Chapter 11: The Rotted-Face Village (1)

Swish! Swish!

The sword sliced through the air with a clean, crisp hiss. The sound alone was enough to tell me this wasn’t some ornamental display piece you’d hang above the mantle. This was a real weapon—something made to take lives. It was of medium length, slender, and balanced in weight and design. Though plain and lacking in fine craftsmanship, the blade’s gleaming edge spoke clearly of its lethality.

“How… does it feel to… wield?” Jols asked.

“Not bad.”

I picked up another weapon—a long spear. A weapon with excellent reach, ideal in theory for dealing with the lizard-like fog fiends. Most of the rotted-face villagers used polearms. There’s a reason the saying goes: the longer the weapon, the greater the advantage. Against fog fiends, that logic held. The best tactic was to keep your distance and drive the weapon straight into their heads. The closer you got, the more dangerous it became.

But I’ve never liked spears or polearms.

“Seems like… you’re not too fond of… long weapons?”

“It’s not really about what I like. For beginners like us, the spear is the safest, most effective choice. I’ll definitely be carrying one.”

“I do… recommend that. But… this is just my… personal opinion. The best weapon… for the current fight… isn’t always the best weapon for you… In the long run… it’s best to find the one that… feels most natural… and train with it.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.”

Taking his advice to heart, I kept digging through the small pile of steel arms. Cool, hard metal slid beneath my fingers until—finally—I pulled something out and held it up.

“A dagger?”

“Mm.”

I raised it toward the dim candlelight to get a better look.

Though called a dagger, it was closer to the longer end of the spectrum—about the length from my elbow to my fingertips. The blade had a gentle curve, nearly straight, and the spine was completely linear. The point was sharp—ideal for both cutting and thrusting.

I gave it a test swing. The weight felt just right. A classic light weapon—easy to handle, smooth to wield.

“You’re going… with that one?”

“Yeah. It just feels right. Though maybe that’s just personal bias.”

“Trust your… instincts. Finding the right… weapon type is important. But the process of choosing… is often more intuitive… than logical.”

“Probably.”

While I was testing the balance, the others had finished choosing their weapons too.

As expected, everyone took up spears for safety. Booker had strapped a straight sword to his belt. Mizan picked up a large shield. Both Rena and Jelena had equipped small bucklers.

“Picking weapons in real life is way harder than in games,” Jelena muttered with a frown. 

She tried wielding a spear and shield at once, but quickly gave up. Unless you had exceptional physical strength, using a heavy polearm one-handed was nearly impossible. So far, Mizan—our resident gym rat—was the only one who could manage it.

“If… long weapons feel awkward… you could try… a bow or crossbow.”

Jols pointed to a small rack of ranged weapons. I hadn’t noticed them before. Unfortunately, I had zero experience with archery. As for crossbows…

“Oh, fuck! This thing’s so tight!”

Booker grunted, struggling just to draw the bowstring. Apparently, it wasn’t something you could just pick up and use on a whim.

Watching them grimace as they tested one weapon after another, each falling short of their expectations, I couldn’t help but smile wryly and then turned to the last person among us.

Felice.

“Mmm…”

Unlike the rest of us, who had either grabbed something randomly or agonized over the options, she was thoroughly, painstakingly evaluating every single weapon, eyes narrowed in concentration, like a housewife at the market, weighing vegetables.

“…Huh?”

She noticed me watching and looked over.

I immediately looked away.

I don’t know why, but I can’t help paying attention to her. Not out of some romantic notion like ‘a gentleman’s admiration for a fair lady’—and I wouldn’t call myself a gentleman anyway. It was something else. Something harder to define.

Compared to the others, Felice was clearly calmer. She had her moments of panic, sure, but overall, she struck me as reliable. Capable.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder… even now, I can’t forget the first time I saw her—why was she transported here like that? Was she changing? Bathing? Sleeping nude? Or… had something worse happened?

“Probably bathing, I guess.”

“!?”

