The Lake's Magician, Merlin.
A beautiful and static constellation like a lake with ever-gentle ripples. Now, that constellation was boiling wildly like water in a pot.
"Wow, wow, wow..."
She clutched the back of her neck, which was burning hot.
"What kind of crazy bastard is this?"
Stars listen to human voices.
This is a widely known fact, but the reality was slightly different. There was one more condition attached.
Stars listen to the voices of those who have the qualifications.
Not all human voices reach the stars to begin with. Most voices simply pass by the constellations as small noises, only the voices of those with qualifications can become sentences with meaning rather than noise.
'Even then, they usually just sound like tiny murmurs...'
Surely that would be the case, but why?
Merlin recalled the voice that had just rung in her ears. That voice was so clear. Beyond the level of a meaningful sentence, it was so distinct that she could understand even the sarcastic intonation.
The clearest voice she had heard in hundreds of years.
The distinct will of someone who possessed the qualifications of a hero.
And the will conveyed by that voice was enough to make Merlin's calm lake boil. The voice directly denied King Arthur's achievements. It mocked King Arthur, whom Merlin had served, calling him "a man born in the right era."
"Is he really crazy?"
Blood vessels popped in Merlin's eyes.
The constellation "Staff of Selection," the protagonist of The Chronicles of Arthur, was the constellation with the most followers across the continent. There was no way anyone wouldn't know that.
Yet he dares to insult Arthur?
And with such nonsensical words?
Is he perhaps desperate to die?
Merlin stared down at the ground with wide eyes. Her gaze could extend anywhere starlight reached. She quickly rolled her eyeballs, searching for the owner of the voice that had just rung in her ears.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
She thought she had seen an extremely impudent boy around the time the voice rang in her ears... but no matter where she looked, the boy's face was nowhere to be seen.
'Has he hidden somewhere starlight doesn't reach?'
It didn't matter.
Go ahead and try to hide for a lifetime, if you can.
"Just wait until you catch my eye."
Crack, Merlin bit her fingernail. Her bloodshot eyes moved rapidly. As if not to miss even the smallest trace.
"You won't die peacefully, kid."
Whether a once-in-a-generation genius with the qualifications of a hero, an apostle of another constellation, or a beloved disciple of a sword master—none of that mattered to Merlin.
She would only make them pay for insulting her king.
The Lake's Magician swore on her constellation. That she would find that impudent brat and crush him.
***
"Hiss, what was that?"
I massaged the back of my neck.
Suddenly, the back of my head felt tight. It felt like someone had sworn to the heavens that they would catch and punish me.
'Who could it be?'
In truth, I had accumulated quite a lot of enmity here and there, so there were more than a few people who were determined to get me. Well, it's probably nothing significant. It could be the pickpocket Tus, whose arm I broke recently, or the drunkard Belga...
Anyway, it didn't seem like an important issue.
"Huff..."
Shaking off these miscellaneous thoughts, I opened my eyes.
"Ofen, is this meditation thing really effective?"
I turned my head to look at a corner of the open space. There sat a man in shabby clothes. He was somewhat like a master who taught me swordsmanship. In response to my question, he slowly opened his mouth.
"Of course. Settling your mind through meditation is the most basic of basics. If your mind wavers, the tip of your sword also..."
Here we go again.
I shook my head and drew my sword.
"Forget that, just watch me swing the sword."
"Tsk. Have some respect for your master, you damn kid."
"Then put down that liquor bottle in your mouth."
I gave Ofen, who was downing alcohol early in the morning, a contemptuous glance. He was supposedly a renowned mercenary in the upper town before being banished to the underground city... but whenever I saw him like this, I doubted that rumor.
Rough beard due to lack of grooming.
Shabby clothing and eyes soaked in alcohol.
Ofen was a man who, by all appearances, would make ten out of ten people mutter, "Hmm, a drunkard," and move on.
'But still...'
I took my stance and swung my sword.
'His skills are definitely real.'
As soon as I swung my sword, a sharp voice echoed across the open space.
"Too stiff. Relax a bit. Tuck your elbows in more."
It was Ofen's instruction.
I adjusted my posture according to his instruction. The effect was immediate. The sound made when swinging the sword became a bit more solid. I briefly marveled at the heavier sound despite relaxing my body.
Whoosh.
I continued to swing my sword, and Ofen briefly offered advice with a word or two. Ofen's teaching was always like this. He neither demonstrated how to swing the sword nor directly adjusted my posture, but he did offer advice.
'And...'
That advice was genuine.
Though he might appear to be a drunkard at first glance, and he actually was a drunkard... at least when talking about swords, Ofen became infinitely serious.
"Lower your stance."
Just like now.
"Open your eyes wide."
Sharp voice.
"Breathing. Exhale. You're using too much force."
Not eyes soaked in alcohol, but sharp eyes.
"You're not pressing down with weight. What you're holding isn't a blunt weapon. It's a blade meant for cutting. Don't press down, swing it as if brushing past."
Listening to Ofen's voice, I swung the sword for a long time. Sweat trickled down my spine.
"Put strength in your legs and step forward. It's not about swinging with force. Look all the way to where the sword swings."
Listening to that advice, I thought.
Perhaps, time-wise, this would be the last swing. I had quite a few things to do today.
'The last one should be clean.'
I readjusted my grip on the sword.
Imprinting in my mind the advice I had heard today, I regulated my breathing. Ofen's voice echoed in my ears like an auditory hallucination.
'Take a big step forward.'
Thump.
'Regulate your breathing, and see the tip of the sword all the way through without your body becoming stiff.'
Exhaling, I swung my sword.
From top to bottom, a diagonal downward strike, the most basic swing that could hardly be called swordsmanship. But the moment I swung the sword, I sensed it.
