Chương 120: If Someone Made the Rules, He Would Choose How to Play

By evening, several previously empty shelves had become filled with completed equipment, creating a satisfying display of everything the three had produced throughout the exhausting day. Then customers arrived and emptied most of those shelves within an hour, carrying the weapons toward the walls, guard posts, militia stations, and whatever other defensive positions required equipment. Sieghart stared at the nearly empty shelves afterward.

"That was depressing." Orin looked over.

"Why?"

"We finished all that."

"Indeed."

"And now it's gone."

"That's called selling things." Sieghart stared at him.

"I know." Orin smiled before returning to his work, while Vessa completely ignored both of them and began counting whatever materials remained for tomorrow. Fortunately, the northern wall had stayed relatively quiet throughout the day, with scouts reporting enemy movement but no significant assault following the previous night's retreat.

Sieghart considered that promising because perhaps the orcs genuinely disliked unexpected firestorms enough to reconsider how eagerly they wanted to continue attacking this particular town. Perhaps their commanders were reorganizing, perhaps their Orc King was reconsidering his plans, or perhaps everyone had simply decided that one night without attacking would improve morale.

Sieghart did not believe any possibility strongly enough to become comfortable, but optimism cost nothing and sleeping properly would improve his mood considerably. When darkness finally settled outside, Vessa looked at Sieghart's exhausted face and dismissed him before he could volunteer to complete another batch.

"You look terrible." Sieghart frowned.

"Thank you."

"Go sleep."

"That was already the plan." Orin looked toward him.

"Try eight hours." Sieghart stared at the man who had apparently spent several weeks surviving on roughly three hours each night before answering.

"You first." Orin immediately became very interested in reorganizing several nearby tools, apparently discovering that healthy sleeping advice became less entertaining once directed toward him. Sieghart headed upstairs, ate something quickly, washed metallic dust from his hands, removed his boots, and collapsed across the bed without performing any unnecessary magical training.

Every muscle seemed to relax simultaneously once he stopped moving, and even his mind finally began slowing after spending the entire day alternating between runes, weapons, rumors, and future experiments. For once, the town was quiet enough that Sieghart could hear ordinary nighttime sounds rather than explosions, warning horns, screaming soldiers, and siege equipment striking stone.

No attacks disturbed the walls, no distant fires illuminated the northern sky, and nobody downstairs seemed interested in calling Sieghart back toward another pile of unfinished weapons. Sieghart pulled the blanket over himself and closed his eyes, deciding that six uninterrupted hours would be acceptable even if eight remained considerably healthier.

He barely finished that thought before exhaustion dragged him into sleep, leaving absolutely no opportunity for another internal debate about whether he should continue training. Some time later, a warning horn echoed through the town loudly enough that Sieghart heard it even through whatever dream his exhausted mind had been producing. A second horn followed before Sieghart could convince himself that the first had been imaginary, and his eyes slowly opened toward the dark ceiling.

"No." A distant explosion shook the glass moments later, followed by another flash of orange light appearing beyond the curtains covering the window. Sieghart remained completely motionless beneath the blanket for several stubborn seconds, as though refusing to acknowledge reality might somehow convince the enemy army to disappear.

Another explosion answered that strategy with enough force to produce a faint vibration through the building, immediately proving that denial possessed disappointing defensive applications. Apparently, raining Poison Magic across their soldiers and dropping enormous Giant Fireballs onto their backline had failed to teach the invaders anything about respecting reasonable sleeping schedules.

Sieghart slowly sat upright while voices spread through the streets below and groups of defenders started moving toward the northern walls once again. His exhaustion remained, his body still wanted several additional hours of sleep, and his patience with the invading army had become considerably thinner than yesterday. Sieghart rubbed both eyes before looking toward the window, where another distant flash briefly illuminated the northern portion of the night sky.

"Terrible neighbors." If the orcs insisted on attacking every single time Sieghart attempted to sleep properly, this conflict was eventually going to become personal. Sieghart remained beneath the blanket for several minutes after the explosions began, staring toward the ceiling while orange flashes occasionally passed through the window and illuminated his room.

His exhaustion still encouraged him to ignore everything outside, but another thought had become considerably harder to dismiss than the orcs currently attempting to ruin his second night of sleep. What if all of this was connected? Sieghart had wondered about that possibility several times before, usually dismissing it because assuming every unusual event revolved around him sounded like the beginning of an impressive superiority complex. Tonight, however, he was not thinking about the war itself.

