Chapter 14

The eastern expeditionary front, which took over a month to reach, was hell itself. Within that hell, the soldiers slumped in despair and dejection, utterly drained.

After being assigned to a unit, Riki entered his tent and encountered a smell beyond description. A mingling of fire, steel, blood, and death.

That night, a blanket was thrown over him and he was beaten. He endured it, barely clinging to consciousness. When the beating ended, a veteran soldier told him with a grin,

["To survive in hell, you have to become a devil. Welcome, rookie."]

At first, Riki did not take part in combat. He simply ran himself ragged doing the veterans' errands. Whenever he fumbled over a term he had never heard before, a fist invariably flew his way. The explanation came afterward. He emptied latrine buckets, maintained weapons, and had to bring them whatever necessities they wanted, even if he had to steal them.

Once he fought his first battle and managed to pull his weight, the errands became less frequent, and the abuse and beatings gradually faded away. Then, after gaining some experience, he took part in a battle that left many dead and wounded.

He had no idea whether they had won or lost. He pulled a dying veteran out of mud like a tidal flat and hoisted him onto his back. It was the veteran who had beaten him most often. Every step sank him thigh-deep in mud, but he gritted his teeth and trudged back toward camp all day. The wounded man even soiled himself on Riki's back, the stench rising through the thick reek of blood.

When Riki finally managed to save him, the man said,

["I'm not going to thank you."]

The veteran recovered and fought in several more battles. Then, in one of them, he threw himself forward to save Riki and died on a spear meant for him. As he lay dying, he smiled.

["Don't thank me. I finally get to rest. You keep slogging through this shit."]

["..."]

That day, Riki learned how trust was built. He also learned that it had to be demonstrated through deeds, not words. The coarse banter, the obscene jokes, the somewhat violent traditions—all of them were merely medicine to ease the fever of soldiers living on a battlefield. They were not who those men truly were.

That was why Ricard tried to look beyond people's words to their intentions. It was why, when he first entered the Beringen Academy dormitory, the stream of taunts from the children neither angered him nor drew much of a response. Having lived among rough soldiers and fought through the frenzied hostility of barbarians, he was unlikely to feel much of anything no matter how viciously the children taunted him.

But the sight of the blanket that had somehow ended up in his hands brought a sudden realization. It had been an initiation. If that was all it was, he should have let them beat him.

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

Unfortunately, it was already too late. Four children lay sprawled on the floor, groaning. Silence hung over the room.

Then someone spoke to Ricard from an upper bunk somewhere, out of sight.

"Hey, you think you can fight?"

"Who knows? What about you?"

There was a snort of laughter. Then the speaker leaped down from his upper bunk, revealing himself. He had short blond hair and looked so old for a student that Ricard wondered whether he had lied about his age. His clear skin, however, could pass for that of someone his actual age—whatever that was. More importantly, he stood a full head taller than Ricard. His bare torso was well muscled.

"Bare fists or blades?"

"Whatever suits you."

"Good. This should be fun. Pankration!"

The boy shouted without warning. Not just a shout, either, but a bellow so loud that it made the more timid children flinch—and Ricard with them. What was his problem?

The others shouted as if answering his call. Dozens of children roaring together nearly shook the entire dormitory.

"Pankration! Pankration! Pankration!"

Was it some sort of rallying cry? While Ricard stood there in bewilderment, his opponent turned and headed for the door at the opposite end. Apparently it meant they were going to fight, so Ricard followed.

The door led to a yard behind the dormitory that looked like a training ground. Old and fresh bloodstains dotted the sand. Wooden parallel bars, pull-up bars, wall bars, and practice dummies lined its edges.

Some of the students there were sparring or exercising; others were making out with girls. They stopped and looked over as the crowd streamed out of the dormitory. In one corner was a circular sand ring. The boy who had led Ricard outside walked barefoot into it.

The others naturally gathered around the ring. Ricard removed his cloak and shoes and stepped inside as well. Every eye was on them: some watched indifferently with folded arms, some had eyes sparkling with excitement at the spectacle, and others feared the terrible thing about to happen.

His opponent spoke with a confident smile, apparently relishing the attention—especially the girls'.

"Surrender or die. Those are the only ways this fight ends. Anything goes except biting and kicks to the balls. That's pankration."

"Really? So you're prepared to die?"

"What? Hahaha! You're funny. Really funny. Hey, someone wrap his hands."