It's different from usual.
Swish!
The sound of the sword cutting through the air echoed.
The trajectory drawn by the sword tip was clearly visible. A silvery-white trajectory drawn cleanly without wavering. Only after a slicing sound echoed did I take a long inhale.
"Kek, cough!"
For some reason, the inhaled breath was hot. Surprised by the hot air, I coughed dryly and turned my head toward Ofen.
"Ofen, wasn't that just now pretty good?"
A clean sword strike that surprised even myself.
I asked with some expectation and excitement, but Ofen was looking at me with dull eyes. Ofen opened and closed his mouth repeatedly.
"Well..."
After some time had passed like that.
Ofen murmured in a daze.
"Wasn't it good?"
"What's with that ambiguous answer?"
"No, well, it was good. Clean."
"Right?"
I smiled wryly. Wiping the sweat beads from my forehead, I sheathed the sword. As I was cleaning up, Ofen threw a question at me.
"Do you have someplace to go? You seem to be finishing earlier than usual today."
"Where would I have to go? It's work."
"...Who is it this time?"
Immediately, Ofen's eyes narrowed.
I answered with a bitter smile.
"Trixie."
"Trixie from the Lilac Tavern?"
I nodded, and Ofen briefly clicked his tongue.
"Seems like that bastard finally crossed the line."
"Apparently, he was caught by Jivan after taking children and selling their organs. What can I do, I have to clean it up."
"You?"
"I have to do it. I'm Jivan's hound after all."
Muttering something about "anyway," Ofen took a swig of his alcohol.
"That Jivan, making a youngster like you do all sorts of things. Anyway, he's a messed-up bastard, and it's a messed-up organization."
"You're also part of Jivan's family, Ofen."
"That's because he begged me so much... Huff, forget it."
Ofen waved his hand dismissively.
It meant get out quickly.
I let out a wry smile and moved my feet.
"Zarin."
After taking just a few steps.
Hearing my name, I turned around. There was Ofen, who had put down his empty alcohol bottle on the ground, looking straight at me.
"Come again tomorrow."
"I'll come even without you telling me."
***
The empty space where Zarin had disappeared.
Ofen slowly rose to his feet. He approached the spot where Zarin had been swinging his sword until just now.
"..."
Ofen silently gazed at the traces Zarin had left behind. That gaze lingered for a while on the spot where Zarin had swung his sword for the last time.
"Huff..."
Ofen exhaled deeply.
Before being thrown into this underground city, he was a renowned mercenary and a swordsman who handled the sword. Although he didn't have the skills to face proper powerhouses...
At the very least, he could recognize someone's level.
Ofen pondered the trajectory of the sword Zarin had swung at the end. That damn kid probably didn't even realize what he had swung at the end, it seemed.
'He must have heard the sound.'
The sound like slicing.
He probably passed it off as nothing significant. Despite cutting through empty air, there was a sound as if cutting something. There was only one reason for that. Ofen stroked the ground marked with sword marks. It was the ground that Zarin's sword had brushed past.
The ground was hot.
Heat could be felt from the ground.
Digging up the soil, the pebbles mixed in the ground had melted and stuck together. Such a feat couldn't be achieved by just swinging a sword. Ofen's lips convulsed. He knew what this was.
Mana, and fragments of sword energy.
"That crazy bastard. He's learned something I never taught him."
Ofen let out a hollow laugh, realizing his prediction was right. It's been just over two years since he started overseeing Zarin's sword at the request of his longtime friend Jivan, who was also the kid's employer.
Two years, sufficient time to gauge talent.
He had known for a long time that Zarin was a promising fellow. He was someone who understood ten things when taught one, and it wasn't the first or second time he had grasped something on his own without being taught.
'I knew he was a genius, but...'
To think it would be to this extent. Ofen wore a bitter expression as he measured the talent Zarin possessed.
"Tsk."
He briefly clicked his tongue.
Knowing the value of Zarin's talent. And knowing that in this cursed city, that talent could never shine, Ofen muttered irritably.
"Kid, in this place, having such talent only makes you more miserable."
Even in this trash-like city.
Even in this damn city full of trash.
Children with light are born.
And what becomes of these children, everyone in this city knows, not just Ofen. No matter what brilliant talent they are born with, no one can leave this city. That's the rule.
In the end, that kid Zarin too.
Will slowly rot in this city, having lost his light. It was, in other words, dying. Rotting, buried amongst mountains of garbage. Knowing this fact, Ofen let out a long sigh.
Thud.
Ofen stomped on the ground roughly.
Erasing the traces of sword energy left on the ground, he thought. He craved alcohol. A bit more than usual.
As he was about to leave the place.
Ofen suddenly raised his head. It was because a rumor he had heard during his days as a mercenary in the upper town came to mind. The story that those with brilliant talent, talent that could reach the stars, receive the attention of the stars no matter where they are.
"..."
Ofen stared at the sky where minerals were embedded instead of stars. Looking at the ceiling of the underground city, he smiled wryly. For a moment, he had entertained the thought of "perhaps," and he found himself ridiculous.
"If it were that easy, I wouldn't be saying this."
It's just a futile dream.
Why would the constellations in that night sky pay attention to a kid in such an underground city? Rumors are just rumors to begin with. There's nothing to gain from dreaming futile dreams except becoming more miserable.
"Huff..."
With a sigh that seemed like resignation.
Ofen picked up the empty alcohol bottle and left the open space.
[Constellation, the Staff of Selection, screams.]
[The Staff of Selection swears on her star that she will catch and punish the impudent brat!]
Completely unaware that the constellation in the night sky was not just fixated on Zarin, but was boiling with rage.