I turned—and she was right beside me, close enough that I could smell her. Wait, that myth about pretty women having a natural scent—was that true? No, it’s just the smell of skin oils and sweat. That’s kind of gross if you think about it.

“Uh… What did you just say?”

“Bathing, right? You were wondering why I showed up in this world like that, weren’t you, Yuhong?”

“I deeply apologize, but please believe me—I’m not the kind of person who replays indecent images of women in his mind.”

“…” Stares.

She looked at me. Not a glare, though—just a neutral gaze.

Her eyes were still half-lidded. Not from sleepiness, but with a lazy, mysterious air… seductive, even, in a way I couldn’t quite describe. Back on Earth, she must’ve been the campus belle type—popular, charming. 

What kind of social circles did she run in? Could someone like her really endure being in a world like this?

“…Water. Steam. Tiles.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the last thing I remember seeing. Sorry, I can’t recall much more clearly than that.”

She scratched her head, frustrated.

“I’m Felice. Grew up in the UK. Only child. I lived in Birmingham. School was on summer break. Pretty sure the last thing I was doing before I got here was taking a shower.”

“I see…”

Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t asked where she was from or anything about her past.

“But a lot of the details are fuzzy,” she added, scratching her head again. “Everything feels kind of jumbled. My mind’s a little scrambled. Sorry.”

“Ah, no, you don’t need to apologize!”

“But—”

She suddenly grabbed something beside her and gave it a few experimental swings—whoosh, whoosh, cutting through the air.

“—some things, it seems, my body remembers very well.”

“!”

She moved—subtle, almost like a feint—but the weapon in her hand lashed out like lightning. It wasn’t a short blade or straight sword, nor a heavy weapon. It was meant for thrusting, but not a spear or lance. Something lighter. Nimbler. More elegant.

But she wasn’t aiming at me.

“Pardon me.”

“Wait—ME?!”

Booker, suddenly cast as the target, panicked and raised the straight sword he’d just acquired. But before he could even finish reacting—before he’d fully formed the thought—Felice had already completed the strike and returned to her stance.

Thunk!

The straight sword clattered to the ground, knocked clean from his hands. Booker stared at his hand, then at the floor, realizing belatedly that she’d disarmed him with a single lightning-fast thrust.

Fast, graceful, precise. Those were the only words I could use to describe what I’d seen. I hadn’t even fully registered her movement. 

The image was already burned into my mind.

Everyone stood stunned. Only Rena broke the silence with a breathless, “Whoa… that was so cool.”

“You chose… a rapier?” Jols asked, astonished.

“Mm.”

Felice turned the blade in her hand—a rapier, slender and light, with a sharply pointed tip and an elaborate handguard. Not suited for slashing, but its piercing power was undeniable. And in terms of agility, nothing else in our pile came close.

“Still, a rapier is…” Jols looked troubled. “Rapiers are fine against people… and easy to carry… but they’re not ideal… when you’re outnumbered. And in close, chaotic battles… especially against fog fiends—”

“Back in Europe, rapiers weren’t made for battlefields,” Jelena jumped in. “They were for low-intensity duels, mostly decorative, to show off status. Only noble duels gave them a real chance to shine.”

“I know. But this just fits my hand. Oh, wait, I remember now. I used to train with a professional. I’m actually pretty good.”

Thrust-thrust-thrust! She flicked the blade three times in a row—each motion sharp and fluid. She moved like a trained fencer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d practiced fencing back in the UK.

Her expression remained calm, slightly distant. With her posture, her grip, and her presence, she looked just like one of those cool, elegant lady knights from fantasy novels.

“Well… if that’s your choice… so be it. As I said earlier… choosing the weapon that… feels right… is best in the long run.”

“Then this is it.”

Felice nodded, examined the rapier a moment longer, and slid it neatly into a leather scabbard.

Come to think of it, do rapiers usually come with scabbards? I thought Western-style swords only used them for storage or to avoid injuring the wearer, unlike Eastern swords, where the sheath was an extension of the weapon, usable for striking and blocking.

Just then—

“How are preparations coming along?”