He was thinking about his power. This world belonged primarily to Aura users. Magic existed everywhere, but mages remained sufficiently weak and uncommon that powerful Aura families had dominated human society for generations. Magic could create fire, heal injuries, reinforce bodies, move objects, and accomplish dozens of useful things, yet ordinary mages rarely possessed enough mana or concentration to compete with experienced Aura warriors.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Then people had searched for alternatives. Some experimented with monster cores. Others changed their bodies. Some apparently created undead creatures, corrupted living beings, or developed entirely new methods of gaining strength through practices later considered forbidden. And Sieghart could absorb those methods. Not literally.

The System appeared to examine whatever principles existed inside corrupted cores, transforming them into recognizable magic or directing them toward branches Sieghart already possessed. The Dungeon Guardian had given him Necromancy because its corpse had been animated through something resembling Zombification, while the corrupted orcs had granted progress toward reinforcement-related magic. That could not be a coincidence. Could it?

Sieghart continued staring at the ceiling while another distant explosion shook the glass slightly. For once, the battle outside felt considerably less interesting than the possibility developing inside his head. Infinite Mana had always seemed like the strangest part of his reincarnation, but perhaps that assumption was wrong. Endless mana might simply be the fuel needed for something considerably larger. His System did more than display numbers. It recognized magical principles. It created categories.

It rewarded training. It encouraged cooperation. And apparently, it could extract useful knowledge from powers produced through forbidden methods. That combination was suspiciously specific. If someone had created the System intentionally, then perhaps Sieghart was not merely supposed to become a mage with ridiculous mana reserves. Maybe he was supposed to collect something. Learn something. Counter something. Or become something. None of those possibilities made him particularly comfortable.

Sieghart raised one hand toward the ceiling and slowly opened his fingers. There was no visible indication that Infinite Mana existed inside him, despite it changing nearly everything about his life. Was his power good? That question sounded simple until he attempted to answer it. The System rewarded him for fighting. That could become dangerous. It rewarded him for killing monsters and absorbing their cores. That could become worse.

Yet White Magic advanced through protecting others, while Summoning Magic improved when his creations helped companions accomplish things independently. Even his most selfish progression routes were balanced by methods demanding cooperation, patience, experimentation, or genuine assistance toward people besides himself. Necromancy was the obvious exception. Sieghart had already decided never to train Zombification because the spell itself encouraged a mentality he refused to strengthen.

But perhaps the System was not responsible for that. The corrupted Dungeon Guardian had contained those principles already. The System merely translated them. If someone handed you a poisoned knife, the existence of the knife did not necessarily mean they wanted you to stab yourself with it. Sieghart frowned slightly. That comparison was terrible. Still, the point remained. His power provided options. What he did with those options might be entirely his decision.

That made determining whether the System itself was good or evil almost impossible. A sword was not evil. Fire was not evil. Even Poison Magic could protect people if used against enemies attempting to eat them. Perhaps the System was simply a tool. Sieghart disliked that answer too. Tools did not usually contain mysterious progression requirements or appear after reincarnation carrying functions suspiciously suited to a world filled with corrupted beings. Someone might have designed it.

If that was true, Sieghart wanted to know who. The most obvious possibility remained Seraphina. She had possessed abnormal magical endurance. She had progressed unusually far. She had traveled with companions for most of her documented life. And her descendants now protected the only major mage organization in human territory. Unfortunately, Seraphina had left almost nothing useful behind regarding the actual source of her power.

Mira possessed stories, historical records, and inherited techniques, but apparently no secret explanation concerning Infinite Mana or Systems. Perhaps Seraphina had never possessed either. That remained possible. Maybe Sieghart was forcing connections because he wanted someone from history to explain something he could not yet understand himself. Another possibility bothered him more. Maybe Seraphina had possessed something similar but never expected a successor.

If her power came from reincarnation, another world, or some mechanism outside ordinary inheritance, leaving instructions for her descendants might have seemed completely pointless. Sieghart closed his eyes briefly. That meant he could not depend upon Mira. He could not depend upon old books. He could not even depend upon Seraphina having discovered the same answers. Eventually, Sieghart would need to solve the mystery himself. That was irritating. It was also familiar.

