Chapter 70 - Different Perspectives on the Goal

There is a famous Chinese paradox:

Those worthy of possessing all under heaven do not desire it; those who desire all under heaven are unworthy of possessing it.

Sadly, this barbaric age had inherited no records from the days when China was still “China,” but as maxims generally do, it held true regardless of time or place.

Such was the case with these three students, who knew nothing of Yao and Shun, China, or Earth.

Having coincidentally resolved upon the same goal, the three students were sunk in despair at the sad realization that they lacked the ability to achieve it.

Each was assessing her own capabilities from her respective position and establishing strategic objectives.

* * *

“Whatever it takes, Uncle's beard is going to...!”

That was the vow of Esidisi, a daughter of Droan to her very bones, whose only approach to any problem was a frontal assault.

Sadly, she had the will to shave him, but not the ability. Her every attempt met with defeat.

But the word surrender does not exist in Droan's dictionary. (This is a fact.)

She clenched her fist, prepared to throw her entire life into this endeavor. Perhaps even more. Fiddle IV gave a grotesque shriek.

“I'll... save you, Uncle!”

From the clutches of the evil monster taking the form of body hair, with the heart of a storybook hero rescuing a princess!

The strongest music student in history, who had inherited all the talent of Einar the Slaughterer, vanguard of the Hero's Party, set down her instrument and picked up a dagger.

Along with shaving cream.

* * *

Even this barbaric age had its shining traces of civilization. Thilles, a cultural powerhouse, was a particular example. And the essence of culture, naturally, lay in politics.

“I think your beard looks wonderful, mister!”

“...?”

Isabelle, who had been forced to live at the Thilles court as a hostage to keep the hero in line, was employing remarkably sophisticated political skills.

She had chosen to take a position entirely opposed to her sole—and strongest—rival, then slowly win Ivan's heart.

Sadly, this had yet to produce any significant results, but at least she was a little ahead of Esidisi in this matter.

Since the hero of a Hero's Party ought to be capable of taking a broader view than its Berserker, one could say the future of this particular Hero's Party looked very bright indeed.

* * *

“I'm... a mage, aren't I...?”

Meanwhile, the elf from the Kalleon archipelago had a thought.

Mages were those who gave fantasy substance as phenomena.

If there was something you did not want to see, and could not physically remove... you could remove it from “conception” and “perception” instead!

This realization could be called a valuable lesson gleaned from the “happiness trap” in the ruins beneath Krasilof's underground waterways.

Elpihera was a master of every form of magic accessible at a student's level, so she was able to devise the most suitable spell in an instant.

“All body hair below the nose... I shall ‘hide’ from my sight...!”

She formed hand signs in the air, weaving magic in an instant as she stared ahead.

The target: herself. The test subject: that foolish human walking in the distance...!

By casting Mind Sorcery upon her own mind and warping her conception, she would create an illusion that made her eyes incapable of “perceiving” beards and other body hair!

“I've... done it...!!”

Never once had she rejoiced at a spell's success.

With her overwhelming talent and affinity for mana, commanding magic every waking moment since birth had been utterly natural to her.

But now, she was trembling at her own genius.

Her hand creaked as she clenched it tight around the final sign, murmuring in an eerie voice.

“Grikencos Style: Illusory Shave...!!”

As the spell reached completion, brilliant blue light gathered in her eyes. Casting time: two seconds or less. Mana consumption: less than 3%. Spell duration: an hour and a half...!!

“By my calculations, I can keep it up for 50.3 hours. Two days, two hours, and fifteen minutes...!”

If she kept using it until her mana ran dry, she could remove all beards from her sight for two days.

Now the crucial point was...

“It must hold even when an external shock breaks my concentration....”

In other words, she had to command the magic “subconsciously.” There was no way she could do that with a spell she had only just created.

So Elpihera quietly closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

With a firm exhalation, she opened her eyes resolutely. Burning with determination!

“Until nothing can break this spell.”

Until her concentration could withstand even the most improper, mortifying situations.

Resolved not to stop until then...

* * *

Utterly harmless, perfectly ordinary in any everyday setting, and incapable of intimidating anyone at first sight, Ivan—whose appearance resembled that of an herbivore—was enjoying his leisure.

“How peaceful.”

Birds sang sweetly outside the window, and the summer sun shone brightly over everything. Listening to the orphanage children giggle as they roamed in little groups, Ivan sipped his tea.

He briefly steadied his breathing and focused all his attention on his hearing. He had no choice: several of the children had recently learned to move with an extreme degree of stealth.

Good. No one around.

