Chapter 13

The walls offered no soundproofing. Every thump of the man and woman in the next room carried straight through, along with a steady stream of embarrassingly intimate moans.

Yet neither Ricard nor Sandy, listening in their room at the inn, looked remotely bothered. After what had happened that afternoon, their emotions had grown too heavy and hard as stone for a few embarrassing noises to stir them.

Sandy leaned against the window and gazed up at the night sky. Countless stars might shine, but it was darkness that filled the heavens.

Eventually, the thumping stopped. Silence lingered between them.

"What are you?"

Six hours had passed since the incident without a word between them. At last, Sandy spoke.

"What do you mean?"

"Rotch earned his upper grade on his own ability. You might manage to kill the Bilton brothers in an ambush, but not Rotch."

There were limits to being extraordinary. A ten-year-old subduing an adventurer who had trained in Mana Drive and ranked near the top in the academy's competitions went far beyond them.

Ricard considered this carefully before answering.

"Every movement has a single point where its force is concentrated. It changes from moment to moment, but if you redirect it at exactly the right instant, your opponent ends up hurting himself. It's like aiming a spear at the top of a charging boar's head. I don't actually need to thrust. I wasn't the one who broke the sword. That fellow Rotch did it himself."

It was not an exact comparison, but it resembled a counter in unarmed combat, applied to weapons.

"That's what I'm asking... It's easy to say, but how do you actually do that?"

"You get better with practice. Eventually, it's as natural as breathing. On a battlefield, you don't have time to strike over and over. You have to kill a man with every strike. Otherwise, some stray blade or spear might kill you."

Every martial art was born and developed to suit its purpose. Battlefield swordsmanship could only be spare, simple, and lethal—not merely to kill more people, but because that was how one survived.

Sandy turned to study Ricard. He looked every inch an adorable young master. Surely he had never fought in a war at his age. Even if he had, he could not have much experience.

"You said you came from a knight's family, right? Did your father teach you? Ever since you were little?"

"Yes, something like that."

Ricard gave a vague answer. Sandy fell into thought for a while before speaking again.

"I've seen plenty of talented kids. Once in a while, I've even seen monstrous geniuses who put all that talent to shame. But I've never seen anyone like you, Riki."

"That's a compliment, right?"

"A compliment? Well, let's call it that. But you were a little... frightening."

"And now?"

For a time, Sandy merely looked at him in silence. Her expression suggested she was turning over everything she had seen of him that day.

She did not know why, but his words—So what?—had been ringing in her ears all day. His voice, his tone, and the sincerity behind them.

Sandy raised her eyebrows playfully and smiled.

"Maybe you're less of a child than I thought."

"Ha ha ha..."

Ricard simply laughed too. At last, the tension seemed to ease a little.

It was late, and they went to sleep in the same bed in their underclothes. It was the first time Ricard had shared a bed with a woman other than his mother.

He had not exactly lied to Sandy, but there were things he had left unsaid: that he felt sorry for her, and that he was glad she had companions who were like brothers and sisters to her. He knew cheap pity was the worst insult of all, so he kept those thoughts to himself.

Tomorrow, at last, he would reach the academy. His four-day journey since leaving home was finally coming to an end.

Every meeting brought a parting. Nestled in Sandy's arms, Ricard thought of the people who had passed through his life. Arno, Daisy, Kaufmann, Sandy's companions, his family, and, before them, those who had fallen on the battlefield, one by one...

The night deepened.

Beringen, the capital of the territory of the same name, was a military fortress city. The territory was, after all, charged with defending the frontier.

To the east lay a low mountain range. Beyond it stretched a forest inhabited by monsters that allowed no human trespass: goblins, orcs, undead, man-eating spiders, werewolves, trolls, and more...

Humans might somehow deal with one of these creatures alone, but gathered in numbers, they were utterly beyond human strength. The sensible choice was simply to draw a boundary and stay on their own side.

History recorded occasional large-scale orc invasions. Not once had humans managed to repel them. The records told only of orcs laying waste to the region at will and eating their fill, then withdrawing of their own accord after splintering into warring factions.

In short, this was an age when a determined, large-scale monster invasion was regarded as a natural disaster, like an earthquake, tidal wave, or typhoon. All anyone could do was hope it passed quickly.

Far to the north lay the sea, where Nords sailed down to prowl the coast. They were merchants and raiders alike. In good times they merely traded, but when things went against them, they did not shrink from war.

