Chapter 475

"Ever heard of a totem?"

He said it was a tool used in shamanism.

"You told me about it."

Enkrid replied, seated in the middle of the tent. It was a squat stool with no backrest, but it wasn't too uncomfortable. Standing in front of him, Rem played the role of today's shaman instructor.

"Alright, from now on, you're the human totem, boss. You're gonna eat, sleep, and hang around here."

Rem spoke in a solemn teacher tone.

Enkrid's red-tinged eyes relaxed almost immediately.

When Rem spoke, it always felt like he had no choice but to go along with it.

Naturally, there had been a few experiments before it came to this point.

But it had just happened.

Rem, who had just begun the ritual, started off by saying:

"Get out. Hurry."

Enkrid followed Rem’s command. He stepped outside the tent. Once he had walked about three steps away, Rem poked his head out of the tent and said:

Holding up his hand, he waved it.

"Go on. Farther."

He did as told.

Dunbakel came out of the tent and sat to the side, holding his nose with one hand as he watched. Lua Gharne followed behind Enkrid.

"She really seems to believe you’re blocking the curse."

She said while sipping water continuously.

"No way."

It was just a coincidence.

He’d joked that he had divine powers, but there was no way that was real.

Besides, he’d never even touched shamanism.

There was no need to reflect on his past life. Even praying to the Sword God had been halfhearted.

Right now, his thoughts were tangled with all the lofty and grandiose things he’d rather not dwell on.

The twins attacked with a very unique tempo.

One used a single tempo, throwing the spear in perfect rhythm,

The other stabbed with a half-tempo.

Watching them sparked all sorts of thoughts.

"What if I mixed the tempos?"

Suddenly, he recalled what Oara had shown him.

Oara’s swordsmanship stayed true to fundamentals. One of those fundamentals was tempo.

From the basic single tempo, there was the counter that matched that tempo, the half tempo that tore through it, and then the double—two movements within one tempo.

Tempo, in other words, could be seen as a single breath.

Ragna could fit three or four movements within a single breath.

So would that be a triple? A force tempo?

He didn’t care what it was called.

Oara had done that—ripping the tempo apart and using it, using single tempo too.

And also, the reverse.

Slower, more prolonged sword strikes.

She would extend her breath and stretch the tempo.

What should that be called?

If he had to name it, maybe "slow tempo."

Instead of breaking it apart, it was stretched. But by mixing in footwork and body movement, the trajectory of the strike became endlessly continuous.

Against the beast trailing behind her, Oara displayed an unending swordplay.

Her blade never stopped. It flowed.

Alongside thoughts of Oara, others’ swordsmanship began surfacing in his mind.

Ragna swung his sword for a single strike. He’d play mental games, deceive the enemy, all for that one strike.

But his purpose always led back to one thing: the sword itself.

The King of the Northeast used a style of broken movements.

Abrupt, disconnected strikes with strange angles

Unpredictable, irregular blows that shattered spacing and disrupted any sense of form.

He pondered. He brooded. He brainstormed again and again.

Then he reenacted it with his body. He corrected errors. He brought his sword down.

As he walked, making sword-like movements with his hand, Lua Gharne stared at him with wide eyes.

‘That guy’s insane about training.’

There were people who called Enkrid that.

Lua Gharne agreed.

Training, again and again.

This was the kind of thing Enkrid never got tired of. He even carved into his sleep time for it.

It was the same now.

Enkrid’s mind was full of swordsmanship.

Shamanism or whatever—it didn’t matter. He couldn’t ignore what was filling his mind right now.

Besides, this was actually pretty fun.

His thoughts continued.

<What if I tore the breath apart and used a tempo that was completely shredded?>

There was swordsmanship like that.

In the Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

‘I used to think it was nonsense.’

Valen-style mercenary swordplay—freestyle breathing.

It had a method for manipulating tempo at will. A technique that played with breath and rhythm.

How was that even possible?

Mastery of all the basic techniques made it possible.

Was that an easy path? No. It was the hard one.

Even so, a grin spread across his face. For Enkrid, it was an immensely enjoyable path.

Looking back, there was no other sword style that emphasized the basics as much as Valen-style mercenary swordplay.

Even more than Lua Gharne, it nagged constantly about fundamentals.

He didn’t actually hear it with his ears, but it felt like he had.

When learning Valen-style, he even read a kind of secret manual. On nearly every page, there was something about the basics.

“Get the proper stance first. If you don’t know the basics, you can’t deceive your opponent.”

“If you can’t swing with precise form, you can’t even cut straw.”

“Build your body. So you can hold the proper stance.”

“Start with your stance.”

“Focus on the posture of holding your sword. Begin from there.”

