Chapter 517: Rotten Eyes

Esther’s previous spell world had been born from observing nature.

She had originally lived in the mountains, wandered the forests.

She’d killed monsters, faced beasts, fought wizards—not rarely—but in the grand span of her life, those were mere moments.

Most of her life had been spent with nature.

And now, Esther found herself intrigued by observing people.

Even after parting ways with Enkrid, she continued to browse the market.

People haggling, porters hauling goods, noblewomen in wide-brimmed hats shielding themselves from the sun, children laughing and playing in the sunlight, parents scolding them, and inside a recently opened cafeteria that sold all kinds of new drinks, a man pulling at his own hair.

Observation.

It was a process of guessing their thoughts and intentions.

‘Interesting.’

It was more entertaining than she’d expected.

Even the process of getting here had been engaging in its own way.

Esther knew at least that buying things at the market required krona.

And she chose the most reasonable method to acquire it.

She silently—very silently—followed Kraiss and stared at him.

“...Nurath, did I do something wrong?”

Kraiss whispered while glancing at her.

Nurath, facing an immensely skilled wizard, quickly assessed what she could possibly do.

She blended her feminine intuition, a warrior’s instinct, and her familiarity with Kraiss—

And, weighing all that, she gave the best advice she could.

“Just apologize.”

“That’d be fastest, wouldn’t it?”

Kraiss nodded. Just apologize.

Even in another city, somewhere, somehow, he’d feel the witch’s eyes on him.

A perfect setup for nightmares.

To Kraiss, Esther was no longer a beautiful woman—she was a witch.

Was this about when she tried to claw his eyes out in her leopard form?

“Yes, it was my fault.”

Kraiss said it aloud, directing it at the gaze.

The guildmaster of construction, who had come to ask a favor of Graham—the lord who ruled the city from the shadows—blinked at him.

“Pardon?”

“Not you.”

Kraiss replied.

And Esther slid toward him, silently, as if gliding over the ground.

Thud!

“Wah!”

The guildmaster fell backward in fright, and though Kraiss’s heart jumped, he managed not to fall on his ass—

Time spent with the Mad Platoon had strengthened his nerves.

Esther came closer but still said nothing.

She only kept staring.

She thought:

What would happen if she followed and stared at a man who secretly feared her?

A man with a pouch full of krona?

Especially one so exceptionally sensitive to cues?

“...What is it?”

Kraiss asked back, trying to calculate.

What’s with this lunatic witch?

Did she pick up something weird from Enkrid?

Sure, their captain had some admirable traits, but also some highly questionable ones.

Sometimes, Kraiss really did think that guy was nuts.

Of course, some people might find those quirks inspiring. Kraiss wasn’t one of them.

“Do you need something?”

He asked calmly.

“Ghost!”

The construction guildmaster shouted from the ground.

“She’s not a lunatic... She’s part of the Border Guard General’s direct unit. Black Flower.”

Kraiss clarified.

The guildmaster blinked, and only then noticed her beauty.

White skin, black hair, blue eyes, long legs, and a sheer outfit that subtly revealed her figure.

The flower beside the demon slayer.

“Oh.”

Whether the guildmaster was stunned or not, Kraiss asked again.

“Do you need krona?”

At that, Esther held out her hand.

Kraiss looked at her hand and wondered, What the hell am I supposed to do with these lunatics?

If she needed something, she could’ve just gone to the quartermaster.

Why come to him?

Then again, he couldn’t exactly imagine this witch walking up to the quartermaster and asking for a few silver coins.

So Kraiss handed over one of his pouches.

It had over a hundred silver coins in it. That should’ve been plenty.

Esther didn’t lower her hand.

“Give it in gold.”

Nurath advised. Kraiss followed that advice.

Esther ended up walking away with three more pouches that day.

Recalling that moment, the witch smiled to herself.

It had been a delightful experience—both the reactions and her own behavior.

‘Then why Enki?’

Thinking back on Enkrid, whom she’d just passed, she felt her heart clench. A sharp, squeezing ache. It was emotion. That’s what caused it. But what was its source? Why the pull in her heart? Was it because she was worried about his clumsy nature, walking around the market with not a single coin?

She didn’t know.

And it probably didn’t matter.

There likely wasn’t a right answer anyway.

So was that what bothered her? No, even that was part of what made her her. All she needed to do was face it honestly.

Esther let the tingling sensation spread from her chest through her whole body.

She was finally beginning to understand what this aching feeling was—this thing called emotion.

Even if it turned out to be love, it wouldn’t change anything.

Even if it was just friendship, or a passing whim—it still wouldn’t change anything.

There was just one thing that stuck in her mind:

‘Eyebrows.’

Hadn’t the inner part of Enkrid’s eyebrows lifted just a little?

Observation had become her daily life lately, so she noticed the change. His eyebrows looked slightly more weary than usual. His expression had shifted.

Why does someone’s expression change? Because their state of mind does. That’s what Esther believed.

Enkrid’s mindset had changed. She’d figured that out through observation.

And yet, she had nothing in particular to say about it.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Far off in the distance, she could see Enkrid’s back as he exited the market.

Esther would continue living like this for a while. Eventually, she would reconstruct her spell world.

And when that time came—if that man wished for it—

She would lend him her strength.

Not because he’d freed her from a curse, but simply because she wanted to.

Because her heart told her so. And she didn’t ignore her heart.

Esther returned her focus to what she had to do.

To observe. To rebuild her spell world.

For now, that was enough.

***

“...You’ve come?”

The owner and master of the forge recognized Enkrid.

He’d seen him from afar before—and Enkrid’s looks were hard to miss.

The forge was located on the outskirts of the city.

The craftsman from the capital had borrowed the forge previously, but now he’d established it properly with his own bellows and equipment.

