Chapter 136

Two Eccentrics

Isaac, through Ulleorn’s trial, had come to perceive aura as a tangible sensation.

Until now, having lived with the identity of a mage, aura had been something he only understood intellectually—a concept beyond theory, something unknown.
But now, after meditating and retracing Ulleorn’s trial and his battle with Brynskar, aura had become for him a perceptible will flowing through flesh and blood.

If magic is the world of cognition and concepts, then aura is the world of will and mental imagery.
Magic defines the world, while aura defines oneself.

Take a single battle as an example.

There is no such option as “winning with magic.”
First, one must define what it means to win.

Whether it is burning the opponent with fire magic to render them incapacitated, or piercing their vital point with a projectile through phase-shift magic to neutralize them—
that concept must be established.

Then, one recognizes the conditions required to fulfill that concept and continues logically redesigning the process.
In that way, in a form that nature can understand, mana imbued with the mage’s will becomes magical power.

Aura, on the other hand, is the manifestation of the will to win.
If a mage manipulates the external world, an aura user manipulates their own body.
Here, mental imagery comes into play.
To manifest and carry through one’s will, one envisions the power they desire.

“…What did you do this time?”

Besimer’s axe blade crossed with Isaac’s sword.

“Nothing much. Just… figured something out.”
“What a coincidence. So did I.”

Besimer smiled coldly.

Clang—

Sparks burst in the darkness.
Two wills collided.
Both staggered back—only to crash into each other again.

Besimer had become more wolf-like.
The image that Baitur had defined for themselves—the collective imprint left behind over long years.

Once it bites its prey, it never lets go, relentlessly pursuing to the very end.
At times savage, at times cunning.

Asra’s instruction to focus on breathing had been correct.
Besimer had reached a realm he could never attain by simply swinging his axe harder in excitement.
He shut out the world and himself, searching for the wolf within.

The unconscious of his tribe flowing through his blood—instinct, fear, will, memory.
He unearthed it, restored it, engraved it.
He thought of something he had never once considered before.

Aura.

It was not merely superhuman strength.
It was the form of the being he—and they—believed in most deeply.
What they truly wished to become.
Or what they feared most.

A pull engraved deep into the bones.

Besimer realized he himself was a wolf.
A large, ferocious, vicious wolf.
In that wolf’s hunt, there is no law, no morality, no justice, no honor.
Only an endless hunger for battle—

And the act of devouring prey to satisfy that hunger.

Thud—

The ground beneath Isaac’s foot caved in.
As axe and sword clashed, two entirely different auras collided, bursting the air apart.

Thud!
Thud!
Thud!

Besimer’s axe hammered against Isaac’s blade with brute honesty.
Same direction, no twists, no feints.
An arrogant attack—
Block it if you can.

At the same time, it was cunning.
If Isaac’s focus faltered even slightly from enduring that body-rattling blow, he would have no chance of evading the kick that followed.

Isaac twisted his body, blocking Besimer’s shin with his arm and shoulder.
Even with aura wrapped around him and a defensive stance taken, it felt as though his arm would break.

‘He’s become someone completely different.’

The arrogant warrior Isaac first saw in Vinfelt was gone.
The golden light lingering in Besimer’s eyes resembled that of the Wolf King Isaac had absorbed.

But unlike Isaac—who had gained that power through a rune stone—this was Besimer’s innate strength, carried in his bloodline.

Just facing him made Isaac’s insides churn.
A sour, metallic taste filled his mouth.
The shock had split his lips and churned up his stomach.

“Not bad. If you were the same as before, that last hit would’ve ended it.”

Besimer grinned at Isaac, who had been pushed far back and was barely regaining his balance.

“Sorry I didn’t say this earlier, but if you lose here, I won’t treat you like my elder anymore.”
“Hah… what kind of nonsense is that?”

Isaac steadied his breathing and calmed himself.

“Try to understand. The Hellwolves you sacrificed to protect Goethe—
they were once my brothers.
Even treating someone like you as my elder already feels like a betrayal to them.
If that ‘kid elder’ is weaker than me… I just can’t accept it.”

