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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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Magic was divided into two branches.
One was simply called magic, and the other, wild magic.
Conventional magic, as its name suggested, had straightforward characteristics, one of which was its method of casting.
It required a formula.
Incantations and hand signs were used to construct this formula. The mage would then manifest the formula, manipulating mana accordingly to cast the spell.
If magic were cooking, conventional magic would be a recipe-based dish.
Wild magic, on the other hand, had no formula.
It was magic in its rawest, most primal form.
It relied heavily on the caster’s senses. While conventional magic was calculated and logical, wild magic was intuitive and instinctual.
As such, many with the potential for wild magic couldn’t use it, and even when they could, it lacked the efficiency of conventional magic.
Mana efficiency was poor, the area of effect was limited, and complex combinations were impossible.
But it wasn’t bound by incantations or hand signs.
The advantage of wild magic lay in its casting speed and simple execution, making it a useful supplementary tool.
For Aslan, who preferred close combat, it was an invaluable asset.
Feeling the mana coursing through him, Aslan lunged forward.
–Whoosh!
The white-furred troll lashed out with its forepaw.
A wicked weapon, tipped with razor-sharp claws.
Aslan raised his sword.
–Clang!
The claws struck the blade, deflecting off the metal. The monster whimpered, staggering back.
He shouldn’t have been able to block that attack.
Whitescale Chrome was several times his weight.
He shouldn’t have been able to withstand a direct blow from such a massive creature. He should have dodged.
But he had blocked it. At the moment of impact, Aslan had reinforced his strength with a surge of mana, deflecting the blow.
The sudden increase in strength sent the monster stumbling, and Aslan swung his sword.
–Swish!
The blade sliced across the monster’s white-furred chest. A shallow cut, but thanks to another infusion of mana increasing the weight of the blade at the moment of impact, it tore a large chunk of flesh from the creature.
Aslan withdrew his sword. The wounded monster lowered its stance.
–Roar!
Chrome roared and charged. Aslan extended his hand.
–Thwack!
An invisible force erupted from his palm.
Not a damaging force, but a concussive one.
The force struck the troll’s face, snapping its head back, sending it tumbling to the ground.
–Crack!
As the troll fell, Aslan swung his mace. There was no need to enhance it with mana. The mace connected with the troll’s temple.
The monster’s large body tilted, then crashed to the ground. Even a monster couldn’t withstand a blow that rattled its brain.
The troll whimpered. Aslan wiped the blood from his mace.
He had only used one point of Mana.
And it had made such a difference. Casting magic was easy.
The feeling was familiar, almost second nature. He had been using magic for twelve years, even without the aid of the tattoos.
Wild magic was even easier. Though complex spells were still beyond his reach for now.
‘This will do.’
Aslan had always been a capable fighter even without magic. Having magic to augment his abilities was a significant advantage.
Now, the only remaining test was to see how far he could push it. He watched as the troll, struggling to its feet, began to turn invisible. Aslan hummed thoughtfully.
This was what made Whitescale Chrome so troublesome. Its invisibility.
The ability to turn its fur translucent, allowing it to ambush or escape.
Normally, he would have pressed his attack, not giving the troll a chance to use its ability. But Aslan didn’t.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, letting his weapons hang loosely at his sides.
Luck was a unique stat.
A meta stat that increased critical hit chance, dodge chance, and drop rates.
Aslan suspected it also enhanced one’s intuition.
The ability to instinctively predict and avoid attacks, to instinctively target weaker or more vital areas, to instinctively choose the container with better loot.
He saw it as a stat that broadened one’s sixth sense.
Locating the invisible Whitescale Chrome was his test.
Aslan inhaled slowly, then suddenly ducked and turned his head.
–Whoosh!
Chrome’s forepaw grazed his shoulder and neck. The sharp claws brushed against his skin. Aslan smiled.
He had felt something, a faint presence. He had trusted that fleeting sensation, turning his head just in time to avoid the attack.
Aslan grabbed the troll’s passing foreleg.
He reinforced his grip with mana. The weight of the massive limb pressed down on his right arm and upper body, but he held on. He could throw it.
“Haa!”
Aslan took a deep breath and hurled Chrome to the ground.
–Crash!
The heavy body slammed into the ground with a deafening roar. The monster shrieked. Aslan, still holding onto its foreleg, raised his mace.
–Crack!
The mace slammed down, crushing the troll’s eye. Before the monster could scream again, Aslan brought the mace down again and again.
–Thud! Thud! Thud! Crunch!
Each blow landed with brutal force, the troll’s other foreleg twitching helplessly. The head of the mace cracked, then snapped.
With the solid metal head broken off, Aslan released the troll’s leg and gripped the mace handle with both hands, the broken end pointing downwards.
–Grind!
He drove the broken handle into the troll’s remaining eye socket, piercing its brain. Chrome went limp, silent.
Aslan watched as the troll’s translucent fur slowly turned white, then red with blood, before standing up.
This would normally have been a difficult fight. A fight that would have required relentless pressure, perhaps even the use of the spells stored within his tattoos.
But with a bit of mana and the ability to use wild magic, it had been surprisingly easy.
Aslan sheathed his longsword, feeling a surge of confidence.
He could fight the priests on equal footing now.
He nodded to his companions, who were staring at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t go out yet.”
No one dared to argue.
They remained inside as he ventured out into the rain.
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The chains rattled as they were wound around the wheel, slowly raising the gate.
The process was agonizingly slow. Even with three men working the wheel, it seemed like it would take forever for the gate to open enough for the person waiting before it to pass.
How far would the Master of Battle have gotten by then?
The thought filled the Baron with anxiety.
He finally lost his patience and shouted,
“Hurry it up! The War Monk is waiting!”
