Esther swept her black hair back with one hand. It cascaded down again like an ebony curtain. Between its folds, a pretty pink window with plump upper and lower edges opened, letting out a voice.

"Gifts?"

Encrid had never actually called them gifts, but he gave a casual nod. Her manner was ordinary, yet her eyes seemed unusually bright, like stars fallen from the sky. He also sensed a certain elation, though he did not know why.

Was she in a good mood? People sometimes were, for no particular reason. Just as there were days when you woke feeling especially refreshed.

Encrid had taken what he had brought out of his pack and spread it out. Killing the apostle had yielded quite a haul: not only the sacred relic, but other artifacts too. He had instinctively recognized them as magical items. Several of the drawstring pouches he had not even opened.

["Poison, or something much like it."]

Hira had warned him. He had intended to leave them in the West, but when told a mage would appreciate them, he had packed them instead.

Some were intact, but many were broken: a cracked pearl necklace, a ring split in half, a handkerchief embroidered with a woman weeping blood, demonic beast teeth, and more. Some were truly precious. Esther recognized that at a glance.

The apostle Encrid had encountered in the West had barely managed to put up a fight, but with serious preparation, he was a mage who could have put Count Molsen to shame. The difference between a prepared mage and an unprepared one was immense. Encrid's sudden attack had also left him cornered. After all, mages generally lacked a swordsman's ability to assess a situation in a split second.

At any rate, these things had belonged to that apostle. He had been a madman and a necromancer who had devoted his life to turning perfectly normal land into a Demonic Realm. Madness, or the appearance of it, was sometimes what people called genius they could not understand.

His specialty had been tinkering with corpses, but he had been as brilliant as he was mad, and the lunacy he desired had been on the verge of becoming reality. Unfortunately for him—or as someone else's share of misfortune—he had run into Encrid and Rem.

Esther opened a pouch with her slender white fingers and began neatly packing away the things Encrid had spread across the floor, one by one.

"Not bad."

Her eyes were already appraising the artifacts. Mages devoted themselves to research and inquiry. None would dislike things that could help with their spells and studies.

But where had he been, and what had he done to acquire such precious things? There was everything from a broken talisman that warded off curses and most other harmful influences to charms imbued with shamanic power in the western fashion. It looked as though he had slit a mage's throat somewhere and looted the body. No, that must have been exactly what he had done.

"How to Fight a Mage came in handy."

Encrid's matter-of-fact remark confirmed it.

"I see."

Esther gathered the last of the items and returned to her seat. She might have looked idle, but she was busy. So busy she would be unable to do anything else for a while.

While Encrid had been away, she had discovered that part of the curse inflicted on her in the past had permanently eroded her spell world. Even a damaged doll mended with needle and thread bore traces of the damage. That erosion was such a trace.

To a mage, their spell world had to be flawless at all times. But what if the caster felt that the world they had built was flawed? It was like playing chess without knights and bishops. As time passed, the eroded areas would only worsen, rather than improve.

Esther had two paths to choose from. One was to find some way to repair her eroded world. It would take a long time, but it was not impossible. Yet, like the chess analogy, it would mean fighting as a swordsman missing an arm and a leg.

What if she accidentally drew on the eroded parts of her world? That would be her own destruction. At best, she would die a clean death. At worst, she might become a monster that was neither dead nor alive.

What should she do, then? The first option was to live on, using her spells within carefully controlled limits. That was the easy path. The second was difficult.

'Rebuild my spell world.'

Instead of mending the doll's tears, she would take it apart and make it into a different doll. An ordinary mage would not dare attempt it, but Esther could see a way. To do that, she needed various artifacts: objects imbued with other mages' unique spells. Exactly the sort Encrid had just brought in abundance.

"Enkie."

Esther called to him from her chair. When Encrid turned, the black-haired beauty continued.

"I'm glad you're back."

The things he had brought? They were remarkable, astonishing finds, but more than that, she was glad Encrid had returned. Seeing him made one of the two paths clear. Certainty came over her, as though the god of magic had bestowed a teaching.

Esther had not quite understood it herself, but looking at Encrid now that he was back, she thought she did. She had been waiting for this man.

'Instead of agonizing, take even one step forward.'

Did it matter if the path was harder and more difficult? Through his actions, his life, and everything else, that man had always been saying it. No, he was saying it even now. If it was the path you believed right, what did difficulty matter?

Esther smiled faintly. Seeing it, Encrid tilted his head a little. Were the things he had brought that expensive? He had been told a mage would like them, but were they truly so precious?

