Chapter 53 - Damn Reincarnation

Fairy Tale

[Kamash, the chieftain of the giants, was absurdly huge. Even if the enormous Moron stood up as straight as he could, he only came up to Kamash’s heel.]

[Moron charged in, swinging the axe he was so proud of, but one kick from Kamash sent the idiot flying. “He’s strong!” Moron shouted. Who didn’t know that?]

[Beautiful Senya raised her staff. Akasha! The light that poured from that staff was every bit as beautiful as Senya herself. I don’t know whether you know this, but giants have the greatest resistance to magic of any race. What does that mean? It means that however powerful cute Senya’s magic was, it wasn’t much use against a giant.]

[And this was none other than Kamash! A giant who had lived for hundreds of years, and the most powerful chieftain in the history of his race. But everyone, being powerful doesn’t make you great. Kamash was the perfect example. He was a son of a bitch who sold his entire race to a Demon King.]

[Senya tried to beautifully restrain Kamash with her beautiful magic.]

How the hell did you beautifully restrain someone with beautiful magic?

Eugene stopped reading the fairy tale and pondered that.

[But restraining Kamash was impossible. That son of a bitch had received tremendous power from the Demon King in exchange for selling out his race. Giants can fight dragons with their bare bodies, and Kamash, cloaked in the Demon King’s dark mana as well, was truly a living, moving disaster.]

The revised edition had also included the battle against Kamash, chieftain of the giants. But its account of him hadn’t been as explicit as this first edition’s. Bad giants. That was how it had been toned down for a fairy tale aimed at young children.

[“We cannot retreat.” Graceful, gentle Anise radiated holy light. That’s right. They couldn’t retreat. Hundreds of giants formed an army behind Kamash, and they were marching across the Palmir Plains.]

He remembered it clearly.

The Palmir Plains, at the entrance to the demon lands of Helmuth. Three hundred years ago, a towering wall had stood there, marking the border with Helmuth.

To prove his loyalty to the Demon King, Kamash had personally led an army of giants to tear down the wall. No kingdom’s or empire’s army could stop that living disaster.

But they had to stop him.

[When gentle Anise raised her rosary high, my goodness. Brilliant light rained down from the heavens. The human army facing the giants was pathetically small, but Anise’s blessing bolstered everyone’s courage and strength.]

[Thousands of humans faced hundreds of giants. Isn’t that too few, you ask? There was nothing to be done about it. You, reading this book right now—are you sure you wouldn’t flee before an advancing army of giants? Those enormous monsters had been causing earthquakes with their footsteps days before they even reached the Palmir Plains.]

[And in truth, the number of allies didn’t matter.]

That was true.

Eugene recalled his past life, hundreds of years ago.

[Because Vermouth was there.]

Vermouth the Great.

The All-Master.

The God of War.

He had advanced with the brilliantly shining Holy Sword raised high. Its power joined the rain of light Anise bestowed. Fear, despair, and all other emotions useless in war were erased from everyone’s minds. At that moment, the humans there feared neither death nor pain, neither giants nor even the Demon King.

Anise’s blessing did more than eradicate unnecessary emotions. It instantly healed all but the worst wounds and kept them from tiring, however long they fought. It released their limits as far as their bodies could endure, making them better suited for battle.

Giants possessed formidable resistance to magic. That didn’t mean Senya’s magic was useless. She shook the earth harder than their footsteps did and split it apart. Lava surged from the ground, and lightning fell from the sky.

[Moron, that idiot, wanted to pit his strength directly against Kamash’s. Everyone thought Moron was an idiot, but couldn’t quite bring themselves to say it. Only Hamel, that ill-mannered bastard, smacked him across the mouth.]

[“You fucking idiot. A contest of strength? Why not go ask that son of a bitch Kamash to arm-wrestle you? Quit fucking around and stay with the soldiers over there.”]

[“Why should I?”]

[“Because if you don’t protect them, they’ll all get crushed under the giants’ feet and turned into jerky!”]

When he shouted that in exasperation and disbelief, Moron stood with his mouth hanging open for a moment, then exclaimed in realization and nodded.

[“I see. Hamel, you do not want them to die.”]

[“Why are you stating the obvious? If we’re fighting together anyway, fewer deaths are better than more.”]

[“Understood. I shall be their shield. What will you do?”]

[“What I always do.”]

Fewer deaths were better than more.

That was true of allies. Naturally, when it came to enemies, killing as many as possible was always best. That was something Hamel was particularly confident in, enjoyed, and excelled at.

[When Moron took his place in front of the soldiers, the knights who still thought they were something special approached Vermouth. “We’re the Dogshit Rose Knights,” “We’re the Horseshit Rat-tail Knights,” and so on, grandly reciting the names of knightly orders nobody cared about. What those morons were saying ultimately came down to this.]

We shall fight alongside you.

[Fight alongside him, my ass. Even if they all attacked together, they’d struggle to cut off one of Kamash’s toes. And fighting alongside him was only what they said they wanted. What they really wanted was to add their names to Vermouth’s legend, which would be passed down through the generations.]

