Chapter 15

The two boys did not seem to be exercising, much less training for anything. One merely hung from the pull-up bar or supported himself on the parallel bars for a little while before swinging his legs up and sitting on them. The other held on to one of the posts and swayed back and forth, talking as he looked up at the boy perched above him.

Judging by their smiling faces, they seemed to be having the sort of childish conversation typical of their age. Ten, perhaps twelve. The sort of conversation adults found pointless and incomprehensible, but children considered the most entertaining, important, and serious thing in the world.

Ever seen a tortoise? They say they're really fast in water. Then who would win if a rabbit ran on land and a tortoise swam? Have you ever seen the sea? I heard it's nothing but water all the way to the end of the world. But here's the weird thing: it tastes salty, like someone's added salt. They must have put an awful lot in, huh?

They were too far away for their voices to carry, but somehow that was the kind of conversation they appeared to be having.

An occasional breeze stirred Ricard's sunlit blond hair as he sat on the parallel bars. A week had passed since he moved into the Beringen Academy dormitory. The two seemed to have grown somewhat closer in that time; Boribori chatted freely with him, laughing one moment and shaking his head the next.

Someone was watching the boys from a distance. Volka.

However he looked at Ricard, all he saw was a little brat. He still could not understand how the boy had beaten him. Had he used some sort of magic? For three days, Volka had been trapped in shock and humiliation. On the fourth, he had begun to think it over. Why had he lost?

Beyond his anger and resentment, he genuinely wanted to know. Why had he lost? The boy looked like nothing more than a little brat. Replaying the encounter told him nothing. All he remembered was a flash before his eyes, then losing consciousness.

At last, unable to bear brooding over it alone any longer, Volka strode toward Ricard.

Boribori spotted him approaching and flinched, then hid behind a parallel-bar post even though it could not possibly conceal him. Peeking out with half his face exposed, he stared at Volka like a frightened frog. Ricard, who had been laughing and chatting comfortably with Boribori, looked distinctly unenthusiastic when he saw Volka.

"Hey," Volka called first.

"What?"

"Fight me."

"I told you, I lost."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"What else am I supposed to do? You said it only ends when someone dies or surrenders. And you won't surrender."

"Ha... Fine. I lost. Happy? Now fight me."

"Ugh..."

Ricard sighed, then hopped down from the parallel bars.

"Boribori, get me some wraps."

"O-okay."

Boribori promptly ran to the dormitory and fetched the wraps. Volka, whose girlfriend had dumped him after his defeat by Ricard, wrapped his own hands.

The prospect of another fight drew the eyes of the children on the training ground. It looked like a rematch of sorts, but neither Ricard nor Volka seemed particularly worked up. So unlike the first day, the others did not crowd around and stir up excitement. They simply watched from a distance.

This time, they did not bother removing their shoes and entering the sand ring. They faced each other at the edge of the training ground instead.

Unlike the first day, Volka was on high alert. This time, he clearly intended to fight properly without letting his guard down. He kept his guard at chest height and his chin tucked, staring intently at Ricard. Ricard, meanwhile, merely stood at a relaxed angle.

Volka moved his shoulders with a slight rhythm, edging sideways around Ricard. Then he shot his lead foot forward and threw a punch. Or rather, once again he never managed to throw it. Ricard's fist slammed into his solar plexus first.

THUD!

"Ghk!"

Volka's breath caught and his head swam. But unlike the first day, the blow had not struck his jaw, so he did not pass out in a single hit. Ricard had deliberately spared him that.

As Volka struggled to regain his stance, forcing air into his lungs and pulling himself together, Ricard simply stood watching him.

"Why not use your rear foot? You're too predictable."

"Wh-what?"

"Look. This is what you're doing."

Ricard punched the air, reproducing Volka's movement. It was not mere mimicry; his form was flawless.

"You throw your punch as you step forward with your lead foot. It's good for a quick strike, but far too obvious. The moment you take that step, all I have to do is stick out my hand and you'll walk right into it. That lets me put you down without any effort."

Bewildered and incredulous, Volka listened as though spellbound.

"But look. This is what I mean by using your rear foot. Bring it up first, then step forward with your lead foot. That lets you close a long distance all at once, making it hard for your opponent to react. You're tricking their sense of distance."

