The girl's father was called the Wine-Barrel Knight. Among wizards, who generally had fine physiques, he alone sported a belly that bulged like a barrel, earning him the nickname.

It was hardly a flattering name, but her father would laugh and pat his stomach. "That's right. This belly holds enough wine for a hundred men."

The girl's father, the Wine-Barrel Knight, died around the time people celebrated the freshly harvested grain. They said he had followed the head of the great house he served to war against another great house far to the east, and died there.

Her father, who only yesterday had bumped the back of her head with his beer belly as he stroked her hair, was dead. She stood dazed, unable to believe it, while beside her, her mother, pregnant with her younger sibling, crumpled to the floor and wept.

After her father's death, the girl's circumstances changed overnight. Those around them still showed respect and sympathy on the surface, but inwardly they looked down on them as a fallen family. Her father had been a commoner-born knight and her mother was a commoner, so their children would be no different from anyone else, they reasoned, venting the unconscious humiliation they had felt whenever they bowed their heads.

"Let's move."

"Move?"

"Yes. Outside the city."

Her mother said that although they had the money her late father earned as a great house's knight, maintaining such a large home without a steady income would be difficult. They would have to move somewhere smaller.

The girl did not want to leave the city she loved, but she kept it to herself. Her mother looked far more miserable saying it than the girl felt hearing it.

Then some strangers came to their home.

"Are you the wife of the knight Erva?"

"I am, but..."

"The master of Parsha sent us. Here."

At the mention of Parsha's master, her mother's face went white. How could it not, when her husband had rushed off at his summons only to return dead soon afterward? She accepted the letter with trembling hands, then sank to the floor and began to sob.

"Thank you. All I can say is thank you..."

"His lordship mourns the death of a comrade who fought beside him. He instructed us to ensure that the family would not live in want. If you encounter any difficulties, contact us here."

The stranger glanced at the girl as he spoke.

"Your daughter?"

"Yes."

"She looks about ten. If she has an aptitude, it should manifest soon."

"If my daughter has talent, I will send her to Parsha before anywhere else. After such generosity, how could I possibly do otherwise?"

Her mother thanked them again and again. Once the strangers had gone, she took the girl aside and told her they would not have to move after all.

"The master of House Parsha has promised to provide for us until your little sibling grows up. What a relief."

It was one thing for a family of knights who had served a house for generations, her mother said, her eyes shining almost like a fanatic's, but few would look after the children of a wandering knight like her father, who had only joined in his own lifetime.

Listening to her mother's praise, the girl thought that she, too, wanted to help someone the way he had. In response to that wish, the objects around her floated into the air and began to circle her.

* * *

"I think we've spent too much on these bereavement allowances, Turan. Shouldn't we cut them back a little?"

"It's not as though we're short of funds."

Asiz gave a thoughtful hum and nodded. He had always been compassionate enough to weep for the deaths of the knights who served his family, but now that he oversaw a great house's entire budget, he could no longer afford to act on emotion as he once had. A person's position did shape them, after all.

"Some knights' children will be born with a knight's power. In very rare cases, they might even have noble-caliber mana. Would they want to be loyal to a house that answered their parents' deaths with a handful of coins? And what would the others think, seeing the families of comrades they fought alongside living in poverty?"

"That's true. But there is precedent to consider."

"We have fewer expenses than the other great houses anyway. Better to spend it on this than leave it sitting idle."

There was a kind of tax that houses prosperous for many years inevitably paid: the cost of supporting people who bore the house's name, branches that had split off generations upon generations ago.

One might suggest simply ignoring them, but people bearing a great house's name living in poverty reflected on the house's dignity, making that difficult. Collateral branches with established influence within the house were also likely to resent such a policy. In the end, a substantial portion of the budget had to be squandered on supporting each and every one of them.

Parsha, by contrast, was relatively free of that burden, since Turan was the only person who could be considered a member of its direct line. Of course, its still-unsettled administration meant its income was low to begin with.

