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On the road leading from Metz to Strasbourg, a group of five was riding their horses. The group consisted of a veiled nun knight, a swordsman with an impressive back, a boy armed with a spear and sword, a girl with only her fingers exposed and her arms wrapped in cloth, and a court poet dressed in a brigandine and armed with an obsidian wooden sword, carrying a gray cloak over his left shoulder and a 20-string Nordic-style stringed instrument on his back. The eclectic group of five was leisurely riding their horses at a slow pace, not in any particular hurry. The court poet, following at the back, occasionally hummed a tune, enjoying the journey in his own way. The rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves served as a backdrop to his humming, which, while lacking the solemnity of northern music, was filled with a lyrical and mysterious quality that permeated every note and melody.

Conra, who was skillfully guiding his horse with his eyes closed, suddenly spoke up, “A song filled with the power to move people. Truly, the reputation of the renowned court poet of Jutland is well-deserved.”

“Hahaha, such high praise! Especially coming from the son of the great druid, this humble wandering poet is at a loss for words!” Brantley Somz, the court poet, responded with a cheerful laugh, taking a moment to catch his breath. There seemed to be a unique understanding between the two, something that others couldn’t quite grasp.

Maria, watching this exchange with a hint of curiosity, remarked, “You and Sir Somz have grown quite close in such a short time, haven’t you?”

“Well, of course. As you know, Conra is a druid, isn’t he?” Sophia replied matter-of-factly to Maria’s question.

“The druidic traditions Conra has learned and the skalds’ traditions that Sir Somz has inherited both have roots in the realm of ‘singers.’ It’s only natural that they would find common ground,” Sophia explained.

The druidic traditions that once flourished in Franquia, Caledonia, and Hiberia, and the skaldic traditions that developed in the northeastern empire, Jutland, and the Baltic coast regions, were both classified as types of spellcasters. However, at their core, they were poets, writers, musicians, and bards. Their interest and passion for poetry and music were extraordinary. To be recognized as a druid or a skald, one had to be proficient in their unique script, the Ogham or runic letters, compose lyrics skillfully, recite hundreds of epic and lyrical poems, and play at least two instruments. At this level, they were more than just spellcasters—they were individuals who had dedicated half their souls to literature and music.

Given these commonalities, it was inevitable that there would be some exchange and competition between the druidic and skaldic societies. For instance, Conra and his father Setanta, both druids, had some proficiency in runic letters, and Brantley Somz seemed to know Setanta, who had risen to the rank of archdruid at a young age.

Exchange, competition, and mutual understanding.

If such a bond existed among spellcasters, it was only natural that it would also exist among martial artists.

Spellcasters often mistakenly believed that swordsmen were merely muscle-bound brutes who only trained their bodies. However, those who thought so could never reach high levels of mastery. The process of building the body had to be precise and methodical, and the composition of swordsmanship had to be thoroughly rational, verified, and proven through practice. Simply relying on strength and speed to slash and thrust would inevitably leave one vulnerable. While such tactics might work in bare-handed or blunt weapon combat, using them with bladed weapons would only result in sending a few to the afterlife while joining them oneself.

Therefore, the concerns of martial artists who had reached a certain level inevitably revolved around body-building techniques and battlefield rationality. This was especially true for newcomers who had just begun their training.

“Oh, this child’s ethereal muscles are quite well-trained. Judging by their thickness, it seems they haven’t been training for long, but the structure is excellent. How did you guide them, Sir Chazel?”

“It’s a training method called Sphere Exercises. It trains the body’s coordination to continuously adapt to movement, allowing it to respond to forces from all directions. You might have seen it before. I used it quite often when training Conra.”

“Ah, now that I think about it, that guy had an incredible balance in his body.”

They would discuss such matters, or:

“The ratio between ethereal muscles and actual muscles seems to be about this much, in my opinion.”

“But you know that consistency isn’t always the answer, right? I recommend adjusting the ratio in detail if possible. Roughly speaking, for the first bending, divide the shoulders, torso, and lower body into three parts, with the shoulders at 7:1, the torso at 9:2, and the lower body at 8:1. This is a result I’ve confirmed through Maria, so it should be accurate.”

