"Have you ever heard of a totem?"
"It's a tool used in sorcery."
Rem said.
"You told me that."
Encrid answered while seated in the middle of the tent. The chair he sat on had no backrest, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
In front of him, Rem, acting as the sorcerer teacher for the day, spoke.
"Alright, from now on, you're the human totem. Eat, sleep, and stay here."
Rem, now the stern teacher, said this.
Encrid, quick to catch on, understood the situation immediately.
It seemed he had to do as Rem said.
Naturally, there had been a few experiments leading up to this.
This happened just a moment ago.
Rem, stepping in as the mediator, said bluntly.
"Get out. Quickly."
Encrid did as Rem instructed, stepping outside the tent. After walking about three steps, Rem, standing at the entrance of the tent, waved him off with the back of his hand.
"Farther, over there."
Encrid complied.
Dunbachel sat off to the side after exiting the tent, holding her nose with one hand while watching the scene. Luagarne followed behind Encrid.
"It seems they believe you can block curses."
She said this while repeatedly drinking water.
"That can't be."
It must have been a coincidence.
Though he had joked about realizing his Divine Power, it was impossible.
Besides, he had never even touched sorcerery.
There was no need to reflect on his life thus far. He had been too busy swinging his sword.
Even now, he was eager to revisit his thoughts.
The twins attacked with a very unique tempo.
One used a single tempo, accurately throwing their spear with a precise rhythm, while the other used a half-tempo.
Watching them, many thoughts crossed Encrid's mind.
'What if I mixed the tempos?'
Suddenly, he thought back to what Oara had shown him.
Oara's swordsmanship was grounded in the basics. One of those basics was tempo.
From a simple single tempo, there was a counter that intercepted that tempo. Then there was the half-tempo that split the single, followed by the double tempo, where two actions were performed in one beat.
Tempo, in other words, could be considered a single breath.
Ragna could fit three or even four actions within one breath.
Should that be called a triple or fourth tempo?
It didn't matter what it was called.
Oara had done the same, splitting tempos and using single tempo as well.
And conversely, she could also prolong her strikes.
By extending her breath and drawing out the tempo, her sword strikes stretched on.
What should that be called?
If it needed a name, perhaps it would be 'slow tempo'.
Instead of splitting it, she extended it. By mixing her steps and body movements, she made her sword strikes seem endless.
Against the Fragment of Balrog, Oara had displayed such unbroken swordsmanship.
Her sword did not stop. It continued, and continued. It was quite impressive.
Following Oara, others flashed through his mind.
Ragna would often swing his sword for a heavy strike. He would engage in mind games and deceive his opponent for a single, decisive blow.
But his goal was always the same. Whether sword or shield, his aim was to land that first strike on his opponent.
The King of the East, on the other hand, excelled at sharp, abrupt movements.
His spear would thrust forward at odd angles, breaking through the opponent's guard.
It was an irregular and unpredictable style, difficult to counter.
Thoughts kept repeating in Encrid's mind. He pondered again and again. He experimented with his body, corrected mistakes, and swung his sword. It was a process of repetition.
As he walked, performing sword-like motions with his hands, Luagarne watched him with wide eyes.
'This man is a training addict.'
There were those who referred to Encrid as such.
Luagarne agreed with them—train, train, and more training.
Encrid never tired of it, squeezing every moment he could, even at the cost of sleep.
And now was no different.
Encrid's mind was filled with thoughts of swordsmanship.
Forget sorcererism—how could he possibly focus on it with all these thoughts filling his head?
Moreover, he found it quite enjoyable.
His thoughts continued.
What if he went wild and split the tempo even more, like splitting breaths?
There was a style like that.
In the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.
'I used to think it was nonsense.'
The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique allowed free manipulation of breath.
It was a technique that played with tempo and rhythm.
How was that possible?
By mastering all the basic techniques.
Is it an easy path?
No, it's difficult. It's a hard path. But even so, it brought a smile to Encrid's face. For him, it was an immensely enjoyable path.
In hindsight, no swordsmanship emphasized the importance of mastering the basics as much as the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.
Even more so than Luagarne, the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique insisted on it.
He hadn't actually heard it, but it felt like he had.
When he learned the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique, he read something akin to a secret manual. Almost every page had something to say about the basics.
"Get your stance right, if you don't know the basics, you can't deceive your opponent."
"If you can't swing correctly with the proper form, you won't be able to cut even straw."