"Take this opportunity to announce that we'll maintain this level of compensation. We're few and weak, so we must at least stand together. The sheep that survive wolves aren't the ones that scatter in every direction. They're the flock that stands together and fights."

"All right."

Watching Asiz leave, Turan reflected on what he had just said and laughed. Bringing the fallen's children under the house's influence, raising the other wizards' morale and uniting them—all of it was just an excuse. He simply did not want to see the children of the sheepdogs who had fought the wolves under him, and died doing so, starve to death. He did not want those who had fought behind their shepherd to feel their sacrifice had been in vain.

'Besides... every time I make a choice like this, something feels good.'

Closing his eyes and awakening his spiritual awareness, Turan concentrated on the curious sensation of warmth in his spirit form. One strand came from far to the south, another from far to the east, and the last from right where he stood. Something unknown was connected to his spirit form by these tenuous threads, conveying warmth and cold. Among them, the strand connected to this place—to Kalamap and the Gray Zone—had grown stronger than it had been only a short time ago.

'Could this really be people's feelings toward me reaching me?'

Turan suddenly recalled a recent conversation with one of Baraha's half-elves.

["I'm the Night Hunter reincarnated?"]

["It's only a hypothesis, nothing more. A hypothesis."]

It was a small cabin on a dark night, shadows dancing in the flickering firelight. Seated in an armchair, the half-elf sipped hot lotus tea and answered Turan almost defensively.

The half-elves' once-desolate cells had been transformed to suit their individual tastes. They had earned this by answering repeated questions and cross-checks faithfully. Some of the others had poorer accommodations, but the half-elf before him had been especially deferential and cooperative, earning the best room after Resion's.

["Otas liked helping newbies—beginners, that is. He was very generous to ordinary humans too. And he had enough resolve to put down his own children when they behaved like psychopaths. In my eyes, he had quite a lot in common with you."]

["Is it even possible for a dead god's soul to reincarnate?"]

["That I don't know. But we have long thought that some of those who reached the ends of their lives must have reincarnated. The souls of those of us who crossed into this world were so excessively powerful that they could take over human minds even after shattering into pieces."]

He was referring to the gods' soul fragments that had once taken over people like Midan and Bisen. The gods themselves had discovered their existence long ago and investigated them several times, but reportedly achieved little. Possessing scattered fragments of the players' knowledge from life, they merely kept trying to apply a few pieces of knowledge that had worked only in the game, such as making the Spirit of Fire. Hearing this reminded Turan of something he had often wondered.

["Come to think of it, I wondered why none of you used things like the Spirit of Fire. You already know it exists and how to make it?"]

["Yes. We simply prevent it from spreading as a form of arms control. Raising the weakest people's baseline strength puts us at a disadvantage."]

Long ago, a great house in the western forest had apparently rebelled against the gods using the secret of making the Spirit of Fire. Like Turan now did for Parsha's directly subordinate wizards, they had distributed it for use in combat. It proved more effective than expected, making the rebellion quite difficult to suppress. Afterward, not only had they thoroughly destroyed the recipes for such things, but they had also reportedly reached a tacit agreement not to use them again.

["Then they won't be too pleased about me making it and spreading it around."]

["Probably not. Incidentally, the Spirit of Fire was originally called gunpowder, and if you..."]

For some reason, the half-elf abruptly trailed off. Turan guessed that he intended to hold back that information and reveal it later to earn another reward, but did not press him. Playing along and continuing to draw information out would be more profitable than bullying him into spilling it all now. As their saying went, there was no need to cut open the goose that laid the golden eggs.

["Fine. We'll leave that there. So you don't know much about reincarnation either?"]

["No. If we did, we would certainly have used it ourselves. It's a more natural and convenient method than raising someone just to steal their body. Our theory amounts to this: if a large mass of soul, rather than a tiny fragment, entered a newborn, wouldn't that be reincarnation? As for the memories, perhaps they broke off with the smaller fragments."]