He was originally supposed to return to the capital, but for reasons Enkrid couldn’t know, he stayed behind at Border Guard.

Well, if there was no problem, he must’ve had a good reason.

It was just speculation, but it was true.

Even the guildmaster of blacksmiths in the royal palace had reluctantly accepted it.

The man had decent skill, but he was stubborn and bad with people—blunt and stiff. That made him hard to deal with.

So the craftsman found it more comfortable here.

He could just hammer metal in peace. And Border Guard, being a merchant’s paradise, saw a steady flow of rare materials.

The craftsman made only weapons. He didn’t take on new apprentices either.

If the guildmaster from the capital saw this, he’d probably say, Now that’s some damn stubborn pride.

The forge wasn’t large, and the craftsman wasn’t someone who tailored his work to suit customers.

Normally, that meant it would be hard to make a living, or at least hard to get rare materials—but the craftsman wasn’t struggling. In fact, he was relatively well-off.

Border Guard supported him with enough krona.

He supplied weapons to the barracks at Kraiss’s request—that alone was more than enough work.

“Sometimes I need time to make the things I want to make.”

It was possible because Kraiss accepted the craftsman’s stubbornness as it was.

He was the one who forged Rem and Ragna’s weapons using iron from Rewis and black-gold alloy. Kraiss had recognized the man’s uncommon skill.

“Your weapon reflects your ability.”

Kraiss had heard that saying many times.

The craftsman’s work was top-notch in finish and quality.

That was why, of the seven forges in Border Guard, Kraiss had chosen this one.

With more and more artisans coming in, more shops and forges had popped up too.

This outer forge was relatively quiet.

Well, he seemed busy, but not many people sought him out—so it only looked quiet.

And now, as a forge affiliated directly with the Border Guard barracks, certain ranks didn’t even have to pay.

Inside sat a human, a Frokk, and a dwarf.

As the three looked up at him, the craftsman asked if Enkrid had come for something.

“I need a few things.”

Enkrid replied as a young apprentice, with a towel wrapped around his head, came out from the back.

“Huh? The Demon Slayer!”

The apprentice blurted.

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

He quickly bowed, flustered that he’d addressed Enkrid too casually.

Enkrid waved it off.

“It’s fine.”

“So, what do you need?”

The craftsman asked. Enkrid began unpacking his weapons one by one.

“This one has a loose joint. I’m not sure this one can even be repaired. And I’d appreciate some work done on the blades overall.”

“...Is that Acker?”

Woom—the sword trembled. The craftsman pulled his hand back from the hilt.

The blade’s vibration startled him.

He had once been responsible for managing royal swords, and he remembered Acker from back then.

Just like a young man who sees a stunning beauty never forgets her face, the craftsman hadn’t forgotten Acker.

“It is.”

Enkrid answered, still standing. The apprentice glanced around and brought over a short-legged stool.

There weren’t any chairs for customers here, so he’d fetched one of their work stools.

Enkrid sat down without complaint.

“Why is the royal treasured sword here?”

The craftsman asked in surprise.

“Someone gave it to me.”

“This?”

Enkrid nodded.

Some people knew that the sword had been given to him, but most didn’t.

If this became public, even the Marquis Baisar might have words for Crang.

He wouldn’t try to take it back or claim it was wrong—but appearances mattered, and someone had to at least raise an objection.

Still, Crang had passed the sword to Enkrid smoothly «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» by keeping the matter quiet from most people.

And if it ever came up later? Well, they’d deal with it then.

“I can’t touch this one. The fact that it retains its sharpness is a mystery in itself.

And I don’t know how to temper weapons with magic.”

The craftsman admitted plainly. He glanced at the dwarf next to him, then turned to Gladius and picked it up.

His eyes sparkled as if eager to work on it—but then his expression stiffened.

He lowered the sword and spoke.

“Introduce yourself. This is Argan.”

The craftsman pointed to the dwarf.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

The dwarf greeted him, reeking of booze.

“Demon Slayer and General of the Border Guard, huh? You’re a lucky one.”

The dwarf added, alcohol fumes and bad breath blending together.

It was a curious thing—despite the lively exchange happening, the Frokk sitting nearby didn’t even glance their way.

Enkrid took it all in stride and calmly asked,

“What kind of luck?”

“I plan to forge a masterpiece here with fire and steel.”

Enkrid looked between the confident dwarf and the human craftsman.

He had a feeling he understood why the craftsman had stepped back. He asked the human,

“Is he more skilled than you?”

“Yes.”

The craftsman nodded. He didn’t look offended by it.

“Hic, you call that an answer?”

The dwarf hiccupped and let out a belch.

“Oh, and I have a few conditions. Get me some booze and a decent house.

I left a tab back in Martai, too—would be nice if you settled that.”

Another hiccup punctuated the end of his sentence, along with the stink of cured meat.

Dwarves were said to be children of fire and steel.

They were born with a talent for smithing.

Of course, not all dwarves were like that.

Just like there were giants who sold goods instead of fighting, some dwarves likely had no interest in forging.

Not that this one seemed that way.

This dwarf clearly had skill in handling steel—far beyond that of ordinary craftsmen.

“I’ll vouch for his skill.”

Said the craftsman, who’d been shocked by Acker.

Enkrid nodded, then handed his sword—Gladius—to the human craftsman.

“I’d prefer if you worked on it.”

The dwarf had reached out, but froze.

He’d assumed the blade would be handed to him.

“I don’t care if someone’s a dwarf or a genius—

I don’t hand my sword over to someone with rotten eyes.”

Enkrid said.

At that moment, the Frokk, apparently finished with his task, finally raised his head and rolled his eyes toward them.

The craftsman stared at the sword.

The dwarf snorted hard through his nose.

...What did he just say?