Whether the eldest shaman woke or not, Encrid did what he had to do. That began with the Isolation Technique, tightening and oiling his muscles, followed by such things as having Luagarne beat his body with a blunt club.

THUMP!

Even a blow of moderate strength knocked the breath out of him. This was just right. It had to hurt. Without pain, his body would not toughen up.

After so many blows, it even felt as though the Will of refusal was activating wherever he was struck. He was not certain yet. He thought he would find out if he kept at it.

As he trained with the striking method, the twins approached.

“Do you enjoy getting hit?”

“I'm practicing hitting things with my ribs.”

At Encrid's half-joking reply, both twins furrowed their brows. Was that really useful training? It was a reasonable question.

“Anyone who tries copying this without knowing better will ruin their body.”

Luagarne gently warned them off.

“Then how do you manage it, honorary Hero?”

This time, the question came from another western warrior, a man with three deep scars running from his forehead across his left eye and down his cheek. Hadn't he said a copycat monster had tricked and attacked him as a child? Since then, his name had been Three Claws.

“I started with something like a wad of cotton and gradually moved on to harder things.”

Encrid straightened as he answered.

There was nothing secret about this. When Audin had taught him, he had never called it some secret art. Nor could it be one. Encrid had said cotton, but it had not actually been cotton. Audin hitting him with his fists at a measured strength hardly qualified.

Thinking back on it, it really had been a stupidly brutal thing to do. Would he do it again? Of course. He had gained something from it. But if someone asked whether he wanted to? Even Encrid would have to think about that.

It had hurt like hell, and he had had no idea what he could possibly gain from it. He had only done it because Audin was there egging him on. Once he felt the benefits, though, it had been all right.

“It still looks painful.”

After that pointless remark, the twins brought up something even more pointless. Geomnarae was their father. They were talking about how Encrid had saved him.

“Thank you so much.”

The two looked as though they could beat an ox to death barehanded, yet now they seemed remarkably guileless.

Encrid did not know it, but the twins truly did have much to thank him for. In fact, all the westerners did.

If Rem had not returned, if Encrid had not been there, if the Frog and the Beastman had not come with them... In that worst case, Geomnarae would have burned through his own life to cast a spell. He would have been able to fight like a Hero for a brief time, then quickly shriveled up like a mummy and died. Such was the price of defying the natural order.

An ordinary death would have been preferable. It was said that dying that way brought horrific pain, and that the consequences followed you even into the next life. The twins were grateful he had spared their father that fate, grateful he had saved the West.

“Sure.”

Encrid still brushed it off. There was nothing to say. Was he supposed to tell them he had saved their lives and now they owed him payment to match? That was not why he had done it. Besides, he had been the one to receive help first.

After finishing the Isolation Technique in the morning, he practiced his swordsmanship, spent time with Luagarne, traded blows with Dunbachel, and sparred now and then. Along the way, he tried fighting Geomnarae too. The man was no slouch. He fought with an axe in one hand and a spear in the other, handling both with considerable skill.

“Who do you think taught Rem?”

“He said he taught himself.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“I'll agree with you there.”

They even paused their spar to deepen their friendship over a shared interest. Insulting Rem was enjoyable, after all. Geomnarae was a cheerful man at heart. Most westerners were.

The fighting was over. Encrid had seen everyone press their foreheads to the ground, calling him an honorary Hero and whatnot. Many, including the twins, had expressed their thanks. A few women had even offered to marry him if he would only say the word.

Luagarne shook her head at them.

“Don't even try.”

Once she explained that a black-haired beauty and a Fairy awaited him back home, they all gave up. Jiba still displayed unyielding determination, but that hardly meant much.

Rem had not been seen since the news that the eldest shaman had awakened. With nothing else in particular to do, Encrid trained, and a crowd of westerners gathered around him. They were all training their bodies too, so they watched each other practice and sparred.

“Hah!”

“Hyah!”

“Hi-yah!”

