Chapter 12: The Rotted-Face Village (2)

“Would you like to learn the path of miracles from me?”

That’s what the chieftain said.

And of course, we all replied, “Yes!”

Yet now—

“Fuck this! I’m done! I quit!”

Booker sprang up from the cushion he’d been sitting on for over an hour and gave the wall a furious kick, only to wince in pain as he hurt himself instead.

“Quiet. You’re disturbing us,” Mizan said, opening his eyes in irritation.

“Disturbing you? As if any of you are actually succeeding.”

“…”

Mizan sighed softly, then stood up with a hint of impatience in his expression.

“To be honest, I don’t feel a damn thing from this so-called meditation. Might as well be practicing some sword techniques instead.”

“Right!? Let’s go, buddy!”

“When did we become buddies. Whatever, let’s go, buddy.”

The two slung their arms around each other’s shoulders and strolled out of the room. They’d somehow become quite close.

Though they’d interrupted my meditation, I didn’t feel like complaining. I wasn’t getting much out of it either.

In this world, all spells—whether miracles, mysteries, or arcana—begin with meditation. 

The first step to mastering power is sensing it. It sounds obvious in theory. But only now did I truly understand why the chieftain said that even those with decent magical aptitude might still choose to become warriors. Instead of sitting here like you’re buying a lottery ticket, waiting to feel some power you’re not even sure exists, it’d be far more productive just to swing a sword or lift some weights and build real muscle.

“Those two idiots are so loud!” Jelena opened her eyes and grumbled. “Honestly, I think I was just starting to feel something before they ruined it! What about you, Zhou Yuhong?”

“I… maybe the same.”

“Right? Those two are obviously the kind of meat-shield tanks who lug around giant shields and swords. Classic dumb warriors with zero points in Intelligence.”

“I guess.”

Dumb warriors. She means the game archetype that dumps everything into Strength and skips Intelligence, right? A little rude, but weirdly accurate.

“I’m gonna go stretch. Sitting cross-legged this long is making my legs go numb.”

Jelena looked like she wanted to invite the other girls along, but neither showed interest. She gave a proud stretch and strolled out alone.

That left just me, Felice, and—

“…”

Rena, sitting quietly in the corner.

This blonde-haired, blue-eyed French girl seemed like the least compatible person in this environment. She sat with her legs folded on a cushion wrapped in tattered cloth, eyes shut, murmuring something under her breath.

Maybe she was the one with the greatest talent after all?

I didn’t want to disturb her, so I lowered my voice.

“Felice?”

“…Hmm?”

I tested her name gently, and she responded. She sat on her cushion, not cross-legged, but in a refined, side-swept pose with one leg tucked over the other—graceful and relaxed, as if lost in thought… or maybe she’d just been dozing off?

“How’s it going?”

“Not sure.”

“Yeah, fair enough. I think I’ll go get some training in. Want to come?”

“I’ll come.”

***

Clang!

Swish! Swish!

Crack!

As a wooden stick jabbed toward my face, I leaned sharply to the left and countered with my own short stick, aiming for Jols’ exposed side. But he reacted instantly, springing back a step as his jab morphed into a downward slash. I caught a glimpse of a confident grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Whoosh!

I didn’t bother trying to block. No way I’d stop that in time. Instead, I threw myself forward with my momentum—an awkward lurch that looked more like a clumsy roll than an evasive move. But it narrowly let me slip past the slash and crash directly into his body.

I drove my stick forward—wait, what?

Something hard jabbed into my stomach. I staggered from the impact, leaving myself wide open, and Jols’ wooden stick landed just in front of my nose.

“Not bad at all… divine envoy. You’re quite… good at catching… people off guard.”

“But it doesn’t really help much.”

I sighed and dropped my short stick. Jols had kneed me hard—somehow, I hadn’t even seen it coming. A total blunder.

“Don’t say that. You’re improving… fast. Every match… I can feel you’ve… uh, learned from the last time. Fewer… openings. More… agile moves.”

