Once Marcellus had handed over the silver coin to Ingrid, she swiftly informed Mr. Doan of her new circumstances. Her departure left Marcellus in solitude, surrounded by the four walls of the room that had witnessed the latest twist in his journey. It was a rare moment of quiet, a pause in the relentless pace of his life.
He was due back at the ship for a crew meeting at noon, a mandate set by the pirates the day prior. Despite his burning ambition to join the war front, Marcellus felt no urgency.
The war, a seemingly endless maelstrom of conflict, was not fleeting – it would wait for him.
Alone with the book for the first time, Marcellus's heart quickened with a mix of dread and excitement. The burden of the life he had taken to possess this tome weighed on him like chains, yet his curiosity was a siren call he could not resist.
He opened the diary, its pages a gateway into another soul's journey. Each entry was a thread in the tapestry of a stranger's life, their experiences and reflections laid bare. As he read, Marcellus was drawn into the intimate recesses of a mind now silenced by his own hand.
A sense of intrusion gnawed at him, a trespasser in the sacred halls of someone's private sanctuary. He was an uninvited guest wandering through the corridors of another's memories and confessions. The mingling of fascination and remorse was a bitter potion, but Marcellus drank deeply, unable to turn away from the secrets that spilled forth from the diary's pages. It was a journey into the unknown, a glimpse into a life once lived, now preserved only in ink and parchment.
[Diary]
"
Today marks a momentous occasion. My revered grandfather, in an act of unexpected support, presented me with a magnificent sword. A parting gift, he called it. On the morrow, I shall set forth for the White Tower, an opportunity of rare prestige, particularly for someone bereft of a notable legacy. This is my chance to validate my worthiness.
The image of my grandfather's face is etched in my memory. He, among others, once stood in opposition to my ambition in the world of the sword. Their scepticism, however, only served to fuel my resolve.
At the age of sixteen, I have achieved what many thought impossible – I have risen to the rank of a sword saint.
Even the knights of my family, steeped in tradition and honour, cannot match my prowess. I still remember their laughter, their whispers of doubt, their underestimation of my capabilities.
Each Saturday, under the guise of practice, I summon them to the training grounds. It is there that I assert my dominance, keen for them to witness a woman's triumph over them. Some dared to express their scorn openly, but now, they quiver in my presence. My father, in his wisdom, intervened to temper my challenges. He preached their obligation to serve and respect me, but his words only ignited a fiercer determination within me.
As I stood on the brink of my journey to the White Tower, my grandfather unveiled the esoterics. His revelations diverged sharply from my assumptions. In a bid to etch his teachings in my memory, I have written them here..."
Marcellus found himself pausing in his reading, his emotions stirred by the words on the page. "White tower" and "sword saint" resonated with him, evoking a sense of awe and admiration.
A bitter taste filled his mouth, and he had to swallow hard to suppress the unsettling feeling that arose. The genuine greed in the cook's eyes confirmed the reality of the book, shattering any notion that it was a mere jest or a made-up story
"In our world, unlike those races blessed with innate talents, we humans forge our path through learning and practice. We are not born with a plethora of Intrinsic Skills, as some species are.
Intrinsic Skills are abilities naturally inherent to certain races or individuals, part of their very being. In contrast, humans strive to attain heightened awareness, achieving feats that border on the supernatural.
There are two primary methods for mundane humans to acquire such skills.
The first is through breathing techniques, enhancing one's Fighting Spirit, also known as Battle Will or Aura. This spiritual essence exerts physical influence, a force innate to all living beings but requiring training to harness fully.
In the heat of battle, aura can magnify physical prowess – strength, speed, durability – varying in effect based on the individual's aura quality and control. Moreover, an aura can augment equipment performance, enabling superhuman acts without resorting to magic.
At the pinnacle of mastery, as seen in sword saints, Fighting Spirit can be directed internally into foes, causing internal havoc or even crippling them. It can counteract regenerative abilities, a formidable weapon especially against monstrous beings, risking the unravelling of their very essence.
By assessing a creature's aura, one can gauge its strength or threat level. This suggests unique aura qualities, specific to certain beings or groups.
Breathing techniques, believed to have emerged in the mystical Third Epoch, the Age of Gods, open a realm of possibilities. They sharpen senses and perception, crucial in combat, survival, and decision-making.
Within the esteemed White Tower, the second path unfolds – Ritualistic Magic. This art involves elaborate, intricate rituals, requiring meticulous preparation and specific accessories. Timing, materials, and strict adherence to the process are essential.
Ritual Magic, used in prayers and summonings, aims to manifest supernatural effects through ritualistic means. However, it is fraught with peril. An interrupted ritual, be it through a broken chant or a misplaced step, can unleash chaos, ranging from mass insanity to bizarre physical transformations.
For ordinary practitioners, adherence to astromantic predictions or detailed manuals is vital. Selecting the right moment enhances the chances of success.
Then there's Suspension-style ritualistic magic – a refined technique born from centuries of magical practice. It allows a ritual to be paused and resumed, a crucial innovation given the length and complexity of high-level rituals. This technique, developed from countless failures and sacrifices, has revolutionized ritual magic, though it demands precise understanding and application.
However, suspending a ritual is not without risks. Without proper knowledge and technique, it could lead to disastrous backlashes. This delicate balance is a testament to the complexities and dangers inherent in the art of ritualistic magic."
Marcellus's heart was pounding in his chest, the words in the diary echoing in his mind, like oft murmurs. As he delved deeper into the pages, he found himself immersed in a world of endless possibilities.
Unbeknownst to Marcellus, a faint mark began to emerge on the back of his left hand. It was a subtle transformation, a change so gradual that it eluded his notice as his mind remained consumed by thoughts of rituals.
The mark, a cryptic symbol concealed within the depths of his flesh, surfaced briefly like a hidden treasure yearning to be discovered, only to fade away with unsettling swiftness.
Lost in his thoughts, Marcellus didn't notice Ingrid's return until she spoke, her voice breaking through his concentration.
Startled, he quickly closed the diary, shielding its contents from prying eyes. He looked up, meeting Ingrid's gaze, and tried to regain his composure.
"Oh, you're back," Marcellus said, trying to regain his composure. "I was just...reading something interesting."
Ingrid arched an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Interesting, huh? It must be quite a read to have you so focused."
Marcellus chuckled nervously, realizing he had been lost in his own world for a moment. "Yes, fascinating stuff, really."
"As I said, if you don't eat your food will get cold, also I met Noah outside and he said to get you," Ingrid said
Marcellus's cheeks flushed slightly as he realized he had forgotten about his meal. Ingrid's reminder brought him back to the present, and he glanced at the untouched plate of food on the table.
"You're right, I get carried away," Marcellus admitted sheepishly. "Thank you for reminding me, Ingrid. And Noah is looking for me? I should go find him then."
He stood up from the thatch bed, placing the diary carefully inside his makeshift bag. Ingrid watched him with a curious gaze, her eyes lingering on the book briefly before returning to meet Marcellus's gaze.
"Thank you for the food," He said as he wolfed down the food.