Chapter 37: The Arcane Triangle and Training

Enid did not seem particularly worried about Roland’s predicament. After hearing him out, her expression remained as indifferent as ever, and she even found the time to lower her head and observe her own reflection in her coffee.

"What do you think?" she asked offhandedly, staring into the cup.

Roland could not claim to be completely ignorant, but given the "knowledge" he had recently acquired, he was in no position to make any correct decisions.

"Ritualists rarely have a need for 'correctness'... Hold out your hand."

Enid instructed him to lay one palm flat, facing upward. Roland then felt her "tentacles" touch his palm. Unlike his own, which were gray and icy, Enid’s were as scorching as fire.

"‘Secret,’ or mystery. It is a form of energy from the Dream World; I believe Fernandez has already explained this to you."

"‘Tentacles’ is a truly hideous term. You are not to use it in front of others."

She made Roland observe his own palm in the same manner. Soon, two inverted, overlapping purple triangles appeared on his skin—resembling a somewhat deformed hexagram.

"The Triangle of Arcana."

Enid looked at Roland, a flicker of admiration passing through her distant eyes. "This proves that you possess the aptitude and have been favored by a certain path. You have grasped the ‘Secret’ and become an apprentice."

As she spoke, she suddenly leaned forward, using her fingers to brush aside Roland’s black hair to reveal his two clear, amber eyes. "Your hair needs trimming... would you like me to help?"

Her gaze was fixed intently upon him. Roland caught a scent similar to licorice. It was very faint.

*It’s violet.*

"...My uncle will help me trim it, ma'am."

Roland turned his head slightly away.

"Oh? Pouch Collins certainly keeps himself busy with everything," the woman raised an eyebrow and slowly withdrew her arm.

That remark... did not sound like a compliment.

*You should have accepted.*
*What harm could a big bat possibly intend? She only wanted to help this blind, golden-eyed kitty.*
—Wrench, can you shut up for a while?
*Just for a short while.*
*I’ll consider it, tell me.*
*How long?*
—One hundred years.
*...*
*You are truly vicious.*

Enid watched the contemplative boy and tapped the table. "What are you thinking about, Roland? The path that has unfolded before you?"

*Nothing, just fighting with the voice in my head.*
*I’m the one doing the one-sided beating, aren't I?*

"Frankly, from the moment you become an apprentice, your life becomes like a leaf in a storm."

"An extraordinary ritualist will face countless dangers and must make countless choices until the very end of their life."

"But there is only one thing that remains beyond our control."

"That is... the Path of Greatness."

Roland repeated what she had once said: "The path chooses the person; the person does not choose the path."

Enid nodded. "Exactly. Some people are extremely suited for a certain path, but it may not be the one they desire. You were chosen by an unfamiliar path; perhaps some quality within your soul attracted it."

The woman pondered for a moment before offering a solution:

"Since you cannot go to Eden, there is no need to attempt the other tenets of the Blessed. As for the other paths..."

The other paths involved other churches. They involved heretics.

"I can inquire with friends at the Great Maelstrom and the Ring of Eternal Silence, but I cannot make any promises."

"Because objects imbued with tenets are almost never leaked."

"And you certainly cannot join their sects."

Roland knew this was the only way.

"Actually, you need not worry about this," Enid said. "Even if it is a path without a deity, even without a Grand Rite..."

"You are still an executor of the Inquisition."

"Once you are able to skillfully manipulate the ‘Secret,’ I will transfer you to a safe post... but your weekly wages will not be a penny less."

She brought up someone Roland had seen recently—the woman who had measured him for his vestments.

"You could do that kind of work; there is no need to run around with Fernandez, facing dangerous cultists and xenomorphs."

"Just find a tailor and learn for a few days."

Roland was not at all surprised by Enid’s attitude. For some hazy reason, he was not only unsurprised, but had even begun to grow accustomed to it.

*Hazy?*
*I, for one, am perfectly clear~*
—Didn't you promise me you wouldn't speak for a hundred years?
*I didn't promise you anything.*
—Then promise me now.
*Why should I promise you anything?*

"It is not the path I worry about, ma'am," Roland reined in his thoughts and shook his head slightly. "I worry about... disappointing you, or disappointing Fernandez."

"If it were someone else, that would indeed be the case." Enid brushed her long hair back and sank leisurely into her high-backed chair, her lips curling into a look of great amusement. "But I will not be disappointed in you."

"Besides, the Inquisition..."