“But actual combat’s a whole different thing.”

“True.”

He handed me a relatively clean towel to wipe my sweat, while he used a filthy, stained rag. That made me feel bad, but he just laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it,” before taking a seat to rest.

Rest—not for me, but for him.

It had been five days now, and in that time, I’d realized something serious about the rotted-face people.

Their stamina.

Most of them were completely unfit for combat. The few who were… didn’t have great endurance either. Even Jols, supposedly one of their elite fighters, had less stamina than I did. And his explosive power wasn’t as impressive as I’d expected. The rotted-face people hardly ever did heavy labor—just carrying something heavy left them gasping for air. It was painful to watch.

If not for their relatively advanced skills and combat experience, someone like Mizan could probably crush any of them purely by brute strength. After all, anyone with even a bit of fighting knowledge knows the truth: muscle mass and body weight are raw power.

Too bad I couldn’t bulk up here.

And why was that?

“Hungry… divine envoy? Sorry, but this is… all we’ve got.”

“Ah, thanks.”

Jols handed me a leaf-wrapped package. I opened it to find something like a flatbread.

Grayish-yellow in color. Dry in the mouth. A faint plasticky aftertaste. Almost impossible to swallow. But most of the food here was like that. Just having something to eat at all was lucky, especially when we were sharing what little the rotted-face people had. I had no right to complain.

I sat and munched on the rations—let’s just call it that—while glancing around.

We were in a clearing between a few small huts. The ground was relatively flat and soft. Wooden sticks carved into the shapes of weapons were stacked in one corner—it was a makeshift training yard. Booker and Mizan were still sparring enthusiastically, one wielding a longsword, the other a spear. Surprisingly, they actually looked decent at it.

Above, giant trees blocked the sky. Through the gaps in the branches, I could glimpse a sky blanketed in gray mist. Even in broad daylight, it was always gloomy. A pressure that seemed to seep into your soul.

Honestly, the living conditions in the rotted-face settlement were downright awful.

They really tried to treat us as well as they could—gave us the largest house, the softest cushions as bedding, kept our surroundings as clean as they could manage, but it still didn’t come close to Earth standards. A constant reek of decay hung in the air. The water was always slightly murky. The food tasted terrible. Light was scarce. The narrow maze-like paths twisted endlessly. No bathing. No laundry.

Yes, no bathing. Not even washing your hands or face. Clean water was too scarce. Even pouring a spoonful over your face was considered a huge luxury. Most of the rotted-face people hadn’t bathed or washed their clothes in years, which explained the awful smell clinging to them.

Us three guys could grit our teeth and bear it, but the three girls were clearly struggling. 

Jelena was perpetually irritable. The youngest, Rena, was also starting to grumble. I’d expected Felice—the most refined-looking of them all—to complain the most, but to my surprise, she hadn’t said a single word. Even when her body was streaked with sweat and dust, she didn’t seem to mind. Strangely enough, despite not bathing, she didn’t look dirty at all.

The one small mercy? I could still clean my teeth. There was a local plant called “clean-leaf.” Chewing its leaves cleaned your mouth fairly well. The rotted-face people even ground it into paste to soothe the itching caused by never washing.

But hygiene wasn’t our biggest concern.

“The ten-day mark… we’re already… halfway there.”

“Yeah…”

That was the short version of our plan.

After spending time with them, we were certain:

The rotted-face people had pathetic combat capabilities. They couldn’t pierce a monster’s defenses, had no stamina, and even struggled to capture a lone lizardman that wandered into the forest. Their operation to retrieve us had likely pushed them to their absolute limit.

In other words, aside from providing housing, basic training, some intel, and guidance, they couldn’t offer much else.

The fighting would be up to us.

And hiding out here forever wasn’t an option. Even if we had to force ourselves, we had to go on the offensive.

Because we had no retreat.

That was something I learned five days ago—on the very night we arrived—after the chieftain finished his explanation.