The chieftain arrived with several other rotted-face villagers.

And us?

“Ughhh, everything’s so heavy! Carrying all this stuff sucks,” Booker complained.

“Why can’t we get those cool, lightweight, high-damage, stylish weapons like in games?” Jelena grumbled.

“Even I’m struggling to move in this,” Mizan muttered, clearly shaken.

“I don’t fully understand what you’re all saying,” the chieftain said with a wry smile. “But it seems your bodies need time to adjust. You’re weaker than I expected.”

“Weaker, my ass! You try this, old man! Fuck!” Booker snapped, tossing him a heavy-looking shield.

The chieftain blinked.

“Well, I suppose I could try.”

He lifted his staff—shaped like a miniature tree—and waved it gently. A faint golden light enveloped the shield.

He bent down, picked it up, and, despite his frail build, lifted it without much visible effort. 

An emaciated old man, wielding a shield that looked heavier than his entire body.

““““““…”””””

“Ugh, no good. I am getting old.”

He held it for a moment, then exhaled sharply and dropped it. The golden light faded.

And we were all too stunned to speak.

“Hmm? Divine envoys? Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Wait just a minute!!”

“Ah?”

“Grandpa Chieftain, what was that? That light thing?! What the heck was that?” Rena cried out.

“You’ve got cheats?! Why didn’t you say so sooner?! Fuckdamndick!” Booker lost it completely.

“Magic? That was magic, right?! I knew it! There had to be magic in this world!” Jelena, our resident gamer, was practically bouncing with excitement.

“What are you talking about? Magic?”

The chieftain blinked, then shook his head.

“I don’t know what this magic is. What I just used was a ‘miracle.’ It can temporarily reduce the weight of equipment, but the effect doesn’t last long.”

“That’s still amazing! So in this world, ‘miracles’ are basically your version of magic!”

“Er… I think I understand. In your world, ‘magic’ is a general term for spells, yes?”

“Exactly! So you do have a magic system! Are there different classes? Vast schools of spells? Elemental magic? Summoning? Astrology? Taoist arts? Divine sorcery?!”

“I’ve never heard of any of those.”

The chieftain frowned and shook his head.

“In Yardelan, magic falls into three categories only: Miracles, Mysteries, and Arcana. Each operates on different principles.”

It was only now that the villagers realized that what was common knowledge to them was completely foreign to us. So, one by one, they began explaining the magic system of their world.

There were three main paths.

Miracles—drawn from the spirit and soul of sentient beings. These phenomena were born from willpower and mental focus. Mostly supportive, with few offensive uses, but those that did exist were extremely powerful.

Mysteries—born from the hidden laws of the world. Scholars could study, comprehend, and manipulate these laws to bring about supernatural effects. The broadest and most esoteric category.

Arcana—pure manipulation of ambient energy through raw will. Tremendous destructive power, but limited utility.

“Oooh, so like clerics, mages, shamans? Or paladins, warlocks, druids?! I knew it! No way it’s a proper fantasy world without class variety!” Jelena exploded with enthusiasm, rattling off a series of names that sounded like something from World of Warcraft. 

I don’t play games, so I couldn’t follow.

“Chieftain! That staff you’re holding, is that a wizard’s staff? Are you a mage? You are, right?!”

“Well, I suppose so. In my youth, I left my homeland to wander and study. I trained in the use of miracles. I only returned when the fog disaster struck. Strictly speaking, I would be what you’d call a miracle mage.”

“So you’re like the starter town’s magic mentor!”

“I’m not sure I understand your phrasing, but if you’d like, I can test your aptitude. Since you’re envoys summoned by the gods, you may have a natural gift for magic.”

“““““Yessssss!!!!”””””

***

Calling it an aptitude test was a bit generous.

All the chieftain did was place his hand on our heads and murmur a long string of obscure incantations. Then it was over.

“Well, as far as results go… to be honest, I’m a little surprised. I suppose you really are divine envoys. All six of you possess at least some aptitude for magic, and each of you ranks above the average Yardelanian in potential. Miss Rena and Miss Felice, in particular, show exceptional talent.”