Among them were children play-fighting with pairs of wooden sticks. Nearby, girls gathered together, quietly playing something like house.

“Husband, where have you been all this time?”

One girl chopped a gray-haired boy across the back with the edge of her hand. Encrid wondered whether that could really be called playing house, but judging by the subject matter, it fit. It seemed to be Rem and Ayul's story.

That would probably become a legend passed down by word of mouth. The legend of a husband who ran away in the night, returned home, and not only survived but went back to being lovey-dovey with his wife.

'Not a bad title.'

He thought someone could make a whole story out of it. If he had dreamed of becoming a Bard, he would have fulfilled his calling as a storyteller. But he had not, so Encrid swung his sword.

Then he paused. A stray thought had occurred to him. With Aker's tip planted in the ground, he let the fragments of associated thoughts rise as they pleased.

'What was that voice I heard? That hallucination?'

It had happened while he fought the apostle.

[“Trying to cut an incorporeal opponent just like that? You're rather dim, aren't you?”]

That was what he had heard. Hearing voices and seeing things were common on the battlefield. Once, while his side was being hard-pressed, he had seen a man fighting beside him run out shouting for his mother, only to be impaled on an enemy spear. Fear and terror must have made him see things and driven him forward.

Dunbachel had shown similar behavior during the fighting in the Gray Forest Demonic Realm. Consumed by fear, she had bolted. So was that voice the same sort of hallucination? That voice?

'No.'

Encrid had never seen things that were not there or heard imaginary voices. His mind had never broken down. The solid wall of his mind, founded on determination, had never crumbled. Unless a spell was involved, illusions would not beguile him.

Then what had that voice been? He did not know. He had not heard it again since. What should he do, then? Ignore it. That was what he decided.

Instead, he thought about the things he had collected after the battle: what the apostle had planted in the ground, and what they had found on his body. One object stood out.

It was a silver goblet. Tree roots were embossed on its surface in such exquisite detail that it seemed there ought to be a tree growing above it. But there was no tree. Instead, the inside of the goblet was stained purple, the same color as Giant blood.

“That stinks.”

As Dunbachel had remarked beside him, it did have a musty smell. There was something unpleasant about it, yet it also had a way of lingering in the mind.

“Can I smell it again?”

Dunbachel had asked that several times. After spending all day staring into space and dozing, she suddenly wanted to sniff it. Anyone could tell there was something wrong with either her or the silver goblet embossed with tree roots. Perhaps both.

“Have you lost your mind?”

Encrid reasoned with her kindly. He used his hands and feet while he was at it. He kicked at her shin with his left foot and struck her forehead with his right palm: a variation on the simultaneous two-handed strike from the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.

Dunbachel dodged his foot but not his hand. Struck on the forehead, she staggered back with a grunt. Even she must have thought something was wrong.

“That thing's strange. I keep thinking about the smell, like I need to smell it again. I want to take it and run away with it.”

“Resist it.”

“Uh, okay.”

Encrid persuaded Dunbachel without resorting to other tools when he had perfectly good fists, and she proved easier to persuade than expected.

The silver goblet embossed with tree roots had been found tucked inside the apostle's clothes. For a Cultist's possession, its outward appearance conveyed a certain nobility. In short, no one could have convinced Encrid it was a thing of the Demonic Realm.

“Best find a proper priest to deal with it. It's not shamanic. You should take it with you.”

Rem had said as much too, so naturally Encrid ended up keeping it.

It was not that Dunbachel lacked self-control.

“Some objects bewitch people simply by existing. This appears to be one of them.”

Even Luagarne, who had gone wild at the sight of the Cultists before regaining her composure, had said so.

'A corrupted sacred relic? Something like that?'

Wouldn't any temple on the continent take care of it if he left it with them? Or perhaps he would need to find a virtuous priest.

A virtuous priest. Finding one would be no easy task. They were about as common as a petty thief with a conscience, a kindhearted bandit, or a king who put his people first. But a priest who used divine power? That much he could probably manage.