“Indeed! Then from the second bending…”

They would exchange such thoughts, or:

“Your swordsmanship focuses on immediate counterattacks, right?”

“Of course. When wielding a longsword, there’s no better way. Isn’t your swordsmanship similar, Sir Chazel?”

“Certainly. However, the longsword techniques we use don’t seem suitable for teaching Conra and Maria.”

“Indeed, now that you mention it, Conra has been practicing one-handed swordsmanship lately.”

“Yes. And this child here seems to have a talent for weapons like twin sticks or twin swords, which are extensions of martial arts, rather than two-handed swords. So, it’s a bit of a dilemma.”

“I understand. With weapons like falchions or broadswords, wielding them like a longsword would likely result in injury.”

They would chatter away like this. Maria, following the adults on her horse, couldn’t help but fall into a philosophical contemplation about what it meant to be an adult.

Sometimes, the conversation partners would change. Conra had previously sparred with Karl using both sword and spear, and Sophia was Brantley’s mentor in formations. Moreover, Sophia herself had some expertise in poetry and music from her past life. After all, all forms of art, whether visual, literary, or musical, were deeply rooted in rituals and spells. It was only natural that Sophia, who had mastered secret traditions from around the world in her past life, was skilled in poetry and music. Furthermore, having experienced modern music genres from the 20th to 22nd centuries, Sophia’s knowledge, ranging from classical to popular music, was enough to thoroughly shake Brantley’s slowly solidifying mind.

As they rode along the road, they finally arrived at a forest densely populated with oak trees. Though it wasn’t exclusively oak trees—there were also chestnut, beech, and hazelnut trees scattered about—it was indeed a forest befitting a druid’s hideout, with its love for oak-like trees.

Upon entering the forest, Conra took the lead, guiding the group. Sophia, quick to notice, had Maria accompany Conra and followed leisurely behind. As they ventured deeper into the forest, a Will-o’-the-Wisp appeared to welcome them. The sudden appearance of a glowing light startled Maria, who grabbed Conra’s sleeve. Sophia noticed the corner of Conra’s mouth curling up slightly.

{Good timing…}

The spirit Lucas-Kukunis remarked enviously.

{I had my moments back in the day…}

Draeg-Haegis, with a hint of disbelief, responded.

{I’ve heard rumors about you, but I never knew the great pirate Kukunis was popular with women.}

{What nonsense! In my prime, scandals followed me wherever I went, blooming like flowers! I was quite the catch back then!}

Lucas-Kukunis, visibly irritated, immediately retorted, his face red with anger.

While Sophia’s spirits bickered over trivial matters, the group followed the Will-o’-the-Wisp’s guidance to a sacred tree that governed the forest, where a druid and an alchemist couple awaited.

“A Will-o’-the-Wisp… A mysterious spellbound creature that can only be summoned by combining the druid’s spirit summoning and the alchemist’s arts. I’d love to hear more about it someday.”

Brantley Somz’s eyes sparkled as he looked at the Will-o’-the-Wisp. He had always wanted to summon a torch servant like the Will-o’-the-Wisp, preferably through the unique arts of skalds and rune mages.

Though there were minor delays due to the Will-o’-the-Wisp occasionally flinching under Brantley’s intense gaze, the group eventually arrived at a clearing dominated by a massive oak tree. The clearing also featured a well-maintained garden, a vegetable patch, and a cozy hut.

“Hey, it’s been a while since you’ve been home, Conra. And welcome to Ogma’s Forest, guests. It’s been a long time, Sir Chazel.”

The voice, cheerful and robust, hinted at the speaker’s lively personality. Conra’s head naturally turned toward the source.

“Father…!”

There stood a muscular man, half-naked, wearing a bear-skin robe, with his arms crossed. The boy, upon seeing the man, moved like lightning, dismounting his horse and rushing toward him. The man, Setanta, Conra’s father, greeted his son with a mix of exasperation and joy.

“Father!”

“Hey, you! I thought you’d grown up, but you’re still acting like a kid!”

Setanta, though complaining, couldn’t hide the smile on his face. He was genuinely happy to see his son after so long.

