Chapter 145

Varg spoke in a low, commanding voice.

“Skoll.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Drinking in broad daylight and brawling with your sister? Do you think you can remain a child forever just because the tribe indulges you?”

“N-no, Father. I–it’s not like that...”

“I didn’t ask for an answer.”

Skoll, who had been about to defend himself, shut his mouth tight. His father, the Beast King Varg, was a man of weight. His actions, his words—everything carried that heaviness.

Varg barely stirred for trivial matters, but once he moved in earnest, he was like a storm. Anyone who dared act flippantly before him would be blown away.

Skoll’s tail, stiff and bristling, drooped. Varg slowly turned toward Hati.

“Hati,” he called, rather gently this time.

“Yes, Father.”

“Did you settle matters well in Nuwas?”

At that, Hati’s face brightened with pride.

“Yes! I fought Bedouin warrior Zahar in a duel and won! For the next ten years, those pastures belong to the Fenrir!”

“I see.”

The land itself was not of great importance to the Fenrir. Still, it could not simply be handed over. Yield once, and subsequent raids would only follow. Hati’s victory had preserved the pride of the beastkin.

Varg extended his scarred, callused hand and gently patted her head.

“Well done, daughter.”

Her ears perked, her tail wagged. She could not have been more transparent in her joy.

After a few pats, Varg withdrew his hand and finally turned to Leon’s party. Leon, who had been watching on from behind, saw the Beast King’s face clearly for the first time.

A mane of gray hair, flowing like a lion’s. A presence as calm as the eye of a storm. Though his body looked no older than his late thirties, it was likely because he had regained youth upon ascending to the realm of Master.

His body and face look young... but those eyes are ancient.

It was said that the eyes were the window to the soul. In Varg’s deep green gaze was a weight of years no mere thirty could carry. If Leon had not already met the likes of Kasim and Irexana, he would scarcely have been able to look at him. When none of the three humans looked away, Varg’s eyes curved with a rare, amused smile.

“So. Guests worthy indeed of being called honored by Hati.”

Then he raised his voice to the crowd surrounding them.

“The matter is finished. Disperse!”

The villagers had already begun to thin out at his arrival. At his words, they returned to their homes in earnest. They had come for the usual sibling squabble, not an audience with the Beast King himself, who no one was really comfortable sharing the room with. In moments, the square was empty save for Leon’s group and the two siblings.

“Now then, let us move to a place more suited for talk.”

Varg cast his children a glance and turned away. It was a silent command: lead the guests.

Skoll could not hide his sullen face, while Hati eagerly stepped forward to guide them. She had completely forgotten about her role as a host on their way because she was so hung up on confronting her brother.

Receiving her father’s praise had filled her with delight; she smiled as she explained, “Father’s dwelling is set apart from the village, in a quiet, high place. He dislikes the people fretting too much under his gaze.”

“That is quite... Refined,” Leon commented.

“A good word. Refined. I’ll start saying that too,” Hati agreed as she pointed ahead, leaving the village outskirts.

“

Ah,

there it is. That is Father’s dwelling.”

Leon’s group followed her finger, then faltered.

“That mountain of rock?!”

Hati’s finger pointed toward a jagged, towering rock mountain, so barren that not even weeds could survive on it. By rough estimate, it stood over eight hundred meters high.

There was no ordinary path up its side; one would have to scale its sheer walls, shaved smooth like pillars. Even a Mountain Orc famed for climbing cliffs would need to draft a will before attempting such a thing.

And yet, the way Varg climbed that mountain defied all sense. Walking several dozen meters ahead of the group, he was naturally the first to reach the base of the mountain.

Then, without the slightest hesitation, Varg stepped forward. And began walking straight up the nearly vertical ninety-degree wall—as though it were flat ground.

Elahan and Karen, discerning the truth of it, could not help but marvel.

“That’s incredible...”

“Right? No way I could copy that.”