"Is mine to command, Roland."

She tilted her head slightly toward the boy, her arrogant posture resembling a cat that believed it had just saved the world and deserved a reward.

Deserved... to have its chin scratched.

*This time it’s not my fault, you’re the one courting death.*
—I admit it.

"Beyond that, I have no more advice to give you, Roland." Enid toyed with her spoon using her scarred hand. She lifted it and tapped the side of the cup, creating a "ding" sound.

"No matter what you choose, it is your fate."

Her eyes, which were often scornful and cold, now held countless fragments of red-hot stone rolling and spreading within her pupils, kicking up a dazzling dust of fire.

Fate. Roland did not care for that word.

"Of course, before you spend your time fretting over these things, there are two other matters you should attend to," she said. "Training, and learning to read and write—I mean the basics."

Basics. Basics. Every time Roland heard that word, his head began to ache. Because all the knowledge he had been exposed to lately seemed to be considered "the basics" by Enid.

"Knowledge?"

"I am referring to your body, Roland."

Enid gripped his wrist, lifted it, and shook it slightly.

*Hmm...* soft and limp, like shaking a hibernating snake.

"Basic combat, the use of cold weapons and firearms; physical conditioning, including the rituals and holy water required when dealing with low-level spirits; how to handle cultists, and the proper response to xenomorphs or dream leaks; how to release and manipulate the ‘Secret,’ and how to immerse yourself in the Dream World at night to replenish it—now that you can see a little, you must learn how to fight with your body."

"This will take some time to get used to."

"I will have Fernandez teach you bit by bit."

She let go of his hand, leaned back into her chair, and gave a lazy yawn.

"It’s all left to Fernandez."
"All left to him."
"Study hard, Roland."

What, exactly, would this so-called "basic" physical and combat training look like?

In any case. From that day on, there was not a single unbruised spot on Roland’s body. Every day he was covered in black and blue marks. Sometimes, his face was swollen.

*The big lug is truly a man with a cold face and a cold heart.*
—If you say that, doesn't it just make him a pure villain?

Ever since his talk with Enid, he was frequently summoned by Fernandez to the Inquisition’s training grounds: he would arrive with his cane during the day and limp home on it at night. This caused his uncle to look at him with a strange expression.

*Everything has a time and place, you know, kid.*

Roland did not understand these subtle hints until his uncle started being more direct.

*Sometimes, you have to learn to say no.*
*If you hurt your back, your life is over. How old are you, anyway?*

However, when his uncle discovered Roland covered in bruises one day (and having had a drink), he became like a volcano about to erupt, leaning over the table, roaring and waving his arms as he emphasized his own supposedly muscular physique:

"I’m going to report her!!"
"That unwanted, perverted, filthy harlot—"

Roland had explained it many times. He just didn't know if his uncle believed him—that the bruises on his body really had nothing to do with Ms. Enid.

*You could tell him a man made you look like this.*
—Why does that sound wrong?
*Do you trust me?*
—That goes without saying.
—Of course I don't trust you.

But with Wrench for company, and the occasional bickering, the pain wasn't so hard to endure.

Mr. Fernandez said that his physical condition was unlikely to reach the minimum standard in a short time—the minimum standard. In reality, it was a "minimum standard" that had already been lowered several times. Even so, Roland could not pass. It seemed that no matter how he trained, his physical fitness could not match that of his peers.

This was not strange; some people were simply born frail. There was no helping it.

*I highly doubt you could even beat the woman who sells cardboard boxes next to your uncle’s shop,* Fernandez had said.

That woman who was five feet tall and nearly five feet wide?

*I am very worried about your future, Roland. Many paths have their own unique "Grand Rites," some to enhance the body, others to strengthen the spirit and soul—and your path has nothing at all...*
*And your body remains so frail...*

A few days later, the priest gave up. He changed his teaching method, stopping the hand-to-hand combat training. He started directly with the dagger.

Eyes, chin, throat, heart, groin, tailbone, kidneys, arteries.

*You are too fragile, Roland; perhaps it is congenital. I don't care if you can find another way to overcome it in the future...*
*But for now, this is all I can teach you.*
*Mind you, don't use this to deal with drunks or play the hero in front of girls.*

If it is not for the sake of killing, there is no need to use a sharp weapon.

Fernandez said. Drawing a dagger meant you intended to kill your enemy.

Interestingly, Roland learned this much faster than he had learned hand-to-hand combat.

Shockingly fast.