[Besides, Vermouth didn’t particularly like fighting with a crowd. He knew perfectly well that anyone fighting alongside him would just get dragged around uselessly before becoming a meat shield.]

[Vermouth the Great. There was only one person who could fight alongside that inhuman monster, only one person Vermouth relied on in battle.]

[“Hamel.”]

[“Yeah. What?”]

[Hamel the Stupid.]

[“The left arm. Can you handle it?”]

[“I’d rather take the right. Isn’t that bastard Kamash right-handed?”]

[“Then take the right arm.”]

[“Why bother dividing up left and right? I’ll just handle things as I see fit.”]

[That was... hmm... difficult to put into words. You wouldn’t know this, but I made plenty of attempts to write it down somehow. But if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably noticed. I’m not much of a writer. I just write whatever comes to mind.]

[Anyway, it was an absurd battle. Kamash was as huge as a mountain. Vermouth and Hamel, well... they were tall and well built, even if they weren’t as big as Moron, but Kamash was a different species altogether. There was no comparison.]

[But Kamash could no longer advance. When he stretched out a foot, Hamel hacked into his ankle with an axe. When he swung an arm, Hamel slashed it with a sword. When he threw a punch, Hamel’s spear pierced his fist.]

[And Vermouth cut off Kamash’s head.]

It hadn’t been as simple as the book made it sound. He had fought recklessly, trusting Anise’s blessing. Whenever things became perilous, Senya’s magic intervened, and Vermouth knocked attacks aside for him. Without the Holy Sword’s light and Vermouth’s help, he couldn’t have held Kamash back alone.

[Only the Holy Sword could end Kamash’s life while he was cloaked in the Demon King’s power. And since the Holy Sword recognized Vermouth alone as its master, Vermouth was ultimately the only one who could kill him.]

[The blood that poured from Kamash’s cleanly severed neck swept across the plains, as though a riverbank had burst somewhere.]

[Kamash was dead, but the giants didn’t retreat. Still, well, the battle had become much simpler than it was at the beginning. With Kamash’s death, the Demon King’s protection weakened, so beautiful Senya’s beautiful magic finally began to show its full power.]

Having read this far, his conclusion was:

‘Either Senya or Anise wrote this book.’

Of course, the author of this ancient fairy tale was unknown. But now that he had read it, he could tell.

Senya the Wise.

Anise the Faithful.

Yet in this first edition, all manner of descriptions were attached to Senya’s and Anise’s names. Beautiful Senya. Graceful Anise. Cute Senya. Gentle Anise. Adorable Senya. Alluring Anise.

‘What the hell are these bastards doing?’

Meanwhile, Moron and Hamel were subjected to relentless abuse. Moron the idiot. Hamel the dumbass. Moron the moron. Hamel the dog. Noisy Moron. Foulmouthed Hamel.

Perhaps the author couldn’t bring themselves to attach anything else to Vermouth, because he was only ever called Vermouth the Great, from beginning to end.

It wasn’t just the epithets. This first edition was incomparably more savage than the revised version, but also much more detailed. It described not only the battle against Kamash and the giants, but many of the events in Helmuth in considerable detail.

The author of this fairy tale, published three hundred years ago, was presumed to be a bard who had collected rumors and woven them into songs.

But having read it himself, Eugene knew the author was no mere bard. The relationships between the characters were far too true to life for that.

‘Exactly as I remember them.’

Senya and Anise had been close. According to Mer, Senya had described Anise as a snake of a woman. That was hardly a surprising assessment. During their journey, Senya had openly called Anise a snake bitch time and again.

Since they had been so close... perhaps they had written the fairy tale together. That would explain all the bullshit about each other being beautiful and graceful.

‘Or one of them wrote it and didn’t want anyone to find out...’

Senya? Anise? Eugene considered it for a moment. Surprisingly... both of them were nasty enough to pull this kind of crap.

‘Still, this is way too blatant.’

“Didn’t Lady Senya write this?”

Rather than keep speculating alone, Eugene turned to Mer. There happened to be a familiar right here who had been with Senya hundreds of years ago.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mer looked up from the grimoire she was reading and answered with an expression of utter disgust.

“Why would Lady Senya write a novel like that?”

“Well... as I read it, I noticed there were an awful lot of descriptions of Lady Senya.”

“Beautiful, cute, and adorable? Honestly... don’t tell me you think Lady Senya wrote about herself like that?”

“... Hmm...”

“That is an insult to Lady Senya. What person in their right mind would put those words before their own name in a story they were writing themselves?”

“... Hmmm...”

“Even from you, Sir Eugene, I will not tolerate insults to Lady Senya.”

Mer clenched both fists as she spoke. Faced with that vehement reaction, Eugene stopped pressing her and flipped through the fairy tale.

[“Senya. I was in love with you.”]

‘Why is this part exactly the same as the revised edition?’

It couldn’t have been Senya.

Reading about Hamel’s death convinced Eugene of that. Anise had written this fairy tale.

‘They said she was called a saint in the Holy Empire right up until she left on her pilgrimage. That life must have bored her out of her fucking mind.’