“What must come before skill? Think about it. That’s right. It’s posture.”

If you removed all the parts about basic stance and foot positioning, the manual would’ve been a bit thinner.

But that’s how important it was.

Most people who read it couldn’t accept that. They skipped it. Thought it was useless chatter.

Enkrid didn’t do that. He couldn’t.

Back then, he was desperate enough to swing at straws.

So that’s what he did.

To learn Valen-style mercenary swordplay, he fixed his posture and followed instructions exactly.

And it really was excellent form.

If someone from Valen saw him now, they’d probably say:

“This bastard right here is worthy to be called my disciple.”

Of course, if they had met earlier, they probably would’ve said:

“You think you can live off swordsmanship with that lousy talent?”

Still, there’s a saying:

If you want to deceive your opponent, mix in some truth.

Valen-style mercenary swordplay stayed true to that.

By honing fundamentals, it used that solid base to layer in all sorts of tricks. That was Valen-style.

Lost in thought, Enkrid had wandered far from the tent.

"Come back now!"

Rem called out from afar. Enkrid turned and walked back to the tent.

There were some eyes watching along the way. Some were leering. Some watched absentmindedly.

The weather was nice, the sun dazzling. Enkrid walked toward a spot with just enough shade.

He happened to pass by a frail patient.

It wasn’t like no one was watching. Some other factor must’ve played in.

Why would just his presence remove a curse?

As he got closer to Rem, her expression was unreadable. That meant she’d turned serious.

"Go on. Over there."

The playfulness in Rem’s voice had disappeared.

A woman, seemingly the child’s mother, was kneeling.

The shaman woman kept puffing on her herb stick.

A steady stream of smoke veiled her face.

Enkrid did as Rem instructed.

After repeating the trip back and forth three times, Rem signaled the end.

“Shit, is this even real~”

But soon, he lowered his head.

There was no room to analyze the process—the situation was as orderly as a trained mutt. Something almost admirable was unfolding, so there was no point in nitpicking.

And so, after tossing out the reasons, Rem appointed him as the human totem, and Enkrid simply nodded and went along with it.

Looking around, there were already sick people lining up. The rumors had spread.

Enkrid looked at them and thought,

Should he bring a healer—or rather, a shaman in this case?

Either way, becoming a human totem was way easier than tracking down a shaman and holding a blade to their throat.

After Rem’s experiment came Hira’s experiment.

They came into contact with those carrying the curse and even sat still next to them.

That’s how the conclusion was reached.

Enkrid would become the human totem in the center of the tent.

A seat appeared. A substitute for the squat stool.

It was his personal seat now.

A soft cushion was laid down, and instead of those acrid-smoking herbs,

they began burning plants said to grow only in the West, emitting a subtle fragrance.

The earthenware bowl once used in the chieftain’s tent was brought here.

Made of baked yellow clay, it worked by placing a fire underneath and slowly heating the herbs with residual heat.

There were four holes at the top.

From those holes, the herbs burned slowly, releasing a gentle stream of smoke.

“Hey, this stuff smells great.”

Dunbakel said.

Enkrid breathed in the scent meant to mask the divine and rancid stench coming from Dunbakel.

She was right—it smelled good.

So good that he felt tempted to scold Dunbakel right then and there.

“Go wash up.”

“What? Why?”

“Right now.”

“In our village, they say washing too often brings bad luck.”

“They say that in beastkin villages?”

Lua Gharne knew the lifestyle of beastkin well. She knew they didn’t particularly enjoy washing, but also that they wouldn’t throw around phrases like “bad luck” lightly.

Dunbakel didn’t say anything else. There was no point in arguing—she hadn’t even lived in the village that long, having been driven out as a child.

“Shall I wash her?”

The child’s mother, who’d somehow become something like a follower, approached.

Enkrid was just a little wary of her.

It wasn’t that her attitude was suspicious, but her hands-behind-her-back politeness and clumsy manner didn’t sit quite right.

Then again, that was just how Westerners tended to be.

Straightforward, unrestrained, and lacking in pretense.

That middle-aged man who had come by earlier, after hearing the curse had been warded off, had been the same.

“Thank you, thank you.”

Enkrid had just nodded vaguely without even knowing who the man was.

The child’s mother looked at Dunbakel.

Enkrid could read her eyes.

Was she waiting for permission to speak? Would she even listen?

The woman reached into her robes. She lightly took out a dagger with a copper hue and fell into thought.

“Hey. Go wash her. Don’t cause trouble for no reason.”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Enkrid shoved the order out in the common tongue. He didn’t have anything else to do.