The moonlight was faint.

A barren land far from Vinfelt’s encampment.
They didn’t want to cause a disturbance near the camp or the villages at this hour, so they had come here to settle things.

On the dim hill where only silhouettes could barely be seen, a massive figure glowed faintly blue, golden eyes flashing.

“Hah… you’ve even gotten smarter, huh?”

Isaac let out a hollow laugh.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you. You’re still the eldest son of the eldest brother.”
“Isn’t that only if you win?”
“You’re still full of confidence. Have you gotten dumber instead? Well, fine. If you don’t know, I’ll teach you until you do… with your body.”

Besimer growled and lowered his stance.

Whoosh—

His massive body cut through the air as he leapt.
The axe came down like a claw.

Clang—

Isaac barely blocked the diagonal strike, but the axe shifted its trajectory mid-swing, aiming to cleave him in half horizontally.

With no time to block, Isaac leaned back and stepped away—but even that was within Besimer’s expectations.

No—
not expectation.

Instinct.

The instinct of a beast that toys with and hunts its prey.

Besimer’s body snapped sideways, closing the distance instantly.
Isaac tried to block, but the axe he expected never came.

In that instant, a freezing chill ran down his spine.

A sharp, piercing cold—
a primal warning of death.

Instead of continuing his attack, Besimer stepped past Isaac, overtaking him and taking his back.

Isaac’s rear was completely exposed.

If the axe struck now—no matter how many circulation paths he possessed, whether he could use aura through his heart or not—

He would die.

He would die.

As that reality loomed before him, Isaac’s heart felt like it would burst.
His breath nearly stopped.
Every vein in his body felt as though it were tearing apart and burning.

He didn’t know what he thought—what he imagined.
His body moved before his mind.

He didn’t swing his sword.
He didn’t evade.

Instead, with minimal movement, he kicked Besimer in the abdomen.

It felt like kicking a wall—Isaac himself was the one pushed back.
But it was enough.

He had escaped the axe’s reach.

“…Were you actually trying to kill me?”
“That’s a misunderstanding.”

Besimer licked his lips as he spoke.
Madness flickered in his wild, golden eyes.

‘…I think I finally get it.’

Isaac exhaled raggedly, feeling as though a razor or awl was slicing through his organs.

Now he understood why warriors like Besimer loved battle so much.
Why aura users were often brutal or aggressive—
why many of them had experienced killing at a young age.

Aura is pain.

The manifestation of will pushes the body to its limits—or warps it entirely.
And naturally, unbearable agony follows.

However, at the same time, exhilaration—pleasure—accompanied it.
A masochistic pleasure of breaking oneself down and reconstructing oneself.

And at the same time, a sadistic pleasure of unleashing violence upon the opponent with that reconstructed body.
The impulses long suppressed by reason burst forth.

“Truly… in my entire life, you’re the only one who’s ever surprised me this much, hyung.”

Besimer clicked his tongue as he looked at the aura flowing from Isaac’s body.
It was that of a warrior.
Not something refined like Carlson’s or Chevalier’s, but something rising like flames—wild and savage.

“Besimer… I think I understand you a little.”
“You look like your body’s itching. I understand you less and less. Still… this is gonna be fun.”

The two wills—their mental images—collided once more.

One was a wolf.
The other shifted endlessly.

A newly sprouted will that had yet to decide what it would become.
At times, it wished to be strong like a bear, flexible like a snake, enduring like stone, unyielding like steel.
In those moments, his body was no longer just flesh.
The heat of his mental image flowed through his blood.

His muscles followed his will.
His bones held form.
Through mental imagery, aura manifested his will into his body.

He created and broke down the self he desired, over and over again.

Clang—

If magic is redefining what it means to win and reconstructing the world accordingly…

Clang—

Then aura must be engraving one’s existence onto the world—shouting “I will win” with the entire body.

Swinging his blade like an extension of his own limbs, Isaac felt it.

The fighting spirit flowing through his veins.
A completely different sensation from magic.
Magic is not accompanied by pain—because the brain itself cannot feel pain.