Using the rear foot looked rather awkward at first, but when Ricard demonstrated it in one fluid sequence, it looked incredibly impressive.

"That's why you have to fight for distance first, instead of just thinking about throwing punches. Anyone who can fight even a little has learned that much instinctively. The range you're comfortable in, the range you aren't, how to close the gap and how to widen it, whether to get in close or fight from a distance. But you don't know any of that. You make it so hard to get hit that I couldn't even if I wanted to."

Volka stood there looking dazed. Boribori, standing nearby, looked much the same, as did the other children watching.

"Come on, try again. For now, forget about punching. Come at me thinking only about closing the distance."

Apparently, Volka had never imagined he would be receiving a lesson. Still dumbfounded, he resumed his stance and forced himself to concentrate. As Ricard had instructed, he focused on his footwork rather than immediately swinging his fists.

He tried a few feints against the motionless Ricard, but Ricard watched his eyes and fell for none of them. Then Volka used his rear foot as he had been taught, abruptly closing the distance. The instant the thought struck him that now was his chance, his left leg buckled sideways.

THUD!

"Agh!"

Volka squeezed his eyes shut. Where did such destructive power come from in that tiny body? The kick felt like a blow from a club. He tried to retreat in a hurry, but his leg would not obey.

TAP.

Ricard's fist lightly touched Volka's chin. He had lost. The gap between their abilities was overwhelming. Volka felt it not intellectually, but in his flesh.

"That's why a leg injury is so dangerous. Want another go?"

"... One more."

Ricard stepped back again, but Volka was limping on his left leg.

What followed was neither sparring nor a match, but essentially a one-sided beating. Volka took a blow to his right leg as well, leaving him barely able to stand. With his legs hurting so badly, he could not help focusing on them. Unsure where to block, he kept moving his arms up and down, failing to stop a single blow as Ricard struck both his upper and lower body.

Gradually, he hunched over. In the end, he lay curled on the ground like a bug.

Ricard gazed down at him for a moment, then unwound his hand wraps. He reached out and helped Volka to his feet, trying to drape Volka's arm over his shoulders to support him.

"I'll hold you up."

Boribori hurried out of hiding to help from the other side, but Volka painfully shrugged them off.

"I-I can walk on my own."

He tried to stand unaided, though even that looked difficult. He took several deep breaths as if enduring the pain, then managed one step after another. Even so, he stubbornly walked on his own.

Watching his retreating back, Ricard felt drawn to him. He liked how Volka had refused to surrender until the very end last time, his fighting spirit unquenched, and how even now he insisted on standing and walking under his own power.

Yet he also felt sorry for him—not for his injuries, but because he seemed determined to keep isolating himself.

Ricard followed him, and Boribori found himself tagging along.

"Can I come hang out at your bed sometime?" Ricard asked, matching Volka's slow pace from behind.

The absurdity nearly made Volka laugh, which only worsened the pain racking his body. Grimacing, he managed to speak.

"I'm not interested in races between rabbits and tortoises."

"...?"

"You can come, but it won't be much fun."

Once inside the dormitory, Volka walked with a hand against the wall. The children in the aisle saw him and moved onto their beds to clear a path.

Then five or six unfamiliar boys opened the door at the opposite end and approached. Volka saw them and stepped aside. Following his lead, Ricard and Boribori moved against the wall as well. Huh? Wasn't Volka the leader?

As the unfamiliar boys passed Ricard, his eyes briefly met those of the boy in front. His hair looked as though it had been coated in molten silver, and he was so strikingly beautiful that he might have been descended from elves. Yet his overall expression was cold, as though nothing in the world interested him. Perhaps that was why he quickly looked away from Ricard.

The boys occupied the upper bunks farthest inside. They lingered only briefly before leaving through the back door.

"Volka, weren't you the leader?"

"What?"

"I mean, weren't you ranked first here?"

"I'm not first. I am the leader, though. Ow, ow..."

Volka groaned as he climbed onto his bed. Ricard climbed up after him and sat on the edge, watching him lie down. The question was already in his eyes, so Volka answered without being asked.

