter without it. So light that he immediately felt like moving.

He had thought about many things on the way, and something had felt almost within reach while fighting the Giant. He rose, took his sword, and went out in front of the tent. Dunbachel called from behind him.

"Where are you going?"

"To loosen up."

"Ask someone what that smell is later. What plants are they burning so much of? It's bothering me."

That was the Beastman's keen nose talking. Encrid nodded, then asked,

"Doesn't your own smell bother you?"

"It actually gives me a little thrill when I sniff it."

Encrid nearly lashed out without thinking, but restrained himself. His right hand had risen halfway; his left had reached the gladius on his sword belt. He exercised self-control and stopped there. What was patience, if not the determination to hold oneself back? His willpower shone even now.

For a moment, he had nearly acted like Rem, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Sometimes Dunbachel's provocations evaporated every last scrap of reason in a person's skull. That she didn't mean to do it only made it more infuriating.

"Don't bother. If a beating could make her listen, she'd have listened long ago."

Luagarne spoke with insight befitting a Frog. Dunbachel had never yielded to Rem's violence. In a sense, nobody could match her sheer obstinacy.

"I know."

Encrid went out, and Luagarne followed. Standing in front of the tent, he swung his sword to sort through his thoughts.

WHOOSH, SWISH, WHOOSH, SWISH.

One slow swing, one fast. Then again.

He had seen enough of the surroundings, and a large tent blocked his view on this side, leaving nothing more to look at. On the other hand, the covert glances that had followed the party were gone, too. The children, and everyone not absorbed in their own work, had looked at them at least once, but nobody seemed particularly interested.

With a few swings, Encrid delved into himself. The today he had repeated over and over. What he had learned from watching Oara. He reflected on those things, put them through Review, along with the experience gained fighting the Giant.

["If all you do is fight for real, your balance gradually shifts and your form slips without you noticing. That's why you can't neglect your regular training."]

Those were the words of a mercenary devoted to training. Most of the instructors Encrid had met at training schools agreed.

["Of course. Your regular training is what emerges unconsciously."]

Luagarne had nodded in agreement as well.

Ragna, Rem, Jaxon, and Audin had all offered similar advice, though it hadn't been especially helpful.

Ragna had insulted the very word "training" by saying you ought to swing your sword at least three or four times a day. Jaxon said that practicing in your head made reproducing it with your body easy, effectively calling everyone but himself an idiot. Rem said to swing however you felt like, driving home the gulf in talent.

Audin did emphasize training. The Isolation Technique he had taught Encrid was founded on daily practice. Not that Audin lacked talent himself. He simply never stopped honing his body.

Recalling that training, those Isolation Technique exercises, nearly made Encrid retch. It brought back the early days, when he had sometimes practiced three times a day: morning, noon, and night.

'Did he call that the Three-Times Technique?'

Training three times a day had left him aching as though he might actually die. He could barely move a finger. Yet if anyone asked whether he resented Audin, Encrid would shake his head. That process, all those grueling days, had given him the strength to swing his sword even now.

"You came with Rem, I hear?"

The voice drew Encrid swimming out of his concentration. He hadn't sunk as far as the depths of the sea. He simply became absorbed like this sometimes when he trained using Concentrate on a Single Point: thoughts running on while his body continued its work.

Of course, he had sensed someone approaching. With neither killing intent nor fighting spirit, he had simply let them be.

Encrid looked ahead. A middle-aged woman stood there, holding something like a long stick. She put it to her mouth, drew on it, and puffed out smoke. Tobacco. Its smoke smelled acrid.

"Is someone burning something?"

Dunbachel, with her sensitive nose, poked her head out of the tent to ask.

Rather than answer, Encrid looked at the two westerners standing behind the woman. Brown hair, matching features. Twins.

"You wanted to spar? Rem told me, so here we are."

She puffed again, and tobacco smoke drifted past her face. It still smelled bitter and acrid. Yet Encrid caught a subtle sweetness within it. Whether that scent was really there, he couldn't say, but he seemed to smell it.

Sparring partners had arrived. Which meant they would be among the West's best. Even at a glance, they looked far from mediocre. Looking at the pair made him feel as though he could smell that sweetness.

"But are you sure you want to spar?" the middle-aged woman asked.

Encrid nodded. The question hardly needed an answer.