Chapter 133

Contradiction

[Before the introduction
Although the study of magic appears to exist as an independent system of knowledge, in reality it is a multilayered discipline built upon various theoretical and practical traditions.
To understand it, at least a minimal awareness of the surrounding bodies of knowledge that fundamentally influenced the formation of magic is required.

Primitive shamanism and spiritism may seem similar, but they are different.

Primitive shamanism begins from the belief that the world and the self are one.
A shaman gains power by directly resonating with or channeling nature, spirits, and the souls of ancestors.

If magic perceives the world and calculates and manipulates it through the caster’s will, primitive shamanism resonates with the fact that the world and the self are one.
If magic uses ancient languages, shamanism speaks to the world through howls, hides and bones, blood and entrails.
Spirits, gods, and the shaman themselves are all parts of the world.
The shaman is both mediator and resonator.

In contrast, spiritism recognizes beings within the world that possess will.
It negotiates and forms contracts with them.
Here, the practitioner is an active intervener and designer.]

***

“Your world is not one.”

Brynskar spoke amidst the snowstorm.

Even the savage howl of the wind seemed to part before his voice.
Truly, it was a world of the mind.

The raging blizzard itself was nothing more than a shamanic symbol.
The years falling like rain, memories weathering within them, the songs, roars, and growls of souls buried in the northern lands.
Ulleorn’s trial was for Isaac to prove himself within all that—
before the souls of the tribal chiefs.

The deep blue flames rising from Isaac’s body burned intensely enough to devour even the raging blizzard.
In contrast, the force enveloping Brynskar shimmered like crimson waves.
The immense wildness flowing through his blood surged like a torrent.

Each time the two rusted swords clashed with a sharp resonance, two timelines intertwined and mixed.

The battle between the boy and the giant holding their blades resembled an impromptu dance.
There was rhythm in their footwork, and though their swordplay flowed smoothly, it was ever-changing and unpredictable.
It seemed like a ritual for the dead, or perhaps like performing tricks before their ancestors.
Yet in that moment, the clouds covering the sky split apart, and the snowy landscape shifted constantly.

“So Dragan resides within you.”

Brynskar spoke as he looked into Isaac’s eyes, gleaming with golden light.
The battle briefly fell into a lull.
Even the snowfall softened.

“Dragan?”

“The last chieftain of Baitur. A great warrior who once rivaled me.”

Isaac finally learned the name of the Wolf King.
He was also Besimer’s father.
He had never revealed his name, hoping Isaac would remember him differently from his own father.

“You are enjoying this fight. No… Dragan is enjoying it through you.”
“Is that so?”
“You are trying to devour me. The demonic beast within you is starving.”

Isaac realized it referred to the Winter Spider Queen.

“You are trying to purify me. There is a shaman within you who serves a foreign god.”

If it was a shaman who served a foreign god, then it must be the fallen saint.
Through the light of holy relic atonement, the will of that saint had also settled within Isaac’s vessel.

Brynskar was tracing the time Isaac had lived—his will, his soul.
Just as one can tell a tree’s age, the seasons and climates it has endured, how much sunlight it received, and what illnesses it suffered from its rings.

“And you…”

Brynskar paused.
His white hair fluttered like snow.

“You gaze at me with nameless years, without name or form. You were conceived but never born. In that darkness, you grew, feeding on layers upon layers of sorrow, living and dying over and over again. Within you, butterflies soaked in spring rain flutter.”

“…How do you know that?”

“I do not know. I see.”

At the moment Brynskar finished speaking—

Whoooosh—

A ripple spread through Ulleorn’s world, and a gust of wind swept through.
The snow and clouds vanished in an instant.

Spring rain began to fall.

Countless droplets poured down from the air.
Whether it was imagination, sensation, emotion, or synesthesia, Isaac could not tell—but the raindrops touching his face were warm.

Butterflies bloomed.
Thousands upon thousands of them rose from Isaac’s body, from his heart, from the center of Ulleorn’s world.

Silence spread, as if all arms had been laid down.
Far on the horizon, the land remained a snowy plain, yet around Isaac and Brynskar, fresh grass and wildflowers sprouted.
The falling snow melted into the gentle rain.
The plains grew wet.

The storm fell asleep, and the earth quietly steadied its breath.
A quiet darkness descended, stars shimmered, and the wind grew gentle.
Ulleorn’s world sank into the spring rain.

“You are a contradiction.”

Brynskar said.

A butterfly settled upon his shoulder, upon the edge of his blade like a feather.
They landed on the white wolf that breathed dust and ash, on the one-horned bison, on the owl whose wings were made of scripture, on the black serpent,
and on the bear, the lion, the fox, the badger, the eagle, and the raven.
Butterflies settled upon the souls of all the tribal chiefs.

So many that they were almost grotesque—
they were Isaac’s wishes, his hopes, his will.

Not the will of one who fights merely to survive, nor one who destroys to dominate—
but the heart of one who wishes, even just once, to breathe quietly.

A wish to bring peace to those he loves, and then finally rest.
Like the scene of that last spring, when a weary butterfly had settled upon a pommel.
Yet hoping that day would not become a ruined home—
but something infinitely warm and peaceful.

The shabby wish of an old man.

“You are not a warrior. Not a mage. Not a shaman.
You are all of them, and one who embraces even more than that.
And one who knows that all of it is one.”

An aurora shimmered across the night sky.
The golden light of the Wolf King’s eyes, the white and violet radiance gained from the saint, and the deep blue of the long winter burned together, forming a vast curtain in the heavens.

…

The souls of the chieftains, each bearing the form of beasts, began to cry out in unison.

There was no form, no language—
only sound.

