Chapter 37 - What is the Medium for Sorcery?

Chapter 37 - What is the Medium for Sorcery?

"Where did you learn that step?"

Ragna asked bluntly on the fifth iteration of today.

Of course, you taught me that.

But Enkrid couldn't be that honest.

"I've attended over twenty training schools."

Among them were fraudsters, but there were also many legitimate instructors.

"Hmm."

Ragna nodded.

As Enkrid moved based on the steps Ragna had taught, a vibrant expression gradually appeared on Ragna's face.

He was clearly enjoying the moment.

Strictly speaking, Ragna wasn't an excellent teacher.

He couldn't be.

A genius doesn't look at their own feet.

Thus, it's difficult for them to teach the path they've traversed.

How can one explain something that simply comes naturally?

When he says, "Swing the sword downward," he assumes the action itself suffices.

He doesn't explain the necessary footwork or the shifting of balance in between.

In truth, he can't explain it.

He was the worst type of person to run a swordsmanship school.

Enkrid realized this during the first iteration of today.

Still, it didn't matter.

If the teacher was terrible, the student just had to excel.

And in that regard, Enkrid was arguably the best on the continent.

"Where should my foot go? What direction should the tip point?"

"Do I have to explain even that?"

It wasn't a tone of reproach—he was genuinely curious.

"Yes."

Ragna corrected his posture while explaining the direction of the foot and showed his own stance.

That stance was the epitome of the basics.

Anyone with an eye for talent would drool at the sight.

For Enkrid, just observing Ragna's stance repeatedly was instructional.

"What about my center of gravity?"

"Yes, shift it at that timing."

Enkrid asked, and Ragna answered.

Throughout twelve iterations of today, Ragna focused solely on teaching Enkrid steps and posture.

"Footwork and stance come first. Basics follow."

"Occasionally, you manage a decent swing."

"Right now, you're not even good enough to chop firewood."

"If an enemy soldier dies from that last downward swing, thank him three times for dying."

"So, were you dancing just now?"

"Yes, I suppose it was a dance. Holding a sword while doing it might make it a sword dance, but let's not get fancy. Let's call it 'stick dance.'"

Ragna delivered sharp remarks in his usual calm tone.

"Was he always like this?" Enkrid wondered.

Rem had been a far gentler teacher by comparison.

Though his occasional comments made Enkrid question his sanity, Rem's lessons were still satisfying.

Every day felt like breaking out of an egg and being reborn anew.

When Enkrid began practicing diagonal slashes, Ragna explained,

"The line connecting your opponent and yourself is called the attack line. This line is usually the shortest distance between two people and the path your weapon takes when attacking."

"Blocking the opponent's attack line while extending your own is also fundamental. Do you understand? No, you don't look like you do. Ah, is this that thing? Your mind gets it, but your body won't listen?"

"Let me rephrase. The squad leader only understands with his mouth."

Ragna couldn't teach without throwing barbs.

Learn, and learn again.

Twenty iterations of today passed.

Then twenty-five.

"...I thought your basics were awful, but at least you know how to use your feet," Ragna said on the thirty-fifth iteration.

By this time, Enkrid's behavior had slightly changed.

When the mist settled, he no longer died immediately.

He dodged the first spear thrust and rushed in before dying.

Spears would pierce him like a porcupine.

But it was a decent approach.

Sometimes, one spear would miss.

Why bother pulling the spear back when the target is asking to be killed?

It made sense.

Facing someone begging to be killed must have been bewildering.

When a spear missed, Enkrid would writhe for an hour before succumbing to death.

That hour was a relentless chain of excruciating pain—a series of unbearable moments.

Each time, Ragna would call out to him.

"Squad leader!"

"You idiot!"

"Hey!"

Eventually, when the situation became urgent, Ragna would just yell, "Hey!"

Enkrid filled each iteration of today with determination.

"Your stance is better than expected."

Step by step, he improved.

Each time he changed, Ragna furrowed his brow.

"Until yesterday, you were clearly…"

He would murmur things like that.

"...Where did you learn all this?"

Around the hundredth iteration of today, Ragna asked,

"Who are you?"

Enkrid gave him a puzzled look.

"Up until yesterday, you were a mess. How did you improve so much in a single day? Magic?"

Ragna was surprised, and Enkrid burst into laughter at his reaction.

"Why? Surprised I'm better than you expected?"

"It's more than that. I'm starting to wonder if you're really the squad leader."

Ragna's skepticism was evident.

This squad was full of troublemakers, and Ragna himself was eccentric to say the least.

"So, will you stop teaching me?"

"No."

Ragna resumed reluctantly.

After that, they began practicing with imaginary sparring partners, swinging their swords.

The concept of the attack line, proper grip, and using a sword defensively were covered.

"If the sword is of high quality, you can block with the flat side. Otherwise, block with the edge."

"Slashing, thrusting, cutting—these three are the basics. Your footwork and posture aren't bad, so focus on these fundamental techniques."

Ragna's steps were numerous—advancing, passing, closing in, evading, circling sideways, turning back, and making wide turns.

Memorizing them alone was overwhelming, but through repetition, they started to stick.

Even for someone slow to learn, having such a high-level instructor dedicated to teaching 1:1 improved Enkrid's skills.

What seemed minor to a genius brought Enkrid immense joy.

"Visualize your opponent in your mind. Then swing your sword."

Clang!

Through countless iterations, Enkrid continued learning.

Diagonal slashes, blade binds, twisting strikes, slicing cuts, horizontal overhead slashes, side glances, crown strikes, counters, half-swording, parrying, deflections, continuous strikes, closing in, and drawing cuts.

As time passed, Ragna's sharp remarks diminished.

"You're better than I thought. Where did you learn that binding technique?"

"One of my previous instructors drilled it into me."