Her smile soon faded, and she closed her eyes. She set out on a new path to rebuild her world. Of course, no one, Encrid included, could know that.

Night deepened. Sinar had left after receiving her gift, and Esther had closed her eyes. As Encrid settled down to sleep, Rem, his hair freshly washed, sat on the edge of the neighboring bed.

"I think those bastards ran away."

"... Go to sleep."

Rem growled twice more before falling asleep. Encrid closed his eyes too. Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless.

* * *

"Your greatest strength may be your adaptability."

Luagarne spoke as Encrid practiced the Isolation Technique at dawn. The rain had stopped, and the temperature had fallen considerably, filling the morning with air fresher and more invigorating than ever. A fine morning for training, one might say.

Not that he ever skipped training because it was hot. In other words, he was not training because returning to his old city—his home—had put him at ease.

'He sleeps well, eats well, and runs well wherever he is.'

That was one of the things Luagarne had noticed about Encrid. He had been the same on the road west and after they arrived. He had always been like this in Thousand Brick, now renamed Oara, too.

"Is that so?" Encrid nodded and continued what he was doing. With his legs spread and his weight balanced, he lowered himself and rose again. Across his shoulders rested a stone bar Audin had made himself. No, a pillar. Something too thick to wrap one hand around could hardly be called a mere bar. Pillar was the right word.

Watching him, Luagarne counted adaptability and steadfastness among his strengths. In any case, simply watching him was a pleasure. She had seen and taught so many people, yet had never enjoyed herself as much as she did now.

She knew all too well what idiots the supposedly talented could be. There were hordes of fools who swung a sword a few times, declared swordsmanship easy, and went off to get drunk. She wanted to show Encrid to those who coasted on their talent.

'Look.'

Even if the sky split in two tomorrow, he would move just as he always did. Wasn't that unwavering attitude and mindset remarkable? Sweat dripped from him beneath the stone pillar on his shoulders, but suffering had not clouded his eyes. He did not need to say anything for her to sense it. He was always yearning, always hungry for more.

Luagarne brought up tactics. She wanted to teach him how to fight properly, beyond the abilities he already possessed. Tactics were the art of fighting. There were times when one had to fight by instinct, but otherwise, someone who thought and prepared naturally held the advantage.

"It's good to know exactly what you want before you begin a fight. Why?" Luagarne asked.

"So you can plan toward your objective instead of charging blindly into battle."

The answer came quickly. He had plainly spent time thinking it over. What an admirable attitude.

"That's half right. The other half is to keep yourself from becoming intoxicated by the sword."

People often spoke of becoming drunk on the blade. Someone who enjoyed killing people was merely a murderer. Yet surprisingly often, talented martial artists became just that.

Stab like this and someone drops dead? What if I cut their throat, then? Shall I cut off a leg next? As skill grew, so did the enjoyment.

To Luagarne, Encrid seemed closer to that stage now than at any point in the past. Everyone developed at a different time. That was why she considered this his prime. Deep down, she knew he would not become drunk on the sword, but concern had prompted the warning anyway.

"Understood."

Encrid accepted it readily. He had a dream and a purpose, so he would not fall into that trap. She knew that. So did Encrid. Yet he nodded all the same, because he understood why Luagarne had said it.

'What a dear man.'

How could anyone dislike him? Once again, Luagarne felt she understood why the barracks had become what it was. Every one of them spared no time in training, never hesitating to turn inspiration into progress.

No other military camp, no knight order was like this. Some people ruined themselves competing, clawing at one another and dragging each other down. Others trusted solely in talent and died on the battlefield. But that could not happen here.

Some of the soldiers knew how Encrid had reached this point. Even those who did not knew that, despite his tremendous skill and his rank of general, he greeted the morning before anyone else.

The recruit who had been beaten senseless yesterday saw it too. His name was Marco, though neither Luagarne nor Encrid knew it yet. He had finished the last watch in front of the general's barracks and was about to leave when he sensed someone moving and came inside to look.

Marco's eyes trembled.

'He only got back yesterday, didn't he?'

Wouldn't that just build up fatigue? Surely it was inefficient? True. But for some people, this might be the best approach. Encrid was so accustomed to his current regimen that resting did him more harm than good. Moving dispelled his fatigue. That, too, was an effect of the Isolation Technique.

As Marco stood staring, lost in the sight without realizing it, a voice spoke.

"You need to squat deeper, brother."