That was why she had done something this insane. Given Anise’s personality, she was perfectly capable of scribbling down descriptions of herself as graceful, gentle, and alluring. As for all the things she had added about Senya...

‘Did she want to fuck Senya over?’

Senya. I was in love with you.

‘And fuck me over in the bargain. That fucking bitch.’

Eugene clenched his fist as indignation welled up inside him.

He had read it just in case, but even this fairy tale didn’t properly explain how the final battle against the Demon King of Incarceration had ended. That part was identical to the revised edition. They made a promise, left Helmuth for the sake of peace, and returned to their respective homelands. To live happily ever after.

Happily.

Eugene clicked his tongue and closed the fairy tale. His gaze fell on the portrait of Senya wearing that ill-fitting smile, and his mood soured.

“Are you going to try again?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think trying is a bad thing. But at your level, Sir Eugene, I think it’s far too presumptuous.”

He had heard that several times already. Eugene gave her a faint grin and headed toward Witch Craft.

“There’s satisfaction in challenging yourself with something difficult.”

“What satisfaction? All you do is fail.”

Despite her words, Mer didn’t stop him. Personally, she was interested in what Eugene was attempting.

Ten days had passed since the Black Lion Knights left. Eugene had spent most of his waking hours in Akron.

For the first two days, he had examined the magic on the lower floors, as Mer advised. Combat magic on the eleventh floor. Fire magic on the ninth. War magic on the seventh. Spatial magic on the sixth.

Spatial magic on the sixth floor had particularly interested him. Not for Blink, which he couldn’t even use yet, but to properly use the Cloak of Darkness. Inscribed with the highest level of spatial magic, the cloak was excellent armor in its own right, but it could also be used in a variety of ways depending on how he handled it.

Even now, using the extradimensional space inside the cloak was easy. He simply had to take any object and put it inside. Retrieving it was equally simple: reach into the cloak and pull it out.

But redirecting an attack required separately calculating the spatial coordinates of its destination. In other words, when the need arose, he had to quickly identify the coordinates of his current location and designate the coordinates to send the attack to. Even locating coordinates alone was highly advanced magic.

Though that interested him considerably, Eugene returned to the twelfth floor. The Eternal Hole he had seen in Witch Craft wouldn’t leave his mind.

He connected to Witch Craft again.

Watched.

And passed out.

From the third time onward, he no longer passed out. His mind had grown accustomed to those absurd movements of mana. That alone wasn’t enough. What could he gain from simply watching? To truly gain something, he needed a corresponding level of understanding.

‘Eternal Hole.’

The pinnacle of circle magic.

‘White Flame Formula.’

Lionheart’s mana-training method.

‘I’m used to handling mana. I’m used to the White Flame Formula, too.’

He intended to adapt it and combine the two.

Fully reproducing Eternal Hole was impossible for Eugene as he was now. To reproduce it, he would have to surpass the Ninth Circle at the very least.

Eternal Hole. Put simply, it contained endlessly multiplying circles inside one enormous circle. By circulating, collapsing, and reconstructing the circles thus created, it amplified mana.

Eugene didn’t use circles when casting magic. Instead, he used the White Flame Formula’s stars—its cores—in their place. He rotated three stars to form a single ring.

If he could add multiple circles inside that ring...

Standing before Witch Craft, Eugene gave a faint grin.

In his previous life, Hamel hadn’t learned the White Flame Formula. He hadn’t learned magic either, so he had possessed no circles.

What Hamel had learned was a cheap mana-training method that circulated among mercenaries. To that, he had added his own experience and improvements. Later, Senya had helped refine it as well.

It had no grandiose name. He had never intended to write it down and leave it for future generations, and he had neither disciples nor descendants to pass it on to. It was simply... a mana-training method that Hamel alone had learned in this world.

Build up the core. Detonate the mana composing it in a chain reaction. Spread the mana accelerated by those internal explosions throughout the body. Do not expel the detonated mana outside the body. By detonating the mana entirely within himself, he concentrated his power whenever he needed it.

With that alone, Hamel had slashed through Kamash’s limbs.

[“You were born with a gift for combat.”]

Something Vermouth had once said.

[“You actually paid money for a mana-training method this shitty?”]

That was what Senya had said.

[“I don’t understand. You trained your mana... with this... garbage... and reached your current level?”]

He could do it.

Eugene didn’t doubt himself. He could see some possibility of success. Then, of course he could do it. He wasn’t blindly trying to reproduce Eternal Hole. The three-star White Flame Formula. A circle formed by connecting the stars. Detonating mana inside it. A simple explosion wouldn’t do. It couldn’t just burst once and end; it had to happen continuously. If he could do that as naturally as breathing...

“And it’s even being demonstrated right in front of me.”

At the center of his consciousness, Eugene watched an infinite ocean of mana trace a circle. Eternal Hole. The pinnacle of circles Senya had devised still inspired awe, even after he had seen it so many times.

He no longer lost consciousness. Observing his own mind, Eugene watched the flow of mana. The endlessly forming circles, and the enormous ring that contained them. As his consciousness focused, his mana—less than a speck of dust in that ocean—responded.

And so,

two years passed.