"That's Ice's gang. Those boys are the top five here. I'm about twentieth. But I'm the one who finds jobs for the kids, and when there's a fight in town, I round them up and take them there. Things like that. Those guys don't care about this place at all. I've never even seen them talk to anyone outside their group."

In other words, Volka acted as their leader in practice, but other students surpassed him in sheer fighting or swordsmanship ability.

"Why come here if they don't care?"

"Well, they're probably aiming for special grade. Maybe even to become champions of the Emperor after that. Isn't that what you're after too?"

Becoming a champion of the Emperor was nothing short of a dream. It meant becoming a noble in one's own right. Even someone born a bastard could surpass the prestige of the main house. They would no longer suffer persecution. On the contrary, most nobles would grovel before a champion. Being the Emperor's troubleshooter meant having the privilege of killing even nobles.

But Ricard had no interest in any of that. If anything, he resented the imperial household for starting the war a hundred years ago. He certainly felt no affection for it.

"Not me. I'm interested in that Mana Drive thing, and the codex. That's why I want to take classes in ancient writing."

From what Ricard had observed during his week here, the swordsmanship and unarmed combat classes seemed to teach only the basics. For someone with no knowledge of fighting techniques, taking those classes would make an enormous difference. That did not apply to him.

That was why he wanted to study ancient writing, but there was no one teaching it. He would have to wait until the academy appointed a professor. The academy had no resident instructors. People sent by the guild taught for a few months, or perhaps a year or two, then simply left and were replaced.

"... You've got a bit of a screw loose too, huh?" Volka said incredulously.

An interest in Mana Drive was understandable, but paying for such difficult, tedious lessons because of it was beyond him. In fact, quite a few children at the guild academy could not read at all. They couldn't even learn the writing people used now, and he wanted to learn an ancient script? As far as Volka was concerned, only a lunatic would do that.

"Hahaha! That's the first time anyone's called me crazy."

After constantly hearing that he was an extraordinary genius, Ricard rather liked being called crazy. It meant Volka was seeing him as he was.

"Could you show me around town sometime, then?"

"... Sure, whatever. But I've got classes this week. Let's go afterward."

"Boribori can come too, right?"

"Bori-what?"

"The boy who was with me. His name really is Boribori."

"... All right. Sure."

Ricard smiled faintly and was about to jump down from the upper bunk when Volka called to him.

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

Volka seemed to have something to say, but hesitated. Unable to meet Ricard's eyes, he looked away and finally forced the words out.

"... Thanks."

"For what? Beating you up? Don't tell me you're..."

"No. For teaching me."

Ultimately, this place was all about competition. The higher one climbed in rank, the more closely one guarded one's knowledge and techniques. Teaching someone else was unthinkable.

Though Ricard had beaten him, Volka had also received a lesson and come to a few realizations of his own. At some point, he had begun to feel the difference in talent; no matter how hard he worked, he could never rise beyond twentieth. But Ricard's explanation had loosened something that had been blocking his way. He was truly grateful for that.

Ricard smiled softly.

"You don't need to thank me."

Then he hopped down.

Volka stared at the spot where Ricard had disappeared, swept up in an unfamiliar feeling.

He was a strange boy. This was a world where looking down on and bullying weaker students was perfectly normal. Rank governed everything. Yet Ricard neither boasted of his strength nor lorded his victory over Volka. In truth, he did not belong in this cruel, bleak place.

He taught Volka without asking for anything in return, spoke to him with simple sincerity, and asked whether he could do this or that for him. Volka did not know how to respond. He had so rarely received genuine kindness or warm, gentle words.

His father's violence, his half-siblings' ostracism, his mother's indifference. Volka had grown up with those things without even knowing they left wounds on his heart. Feeling grateful was therefore terribly unfamiliar and embarrassing.

Never apologize. Never say thank you. Volka did not know when the tradition had begun here, but he had taken it to mean that the strong were entitled to oppress the weak. The other children seemed to think so too.

If I am stronger than someone else, I don't need to thank them for anything I take through exploitation. Nor do I need to feel sorry for hitting or insulting them. Why? Because I'm stronger.

But that did not seem to be what Ricard meant. Then what did he mean?

Volka did not know. But even as his entire body throbbed and ached, he could unmistakably feel a warmth in his chest.

Part 4 — Don't Thank Me. End.