Beringen's very reason for existing was to stop invasions from beyond the borders—or become their prey itself. Keeping invaders from reaching the Empire's interior by whatever means necessary was both its duty and its inescapable fate.

Beringen Fortress stood on a hill that had been cut away to create a level site, somewhat higher than the surrounding land. Sturdy walls encircled the entire hill. About two hundred people lived within, but the margrave was not among them; an estate administrator resided there on his behalf.

Far more people lived below the hill. Like the broad mark left by a drop of water splashing onto the ground, a population of roughly ten thousand spread out around it. They farmed, hunted, grazed livestock, and worked at trade and crafts, with no city walls to shelter behind.

Beringen Academy, however, was neither atop the hill nor below it. Half a day's journey from the city, another small fortress stood like an outpost atop a sheer, rocky mountain. That was Beringen Academy. They were simply using an old fortress as the academy building.

At the top of a narrow stairway climbing the cliff face, an inscription on the gate lent it a grim, forbidding air:

<Discipline Shall Set You Free.>

A boy stood gazing up at the words, looking somewhat dazed. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, perhaps from the strenuous climb.

"What the hell? Who are you?"

The abrupt, rather belligerent question snapped him out of his daze. Someone a little older than him—about sixteen to eighteen—stood slouching with a sword at his waist, staring at him.

"Oh... I-I'm Boribori. I'm from a place called Dussen. Mr. Hartmann sent me. He said you'd feed me and give me somewhere to sleep..."

"Bori, what? What's your name?"

"Boribori."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"No, my name really is Boribori..."

The boy with the sword scowled at Boribori. He had tawny hair in a bowl cut, slightly sad-looking eyes, a tiny nose, and a rather large mouth. His exact age was unclear, but he looked ten to twelve, and his height was about right for that age.

The problem was that Boribori looked like a beggar.

"Wash yourself first. You're fucking filthy."

"S-sorry."

"Hey."

"Yes?"

"There's no such thing as 'sorry' here. Got it?"

"What?"

"Make me repeat myself one more time and I'll beat you within an inch of your life."

"S-sorry..."

"You little shit!"

THUD!

Without warning, the armed boy kicked him squarely in the stomach. Boribori doubled over and dropped to his knees, unable to breathe properly.

"Do you even fucking listen? Don't make me tell you twice unless you want to die. Filthy bastard."

Then he grabbed Boribori by the hair and dragged him to the well in the courtyard. A few passing students looked on, but they merely snickered; most seemed not to care at all.

The armed boy drew up a bucket of water and unceremoniously dumped it over Boribori.

SPLASH!

After the heavy blow, the painfully cold water left Boribori dazed and shuddering.

"Strip."

"..."

Boribori nearly answered with a reflexive What? but hurriedly shut his mouth and obeyed. He took off his clothes in broad daylight, out in the open.

He ought to have felt humiliated, but he had endured so much persecution and bullying as a bastard that he simply bore it.

The armed boy doused him a few more times, then jerked a thumb toward a building.

"Throw the clothes away. Finish washing yourself and go in there."

Then he simply walked away.

Cold, with his stomach still throbbing, Boribori stood naked and trembling like a prisoner of war. His shivering would not subside as he hauled up the bucket and washed.

Some of the students watching from a distance snickered at him. There were girls among them.

Boribori scrubbed until the water no longer ran dirty, then covered his private parts with his hands and headed for the building the armed boy had indicated.

He cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. Sixty bunk beds stretched far into the distance before him, filling all the space except for a narrow aisle.

"Who the hell are you?"

Another unfriendly question greeted him. These people seemed to greet strangers with hostility rather than curiosity.

"I-I'm Boribori. I just got here..."

"So what?"

"What? No, sorry, I mean..."

Forbidden to ask anyone to repeat themselves or to apologize, Boribori could find nothing to say.

"Stop parading that ugly fucking body around. Crawl into a corner where we don't have to see you."

"He says his name's Boribori. What kind of name is that? Heh heh."

"Hey, if you're going to die, do it somewhere far away. Make me clean up your corpse and I'll fucking kill you."

Remarks came from every direction. Not a single one was kind; there was only contempt and disgust.

They told him to crawl into a corner, but the beds were packed so tightly that there was nowhere to go.

Still naked and wet, Boribori wandered aimlessly before cautiously settling onto what looked like an empty bed. The boys nearby snickered.

A little later, several boys entered through the far door. One came over to where Boribori sat. He was larger than most grown men and looked as though he were in his forties.

"Hey."

"... Yes?"

"Want to die?"