"Train your body so you can maintain the proper stance."
"Start with the stance."
"Focus on your stance with the sword. Begin from there."
"Before mastering the techniques, what should you do first? Yes, that's right. The stance."
If you removed all the talk about basic stances and foot positioning, the manual would have been much thinner.
But it was that important.
Most who read it disregarded such advice. They passed over it, dismissing it as unnecessary rambling.
Encrid didn't.
He couldn't afford to.
It was a time when he had to grasp at anything, even straw, and swing it.
So, he did.
In order to learn the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique, he refined his stance and followed every instruction.
It resulted in a truly remarkable stance.
If Valen himself saw it, he would have said,
"This bastard is truly worthy of being called my disciple."
Of course, had they met earlier, Valen might have asked,
"You expect to live off the sword with talent like that?"
Regardless, there's a saying: To deceive, mix the truth with the lie.
The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique adhered to this philosophy.
By honing the basics, it enabled a variety of tricks and feints—the essence of the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.
Deep in thought, Encrid had wandered far from the tent.
"Come back!"
From afar, Rem called out. Encrid turned back and returned to the tent.
Along the way, he noticed several curious gazes. Some eyes were hollow, others stared blankly.
The day was bright, and the sunlight was blinding. Encrid sought shade as he walked, sticking close to the large tent.
It would probably amount to nothing. Some other factor must have been involved.
Why would simply his presence make the curse disappear?
As he approached, he noticed Rem's expression had changed. He seemed quite serious now.
"Go, over there."
Rem's tone had lost its playful edge. A woman, who appeared to be a mother, knelt nearby.
The sorcerer Hira kept bringing her cigarette to her lips.
Puffs of smoke obscured her face.
Encrid did as Rem instructed.
After walking back and forth three times, Rem muttered.
"Shit, could this actually work?"
But soon he nodded.
There wasn't much point in overanalyzing the process. The situation was as chaotic as it could be, like a lost dog. It was no time to deliberate.
Having abandoned reasoning, Rem decided to establish a human totem, and Encrid had to comply.
Looking around, there were quite a few sick people—more than twenty.
Encrid thought as he observed them.
Should they bring in a healer, or rather, a sorcerer in this place?
Regardless, it was far easier to become a human totem than to threaten a sorcerer with a blade at their throat.
After Rem's experiment, Hira conducted her own.
She made contact with those who were cursed, sitting with them silently.
The conclusion was reached.
Encrid would become a human totem in the center of the tent.
A chair appeared, replacing the previous stool. It was his personal chair.
A soft cushion was laid out, and instead of the harsh-smelling smoke, a gentle fragrance from the West began to burn.
A terracotta urn, previously in the chieftain's tent, was moved to this side.
They lit a fire underneath and used the residual heat to slowly burn the fragrant herbs. There were four holes at the top of the urn.
From those holes, soft smoke rose, carrying the scent of the herbs.
"Ah, this smells good."
Dunbachel commented.
Encrid inhaled deeply, letting the pleasant scent wash over him, dispelling the foul stench that clung to Dunbachel.
It smelled so good that he felt like chastising Dunbachel immediately.
"Go wash up."
"Huh, why?"
"Now."
"In my village, we believe that washing too often brings bad luck."
"Does a beast village really say things like that?"
Luagarne was familiar with the ways of beastfolk. They didn't enjoy bathing, but they didn't casually say things like washing brings bad luck.
Dunbachel had no further retort. After all, she hadn't lived in her village for long, having been exiled as a child.
"Shall I bathe her?"
At some point, the mother who had become a follower approached.
Encrid was slightly wary of her.
Her attitude had changed so quickly, and so had her nature.
But then again, Westerners were often like that.
They were straightforward, without much pretense.
The middle-aged man who had visited earlier, thanking him for stopping the curse, was the same.
"Thank you, thank you so much."
Encrid had simply nodded vaguely, not knowing who the man was.
The mother looked at Dunbachel.
Encrid read her expression.
'Will she listen? If not...?'
Her hand slipped into her robe. She seemed deep in thought, lightly grasping a Karam Bitt.
"Hey, go wash up. Don't make this difficult."
Encrid kicked Dunbachel's backside, sending her on her way. There wasn't much else he could do.
Most of his time was spent watching Hira, who occasionally muttered sternly as she tended to the improving patients.
"Protect this land, please."
She murmured while taking care of the patients.