Boribori promptly darted out of the crowd, took Ricard's hands, and began wrapping them. The bandages were there to protect the fists, not to spare an opponent injury. While Ricard's opponent had his girlfriend wrap his hands, Ricard had Boribori. Seeing not a single callus on Ricard's hands, Boribori decided the outcome was already settled.

"Once he hits you, just pretend it hurts and fall down. Volka won't kill you, but you could still get badly hurt."

Boribori spoke quietly. Apparently his opponent's name was Volka.

"True. He didn't seem all that prepared."

"... Huh?"

Boribori had no idea what Ricard meant.

"How long are you going to take wrapping those? Want to watch us fuck while you work?"

"Hahahahaha!"

Volka's remark sent a roar of laughter through the spectators. His girlfriend pretended to disapprove, but the pleasure she took in it was plain on her face.

"That's enough. You can go."

At Ricard's words, Boribori left the ring, feeling that something was odd.

Volka bounced lightly on his feet, then began circling Ricard as though out for a stroll. He subtly closed the distance before lunging forward on his leading foot and throwing a punch.

THWACK!

Or rather, he tried to. A flash burst across his vision, his head snapped back, and his fist cut a strange arc through empty air. One knee thudded onto the ground. The crowd fell silent as though doused in cold water.

Barely clinging to consciousness, Volka staggered wildly and struggled to regain his stance. Then another light flashed before his eyes, and he blacked out. Ricard had struck him in the head with a high kick. To the onlookers, the sight of him kicking an opponent taller than himself in the head was like a picture.

If silence could be weighed, this one felt like a heavy boulder pressing down on them. It was difficult even to breathe. The smiles slowly froze on the spectators' faces, and every mouth fell stupidly open. Even those watching indifferently with folded arms let them drop.

Three or four seconds passed. Volka regained consciousness. Bewildered at first, he struggled to move his stiff limbs and stand, unaware of the blood running from his nose and mouth.

"I could've killed you twenty more times by now. Won't you surrender?"

Ricard stood still, watching him. Only then did Volka realize he had been knocked unconscious.

Then he realized all the stunned students were staring at him, and shame welled up inside him. Worst of all, his girlfriend was among them.

"... Fuck... you...!"

Summoning what fighting spirit he could, Volka swung a wide punch.

No—once again, light flashed before his eyes before he could swing.

THWACK!

His fist swept uselessly through empty air, and he dropped onto both knees.

Unlike before, he did not pass out. He clung stubbornly to consciousness through sheer willpower and reached forward, trying to turn it into a wrestling match. But there was no strength behind his arms, and he merely flailed. Ricard's knee drove straight into his jaw, knocking him unconscious again.

CRACK!

THUD.

This time, about five seconds passed before Volka opened his eyes, facedown in the sand. It was not that his body refused to obey him. He simply had no strength to move it. He barely managed to turn his head and look up. Ricard was gazing down at him.

"You said it yourself. It doesn't end unless someone surrenders or dies."

Blood streamed from Volka's broken nose and split mouth. His eyes half glazed, he barely managed to speak between sputtering breaths.

"... F-fuck... you."

"Really? Then I lose. Happy?"

Ricard unwrapped his hands on the spot, tossed the bandages onto Volka, who remained facedown and unable to rise, and left the ring. He took his cloak from one of the spectators and walked away, shoes in hand, without looking back.

An even heavier silence settled over the training ground. The students could scarcely collect themselves, unsure how to process this shocking turn of events. Volka lay with his face buried in the sand, unable to rise for a long while. His shoulders shook as though he might be crying. Ricard's discarded bandages lay in a tangle over his head, looking like mockery of the defeated boy, whether intended that way or not.

Unsure which bed to use, Ricard stood looking around. The students who returned after him stopped in their tracks when they saw him. Unable either to approach him or to ask him to move, they clogged the aisle like a traffic jam.

Then Ricard spotted the boy who had wrapped his hands among the crowd. It was Boribori.

"Oh, you. You know me, right? You wrapped my hands earlier."

"... M-me?"

"Yes, you. Where's your bed?"

"M-me?"

"Are you imitating some animal that goes 'me, me'?"

"M-me?"

"..."

Ricard had tried to ask as gently as possible, with a hint of a smile. By now, though, he began to wonder whether the boy was making fun of him, and his expression turned cold. The children around Boribori grabbed him and shoved him forward, practically hauling him out of the crowd. Facing Ricard, he could only dart his eyes about, unable to look at him.

