One side was a dazzling expanse of white, while the other was alive with a dense forest of dark-green conifers.
The boundary where the icy whiteness met the deep greenery looked as though it had been drawn with a knife.
A carriage rattled along this beautiful yet peculiar border.
Clop, clop.
Several mules harnessed to the carriage plodded along, snorting clouds of white vapor.
Inside the carriage, silence and liveliness somehow coexisted. A middle-aged man sat in one corner with his eyes closed, immersed in meditation. Across from him sat an elderly couple who looked rather apprehensive.
There was also a family traveling with their young son.
And then there was Vermoor.
His shoulders were easily twice as broad as those of an ordinary man. Steel-like muscles bulged beneath his leather clothing. Anyone who saw him would immediately recognize the figure of a warrior or a savage accustomed to roaming battlefields.
Yet what he held was neither an axe nor a sword.
It was an old book.
He gripped the small book in his enormous hands, reading it with an expression of utmost seriousness.
Glance.
Several passengers stole looks at him.
The sight of a Barbarian reading a book was strange by anyone's standards.
To most people, Barbarians were creatures of crude instincts, as far removed from intellect as one could imagine.
There was even a popular saying that it was better to use a book as firewood than give it to a Barbarian.
That was how rarely anyone witnessed a Barbarian engrossed in reading.
Nevertheless, nobody dared approach him. One look at his enormous frame suggested that an ill-chosen word might result in broken bones.
It was the innocent curiosity of a fearless child that finally broke the silence.
"Mister! Mister!"
"Hey!"
The child's parents hurriedly tried to restrain him.
The enormous man raised his gaze toward the boy.
After a moment of silence, Vermoor spoke.
"What is it?"
His voice was deep and rough, yet there was something strangely reassuring about it.
"What book are you reading?"
"A spellbook."
"A spellbook?"
A murmur swept through the carriage.
'A Barbarian with a spellbook?'
Shock and disbelief flashed across the passengers' faces.
A savage and magic……
The two concepts went together about as well as sand and apples.
"Are you a Mage too, Mister?"
"Not yet. I'm an aspiring Mage."
"Wow…… Where did you get that book?"
"A friend gave it to me."
Vermoor was calmly continuing the conversation when the middle-aged man, who had kept his eyes closed throughout the journey, suddenly opened them and shouted.
"Silence! Can't you see you're disturbing my concentration?"
The child flinched.
A short wand shaped like a pointer was tucked into the middle-aged man's belt.
With his luxurious robes, he looked every bit the part of a genuine Mage.
Frightened by his outburst, the child buried himself in his mother's arms, while his parents repeatedly bowed their heads in apology.
"Hmph."
Having silenced the child, the middle-aged Mage snorted and turned his attention toward Vermoor.
There was no overlooking a man of that size.
"You there, Barbarian. Are you claiming to be a Mage?"
"An aspiring Mage."
"A spellbook given to you by a friend, you say? My, you must have quite an extraordinary friend."
A greedy glint briefly appeared in the middle-aged Mage's eyes, but he quickly concealed it behind a dignified expression.
Vermoor noticed the look but saw no reason to mention it.
"How many spells do you know?"
"One."
"One! I see…… Well, I suppose that's understandable for an aspiring Mage. But don't expect to receive any respect with only a single spell to your name."
The middle-aged Mage arrogantly stroked his wand.
"I, on the other hand, have completely mastered no fewer than three spells. The path of magic is not some shallow pursuit that the likes of you can master merely by reading a book. Do you understand? Stop showing off as though you've accomplished something impressive."
"I'll bear that in mind."
For someone criticizing others for showing off, the Mage was doing quite a bit of it himself.
Nevertheless, Vermoor obediently nodded.
"So, what is this one spell you supposedly know?"
"Fireball."
"Fireball! Hmm, at least you've learned the basics. It's one of the most popular low-level spells."
Fireball was a spell that possessed more than twice the destructive power of other spells of the same rank.
That was why most Mages learned it.
The child, who had been hiding in his mother's arms, forgot his fear and once again looked up with sparkling eyes.
"How strong is Fireball? Can you show us?"
The middle-aged Mage glared at him again, causing the boy to pull his head back like a turtle retreating into its shell.
However, the Mage was never one to pass up an opportunity to boast about himself.
He cleared his throat and began explaining in a deliberately grandiose manner.
"Fireball is a spell that creates a ball of fire and hurls it at an enemy. It can blow a Goblin's head apart without leaving a trace. I happen to know the spell myself, but…… unfortunately, a Mage's mana is precious. It isn't something I can waste by casting spells into empty air merely for your amusement."
Just as he finished his pompous explanation and cleared his throat again—
NEIGH!
The coachman abruptly pulled on the reins, bringing the carriage to a violent halt.
"We're under attack! Goblins!"
Chaos immediately erupted inside the carriage.
The middle-aged Mage's face turned deathly pale.
The child, however, looked at him with shining eyes.
"Show us!"
Vermoor closed his book and quietly raised his head to examine the road ahead.
The moment the carriage stopped, everyone rose to their feet.
The inhabitants of the northern lands knew how to fight, regardless of age or gender.
For those who lived in the forests bordering the snowy mountains, learning to wield a weapon was simply another part of life.
"Dear! Take care of our son!"
The father pulled a heavy billhook from beneath his seat.
The mother pushed the child toward the elderly couple before retrieving a long staff-like weapon from beneath the carriage.
"It'll be fine. We can handle a few Goblins."
Someone muttered reassuringly.
However, the expressions of those standing at the front of the carriage soon hardened.
More than twenty Goblins had emerged from the edge of the forest.
The monsters carried old swords, rusty farming tools, and other crude weapons.