From a common-sense perspective, he found it difficult to understand why the children wanted to visit the director's office. His memories were hazy now, but he did not think he had ever visited the principal's office in elementary school. It had never even occurred to him.

The tea he drank was barley tea, brewed from cheap roasted barley, and all the children had an unlimited supply of it.

There were also more sweets, such as candy and chocolate, in the staffroom than in his office. If they insisted on sneaking in somewhere, that would be quicker and easier.

“Hmm.”

Well, who could fathom a child's thoughts? Children were easily swept up in bizarre fads. He gave a brief nod and relaxed.

On this quiet weekend afternoon, with no one coming to visit, he carefully opened the double-locked compartment for classified materials in the drawer beneath his desk.

It was a sophisticated security device that required inserting the double-lock key, then operating the 360 dial in a 5*2 sequence to open it. He had sacrificed some security to prolong its service life by leaving off a sealing spell, however.

Pushing the useless classified documents aside, Ivan picked up the hard case his fingertips encountered.

CLICK.

With the delicacy of someone handling a grade-13 mana bomb on the verge of exploding, Ivan put on gloves, brushed off the case with a duster, and carefully opened it.

The contents glittered in the sunlight pouring through the window, momentarily dazzling him.

Or perhaps it was simply the “precious object” itself that dazzled him.

Swallowing hard, he slowly lifted the “treasure.”

“Perfect.”

Metal construction. Perfect functional beauty, restrained in its ornamentation. Manufactured to precise specifications for easy carrying, with an internal spring mechanism so cleverly concealed that it could not be seen from outside.

Solid, weighty, and sturdy. It was like looking at a freshly finished pistol, handmade by a master gunsmith.

He inhaled the faint metallic scent in the air, mingled with a hint of oil.

Not a single flaw. This was perfection.

“He hasn't lost his touch.”

There was a smith he visited whenever he needed an axe repaired or wanted to order another. His old smithy stood at the westernmost edge of Prizhenkaya.

The craftsman, whom Ivan had known since the war, now made only farming implements such as hoes and plows. He had retired from the weapons business entirely.

Obviously, an axe was not a weapon. It was merely logging equipment. Thus, Ivan's sound and rational argument had successfully rekindled the passion of the smith, who had been shouting that he was retired.

And through further “persuasion” that could not possibly be refused, the smith had once again followed Ivan's design to create this masterpiece.

“Whew....”

A sudden pang of guilt stabbed at his heart. The purchase had been half impulsive.

The money it cost to make this one item could have put meat on the children's dinner plates every evening for a week.

Perhaps this was the influence of the “trap in the ruins.” No, it probably was. He had not been swayed by such meaningless desires in a very long time.

CLICK.

When he touched the mechanism, the object changed shape with a sharp metallic sound. What had looked like a small rectangular strip of metal now began to assume a distinctive form.

With careful hands, Ivan lifted it and slowly brought it to his beard.

SWISH. SWISH.

The sound of it gliding smoothly through the hair without friction. A sensation as silky as applying camellia oil.

Life in this godforsaken, premodern other world was by no means enjoyable, but...

'But this... does put a smile on my face.'

Now this was happiness.

He had obtained the “perfect beard comb.”

Its design could be called the greatest prize he had brought back from the ruins.

While three students agonized over how to erase his beard—physically, politically, or conceptually—Ivan leaned back in his chair, enjoying his rest with a faint smile.

* * *

“This letter... No signs of forgery?”

“No, Boss. The handwriting is a 100% match for Eshi's.”

“And nothing else from that son of a bitch Morde?”

“No, Boss.”

CRUNCH.

Beneath the giant's grip, the thick solid-wood table crumbled to dust.

In the dark room, the man wrapped in a fur cloak reeking of animal musk roughly tied back his bristling hair and rose.

“Boss, Boss! N-no, Eshi isn't a child anymore. Surely she wouldn't have done anything foolish! J-just calm down a little....”

CRUNCH!

The warrior who had hurried to block his path flew away in a tightly crumpled heap. Without breaking stride, the man marched on and flung open the doors of the throne hall.

The glaring summer sun illuminated his court. He swept it with a sharp gaze and growled like a wounded beast.

“Any other suggestions?”

“How about burning him at the stake?”

“That would be over too quickly.”

The strongest man in Droan. The Warrior King. The Slaughterer. The one-man army-killer. A single weapon of mass slaughter.

Einar.

He crumpled Esidisi's letter, tossed it aside, and started walking.

[I'm thinking of trying this thing called marriage.]

The only words left on the torn letter circled forlornly in the sky, then blew away and vanished.

“Let's go, brothers. Let's see what this bastard looks like.”

“Yes, Boss!!!”