Mainly, he just watched Hira, who sometimes flashed a strong, bright smile at recovering patients.

“Please protect this land,”

She murmured repeatedly while tending to the sick.

Was that part of her shamanism too?

She applied dark gray herb paste under the patients’ eyes like indigo vines, turned their bodies over, and wiped their faces and limbs.

It looked more like devoted nursing than a ritual.

“You’re free to walk around, away from the tent.”

Even Hira’s demeanor had changed. She, too, treated Enkrid with respect.

When he stepped outside, the twins were guarding the front of the tent.

That was because of what Rem had said when asked what he needed.

“Just prepare a sparring partner at the training ground.”

“You’re not doing it yourself?”

“I expect to be busy soon.”

And with that, Rem disappeared.

Thus, Enkrid became the totem. He didn’t find it boring.

Even seated, he trained in his mind.

When he went outside, he moved his body.

Since the area in front of the tent was kept clear, he had plenty of space to swing his sword.

Here, no one was awkward about adjusting to another tribe.

He’d been living as a mercenary, eating off his sword for years—was he really going to struggle with a bit of adapting now?

In {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} short, Enkrid was doing just fine.

“Please eat.”

Next to him, the child’s mother served him with utmost devotion.

Yes, this went beyond taking care of someone—it was reverence.

“Thank you.”

Enkrid quenched his throat with some earth squirrel fruit and ate roasted donma lizard meat.

Their cooking methods had become rather standardized under Rem’s influence.

When it came to dulpan rabbits—the brown-furred kind—they’d skin them, gut them, and either boil the whole thing into meat porridge or make meatballs.

Like a noble’s table, nothing was wasted. They ate just enough—not too little, not too much.

The flavors were good.

The tradition of eating whole animals must’ve stemmed from shortages.

But about six months after the barrier had gone up, before they had become "that thing," they had started caring about style a little.

Enkrid raised his sword simply and looked at the children.

‘Did they come to see me?’

Were they curious because he was a stranger? Earlier, they hadn’t seemed particularly interested.

A few kids showed some curiosity. But oddly enough, it wasn’t directed at him.

“Is Zibi okay?”

One child asked, peeking toward the tent.

He recognized the face—he’d seen her that morning, hauling a bundle of herbs on her back while ringing a bell.

“You’re not supposed to come close to this place.”

“But they said it’s okay now.”

Another child replied.

From their tone, words, and eyes, the worry was clear.

When their friend collapsed, they must’ve hovered nearby during the ritual.

They were still kids—they ran, played, laughed—but they worried too.

Enkrid just watched. He had no place to interrupt.

“Still, don’t come any closer.”

The child’s mother, now of sound mind and free from resentment and hatred, pushed the kids back.

They couldn’t risk being near and catching some lingering bad luck.

“Kind one, if your mouth is bored, please have this.”

The woman then handed him some dried plums.

Enkrid popped one into his mouth and chewed. It was sweet.

Next to him, Lua Gharne kept sipping water.

So the woman gave Lua a gift too.

Some kind of dried insect—looked like a crunchy ground grub.

She had caught it live and packed it in a basket made of tree bark.

Lua puffed her cheeks with joy.

Come to think of it, maybe Lua was really just a foodie.

Outside of eating, drinking, and writing, Enkrid spent the entire day swinging his sword.

He felt something changing—training had become more enjoyable.

The twins sometimes sparred with him. Rem occasionally showed up too.

“I’m dying here.”

“What is it now?”

He asked, wondering if something serious had happened.

It was a night with a bright moon. Even without a torch, their faces were clear.

“Aol refuses to listen.”

“What did you do when you left the house?”

Rem hesitated before answering.

“After we got married… and stayed spotted for a while.”

“Stayed for a while?”

“Just…”

“Just?”

“I ran away in the middle of the night.”

This bastard was insane. And now he had the nerve to just walk back in on two legs? Even crawling back and bowing his head might not be enough for forgiveness.

Enkrid took out the diagram of Acker he had drawn.

“Brace your neck. Here. Lower your waist.”

He gestured to one of the outer poles holding the tent.

Rem asked back,

“What are you doing?”

“To redirect her wrath and bring back her head. Seems like the fastest solution.”

He didn’t see any other options.

Rem cackled.

But Enkrid didn’t laugh.

“You weren’t joking?”

“I’m serious.”

“Hey, don’t bring your crazy talk into my problems.”

Maybe he’d teased him too much. Rem turned serious and walked off.

After that, Rem wasn’t seen much. He looked busy.

That was the end of the first day. On the second night, while trying to fall asleep in the middle of the tent,

he suddenly felt his body sway.

Sploosh.

It was accompanied by the sound of moving water.