However, the next moment, a different kind of smile appeared on both father and son’s faces.

“Hmph!”

“Hah!”

The sound of metal clashing echoed as sparks flew between the two.

“You’ve improved, you little brat!”

“Father, it seems like your joints have rusted!”

“What did you say!?”

Setanta, provoked by his son’s taunt, suddenly bulked up. Those with opened spiritual eyes could see the pale ethereal muscles around Setanta’s shoulders swelling up twentyfold in an instant.

Whoosh—!

In a flash, dozens of sharp spear thrusts pierced through the air, each one a perfect blend of offense and defense, capable of clearing any obstacle. The thunderous sound that followed gave a hint of the immense power behind each thrust.

…And yet, every single thrust was perfectly defended.

“What!? You blocked all of them!?”

Setanta, who had expected at least one or two of his thrusts to land, was stunned when Conra defended against every single one without faltering.

Conra, on the other hand, had a smug grin on his face.

“Hehehe, that was quite thrilling. Shall I take my turn now?”

“Wait, wait, hold on—whoa!?”

In an instant, Conra’s figure blurred. There was no sound, no visible bulking of ethereal muscles, no sudden acceleration of internal energy. The only thing that stood out was Conra’s ‘intent,’ the mental aspect of his spear technique.

When the mind moves, the energy follows, and the body is controlled.

If a spellcaster well-versed in the mysteries of magic were present, they might have felt a sense of familiarity. After all, their world followed a similar principle.

When the main strength moves, the spell wave follows, and the spell is conjured.

By mimicking the flow of spell waves from the domain, spellcasters create phenomena beyond the ordinary.

Thus, if the mind precedes the energy, and the energy controls the body, then isn’t that essentially the mystery of magic manifested through the body?

In the blink of an eye, after an unseen exchange, Setanta found himself exhausted, with Conra’s spear pointed at his neck.

“You’ve become quite the monster since you left the forest.”

Setanta, with a mix of defeat and pride, acknowledged his loss. Conra, with a wide grin, responded.

“Father, you’re no slouch either. I thought I wouldn’t need more than a few moves against most opponents after reaching this level, but you lasted twenty exchanges! And you were even planning counterattacks!”

“Hah, I am an archdruid, after all. But if I were lacking in either spear techniques or spells, it might have gone as you said.”

In that brief moment, Setanta had gained some insight into the level his son had reached. He had even managed to mimic it using a spellcaster’s methods, showcasing the talent that had been passed down from his parents.

“However, my method lacks the purity of the original. There are inevitable impurities that limit its potential.”

“And there’s probably a limit to how many times it can be used.”

“Exactly. Borrowing the form of a spell means it’s limited by the number of spell sockets. Though, considering the recovery rate, I could probably use it about thirty times a day at most. But for ordinary spellcasters, especially those who can’t devote enough time to spell practice due to martial training, seven times a day would be considered quite good.”

Of course, ordinary spellcasters who weren’t interested in martial arts wouldn’t need to concern themselves with this, Setanta added with a light laugh.

However, for the others present, this was no laughing matter.

Karl, who had been struggling to grasp the concept of the ascending realm—where the spirit moves before the body, and the will moves before the spirit—under Sophia’s guidance, couldn’t help but feel that Setanta, who had momentarily replicated Conra’s miraculous spear technique using spells, seemed almost inhuman.

For a moment, the thought, “Should I start learning spells now?” crossed Karl’s mind. Of course, if he had voiced this thought, Setanta would have immediately told him to stop.

Even Brantley, who, while not an exceptional martial artist, was a skilled rune mage with deep insights into spellcasting, was astonished. Having started building his own spell system under Sophia’s guidance, he knew how difficult it was to create original spells. Yet, here was Setanta, crafting a completely new spell on the spot through sheer insight and inspiration.

“Truly, the name of the archdruid of Fiana Eireann is well-deserved. To create a new spell in an instant and use it in combat—I’ve never seen such a feat in my life.”

“What I did just now was more of a sensory trick than a proper spell. As you know, druids are a bit different from other spellcasters. You, as a skald of the Nordic Somz family, would understand, wouldn’t you?”