The guards, straining at the wheel, didn’t increase their pace. They exchanged nervous glances, sweat dripping from their brows.
The three-meter-tall War Monk was watching them.
The War Monk, who had been patiently observing the slow ascent of the gate, finally reached its limit.
“Excuse me.”
It reached out and grabbed the gate. The creaking of the wheel stopped.
–Creak… groan…
The War Monk forced the gate upwards. The three guards, still clinging to the wheel, cried out in surprise as they stumbled and fell.
But the gate was open. Revealing the dark interior of the mine.
“Be careful there.”
The War Monk stepped into the mine. The Baron and the guards followed.
The War Monk planted its spear on the ground, angling its shield to navigate the narrow passage.
“Sh-should we bring torches…?”
“It’s alright. I have excellent night vision.”
The War Monk’s multifaceted eyes gleamed in the darkness. The Baron swallowed, offering a nervous compliment.
“Ah, y-yes, as expected of the War God’s finest blade! Such darkness is…”
“Not the finest.”
The War Monk replied simply, stepping into the mine. The Baron and the guards struggled to keep up.
“There are many of higher rank than I, and there is another who is called the War God’s Sword. I am but an old man barely worthy of a seat at the table.”
While seemingly humble, there was an undercurrent of emotion in his voice.
The Baron, recognizing the source of that emotion, swallowed hard and glanced at the sack hanging from the War Monk’s waist.
A sack bulging with the indistinct shapes of numerous heads.
A War Monk who obsessively collected heads, driven by a compulsion to amass achievements and climb the ranks.
The oldest of the War Monks.
People feared this War Monk, calling him…
‘The Collector.’
The aged monk advanced, the thud of his spear echoing through the tunnels.
He stopped before a pile of corpses.
Mud trolls.
Their bodies mangled, their heads crushed.
The Collector stared at the corpses, then prodded one with the tip of his spear.
“Hmm, interesting.”
He flipped the body over, examining the wounds, humming thoughtfully.
“Excellent technique. Severing the throat of a falling monster, in the unstable moment after a swing. Swordsmanship worthy of a Great One.”
Of course, the Baron, barely able to see in the darkness, couldn’t tell, but the Collector’s voice was filled with a quiet satisfaction.
“The Master of Battle, indeed. As far as I know, only the Master of the Sword and the Master of Battle could wield a blade like this. The Master of the Sword is in the Vida Kingdom, so this must be Aslan.”
The Collector paused, his mandibles clicking in what sounded like disappointment.
“If you had captured him, I could have made an offering… but I can’t fault you for prioritizing the safety of such a devoted follower.”
The Baron, who had been fearing a reprimand, let out a sigh of relief, a flicker of hope returning to his pale face.
The Collector, unfazed by the Baron’s reaction, withdrew his spear and continued forward.
He continued his gruesome commentary as they encountered more corpses, analyzing the manner of death in detail.
His strange evaluation ended when they reached a large cavern.
“Hmm?”
The cavern was empty, devoid of corpses. Tunnels branched off in both directions, giving the space a desolate, artificial feel.
The Collector stopped in the center of the cavern and knelt.
“They camped here. No fire. Rested for seven or eight hours, perhaps?”
Ignoring the questioning glances, the War Monk scanned the area with his multifaceted eyes.
Despite his insectoid features, there was an unmistakable look of unease in his gaze.
“…Something’s not right. I sense a familiar presence.”
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the darkness. The sight of the giant insect peering around in the dim light made the Baron swallow hard.
The Collector saw it – an energy, shimmering like finely ground rainbow dust.
The energy felt familiar, faint yet potent.
It swirled around the campsite, then flowed towards one of the tunnels.
It was similar to the presence of another god’s priest.
But different. Not unsettling, but familiar, as if it originated from this world itself.
The aged monk, who had lived since the time the gods first ascended, widened his eyes, muttering,
“…Could it be?”
He abruptly stood up, startling the Baron and the guards, who jumped back in surprise.
Without acknowledging their fear, the Collector pointed his spear towards the direction of the flowing energy.
‘…This is… the energy of an Old God.’
He lowered his stance, examining the ground, then continued forward. The others followed, their faces etched with confusion.
As they moved deeper into the mine, the tunnels grew brighter, both in terms of light and life.
Patches of vegetation appeared, and sunlight filtered through cracks in the ceiling. The signs of nature were unmistakable. And…
“…Interesting.”
A strange creature.
A white-furred mud troll.
Dead, with a broken mace handle embedded in its skull.
The energy flowed past the creature, towards a large opening, the exit.
“…Did the Master of Battle have companions?”
“Yes? Ah, yes. Four prisoners…”
Four prisoners.
Many, but the aged monk was certain.
The Master of Battle had escaped Olpasbet with something carrying the energy of an Old God.
–Click, click.
The War Monk chuckled, his mandibles clicking together.
“Thank you for your guidance.”
He clicked his mandibles again, then spoke,
“My work here is done.”
With that, he leaped forward, crushing the vines underfoot, and disappeared through the opening in the ceiling.
Under the clear, bright sky, the sudden appearance of the War Monk startled the wildlife, sending animals fleeing in all directions.
Ignoring the scattering creatures, the Collector reached into his sack, pulled out the best-preserved head, and made an offering.
The top of the head caved inwards, then vanished into thin air. A message echoed in the War Monk’s mind.
He knelt, conveying his god’s will.
“Oh, War God, Teacher of All, rejoice! I have found a vestige of the Old Gods.”
His god, the War God, didn’t respond.
The Collector bowed his head lower.
“Grant me the strength to offer this head to you.”
The War God laughed, its voice filled with pleasure.
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