He had been staring so intently at this man called the general that the voice behind him made him start and turn. A Giant stood there, so tall Marco had to crane his neck all the way back to see his face. No, not a Giant. A human. But how had he come so close without Marco noticing?

Audin smiled and walked past the soldier. The general, still bearing the stone pillar on his shoulders, greeted him.

"Audin."

"Have you made progress with the striking method?"

"Hit me and see."

He set the pillar down as he spoke. His movements conveyed his pleasure at the reunion. Behind Audin stood Teresa, who really was a half-Giant. She too passed the soldier Marco. Neither said a word to him.

Marco looked back at Encrid.

BAM!

His eyes widened again. The man called Audin had punched the general in the side. That was what it looked like. There had been no prior agreement, nothing. He had just hit him.

What were they doing? Why hit him out of nowhere?

"Oho."

The one who had thrown the sudden punch sounded impressed.

"Well?"

The one who had been punched was smiling.

Were they all crazy bastards? Or did you have to be crazy to fight like that? Had training instructor Roford said yesterday that hard work could make him like them? What complete fucking bullshit.

Marco realized his talent amounted to little. No, it did not end there. If he lacked talent, was this the end? Should he quit and go back to beating up people weaker than himself? He did not want that. So he took one step further. Courage he had never known he possessed welled up.

"Why are you hitting him?" Marco asked.

No one had told him to leave. They had let him watch. That was tacit permission, wasn't it? He would have asked even if it wasn't. He was desperate now. He wanted to know. Why take the blow? Why throw it? Why smile? Simply because they were mad?

"That is training."

Marco started again. He nearly jumped on the spot. Where had this bastard come from? An exceptionally handsome man with reddish-brown hair was suddenly standing right beside him. His expression brought to mind a cold, hard block of ice.

He moved forward without so much as looking at Marco.

"Something has changed."

His name was Jaxon.

"If you'd like to test it, anytime."

The man called the general held a hand out to his side. The Frog placed a sword in it. A real sword with a keen edge. Marco did not know its name was Aker, or that the royal house had bestowed it, but he recognized a fine blade at a glance. To a wandering swordsman, a good weapon directly affected fighting ability. One could hardly avoid developing an eye for blades.

The instant the general raised the sword and took his stance, the reddish-brown-haired man vanished. Just like that. Marco blinked. What? He had been looking straight at him, and the man had disappeared like a puff of smoke. Then—

THUD.

A gray-haired beast had kicked the spot where the man had stood. Strictly speaking, Marco had not seen the entire movement. The extended leg, the dent in the ground, and the flying dirt had simply assembled that picture in his mind.

The beast opened his mouth in a broad grin. His voice brimmed with delight.

"You're back, alley cat!"

"Couldn't you have left that behind?"

The reddish-brown-haired man had appeared beside the general. He held a dagger in each hand. An axe and two daggers. Beast and ghost stared at each other, the gray-haired man smiling, the reddish-brown-haired one expressionless. It was a silent exchange of glances, yet Marco felt as though he stood in the heart of a typhoon.

"Don't overdo it."

Encrid spoke from between them. At that signal, the two crossed paths.

CLANG, CRACK!

Those were the sounds Marco heard. They had exchanged blows too fast for his eyes to follow. They had traded places.

"Mouth off now and I'll skin you alive and kill you."

The gray-haired Rem spoke with a grin. He stood where the reddish-brown-haired man had been moments before. Jaxon was staring at his dagger. Only half its blade remained. A single blow had shattered it. The weapon was one thing, but Rem's skill had entered an entirely different league. The broken blade stood embedded in the ground.

"Did getting beaten a few times awaken something?" the reddish-brown-haired man asked.

"Fucking right it did. Got beaten a few times and woke right up."

The gray-haired man's grin broadened as he answered. After crossing blades, they crossed words. They traded a few more barbs before Encrid stepped in at the right moment.

"My turn."

An odd thing to say if he meant to break up a fight.

Marco saw a great deal that day, and came to a realization.

'I've been living at the bottom of a well.'

What would he have to do to climb out? Put himself through hell.

Luagarne watched the man named Marco turn away. She could not read everything in his mind, but his stride and bearing told her he had made a decision.

'And there's another.'

This was Encrid's magic. Seeing him made it impossible to remain content. It made you feel you had to move forward. That was how he drove people beyond their limits.

'What must you do to surpass your limits?'

Train with all your strength and all your heart. What you needed most for that was a spur. Encrid was that spur for everyone, whether he knew it or not.