The half-elf listed all the reasons he believed Turan was Otas reincarnated. The most important was his extraordinary magical talent. With soul magic or Living Spirit Sorcery, it was possible to harvest large quantities of the dead's souls and consume them as one ingredient to manipulate a newborn child's spiritual talent. The adjustable factors ranged from magical aptitude to innate mana reserves and the number of bloodlines the child was born with.

But Turan's innate gifts were almost impossible to produce even through such methods. Four bloodlines, a transcendent ability to learn, and a growth limit still nowhere in sight despite already rivaling the heads of great houses. He surpassed even Maysa, whom Zahar and Arabion had created together by sacrificing countless wizards and civilians, along with all manner of magical resources. How could such a thing be possible without a god's soul residing within him?

There were plenty of other suggestive details as well: his spirit form's lack of a leash; Vije, bonded to him so deeply that he could even borrow her power, reminiscent of the game's pet system; and his resemblance to the Hunter's default face in the game.

Of course, there were many possible rebuttals—his lack of a leash could have been due to the Sky Mountains, and Maysa had also felt drawn to Vije—but Turan did not bother making them.

'What difference does it make either way?'

The soul-magic book defined the spirit form as the true self, but Turan disagreed. The memories one accumulated, and the personality they shaped, were what truly distinguished one person from another. A past life he could not even remember was no concern of his. When Turan said as much, the half-elf shook his head.

["The problem is that I won't be the only one to have thought of this. Some of the survivors liked Otas, but others were his enemies..."]

* * *

While lost in thought, Turan realized he had mechanically finished his administrative work and left his office—not through the door, but through the large window on one side. Vije had emerged from the back of his hand; riding her high into the air, he concealed himself, left Kalamap, and headed for the nearby rocky mountains.

'I have some time to spare. I might as well train.'

He would have brought Solif or Maysa along if they were free, but both happened to be busy. Solif was making preparations of some sort for the war against House Ruban, while Maysa had gone to wipe out a dwarf den that had appeared north of Kalamap.

After several minutes of flight, Turan reached a suitable spot and was about to descend when he frowned at the presences below.

'What a nuisance...'

The rocky mountains near Kalamap had once been so utterly barren that neither people nor animals ventured there. At some point, however, people had begun poking around. Enormous booms were occasionally heard in the area, and traces had been discovered that attested to the use of tremendous magical power. Some claimed a mythical monster was living nearby; others had hit upon the truth, insisting that Parsha's House Head was secretly honing his magic there.

'I wish I had somewhere suitable for indoor training.'

Most great houses had training grounds at their main residences where powerful wizards could hone their skills. Parsha, a great house thrown together overnight, had nothing of the sort. Nor did their current circumstances leave much room to build one.

Passing the spectators, Turan used his Holy Relic's senses and tracking magic to find a deserted spot and land. They would never find him, even if they searched for thousands of years.

"Well, shall we begin?"

He began with a simple warm-up. After loosening all his joints with the exercises Haram had once taught him, Turan launched himself forward.

BOOM!

His tremendous leg strength drove against the ground, sending his body hurtling forward with an explosive roar.

'Oh...'

Ruban's power, combining the Strongman and guardian bloodlines, both specialized in physical combat, was truly tremendous. It did not quite equal the sum of both bloodlines' physical abilities, but it still granted overwhelming prowess compared with possessing only one. He moved so fast that the air striking his face tore apart with a thunderous boom.

Turan therefore began by practicing the creation of wind channels that matched his movements to reduce air resistance.

'There's a lot to adjust to with this new power too...'

Handling House Parsha's internal and external affairs was important, of course, but his own fighting ability mattered more. Unless he could overpower the mighty heads of the great houses and the beings inhabiting their bodies, everything else would come to nothing. Ultimately, violence was the only way in this world to fully realize one's wishes without being crushed by others.