'Audin might know someone.'

The man prayed every day. For some reason, he seemed to dodge priests whenever they came to town, but he might still know someone. Encrid could ask him later.

There were several other things that looked like magical tools, and he had stuffed them all into his pack. He seemed to have more luggage than when he had set out, and that was no illusion. There were the things he had received in the city of Oara, and the spoils he had collected after fighting in the West.

Could he really call them spoils? It felt as though he had only collected things that were difficult to dispose of. Then there was the transparent-bladed weapon from the Carmen Collection, which he had to give to Jaxon.

'If I wander around like this for a year, I might need a cart instead of a backpack.'

It was no idle thought.

“A long journey calls for good fortune.”

Together with several other women, Jiba's mother gave him a bracelet woven from leather, cloth, and hair. It was both a bracelet wishing him luck and a shamanic tool that kept insects away.

Only if it was woven with prayers and nothing but good intentions could it become a shamanic tool. And it had. Everyone making it had prayed with one heart, elevating it into an object of spellcraft. Good fortune to the outsider, their honorary Hero.

Encrid now wore a woven, multicolored bracelet on his arm. It was large enough to tie around his upper arm, above the elbow.

He also received a strange-looking dried fish. However they had dried it, the flesh was rock-hard. Its tail was crisp, and its eyes had been removed. It looked fit to grab and swing as it was. Was it meant as a substitute for a club? As he examined it, the fellow who had given it to him spoke.

“It's a dried fish from Great Lake. Strange-looking, isn't it? Do this, and it's easy to carry.”

As he spoke, he snapped off the head and tail and tucked them into a dry cloth pouch. Then he spread the flesh apart and plucked out the dry bones with his fingers.

Seeing the body opened up with that simple preparation, Encrid thought he had a rough idea of how it was made. The head, tail, and innards were removed, leaving only dried flesh. It did not seem to have been smoked.

'There's plenty of wind here.'

The method was called wind-drying. By the sea, they would have salted it and dried it in the sea breeze, but people here seemed to have developed their own method. Drying it in sand-laden winds, perhaps? He had no way to know the details, nor was he curious.

“Just tear it like this.”

The man demonstrated how to prepare it. You tore off the flesh, put it in a pouch, and carried it as dried rations.

“Boil it in water, and it makes a nice savory broth.”

Despite being dried fish, it hardly smelled at all. Even its faint scent was nothing like a fishy odor.

“Smells good, doesn't it? We sprinkle powdered herbs all over it. Gets your mouth watering.”

The man wiped his nose as he spoke. Encrid simply listened.

Since it had been offered, he tore off a piece and tried it. Chewing brought out a distinctive flavor. This was food you softened with saliva as you ate.

It was hard, but proved manageable once he started chewing. He had eaten it boiled before, but this was his first time eating it uncooked. The initial texture was strange. It grew softer and softer as he chewed, until it yielded easily and disappeared. Its nutty savor deepened with every bite.

Apparently, it was a prized food that not everyone got to carry. Dried fish meant to be boiled in a stew could be made rather haphazardly, but to carry it around like this required various treatments to keep it from spoiling. Food that could be carried for a year or even two was impressive.

It was similar to the pemmican commonly eaten on the continent, but milder and much more pleasant to eat. Pemmican gave off a foul smell as you ate it, to say nothing of the taste. People said the battlefield combination of sand-filled black bread and pemmican was a greater threat than the enemy.

And old pemmican? He would eat it if he were about to drop dead, but even Encrid felt his tongue turn rough at the thought. Of course, when food was scarce, the proper attitude for a soldier living on the battlefield was to shut up and eat the damn stuff.

“How is it? Ha ha.”

The fellow who had given him the food beamed.

He said hunters in the area ate it because it was highly nutritious and easy to carry. There were traditions associated with the food too, which made for an interesting story. The fellow telling it was quite entertaining as well.