A beat later, Leon understood as well.

No way...

An Aura Wielder could certainly climb a vertical wall. However, what amazed them was that Varg wasn’t using any Aura at all.

Was he gripping the rock with sheer leg strength? No. He was supporting his entire body with only the narrowest contact of his soles, walking up the vertical face as casually as one strolls across level ground.

“Well, it’s not like he told us we had to climb the same way,” Elahan said as she bent her knees.

The muscles of her thighs, honed beneath her monk’s robes, contracted sharply, then expanded, launching her body into the air. After a blast, the recoil left an oval-shaped crater in the ground, and Skoll, following thoughtlessly behind, gaped.

Elahan wasn’t the only one. Paying no mind to his reaction, Karen too leaped swiftly upward.

Even a sheer cliff had tiny protrusions. Karen stepped precisely onto each irregularity, each mere centimeters wide, bounding from foothold to foothold in succession. In moments, the two women’s figures had already soared far above.

Leon bent his knees to follow, but then tilted his head. There was something strange---an unsettling sense of dissonance.

What is this?

The image of Varg climbing lingered in his mind—the way he moved, the shape of each step—refusing to leave him. It was as if to say that he, too, could do it, as though the Beast King had shown him a demonstration. The thought held him fast.

Gotta try it.

At worst, he’d only embarrass himself. Under the curious gazes of Skoll and Hati, Leon lifted his foot and pressed it against the wall, just as Varg had.

Then he raised his other leg. Without Aura. With nothing but his own physical body.

“Huh...?”

It worked. So easily it was absurd. Leon’s eyes went wide. The sensation was almost familiar.

Controlling his balance, adjusting his body according to the terrain and conditions—this principle was the same as the harsh lessons that had once been seared into his flesh and spirit.

I-isn’t this Footwork?!

At Leon’s shocked question, El-Cid replied, his voice dry.

—Just now figured it out? The Sirius that I taught my doggy—its fundamental principle is rooted in Footwork. Advanced techniques might be beyond you, but the basics are well within your grasp.

So we’re of the same school?

—Sharing the same source doesn’t make every stream alike. You simply share

me,

the Founder. Hakapel is the head of a branch school, and you are the heir of the main line.

Leon nodded and moved his foot. He wasn’t as fast or precise as Varg, but he began to ascend the wall without Aura, just like the Beast King had shown. With each step, controlling his center of balance grew easier; his body swayed less.

Just from seeing Varg’s demonstration once, the missing elements in Rodrick’s Footwork seemed to fall into place, raising his mastery.

Did he just... give me a lesson?

Leon wondered, but it was too soon to tell.

***

A few minutes later, they finally reached the summit. After climbing more than eight hundred meters of bare rock, the group arrived at Varg’s dwelling and looked around.

Karen swept her gaze across the horizon in all four directions and muttered, “Great view. Just a shame the climb was a pain.”

“K-Karen!”

Hati’s face went pale, clinging to Karen’s arm as if afraid Varg might have heard. Though that was fully Karen’s intention.

Fortunately, Varg only gave a faint chuckle. Atop the mountain stood a single lodge, its construction a mystery. Its rounded roof was shaped to withstand rain, and thick pillars were driven meters deep into the rock so the wind could never shake it.

The dwelling of Varg, king of the beastkin, was both humble and utterly unapproachable. It was truly a place steeped in contradiction.

“As I thought...” muttered Varg, not stepping inside just yet.

Instead, he turned back, his piercing gaze locking squarely on Leon. The reason was simple.

“I showed you on a whim, but I didn’t think you’d manage to follow it right then and there. Did it help your path forward?”

Leon answered honestly, “Yes. I learned something quite valuable.”

“To meet another who inherits the martial legacy of that man, as we do... Today is truly a joyous day. Had my grandfather’s mind remained intact, he would have shared a cup with you.”

“W-wait, Father! He’s—!”