Was that also a form of sorcererism?
It looked more like devoted nursing.
She applied a gray ointment under the patients' eyes, turned their bodies, and cleaned their faces and limbs. It didn't seem like sorcererism.
"It should be safe to walk near the tent now."
Hira's attitude had also changed. She, too, became more respectful toward Encrid.
Stepping outside, the twins stood guard in front of the tent.
This was because of what Rem had said when asked if there was anything he needed.
"Just prepare a training ground and sparring partners."
"You're not going to do it yourself?"
"I'll be busy."
Rem said this and left.
Thus, Encrid became a totem. He didn't find it particularly boring.
While sitting, he trained in his mind.
And when he stepped out, he moved his body.
They had left plenty of space in front of the tent, so there was more than enough room to swing his sword.
He didn't act awkwardly in an attempt to adapt to the Western tribes.
Having spent so much time as a mercenary, living off the sword, how could he struggle to adapt now?
In conclusion, Encrid managed quite well.
"Please, enjoy this."
The mother of the child served him diligently.
Indeed, this was beyond mere care—she served him.
"Thank you."
Encrid replied politely, quenching his thirst with squirrel fruit and eating some well-roasted lizard meat.
Their cooking style was something he had experienced with Rem before.
They would catch brown-furred rabbits, called field rabbits, skin them, remove the entrails, and either mash them into a meat porridge or make them into meatballs.
Nothing was wasted, unlike the food served at a noble's table. They ate just enough, but still had sufficient nutrition.
Taste? Everything tasted fine.
Eating the animals whole was likely a tradition born from scarce resources.
About half a day passed, and as evening approached, a few children began lingering nearby.
Encrid, while sharpening his sword, quietly observed the children.
'Are they here to watch me?'
Were they curious because he was a foreigner? Up until now, they hadn't seemed interested.
Some of the children were indeed curious, but their attention wasn't on him.
"Is Ziba alright?"
One of the children asked, looking toward the tent. The mother stepped out and glanced at the child.
He recognized her face—it was the girl from earlier, one of the children who had been playing with a line of others in the morning.
"You shouldn't be coming this close."
"But you said it's fine now?"
One of the children said. Concern was evident in their attitude, speech, and gaze.
Their friend had collapsed, and they were lingering nearby, worried.
Children were still children. They ran and played, but they also worried.
Encrid merely watched. He had no place to intervene.
"Still, don't come too close."
The mother, now clear of resentment and anger, sent the children away.
It wouldn't do for them to linger too close and pick up bad luck.
"Kind benefactor, if you're feeling peckish, please have this."
The mother then handed Encrid some dried plums.
Encrid put one in his mouth and chewed. It was sweet. Beside him, Luagarne drank water continuously.
Seeing this, the mother also gave a gift to Luagarne.
It was a basket woven from tree branches, filled with insects that looked like dried grasshoppers.
Upon receiving the live insects, Luagarne puffed up her cheeks with joy.
Come to think of it, Luagarne might have a fondness for food.
Encrid, aside from eating, drinking, and sleeping, spent the rest of his time practicing his swordsmanship.
He felt some change, and it made training even more enjoyable than before.
Occasionally, the twins sparred with him, and Rem would drop by now and then.
"I'm dying."
"What is?"
Encrid asked, wondering if something difficult had happened. It was a night with a bright moon. Without a torch, he could see Rem's face clearly.
"Ayul refuses to listen."
"What did you do to make her leave?"
Rem, uncharacteristically hesitant, replied.
"Ten days after our wedding..."
"After that?"
"Just..."
"Just?"
"I ran away in the middle of the night."
This guy was crazy. He had the nerve to walk back on two feet after that? If anything, crawling on his belly and begging for forgiveness wouldn't be enough.
Encrid grasped the hilt of his sword, sharp and ready.
"Put your neck down. Right here, bend your waist."
He pointed to a tent post outside, and Rem asked.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to relieve her anger. Beheading you seems like the quickest way."
There didn't seem to be any other option. Rem laughed.
But Encrid didn't.
"That wasn't a joke?"
"I'm serious."
"Stop messing with me like that."
Perhaps he had teased Rem too much. Rem turned serious and walked away.
After that, Rem was rarely seen. He seemed busy.
The first day passed this way, and it was the second night. As Encrid fell asleep in the center of the tent, he suddenly felt his body shaking.
A ripple.
The sound of the river moving accompanied it.
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