But aura comes with unmistakable agony.
Pain, clearer than any other sensation, paradoxically affirmed that Isaac was alive.

The more axe and sword clashed, the deeper the smiles on Isaac and Besimer’s lips became.
Freed from all restraint and constraint, they let their impulses run wild.

At some point, words disappeared between them.
Thoughts vanished.
So did obsession and anguish.

Yet naturally, they came to understand.

Isaac came to know the wolf breathing within Besimer.
Besimer came to know the demonic beast and warrior’s soul within Isaac.

“Kuahahaha!”

Besimer’s laughter spread far into the wind.

…

Sigbrand watched the scene from afar with his squad.
Having been ordered to guard Isaac, they observed the two eccentrics with their usual detached gazes.

Then, suddenly—

Their eyes caught a carriage racing through the darkness.
With lanterns lighting its surroundings, it sped toward the encampment.

“…An owl?”

One of the sharp-eyed squad members read the emblem on the carriage.

“I’m not entirely sure myself, but… you know, that thing—the laws of mana… right?
Something about how the mana density in the demonic realm rises according to it…”

Berkheim scratched his head with a blood-soaked axe handle.
Even he seemed frustrated with his own rambling explanation.
Not that it was getting any clearer.

“Anyway, according to His Excellency, there’s a pattern to how the demonic beasts swarm.
He can sense the flow of mana and figure it out.
So… when the time comes, he’ll arrive.”

Outside, the commotion continued.

The commander’s official reception hall was closer to the outer walls, so the thunderous roars and flashes of magic created by Count Goethe could be felt more vividly.

“…Hmm.”

Marcel Reich let out a shallow breath.

It had already been two days.
Despite requesting an audience with Count Goethe, he had yet to meet him.

He couldn’t complain.
If the count left his post, Winterband would fall.
The casualties would be incomparable to now.

For Reich, this was his first time personally arriving at Winterband and experiencing Goethe’s winter.

He had heard rumors here and there, but even he had not expected it to be this severe.

The nobles of the capital had no interest in Goethe, who barely maintained his title as a frontier count in a remote region.
Only a few royal mages and advisors skilled in history and geography spoke of Goethe’s importance and the dangers he faced.

Even then, no one truly listened.

But after spending just two days here, Reich couldn’t help but realize how absurdly undervalued Goethe was—
and how immense the burden they bore compared to the treatment they received from the royal court.

Hundreds of demonic beasts surged in daily, battering the outer walls that blocked the canyon.
Among them, dozens would breach into the inner fortress.

To stop those few, defensive squads fought desperately through the winter.
Casualties occurred steadily.

The empty ranks were filled by civilians—refugees, fugitives, displaced tribes, drifters.
It was a wonder Winterband had endured this long at all.

And according to Berkheim, they had already reached their limit—
because the number of surviving veterans dwindled each year.

When Reich asked why they hadn’t petitioned the royal court, he was told they had—continuously—for over a decade.
And every time, the issue was pushed aside and ignored.

Even Reich, the academy head and a royal advisor, had never heard of those petitions.

The result—

A mage who needed extreme concentration was casting large-scale magic for three days straight without sleep.

So this is what a 5th-class mage truly endures…

Reich felt a deep respect for Count Goethe—one that transcended age, like admiration for a dear friend.

Since arriving here, all Reich could do was marvel.

Berkheim, who casually returned from slaying beasts each shift and still took time to look after him.
The constant screams, shouts, and monstrous roars outside.
The soldiers speaking of deaths as if they were nothing.
The flames burning corpses day and night.

Reich felt like he was losing his mind.

Meals consisted of nothing but hard bread and water.

On the evening of the second day—
having barely endured the urge to flee Winterband at any moment—

Thud—

Something massive, heavy, and weighty collapsed outside the gates.
The vibration crept through the cold stone walls of the reception hall.

“He should be here soon. I’m up for the next shift, so I’ll take my leave.”

After Berkheim left, some time passed.

The door opened.

The heart of Winterband entered the reception hall, coat fluttering.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Count Goethe spoke in a weary voice.