An Unsettling Calm

When I regained consciousness, the darkness of the night enveloped the courtyard where I lay. The absence of a clock left me uncertain of the time that had elapsed. Judging by the gnawing hunger in my stomach, I could approximate that perhaps five to six hours had passed since I last remember. Time measure is a luxury not bestowed upon many in our county, with clocks being a possession reserved for select officials and my own father.

As I stirred, a pulsating ache resonated through my mind. It was a pain that, though intense, did not plunge me into unconsciousness as it had on the previous occasion. The flood of data that had assaulted my consciousness before was now replaced by something different. It was an experience—a vast, profound experience of wielding a sword for countless millennia. If my intuition serves me right, that mysterious girl I encountered was none other than Galadriel herself.

The Manual, far from being a simple instructional guide, no wonder it had consumed every ounce of energy possessed by a mage of the third circle. It granted me access to Galadriel's own experiences, merging her consciousness with mine. The mechanics of such a phenomenon remained beyond my comprehension, yet it did not perturb me in the slightest. Instead, it proved to be an immense boon.

To a swordsman, experience is of paramount importance in the midst of battle. It surpasses any mere technique or skill. Now, I found myself endowed with the accumulated wisdom of thousands of years, courtesy of Galadriel. Inhabiting Galadriel, I had engaged in combat with an array of adversaries—dragons, towering giants standing a hundred meters tall, and countless others.

Yet, in each encounter, the resounding constant was the employment of the Wyrmheart Stance. It was the singular method upon which she relied, forsaking all else.

This struck me with great significance. For the past few months, my pursuit had been the mastery of the Wyrmheart Stance and If I were to learn another sword skill, I would probably have a similar experience.

"That must have been how the manual was designed, each time I learn a sword technique Galadriel's experience would be transferred to me."

I learnt the sword technique using manual's help. However, true mastery demanded years of experience, akin to the seasoned swordsmen of lore. Yet, thanks to Galadriel's extraordinary gift, I now possessed the equivalent of millennia of such experience. It is an unprecedented advantage.

I retired to my room, seeking respite and an opportunity to contemplate the path that lay ahead. The following morning, I awoke slightly later than usual, yet this minor delay posed no obstacle to my plans. With the impending dungeon outbreak mere days away, and having ascended to the pinnacle of the third circle, I resolved to venture into the depths of Murkwood in pursuit of a breakthrough into the fourth circle.

In the fervour of honing my swordsmanship skills, I had inadvertently neglected my studies in magic in recent months. However, there was little novelty left to explore in the realm of magic below fifth circle. I had long since acquired a comprehensive understanding of the spell runes requisite for my ascension into the fourth circle. Anything I might endeavour to study now would merely constitute revision—a revisiting of familiar knowledge.

Departing from the confines of the Wishmyth mansion, I embarked once again on my journey into the foreboding depths of the Murkwood forest, utilizing the hidden crevice in the wall as my clandestine passage. It appeared that my previous way of dealing with the remaining Three-Eyed Hoppers had not gone wasted, dropping them near the fortress, for security measures had been bolstered in response to the counter anomalies. Nevertheless, I orchestrated a well-timed diversion by obliterating the encampments, exploiting the ensuing chaos to slip through the fortress undetected like previous time.

As I ventured deeper into the Murkwood, a disconcerting unease settled upon me. The forest exuded an eerie ambiance devoid of the usual symphony of sounds. There were no beasts howling nor birdsong resonating through the air. Silence reigned supreme, casting an ominous pall over the surroundings—an unsettling calm preceding an imminent storm. It seemed plausible that the creatures of this unforgiving forest were assembling under the command of mana beasts and magical beings, congregating in the heart of the forest's depths.

Finding a large tree amidst the oppressive stillness, I assumed a meditative posture, commencing the process of drawing mana into myself. However, this time, the attainment of saturation proved to be a protracted endeavour. Even after reaching the threshold of saturation, I persisted in my insatiable absorption of mana, channelling its raw power with ceaseless fervour. Finally, after a considerable passage of time, the dense shroud of transplant mana coalesced around my Mana Circles. Guiding my consciousness, I inscribed the intricate spell runes of the fourth circle within this nebulous tapestry of mana, thereby attaining the coveted realm of the Fourth Circle.

Having swiftly departed from the unsettling, soundless confines of the Murkwood forest, I wasted no time in navigating my way back. Along the journey, I observed the sight of villagers being systematically evacuated by the diligent soldiers, a clear indication that they too had recognized the presence of unusual occurrences within the vicinity. The strategic placement of the Three-eyed Hoppers near the fortress had yielded the desired effect. Sensing the urgency to avoid detection, I skillfully concealed my presence, ensuring that no soldier would lay eyes upon me as I continued on my path.

Prior to returning home, I made a detour to Grakar's Apothecary. My intent was to inquire whether the establishment entertained the procurement of beast carcasses and cores, for in my current state of financial instability, the forthcoming dungeon outbreak presented an opportune moment to amass wealth. Engaging in a discussion with the venerable old lady, I got the details that indeed they accepted beast cores for money. The precise details of the transaction, including the monetary valuation, were to be discussed at the time of presenting the procured beast cores.

Days passed with the ebb and flow of time, each moment blending into the next, until the summoning to the main hall of officials arrived—

As I made my way towards the bustling main hall, a flurry of commotion unfolded around me. Soldiers and officials dashed about with an air of panic and urgency, their movements mirroring the gravity of the situation. Eager to ascertain the cause behind this fervent activity, I approached a passing soldier, querying, "Pray tell, what is the reason for such frantic actions?"

"Young Master, there is an imminent beast tide transpiring," he swiftly replied, confirming my suspicions. Though I had already surmised as much, I sought reassurance from his words.

Upon my arrival at the main hall, my gaze fell upon Draven Wishmyth, the sixth son of the Wishmyth House, emerging from the grand chamber. Noticing my presence, he emitted an audible snort of derision before striding away. His disdain mattered little to me, for in my previous life, our interactions had been minimal at best. Tragically, both Draven and Keal had met untimely deaths, their lives extinguished by the treacherous machinations of my eldest brother's mother's family.

As I reached out to an official, poised to receive my father's orders, a figure that had eluded my notice now caught my attention. It was Lucius, a captain hailing from the esteemed White Mage Division. With a toothy grin spreading across his face, he snatched the letter from the official's hand and approached me, his demeanour filled with a mix of amusement and superiority.

"Here, take it, boy. This may very well be the last order you receive from your father, and it is only fitting that you receive it from a high-ranking official," he remarked, chuckling slightly as if relishing in some hidden amusement.

I inquired innocently, "But pray tell, where is this 'high official' you speak of?" Unbeknownst to me, my words seemed to strike a nerve within Lucius, as his expression darkened, and he retorted, "Ah, this half-disowned boy possesses a sharp sense of humour. Let us hope that this tongue of yours does not lead you to a fate of being only half alive on the battlefield." With those biting words, he turned away, accompanied by his cohorts from the White Mage Division, their grinning visages etching a lasting impression upon me.

Mulling over the encounter, I mused to myself, "That dark mage belonged to Lucius' division. I had failed to notice it earlier, but should I discover anything consequential, then..." My voice trailed off, the thoughts lingering in my mind as the figures of Lucius and his comrades receded into the distance, vanishing through the hall's exit.