Most important things in his second life had worked that way. Nobody taught him how Infinite Mana actually functioned. Nobody explained his strange progression conditions. Nobody warned him exactly what corrupted cores would do. He discovered those answers by experimenting. Sometimes painfully. Sieghart pushed the blanket aside. Another explosion sounded outside. Apparently, thinking time was over. He sat on the edge of the bed while considering one final question.

If somebody had deliberately given him this power, did that mean they expected him to use it in a particular way? Sieghart immediately disliked that thought. He had already spent one childhood being judged according to other people's expectations. His parents had decided what kind of heir he should become before he could even understand what Aura meant. He had no intention of replacing them with some mysterious creator.

If someone designed the System expecting Sieghart to fight corrupted beings, collect their powers, save the world, destroy it, or accomplish some ancient plan, that was their problem. He would decide what his power meant. Nobody else. For now, however, their hypothetical goals happened to overlap with something Sieghart genuinely wanted. Strength. He needed enough power to find the people responsible for destroying his grandparents' farm and killing the two people who had treated him like family.

After that, he would make them pay. Everything else could wait. If the System wanted to reward him for fighting, helping people, training, experimenting, and absorbing corrupted cores along the way, Sieghart would accept those rewards. For now, he would play the game. He simply refused to assume whoever created the rules controlled the player. Sieghart stood and activated Phantom Image before approaching the window.

Once again, his body appeared older, taller, and different enough that nobody should connect him with the child working inside Vessa and Orin's workshop. This time, he did not intend to visit the wall first. He already knew what the battlefield looked like. He already knew how many orcs waited outside. And he already understood that their night attacks were mostly designed to exhaust defenders. There was only one person he wanted to see. The Orc King. Sieghart opened the window.

Cold air rushed into the room while another explosion flashed beyond the northern roofs, followed several seconds later by distant shouting from the walls. He climbed onto the frame. Yesterday, Sieghart had remained cautious because he did not understand the battlefield. Tonight, he had considerably more information and considerably less interest in wasting time with ordinary soldiers. He jumped. Wind exploded beneath him.

The first blast carried Sieghart above the neighboring rooftops, while another controlled burst from both hands pushed him higher before gravity could reclaim the distance. He continued. Wind from below. Wind from his palms. Reduced weight. Small telekinetic corrections whenever his body started rotating too far during each upward acceleration. It was still not proper flight. Sieghart did not care. He only needed altitude. Buildings shrank beneath him. The walls became visible.

Beyond them, the battlefield stretched beneath scattered fires while flashes of magic and Aura illuminated sections where humans and orcs had already started fighting again. Sieghart climbed higher. Yesterday, he had revealed his presence by standing on the wall before disappearing into the air. Tonight, nobody inside the town needed to know he had ever left. That would make everything easier. No soldiers demanding his name. No suspicious people attempting to grab him.

No cheering defenders realizing the mysterious flying mage had returned before Sieghart decided what he actually wanted to accomplish. He crossed over the wall far above the battlements. The defenders remained focused outward. Nobody looked up. Perfect. Sieghart continued north. He ignored the active melee below, where arrows, spells, and thrown weapons crossed the darkness while another wave of orcs tested the defenders. Ordinary soldiers were irrelevant tonight. He wanted whoever controlled them.

Sieghart remembered the enormous formations surrounding the largest fires during the previous battle. If the Orc King remained anywhere near his army, that central area seemed like the obvious place to begin searching. He moved toward it. Wind resistance increased as Sieghart accelerated, forcing him to reinforce his body slightly while maintaining enough control to prevent himself from dropping unexpectedly. Below him, the orc army spread across the plains. Some warriors rested. Others prepared weapons.

Several groups moved toward the walls while another formation returned from the fighting. None noticed the dark figure moving above them. Sieghart smiled faintly. Night remained his greatest advantage. That advantage might disappear once he attacked. The Orc King had defeated the northern army. He had forced thousands of people behind these walls. His warriors carried corrupted cores and apparently ate the humans they killed. Sieghart wanted answers.

He also wanted to know exactly how strong someone capable of controlling all those warriors truly was. More importantly, he wanted to see whether the Orc King possessed a corrupted core as well.