"Excellent."

Ragna was pleased.

The same method was applied to other techniques.

"Previously, every instructor told me my horizontal overhead slash was a mess. If you're going to teach swordsmanship, maybe start with that."

"...It feels like you've already decided what to learn."

"Not exactly."

Shrugging, Enkrid prompted Ragna to conduct a short test.

And soon enough, Ragna followed his suggestions.

"Let's do that."

Ragna, oblivious as ever, would unknowingly teach Enkrid the same thing over and over, only to dismiss it as sufficient and move on.

Each time, Enkrid advanced to the next lesson.

Under the blazing sun, their endless practice left them drenched in sweat.

For some, such repetition would be mind-numbingly tedious, but not for Enkrid.

When the two hundredth day of this routine had passed—

"Hm?"

Upon opening his eyes, Enkrid saw a black river.

What was going on?

A boatman came into view.

Though his lips didn't move, his voice resonated clearly.

"Are you insane? Coming here to die over and over again? You foolish creature."

The boatman's tone was calm, but his words were far from it.

Before Enkrid could respond, he woke from the dream.

Another familiar day awaited him.

Enkrid lay still, eyes open, lost in thought.

"Did you have a wet dream or something? What's wrong with you?"

Beside him, Rem made a remark that sounded like a playful growl.

Ignoring him, Enkrid rose from where he lay.

'Let's just assume he wanted to call me crazy.'

Even if Enkrid wanted to ask why, there was no way to pose the question.

Some problems are pointless to dwell on; answers won't come no matter how hard you think.

Enkrid stood and asked, "Do you know anything about sorcery?"

At the mention of sorcery, Rem turned sharply.

"Sorcery?"

"If you know something, share it."

Whenever fog gathered, Rem would occasionally make cryptic comments related to sorcery.

He must know something.

Up until now, Enkrid had been too preoccupied mastering the basics of swordsmanship, but now he had some breathing room.

His training had become second nature.

Even Ragna, who often watched, couldn't help but be amazed at how much he had improved.

Though Enkrid hadn't tested his skills in actual combat yet, he felt confident that he was far better than before.

"Sorcery is sorcery; what else would it be?"

"Explain what you know. It might be interesting."

It was rare for Enkrid to initiate a conversation like this, prompting a grin from Rem.

"What's got you curious all of a sudden? Fine. I'll keep it simple. Do you know the difference between magic and sorcery?"

"Magic's more common."

While rare, magic-users could still be found here and there.

But sorcery?

Despite wandering across the continent, Enkrid had never encountered a sorcerer.

That's how scarce they were.

"Not wrong, but not entirely right either."

Rem casually tidied up his bedding, tossing his rolled-up blanket aside, slipped on his boots, and stepped outside.

Enkrid followed him.

The day outside was the same as any other.

Yet, Enkrid never found it tiresome.

Every day was a delight in its own way.

As they walked, Rem continued, "Sorcery needs a medium. Sure, magic sometimes uses conduits, but for sorcery, the offering or medium is incredibly important. Without it, nothing starts."

"Did your tribe use sorcery?"

Rem hailed from the western frontier.

That region had become a settlement after the Central Continent Empire's victorious war, over a century ago.

Before that, it had been the land of indigenous tribes.

Although people still referred to them as barbarians in disdain, the general understanding was that sorcery originated from the west.

That was common knowledge.

"I've seen it a few times. But true sorcerers? There aren't many. Most of the ones wandering the continent are just tricksters, peddling false sorcery."

If Rem said so, it must be true.

Enkrid nodded and turned to his routine tasks.

"Where are you going?"

"Training."

He headed off to meet Ragna to continue refining the basics.

By the two-hundred-fiftieth day of their repetitive practice, Ragna remarked, "Were your fundamentals always this solid?"

Ragna's red eyes widened as he brushed his golden hair aside.

"From the looks of it, you seem to have made the longsword your primary weapon."

That sounded about right.

This sword had been his tool throughout the training.

Though it felt awkward at first, it had become second nature after countless repetitions.

A familiarity born from unrelenting practice.

"It's time to test your skills in real combat," Ragna said after their session.

Enkrid nodded, acknowledging the suggestion.

***

"Why are you still hanging around? They're calling for us," Rem shouted.

On their way back, Enkrid grabbed some bread from Krais and chewed on it, dipping the hard loaf in water before forcing it down, followed by jerky.

He checked his gear, then marched to the battlefield.

The longsword he'd swapped with Ragna swung lightly at his side.

"Didn't you pay a lot for your old sword?" Rem asked.

"This one feels better."

"I've seen plenty of men switch weapons and meet their end soon after."

Was that a curse or a warning?

"Mind your own business."

Exhaling deeply, Enkrid steeled himself.

While the Heart of the Beast granted courage, he couldn't rely on it alone.

If this was to be real combat, it should serve as preparation for "tomorrow."

Before the enemy came into view, Enkrid reflected on Rem's earlier explanation.

"Sorcery requires a medium, and that medium is crucial."

If the enemy lingered in the tall grass for concealment rather than ambush, was it because they were hiding something?

Enkrid had already caught a glimpse—flags and poles.

When they set one tent on fire, the enemy didn't prioritize killing the intruders but rushed to extinguish the flames.

Soon, the enemy came into view.

Nearby, a spear-wielding soldier from the 3rd squad muttered with a frown, "What's with their formation?"

A formation clustered around flagpoles offered no tactical advantage.

Its significance was likely sorcerous.

Six flags and poles rose above the enemy.

The mediums of their sorcery.

"Ah!"

Mist spread, obscuring their vision.

Well then, let's see how it feels to navigate the sorcerous fog.

Enkrid's ears twitched.

Time to let the keen hearing he honed from Jaxen take over for his eyes.