“Yes! I knew it!”

“Let’s gooo!”

“No more meat-shielding and hack-and-slashing for me!”

Their cheers echoed through the hall, but I just shook my head. One glance at the chieftain’s face told me it wasn’t going to be that easy.

And sure enough—

“If you dedicate yourselves to training for… let’s say, seven or eight years. No, maybe three with focused effort, then you should be able to wield magic with some fluidity in battle.”

“Yeah—wait, what?”

“You’ve got real potential. Definitely above the average here in Yardelan. So—”

“Hold on! Three years?! WTF?!”

“Three years… is there a problem? That’s already a remarkable pace, you know.”

“Can’t we just learn it now? Isn’t it like… click the mouse, press a button?!”

“I don’t know what a ‘mouse’ or a ‘button’ is, but no, that’s absurd. Miracles require mental discipline, Mysteries demand scholarly knowledge, and Arcana calls for a refined spirit and will. No matter how talented you are, mastery takes time. There are no shortcuts.”

“Come on…”

“But don’t be discouraged. I did say three years. Train diligently, and you’ll be on par with a professional knight.”

“Wait—hold on. What do you mean by on par with a professional knight? As in…”

“Professional knight? What’s the confusion? I’m talking about a fully trained, seasoned knight from somewhere like Inoria or Randno, someone who can hold their own on the battlefield. Though in a straight fight, your odds of winning would still be only about thirty percent.”

Jelena was frozen in disbelief. The others looked stunned too; even I was momentarily speechless.

“Thirty percent?”

“They have far more experience, after all. And—”

“What do you mean, thirty percent?! Shouldn’t it be a complete stomp?”

“Stomp? You mean you winning effortlessly? Impossible. Even with a surprise attack from range, it’d be a toss-up.”

“But we’d be fully trained mages by then, right?!”

“You’re not seriously under the impression that mages are inherently stronger than warriors, are you?”

““““““…””””””

It became painfully clear that we had all fallen for a massive misconception—one born from the fantasy-laden subculture of Earth.

After hearing our flurry of protests, Chieftain Lund let out a helpless chuckle.

“Oh dear, you’ve been imagining things. You think too highly of magic. A Mystic’s Aether Arrow doesn’t necessarily out-range a common archer’s bow. A Miracle-user’s Light Lance might not strike harder than a cavalry spear. And an Arcanist’s Fireball may not burn hotter than a soldier’s incendiary grenade. In the end, you’re just replacing conventional tools with magical ones. Different paths, same destination.”

“So then…”

“Mages, once fully trained, have their advantages: wider attack ranges, broader utility, no need to carry as many physical tools. But applying spells effectively in battle isn’t easy. It takes immense practice. The people who can melt stone with a gesture, pierce steel with a beam of light, or call down an ether storm—they are the rarest of the rare. Elite among elites.”

“…”

Jelena had nothing left to say.

In other words—

In Yardelan, mages weren’t some exalted class above warriors.

Magic required talent. Even with that talent, it demanded grueling study.

And once you finally reached competence, there was no guarantee you’d beat a warrior in a fair fight.

Not to mention the drawbacks: weaker bodies, faster stamina depletion.

“So… with all that, why would anyone even choose to be a mage? Might as well just become a warrior!”

“That’s not uncommon. Many with magical potential still choose to train their bodies and become warriors. In fact, pure mages are becoming rarer. Plenty of warriors learn a few spells to supplement their combat style. Likewise, many physically gifted mages train in martial arts. In the end, aside from a few truth-seekers, most people pursue magic for one reason: to survive and win.”

A subtle pride flickered in the chieftain’s eyes.

“I am Lund, the Iron-Vine Cantor, also known as Lund the Pilgrim of Castwal. I traveled far and wide across the lands, seeking sacred sites, recounting the deeds of saints. My blade may have dulled with age, but I can still guide newcomers well enough. So, what do you say? Would you like to study the path of Miracles under me?”