OBT 21

Chapter 21

Force (2)

“These sparkling things are ones I created at will. You could call them invisible force.”

Ian slowly looked around at the shining motes that surrounded Blanzor’s body.

“Force is not something to imprison within yourself, but something you borrow and use. Depending on how it is utilized, it can give birth to unique swordsmanship—or even become magic.”

As Blanzor drew his sword, the glittering motes in the room swirled into a vortex and rushed toward the blade.

“Now this sword is no longer ordinary. It is a sword imbued with Force.”

The blade swelled larger, rushing at Ian as if to swallow him whole.

But Ian did not dodge. He only glared at it.

The glowing sword flew right before his eyes—then shattered apart, scattering back into motes of light.

“Do you understand now? In this place, Force isn’t stored in the body. It’s simply drawn in and used according to one’s ability.”

“I see.”

Sitting on the bed, Ian nodded as though he understood.

His way of using Force was fundamentally different from theirs.

“Should I change my method?” Ian asked seriously.

Though he often mocked and provoked Blanzor, he had to admit—the man was undeniably strong.

“Hm. Even in my time, I never saw anyone who stored Force in their body to use it. Likely still the same now. But… it’s hard for me to tell you to abandon your way.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if you trace it back to ancient times, the story changes a bit.”

“Ancient times?”

“Yes. The age of legends—when countless heroes fought evil, and stood against dragons. Among those heroes, the most outstanding were the giants. They alone stored Force within their bodies. Just like you.”

The Albern guards, after ruthlessly pursuing and punishing the band of thieves who had slaughtered villagers, marched up the Red Canyon and began making camp on the plains.

By the small river running across the grasslands, Captain Jallang Depore washed the blood soaking even into his underclothes, his face expressionless.

While he was picking apart the bandit leader’s bones one by one, his body had become drenched in gore.

“You’ve defeated four hundred bandits, and yet you look anything but pleased.”

A clear voice came from behind. The captain slowly turned his head.

A man sat on a rock, face half-hidden beneath a crimson hooded robe.

“Shariel.”

“It has been a while, Sir Jallang.”

The mage Shariel lowered his hood, revealing his face—slender features, large eyes, red lips. At a glance he could be mistaken for a woman, though he was married to the second daughter of Lord Bonnen.

“Have you been well?”

“So-so. And you?”

“My head aches from serving the Grand Lord. It is no easy task.”

Shariel tossed a pebble into the stream.

“Coincidence, or did you come seeking me?”

“How much of the world happens by coincidence, really?”

“I’ll finish washing and join you.”

“Of course.”

Like performing a ritual, Jallang scrubbed himself thoroughly in the flowing river. Soon, he climbed ashore and changed into clean clothes.

“What business brings you to me?”

Jallang asked, and Shariel, eyes on the river, replied:

“King Arthur cannot rise from his sickbed. The old lion is finally nearing death. Within a few months, we may well witness the royal funeral.”

“Is that so?”

At his flat response, Shariel turned his head, studying the man’s profile.

“It must pain you. Did you not serve King Arthur closely?”

“He lived out a long life. I’ve no reason to grieve.”

“Hahaha! True enough.”

Shariel laughed brightly, then gradually fell silent.

“When the King passes, the struggle for succession will plunge the kingdom into turmoil. The power of the great lords has never been stronger. Sir Jallang, will you not lend your support to Lord Bonnen?”

“What do you mean by support?”

“Lord Bonnen aspires to be the next king. He needs capable men at his side—like you.”

Shariel drew a sealed letter, stamped with Bonnen’s crest, and held it out.

“Read it. A letter from the Grand Lord.”

“I won’t take it. I am sworn to House Albern.”

“You are wasted in Albern. Why not aim higher? If the Grand Lord becomes king, you would be granted lands far greater than Albern.”

“Leave. I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

As Jallang turned away, Shariel’s gaze grew cold.

“Rumors abound that Prince Twell will inherit the throne.”

At this, Jallang’s expression stiffened slightly. His hand unconsciously touched the cross-shaped scar on his forehead—left there by Prince Twell.

“Prince Twell is no ruler. He once tossed people to beasts for amusement, squanders his days in debauchery, and never studied the ways of a king. If such a man wears the crown, what do you think will become of this realm?”

“…”

“I know what happened between you and the prince. Do you not wish to take revenge for the humiliation he dealt you?”

Shariel pressed Bonnen’s letter into Jallang’s hand from behind.

“Albern cannot avoid the succession war. One way or another, you’ll be dragged in. Join our Grand Lord.”

Pulling up his hood again, Shariel gestured to the river.

Water surged upward, forming an arched bridge.

“I’ll be waiting for your answer.”

The moment he crossed, the bridge collapsed into droplets, splashing back into the stream.

“The ancient giants used Force the same way I do?”

Eyes gleaming with interest, Ian fixed his gaze on Blanzor.