“Hmm? You know my family?”

“How could I not know your family when you know me? Our druidic bardic traditions and your skaldic court poet traditions have been competing in our respective fields. By the way, how did you find your way here?”

The archdruid, protector of Ogma’s Oak and its surrounding forest, suddenly turned his gaze to the nun knight leading the group.

‘Impressive.’

To the druid’s eyes, the nun knight’s presence was immense. It wasn’t her physical size, but rather the towering spiritual essence surrounding her—something that ordinary people couldn’t even perceive. It was as if a vast mental curtain, capable of controlling an entire area, had been spread out. Setanta, feeling somewhat overwhelmed, let out a forced laugh. The sheer magnitude of her presence, almost godlike, was neatly contained, as if to prevent ordinary people from even sensing it.

If he hadn’t been a genius druid who had reached unprecedented heights, he wouldn’t have been able to perceive it at all.

As Setanta silently gauged the scale of his opponent, Sophia also realized that he had caught a glimpse of the realm she had reached, and she couldn’t help but admire him inwardly.

‘Indeed, remarkable. No wonder Conra is such a genius—it clearly runs in the family.’

Unlike ethereal muscles, which could be visually discerned by those with opened spiritual eyes, the mind was a more abstract, metaphysical concept. Some viewed it as the chemical and electrical reactions of the nervous system to external stimuli, while others saw it as the proof of the self, encompassing thought and consciousness. In this continent, where the existence of spells made the reality of those who wielded main strength undeniable, the mind remained a challenging concept to grasp. To have even glimpsed its essence was no small feat.

‘Well, given his abilities, it’s no surprise he could perceive the level his son has reached.’

As Setanta interacted with the guests who had come to the forest, Conra’s mother, Kaliastra, had prepared some refreshments in front of the hut.

“Everyone, let’s continue our conversation over some tea!”

At Kaliastra’s call, the group temporarily set aside their introductions and headed to the table where the refreshments were laid out.

On the table, made from intertwined branches of living trees, was a white tablecloth and a round glass panel, likely to smooth out the uneven surface caused by the branches. The refreshments were arranged on this glass panel.

“This is glass, isn’t it?”

Karl, having traveled extensively throughout the empire, knew how valuable such a large, flawless pane of glass was.

“Is there a glass workshop nearby? Even if there were, a pane of glass this size would be worth a fortune…”

A pane of glass large enough to cover an entire table, and so flawlessly crafted, could easily be exchanged for a small mansion. It seemed out of place in a hut deep in the forest.

Conra, who had just taken a big bite of a scone his mother had baked, answered Karl’s question.

“That was probably made by my mom.”

“What?”

“There’s no glass workshop around here. There’s no way to transport such a large pane of glass to this forest. Besides…”

“Besides?”

As he continued, Conra took a sip of tea to wash down the scone crumbs stuck in his throat. The familiar aroma of grains and butter made him realize he was truly home.

“My mom is the greatest alchemical genius in Rotaringia. No ordinary glass workshop could compare.”

“That’s an exaggeration, son.”

Kaliastra, who was reheating the tea in the pot, gently pinched Conra’s nose, correcting him. She seemed to be in a particularly good mood, as the tea leaves she was using weren’t her usual herbs but ones Conra had personally brought from the port of Strabenher for her.

“I did try a new glass-making process this time, but it’s still not comparable to a professional workshop.”

‘It’s a bit embarrassing to be praised so highly,’ Kaliastra seemed to say with a smile. Karl was stunned. The idea that such a transparent, flawless pane of glass was handmade by Conra’s mother was astonishing.

While glass-making wasn’t necessarily a measure of an alchemist’s skill, someone capable of producing glass of this quality couldn’t be just any ordinary alchemist.

Then, Karl noticed an inscription on one corner of the glass pane.

‘Wait, that’s not a pattern—it’s letters. Is it the maker’s name? Let’s see… Kal, Li, Ast… Ra? Wait a minute…’

As Karl read the name, a realization dawned on him.

“Alexandra di Kaliastra!?”

“Oh my,

 

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