Boribori stared blankly up at him, terrified for his life, while the snickering around them grew louder. The big boy rounded on those laughing.

"You fucking bitches. You're worse for just sitting there. Do you really want to die?"

"S-sorry, Molty. Hey, come over here."

A boy a little way off beckoned to Boribori. He hurriedly got up and went over.

"This bed's empty. Clear it off and use it."

For an empty bed, it was far from clean, strewn with all manner of rubbish.

"Th-thank you."

"Don't say thank you here. No apologies, either. And whenever you're in the aisle, always give way first."

"All right."

"Rank comes first here. It's not an absolute rule, but the ones on the top bunks generally rank higher. And the farther in you go, the stronger they are. If you want a particular bed, or you don't want to give way in the aisle, you have to fight and win."

"..."

"Dry yourself with this and put these clothes on. They belonged to the boy who used this bed before you."

They were not new clothes. They had not even been washed. But he was in no position to be choosy. Swallowing the thanks that rose in his throat, Boribori silently dried and dressed himself.

"Um, where did the boy who used this bed go?"

"He died."

"Huh?"

"He died. Here, you have to earn your own money to pay for everything. Apparently, a knife fight broke out while he was working in the city. He got caught up in it."

"..."

"Don't worry too much. There are safe jobs too. He needed money, so he took a risk."

Boribori had nothing to say. He could not stop thinking that coming here had been a mistake. But where would he go if he left? His family treated him as a burden, and home was every bit as cruel as this place.

The other children had nowhere to go either. A few left from time to time, but more stayed than one might expect. Here, they could feel a thin sense of belonging that even their families had never offered.

Boribori was no different. Born to a maid, he had grown up watching the legitimate children torment his mother. They sometimes forced him to join in.

He had left her with the words, ["I'm sorry, Mother. I can't live like this."]

There was not a child here without a wretched story. Theirs were worse than Boribori's, if anything, never better.

Yet that night, someone threw a blanket over him, and he was given a gleeful beating. The children shouted:

"Welcome to the chicken coop, new boy!"

They beat him unconscious. When he opened his eyes, it was morning. Apart from a few boys resting inside, most had gone to classes or into the city.

Their ages ranged from about twelve to sixteen, but differences in development made for enormous differences in size.

Boribori gradually learned to fit in by watching others. He explored the area around the dormitory and made a few acquaintances he could talk to, though none were close friends.

A month passed before he knew it. During that time, he saw several newcomers humiliated just as he had been.

Then came a newcomer wearing a red cloak. He had blond hair and hazel eyes. Unlike Boribori on his first day, he looked no beggar, but was quite neatly dressed.

"Hey, who the hell are you?"

A boy near the newcomer challenged him. Boribori merely watched from a short distance away.

"Riki."

The newcomer was none other than Ricard.

"You? That's a pretty grand name for the likes of you."

"What's your name?"

"What?"

"I asked what your name was."

"What's it to you? Do you want to die?"

"You should choose your words more carefully if you don't mean them."

"Wh-what did you say?"

"So where's my bed? I'm new here."

Boribori's eyes widened. He had not been here long, but none of the newcomers he had seen had been so bold. Every one of them had cowered and been beaten.

Apparently, plenty of others had noticed too. Eyes naturally turned toward the entrance.

"Wh-who the fuck do you think you are? Do you really want to die?"

"Sorry, but you're not frightening me in the least. That talk doesn't suit you, either."

"Wh-what?"

The boy who had picked the fight could only blink in stupefied disbelief.

"Been a while since we had an interesting one."

Someone spoke up. Several boys rose from their beds and approached the newcomer, evidently intent on teaching him some manners. One crept up behind him carrying a blanket.

"Hey."

"What?"

"That's enough. You need a beating."

At that instant, the boy behind him flung the blanket over him. The others rushed in to stomp on him, but a flash burst across the vision of the boy facing Ricard.

THWACK!

A scuffle followed, punctuated by a rapid series of dull blows.

CRACK! THUD! THUD-THUD! THWACK!

Boribori's eyes went round as saucers. Even having watched it happen, he could not understand what had occurred. All he knew was that Ricard alone remained standing, with the others sprawled around him, groaning.

"Ugh..."

"Ah... Fuck..."

Ricard held one boy by the hair and smashed his head into a nearby bedpost.

CRACK!

The boy slumped to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. Somehow the blanket was now in Ricard's hand. He looked from it to the fallen boys and back again.

Then he said something unbelievable.

"Oh, was this an initiation? Sorry. Want to try again?"