“Yes. Storing Force within the body was their unique method. They were strong enough to battle dragons, but vanished with the legends. And now you—a stranger from Earth—use the very technique of the long-lost giants. Isn’t that astonishing?”

“It is. Maybe the ancient giants came from Earth too,” Ian joked lightly, folding his arms.

What should I do?

Blanzor’s method—drawing in Force easily instead of painstakingly gathering it in the dantian—had tempted him. Now, the story of the giants fascinated him even more.

“If they fought dragons, how much internal power must the giants have had? At least ten gapsa, I’d guess.”

“Ten gapsa? What do you mean?”

“One gapsa is the Force you can build up through sixty years of constant training. So ten means six hundred years’ worth.”

“An amusing measure. Regardless, while it may be unfair to compare you with the sacred ancient giants, I told you this because you should know. The choice is yours.”

After pondering, Ian rose from bed and began reviewing the Kebania script he had learned that morning, writing on paper.

Puzzled, Blanzor asked:

“What are you doing? We’re in the middle of something important.”

“I’m not the best at studying, so I’m reviewing before I forget. I don’t want to disappoint Linda tomorrow. As for Force—I’ll try both ways. Keep cultivating internal energy as before, and also experiment with your method. With effort, maybe I can manage both.”

After treating Lord Albern, Nekamo returned to the kitchen for supper.

It should be well-boiled by now.

Before leaving for the manor, he had set a chicken into the pot over the hearth.

It was one he had butchered himself, from among the hens he raised out back.

They were precious for their eggs, but sometimes, one had to be eaten. This one had been fed on the herbs he grew, making it a medicinal bird as well.

“Smells good.”

Though he had added no spices, the kitchen was filled with a mouthwatering aroma.

“That girl never makes it home on time.”

Glancing at the darkening sky, he set aside a portion for his daughter, then heaped chicken and broth into a large bowl for himself.

“Father! What are you eating?”

Linda burst into the house, catching him mid-bite.

“Can’t you tell? Chicken. Someone might think I’m secretly eating it all without you.”

Speaking around a mouthful, Nekamo gestured at the pot on the hearth.

“If you’d come any later, I’d have eaten it all myself.”

“Then I made it just in time,” she laughed, filling her bowl before sitting opposite him.

“It smells wonderful. Next time, I’ll cook.”

“I’ll believe it when you keep that promise more than once.”

Stripping bones, Nekamo sipped wine from his cup and looked at her seriously.

“Linda. Healing doesn’t begin with compassion. Being a healer is a trade—no different from a carpenter or blacksmith. If you give treatments for free, you’ll starve.”

“I know, Father. But what am I supposed to do when I see it? If they have no money, must they just suffer and die?”

“Sadly, that’s the cold reality. Without the herbs I grow, how would you have treated anyone? You may resent me, but with that money, I fed, clothed, and taught you.”

When he raised his voice, Linda fell silent, nibbling at her food before answering softly:

“I don’t resent you. I’m grateful. You’re my father—and I love you.”

She had never forgotten how he carried her on his back as a baby, after her mother’s early death, protecting her with the fiercest love.

Her other childhood memories were hazy, but one stood clear: her father’s radiant smile as he held her close.

“Your daughter is proud of you, Father.”

Embarrassed by her words, Nekamo coughed awkwardly.

“Eat before it gets cold.”

“Yes. You too, Father.”

She smiled, tearing into a drumstick with gusto. Watching her enjoy the meal filled him with quiet joy.

“I just came back from treating the lord.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The centipede remedy is working. His body reacted. There’s hope.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Linda, though drowsy, thought of Ian—so earnest in learning letters from her—and added:

“But Father, there’s a rumor. They say the lord declared he would lower Kyamyu’s taxes.”

“I was there. It was quite something. Who would have imagined he’d climb atop a carriage and shout that?” Nekamo said in awe, chewing his chicken.

“But the treasurer won’t stay quiet. That worries me. Even at the manor, the atmosphere was icy.”

Hearing this, Linda’s expression clouded.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told the lord that the people hated the taxes. Some even to the point of loathing him.”

“What!”

Startled, Nekamo dropped the chicken bone in his hand.

“You mean he lowered taxes because of you?”

“I don’t know for sure, but he took it seriously. He was angry.”

“You fool! Why go spouting things like that? You should have just taught him his letters!”

“They asked me! What was I supposed to do? And it wasn’t a lie.”

“Why must you be the one to say it?”

Worry sharpening his tone, Nekamo pressed her further.

“What else did you say?”

“Nothing much. Just a bit about the treasurer, the scribe, and the captain of the guard.”

“You badmouthed them, didn’t you?”

Linda glanced away guiltily, nodding slightly.

“Just a little.”

“Aigo, my head… You’ll give me an illness I never had.”

“If you get sick, I’ll treat you,” she said playfully.

“Quiet!”

Leaning back in his chair, hand at his neck, Nekamo looked at his daughter with worry.