Hati tried to interject, but Elahan caught her and held her still. Leon had signaled with his eyes, urging her to keep silent.

Seeing this, Varg tilted his head with interest and asked, “Is there still something I should know?”

“Yes.”

With a brief reply, Leon placed his hand on his hip and drew his sword. The shabby longsword dissolved, revealing its true form. El-Cid blazed, sunlight scattering off its golden edge.

This was not mere reflected light. The blade itself glowed, a golden radiance that seemed to embrace all things. The Holy Sword, revealed in its true shape, was leveled at Varg.

“Leon, disciple of Rodrigo Caldias el Vivar, Hero, demands recognition from the current successor of the branch school Sirius.”

“

Hoh

...”

This time, Varg’s expression hardened. The battle lust he had already been restraining flared, thickening until it was nearly visible, tinged faintly with killing intent. It was clear he did not accept Leon’s words at face value.

“Such a claim... I cannot simply overlook it, even if you are my daughter’s guest.”

“Then will you test me?”

“I like your boldness. I almost wish my son had learned such spirit.”

The wind circling Varg’s body suddenly reversed. A Master, like the Beast King, was a being who had shed the shell of a mere creature, transcending into one who could bend the laws of nature with will alone.

Wreathed in dread intent, Varg raised three fingers.

“Still, I have no wish for a duel to the death. Let us set rules and conditions. First, you may attack me however you like. But I will not use Aura Blade, and I shall only strike at your back. Second, I will land three clean blows, but you need only land one to claim victory. What say you?”

“What is the third condition?”

“The last is this...” Varg muttered as he tapped the ground with his foot. “Regardless of the other rules, if both my feet leave the ground, I lose. Otherwise, this duel does not make sense.”

The provocation was razor-sharp, even knowing the gulf between their skills. Leon’s grip on his sword creaked with strain. Had it not been for El-Cid’s dry rebuke, Leon might have lunged right then.

—Calm yourself, dummy.

Leon, immediately steadied by that comment, listened.

—Sorry, bud. But he’s right. As you are now, you can’t touch him. Once someone at his level masters Sirius, they can step through the air itself, accelerating and leaping as if it were solid ground.

What? Without magic? Is that even possible?

—At the extreme, Aura and magic alike make the impossible possible. The difference is only in what each excels at.

At some point, a wide circle had opened around Leon and Varg. The summit was broader than it first appeared, enough to allow for a serious exchange. They could not unleash finishing techniques like Grand Chariot here, but there was ample space to move freely.

“Shall we begin?” Varg asked, standing across from him.

The distance between them was about fifty meters, two steps even at full sprint.

“Let’s begin,” Leon replied and raised his sword to guard, middle stance.

Until he knew what Sirius truly was, only the most versatile posture would do. His body was at its peak. The Stigmata on his skin all flared to life, filling him with power. He felt he could do anything. But then—

“

Hm

.”

“Sirius, Swiftwind Step: Transposition of Shape and Place.”

With only a single step, Varg appeared at Leon’s back. He even left behind an afterimage indistinguishable from the real body, moving faster than Leon’s Insight could follow. This speed was a pinnacle of Eastern martial lore, the ultimate expression of swiftness.

Point-three seconds. That was how long it took Leon to realize what he’d seen was a mirage and to turn toward the presence at his back.

“As a senior in this martial legacy, I’ll write off the first strike.”

Feeling the edge of Varg’s hand brush his nape, Leon swallowed hard. That was a death. There hadn’t been the slightest chance to react.

Even after claiming the first point, Varg nullified it and retreated fifty meters once more. The distance, not close by any measure, still felt like a blade pressed against Leon’s throat.

“Fight with everything you have,” Varg said. “So that even in defeat, you’ll harbor no regrets.”

The Sirius, one of King Rodrick’s true martial legacies, now stood in Leon’s path, barring the way with overwhelming speed.