He punched and kicked the air, ran, and leaped. For dozens of minutes, Turan wreaked tremendous destruction on his surroundings as he grew accustomed to his strengthened body. Naturally, the rocky mountain that bore the brunt of this was left in a pitiful state. Every punch opened cracks several meters long, and a single kick could blast away an entire section of cliff.

After those dozens of minutes of vigorous movement, Turan stopped to catch his somewhat ragged breath. Normally, that much exertion would not tire him, but his increased strength seemed to consume more stamina as well.

"Whew, hah..."

He had not yet fully adjusted to his body's sensations. Unfortunately, his martial talent was not as transcendent as his magical talent. In a way, however, he preferred that. The harder something was, the greater the satisfaction of succeeding.

With magic, by contrast, he generally achieved results almost as soon as he watched and tried to learn, making that feeling difficult to come by. There were a few exceptions, though, such as what he was practicing now.

Having finished adjusting his newly strengthened body, Turan began his magic training in earnest. First came something he had practiced ever since his battle with Badal.

"Urgh—"

The moment he activated the magic, his body was jerked away as though someone had seized him by the collar and shaken him. It was the result of manipulating magnetism, the force that moved metal.

To make this possible, Turan had recently changed his everyday clothes. From his coat to his undergarments and shoes, he had placed metal strategically throughout his attire so he could move it whenever needed.

Dragged straight forward from where he stood, Turan shifted sideways, upward, forward, then down again. His movements resembled those of a puppet worked by strings from overhead. Each time he ignored inertia and changed direction at nearly a right angle, his joints and muscles screamed.

'This hurts... quite a bit.'

Was Badal able to withstand this because he, too, possessed the Strongman bloodline? Or perhaps he had a smoother technique and did not suffer quite so much.

With that thought, Turan threw a punch, harnessing the momentum of his magnetic movement. His fist swept forward with even greater force than before, stirring the sparse grass at the mountain's edge.

After briefly practicing this technique—which, if he had to name it, deserved to be called electromagnetic martial arts—Turan stopped as he felt his mana rapidly draining. As expected, perhaps because he still lacked proficiency in manipulating magnetism, its efficiency was abysmal.

'I'd better save some. There's one last thing to practice.'

For his final exercise, Turan took two objects from the High-Capacity Pouch he always carried. One was his sling, the first weapon he had ever learned to use, though lately it had been overshadowed by his many other abilities. He loaded it with a metal ball, began spinning it, and looked ahead.

'Let's see...'

First, he created a wind channel to eliminate air resistance. Then he overlaid it with another path: an invisible channel of magnetic force.

'Will this really work?'

When he had asked the four half-elves to devise ways of applying magnetism, no fewer than three had suggested this technique. It involved accelerating a metal ball through magnetic repulsion. Apparently, nothing could be better suited to Turan, who fired metal balls.

One of them had even taught him something called Fleming's left-hand rule. Though the half-elf had been unable to explain magnetic fields and electric currents clearly, the basic concept alone had helped Turan, who had already gained a practical understanding through directly wielding electricity and magnetism. He had rewarded that one with an extra glass of wine.

Recalling what he had learned, Turan stabilized the magnetic channel, released his whirling sling, and sent the ball precisely into its entrance. The Spirit of Fire he had loaded inside the sling exploded, providing the initial acceleration. The ball then gained further speed from the magnetic channel and shot forward.

"Oh..."

The instant it accelerated, the metal ball quite literally became light. It moved so fast that it created the illusion of a long, straight line connecting its starting point to its destination.

The projectile did more than merely pierce the targeted cliff: it blasted out a circle several meters across around the hole. Entering the resulting tunnel, Turan passed walls vitrified by the immense heat and walked nearly eight hundred meters before finding the half-melted metal ball.

"That's insane."

Thinking he ought to give the half-elves in the jewelry box another round of food later, Turan recalled the technique's name. Speaking in unison through their nonexistent mouths, they had called it a railgun.