Though Goblins were short and squat, an armed group of that size was intimidating.
"Kerrrk! Krrrk! Give! Everything! Slaves too!"
Their language was crude and simple, but their intentions were unmistakable.
The child's father hurriedly stepped forward and shouted.
"Honorable Mage! We'll buy you some time, so please cast a spell!"
"Ah, uh…… Yes! Yes, of course!"
The middle-aged Mage gripped his wand with trembling hands.
When the Goblins noticed the wand, they began shouting.
"Mage! Mage here!"
They understood perfectly well how dangerous a Mage could be.
More than twenty Goblins charged forward at once, causing the middle-aged Mage to stumble backward with a frightened hiccup.
"Honorable Mage! Hurry!"
The coachman and the child's parents rushed forward to intercept the Goblins.
Even children knew that if their group had a Mage, protecting that Mage was essential.
At that moment, a flash of red light finally appeared at the tip of the middle-aged Mage's wand.
"Take this!"
Everyone's attention immediately focused on the glow.
The Goblins instinctively recoiled in fear and retreated a few steps.
However, what flew through the air was nothing like what the passengers had expected.
Rather than a ball of fire, it resembled a candle flame.
It was a tiny ember, smaller than a fist and seemingly on the verge of going out.
Tap.
The ember struck the bridge of the leading Goblin's nose.
"Hot! Hot! It burns!"
The Goblin clutched its nose and leaped around in pain, but that was all.
After pressing its nose into the snow and rolling over once, the flame went out pathetically.
The Goblin touched its nose, then raised its sword again, enraged by the lingering sting.
"I-Is that all?"
The passengers' morale plummeted after witnessing the miserable performance of the Mage they had trusted.
Even the Goblins began cackling at his disgrace.
The middle-aged Mage stood there helplessly, his face burning red with embarrassment.
Then—
Vermoor bent down and picked up a stone from the ground.
The Goblins were startled.
Until that moment, they had barely noticed his presence.
He was so enormous that they had apparently mistaken him for part of the scenery.
When he suddenly moved, it seemed to them as though a gigantic enemy had materialized out of nowhere.
"Allow me to demonstrate my Fireball."
"Y-You truly know how to cast that spell?"
Vermoor nodded.
"My friend taught me well. First of all, your stance is wrong."
The unexpected criticism made the middle-aged Mage's eyes widen.
"My stance?"
"According to my friend, a truly powerful Fireball must be thrown with the left hand. You're holding your wand in your right hand, aren't you?"
"???"
The Mage had devoted most of his life to studying magic, yet he had never heard anything so absurd.
What possible difference could there be between casting a spell with the left hand and the right?
"Never mind. Just watch."
Vermoor firmly gripped the fist-sized stone he had picked up earlier in his left hand.
It was a solid rock with bits of frozen dirt and ice clinging to its surface.
He raised it with his left arm—
There was no light swishing sound.
WHOOOM!
A heavy, thunderous rush of displaced air rang out.
The stone shot forward like an arrow and struck the leading Goblin squarely in the head before it had any chance to escape.
SPLAT!
The Goblin's head exploded like an overripe fruit struck by a hammer.
Blood and brain matter splattered across the snow, staining it crimson.
"……."
Silence descended.
The middle-aged Mage stood frozen with his mouth hanging open.
The other passengers were equally stunned.
Even the Goblins stopped moving.
Vermoor casually dusted off his hands and announced.
"Fireball."
"THAT'S NOT FIREBALL!!"
The middle-aged Mage shouted reflexively.
Vermoor tilted his head.
"What do you mean? I certainly blew the Goblin's head apart. Didn't you say in the carriage that Fireball was a spell capable of blowing a Goblin's head off?"
"The important part is creating fire, not blowing its head off! Why do you think it's called Fireball?!"
"Is that so?"
How strange.
Hyunwoo had clearly told him stories about people called fireballers.
They were people who threw fist-sized balls at extremely high speeds, and the balls they threw were called fireballs.
In particular, people who threw with their left hands were exceptionally powerful and rare, earning them the title of left-handed fireballers.
Hyunwoo had even said that such individuals were so valuable that one should travel to the ends of hell to recruit them.
That was precisely why Vermoor had spent so much time practicing throwing with his left arm.
While pondering this discrepancy, Vermoor bent down and picked up several more stones.
WHOOOM!
SPLAT!
The second Goblin's head exploded.
WHOOOM!
SPLAT!
The third stone apparently struck a little off-center, leaving half the Goblin's face intact.
Unfortunately for the Goblins, that gruesome sight only intensified their terror and sent them into a panic.
WHOOOM! SPLAT! WHOOOM! SPLAAAT!
Every stone Vermoor threw sent another head flying.
After more than half their number had fallen, the Goblins could endure no longer and began shrieking.
"K-Kerrrk! Run! RUUUUN!"
Vermoor continued hurling Fireballs at the backs of the fleeing Goblins' heads.
Fireballs without flames.
THWACK! SPLAT!
There were neither flames nor fiery explosions, but their destructive power was undeniably real.
In just a few seconds, the group of more than twenty Goblins had been completely routed.
Over fifteen corpses lay scattered across the freezing snow.
The middle-aged Mage stared blankly at the carnage.
The wand slipped limply from his hand and fell to the ground.
Vermoor brushed the snow from his hands and asked.
"So, is creating fire really necessary?"
The Mage found himself confronted by a fundamental question.
Was creating fire truly necessary?
After all, the purpose of offensive magic was to eliminate enemies.
As long as it killed the target effectively, did the method really matter?
In that case, perhaps this Barbarian's stone-throwing technique was the truest form of magic after all…….