Isaac looked down at his hands.
They were the frail, withered hands of an old man he had long forgotten.

Cracks formed along the blade of Ulleorn held in those hands.
They spread like a spiderweb, covering the entire sword.

Ulleorn shattered.

Isaac opened his eyes.
He felt the pounding of his racing heart.
He looked down again.

They were the hands of a boy.
Thin, but full of life.

A tingling sensation lingered at his fingertips.

—You are a contradiction.

Brynskar’s voice remained, echoing.

—And one who knows that all of it is one.

He saw straight through Isaac.
Perhaps even more clearly than Isaac himself.

Perhaps he had perceived the power that Ulleorn possessed.

Isaac could feel it—something pulsing from his beating heart, flowing through his veins.

‘This is absurd. Are they really expecting me to realize something like this in a trial set by Asra?’

The Light of Atonement from the holy relic.
The will left behind by the fallen saint had formed the seventh circuit.

Only now did Isaac realize that it had taken shape in a rather unusual place.
He lifted Ulleorn, which lay before him.

It was a shabby, rusted sword.
Before entering meditation, it had been something he could barely even touch—
but now, it felt like an ordinary blade.

‘Is this how it’s done?’

Isaac recalled something Lucas had once said in his previous life.
When Isaac had asked what it felt like to use aura, Lucas had answered:

—It feels like veins grow in the metal you’re holding, and your blood flows into it.

“I think I finally understand what you meant.”

A faint blue glow shimmered along Ulleorn’s blade.

The place where the seventh circuit had formed was not within the vessel of a mage.
It was within the heart—the vessel of knights.

Grrrr…

Just how many days had he spent in meditation?

Isaac was hungry.
Holding Ulleorn, he stepped out of the tent.

***

The first thing Adele checked upon returning was the blue flowers planted in the courtyard.

Those blue flowers, transplanted from the demonic realm, fed on highly concentrated mana.
The more Isaac’s vessel cracked or broke and leaked mana, the more vibrantly they bloomed.
No matter how cold the weather, those stubborn flowers would continue to grow.

But the blue flowers were nowhere to be seen.
As if they had never been planted there at all.

Only a few wilted snowdrops, withering in the severe cold, were scattered sparsely across the courtyard garden.

“It’s winter.”

Adele said, her gaze fixed on the snowdrops.

“Yes. Goethe’s winter has returned.”

As always, neatly dressed, the head butler Waller approached Adele with slow steps.
Folded blankets rested in his arms.
Snow began to fall again.

“I received a letter from Helmut near the end of autumn. Was what it said true?”
“If you mean the matter concerning young master Isaac, then yes—it is true.”
“Really… is everything alright now?”

“Young master is now a proper lord. Though the land is harsh, what he has accomplished there—and what he will accomplish—are nothing short of remarkable.”

“…Huu…”

Adele inhaled and exhaled deeply, like someone who had been unable to breathe for a long time.
Her expression, once cold and rigid like steel, slowly melted away.

“The weather is cold. Shall we continue this conversation inside, you tearful young lady?”

…

“You’ve worked hard.”

Waller unfolded a blanket and draped it over Adele’s shoulders.
Her chapped lips trembled, and her eyes welled with tears.
Standing beside her, Waller gently patted her shoulder.

It was just like the day she had been sent here—almost sold off—for the sake of peace between the tribe and Goethe.
When the old butler had offered a small kindness to a tribal girl.

The only thing that had changed was time.

“I’m so relieved… truly.”

Adele cried twice that day.
Once when she heard news about Isaac.
And the second time—

“You smell like horse dung, Mom.”

—when she embraced Jonas.

“Waaah, Jonas… my baby… leaving you behind like that…”
“Ugh, I can’t breathe.”

Though nine-year-old Jonas was pinching his nose, Adele clung to him and sobbed uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry, Mom couldn’t take care of you properly because I was busy looking after your older brother.”

“Ah, Mom!”

Only after crying her eyes and nose out did Adele finally bathe.
It had been nearly a month.

The face of a wandering warrior faded, and she once again bore the appearance of a noble lady.
Replacing her ragged clothes and armor, she wore a neat dress prepared by Waller and pinned on the brooch Helmut had once given her.

She had returned—from wanderer to countess.

“Ah, come quickly! There’s something I want to show you!”
“Mm… Jonas, Mom’s sleepy. Can I take a nap first and then see it?”
“No! I’ve been waiting to show you this!”

Though she was used to cold, sleeping outdoors, and staying up all night, once she returned home and bathed, she couldn’t fight off the drowsiness.
But Jonas stubbornly grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

“Why…? What is it?”

Adele muttered sleepily.

“This spot has the best view.”

The place Jonas led her to was the shared library.

Outside the window, snowstorm winds howled, rattling the glass.

“What are you trying to—”

Standing on tiptoe, Jonas opened the window.

“Why are you opening it? You’ll catch a cold.”

Adele’s eyes were already half closed.
A biting wind entered the room, but she felt like she could fall asleep on the bare floor at any moment.

“Mom, watch carefully.”

Jonas whispered softly.

In that instant—

The rushing snow and wind vanished as if they had never been there.
In their place, a clear, transparent space formed outside the window.

Like a dome made of glass, neither wind nor snow could enter it.
It was a space Jonas had secured through spirits.

“How…?”

Adele’s eyes widened.

Inside that perfectly still dome, one snowflake, then another, drifted in.
Unlike the fierce snowstorm outside, the snowflakes inside floated gently, like petals.

And as they gathered, they began to take shape.

The snow clustered into an oval—
then separated, petal by petal, forming a flower.

An anemone.

A flower that bloomed only in spring—
Adele’s favorite.