They were all exhausted, physically and mentally. They needed time to digest what they’d learned.

But I sensed something was off, so I cautiously questioned the chieftain. He hesitated, then revealed the truth to me.

I was sure he wasn’t lying. I kept it to myself to avoid causing panic.

The situation was worse than I’d imagined.

As a starting point, this rotted-face village might be among the worst possible.

We couldn’t stay here. Not even a day longer.

For their sake—and ours—we had to strike first, defeat the Mist King ruling this region.

Otherwise—

We would all die.

***

Whoosh!

The sound of a piercing thrust cut through the air and caught my attention.

Not far away, Felice was sparring with a female rotted-face warrior. Felice wielded a slender wooden stick modeled after a rapier, while her opponent held two short sticks like dual daggers. Felice stood out instantly—not just for her beauty and pale hair, but also because she contrasted so starkly with the rotted-face people around her.

Both were agile types. The dual-dagger fighter was clearly faster and more flexible, but Felice had the advantage of reach.

I suddenly got curious. How would this match play out? 

It was almost like post-meal entertainment. Helped take my mind off the awful taste in my mouth.

“Apologies… divine envoy!”

Daggers meant even closer combat. The female warrior suddenly lunged forward with explosive speed. Her footwork was light, her balance perfect. This wasn’t a formal style; it was honed through countless real fights, just like Jols.

So what would Felice do? Dodge? Counter?

Ah! She struck!

Maintaining her elegant posture—less like a fencer and more like a noble in a classical oil painting—she thrust with stunning precision. Her aim was the woman’s chest.

Shff!

But the rotted-face warrior dodged. It wasn’t about speed; it was prediction. She slipped past the thrust and closed the distance in one burst. Her twin daggers slashed toward Felice’s chest—too close now for anything but retreat.

Felice jumped back—graceful and clean, widening the gap again. But her opponent had seen that coming. Rapiers weren’t suited for slashing, and even a thrust required a split-second to wind up. A tiny opening, yes—but enough for a seasoned fighter.

This time, the rotted-face warrior didn’t charge. She suddenly flung one of her daggers.

“Ah…”

It happened too fast. Too hard to deflect a flying dagger with a thrust. Felice swept her rapier in an arc to knock it aside, but that gave her opponent an even bigger opening.

“Excuse me!”

The warrior dashed in at full speed—distance vanishing in a blink—her remaining dagger about to strike—

Thwack!

—But it was the dagger that went flying.

My eyes widened.

Felice had made an unexpected move. She turned with her opponent’s motion and, instead of resetting her stance, angled her rapier just right, using the hilt to parry the dagger mid-attack. The angle and force were flawless. In a flash, she disarmed her opponent.

“Ah!”

“I win,” Felice said softly, then tapped the woman lightly on the head with her rapier.

“Nice,” Jols muttered beside me.

Jelena applauded. Booker and Mizan, sparring in the distance, paused mid-match. Then… they started going at it with more intensity. Maybe they felt a little challenged?

And me—

“…”

Something stirred in my chest.

Was it excitement?

No, it was in my hands.

My hands were itching.

Maybe I actually enjoyed melee combat more than I thought.

“Felice?” I called out.

“Hmm?” She looked at me and blinked.

“Tired?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Then, would you spar with me?”

“Sure.”

Her reply made me feel oddly excited. So this was the thrill of facing a true expert, like in the novels. No doubt—Felice was skilled. Just a few bouts with her would be a huge boost.

But I’ve never been good at stopping there.

Without thinking, I took it a step further.

“Could we use real weapons this time? Blunt ones, of course.”

“Hey!” “Don’t you know how to treat a lady!?” voices shouted from the side, making me cringe a little. Fair point—even blunt metal weapons hurt like hell and could still cause injuries.

Would she refuse?

“…”

Felice looked straight into my eyes, as if trying to read my intentions.

Then, she gave the faintest hint of a smile.

“If it’s your request, Yuhong, then I don’t see why not.”