"If you have a disability, just nod. I'll understand."

"..."

Boribori simply stood still.

"Then if you were making fun of me, please stop. Can you do that?"

"Y-yes. N-no, I wasn't making fun of you..."

"Where's your bed?"

Boribori raised a hand and pointed to a lower bunk near the very end.

"Is there a free bed next to you?"

Boribori looked behind him. The occupant of that bed shook his head furiously.

"... No."

"Really? Then let's share. Is that okay? Are you sick?"

"N-no, I'm not sick. It's okay."

"I'm new here, so there's a lot I don't know. Help me out."

"Okay..."

With his place decided, Ricard went to his new home and unpacked, first clearing the clutter aside. A newcomer was not supposed to do that so casually, but no one objected. An unsettled air hung over the dormitory. Not a soul spoke, and it was as quiet as if someone had thrown cold water over them all. Ricard simply assumed it was normally a quiet place.

Boribori sat motionless right beside him, though anyone could see how conscious he was of Ricard. Ricard asked,

"How do the classes work?"

"Classes?"

"Yeah. They must teach something."

"Um... They say you go down to the city and earn money for about a year. You train on your own and make friends during that time. Then you use the money you've saved to make donations and take classes for the other year."

"I've got some money. Would this be enough?"

Ricard opened his purse and poured its contents onto the bed with a clatter. It was the money he had received for the Bilton brothers' heads and for selling the jewelry taken from the corpses. There were dozens of silver coins and even a few gold ones. Boribori's eyes widened. He had never seen so much money in his life.

"Uh... I-I'm not sure."

Though he had arrived before Ricard, he had only been there a month himself. He hardly knew everything.

"So they only give us a place to sleep here, and we earn our own money and donate it to take classes. Once we've done two years, we leave and work for the guild for three years. Then we either become real adventurers or take the final exam. Is that how it works?"

"Uh... Is it? Maybe? They do give us bread morning and evening. There's a place to collect it. But it's so hard you can barely eat it, so if you want proper meals and a decent life, you need money anyway..."

Ricard already had plenty of money. It would not be enough to buy good weapons and equipment later, of course, but it was more than enough for his immediate living expenses.

"I see. Thanks."

"Huh? B-but you're not supposed to say thank you here..."

"Really? Oh, I get it. Sorry."

"... You're not supposed to say sorry either..."

"Haha. Right. Feels a bit like the army."

"The army?"

"Yeah. Real comrades don't need to thank each other or apologize. Because you know you'll risk your life to save them, and they'll do the same for you."

Boribori cautiously looked at Ricard. He seemed too young to have served in the army. Perhaps he was boasting, but judging by his fighting skills, perhaps it was true...

"Oh, and rank matters here. It decides things like where you sleep, or who has to back up when you meet in these narrow aisles."

"Rank? Who decides that?"

"Nobody decides. Everyone just knows."

There was no official ranking, but the students all knew who the best fighter was and where everyone else stood. Challenges and actual fights helped settle the details. From where he sat, Ricard leaned out and gave the students in the dormitory a cursory look. However he looked at them, they were just children. They all looked like fucking pushovers, to put it bluntly, so he wondered what the point of ranking them was.

"Then where do you rank?" Ricard asked.

"I don't. I'm just one of the bottom-dwellers."

"Bottom-dwellers? That's harsh. So if you want an easy life here, it's better to rank high?"

"They say it's easy if you give up on everything and keep your head down. Then you finish your two years, leave, and find some other work."

"... That's kind of sad. Anyway, I never asked your name. I'm Riki. You?"

As they talked, Boribori felt his fear of Ricard easing somewhat. At first he had seemed like some sort of ghost, but he was human after all.

"I'm Boribori."

But the moment he gave his name, silence fell. Ricard's smiling face turned cold once more.

"You really are making fun of me, aren't you?"

"N-no! I-it's true! My name really is Boribori!"

Ricard continued to give him a suspicious sidelong look for a moment. Just then, the door at the far end opened and someone entered. It was Volka. Blood covered the area around his nose and mouth. He staggered inside and dropped onto a lower bunk that was not his own.

"Where does he rank?" Ricard asked.

Calming his pounding heart, Boribori answered,

"... He's our leader..."