Chapter 16

What’s so great about hitting people and hurting them, you ask? Or, for that matter, getting the shit beaten out of you until your nose breaks and your lip splits? Well, some guys only enjoy hitting other people, but I’m a little different.

There’s something bottled up. Here. In my chest. Letting it burst feels a little good, and every time I feel myself improving, it’s like something empty inside me is filling up. Yeah, fulfillment. Don’t you feel that too?

I don’t know if you’ll understand, but trading blows with someone feels a lot like having a deep conversation.

Even without saying a word, you can tell: this bastard’s a piece of trash, or this guy’s all right.

But fighting means having an opponent, and there’s no guarantee I’ll always win. Losing feels unfair, and it makes me angry, but I trained hard anyway, telling myself I’d win next time.

Except there are some guys I can’t beat no matter what I do. Were they born with something? What is it they were born with? How can they do so easily what I can’t manage no matter how hard I try?

They say a whole new world opens up once you sense this thing called mana and learn to use it. Well, I can’t feel anything from those guys. They’re just walls. Walls that never answer.

So, you know, I’m going to stop training.

Strangely, Volka found himself remembering things he had said some time ago. He couldn’t remember whom he had said them to. His ex-girlfriend, perhaps?

He had opened his eyes that morning and lain lost in thought before getting up. For some reason, he felt a flutter in his chest.

Naturally, his mind turned to what Ricard had taught him. As he mulled over each lesson, he found his attention drawn entirely to them.

Think about distance before throwing a punch. First establish a range you’re comfortable with. Kicks are just as important as punches. And so on.

These were really nothing more than the basics, but all they learned at the academy were stances and the instructor’s personal tricks. Beyond that, they had to improve on their own through actual fights.

Yet Volka was busy working, and all sorts of incidents arose that he had to handle as leader. He couldn’t give training his full attention.

On top of that, the students were all at different stages of physical development, making it even harder to find a suitable practice partner.

Volka thought back over the fights he had lost before meeting Ricard. Looking at them now, he felt he could see quite clearly why he had lost. His past self seemed so stupid.

After a full night’s sleep, he threw himself into practicing alone, though his body had yet to recover completely.

He kept turning the concept of “distance” over in his mind, trying to make the movements it required second nature.

And though he hadn’t been able to follow them all, Ricard’s beautifully precise strikes gave him something to aspire to.

Hanging from a pull-up bar, Ricard watched Volka practice, occasionally correcting his stance or offering him a tip.

Two days passed, bringing the day of their unarmed combat class. About fifty students attended, with boys outnumbering girls roughly three to one. Volka’s ex-girlfriend was among them.

As usual, the instructor took the less experienced students aside to teach them, while the rest split into groups and honed their techniques by practicing with one another.

Some merely fooled around, laughing with their friends.

Volka, however, was off by himself hitting a training dummy, looking rather isolated. Perhaps because of what had happened with Ricard, the other students were giving him peculiar looks.

“Hey, Volka.”

Someone called to him. He turned to find a student who ranked above him, a boy who spent more time in town than at the dormitory.

“What?”

“I hear you got your ass kicked by a newcomer.”

“So?”

“You’re supposed to be their leader. How are you going to look after the others like that?”

“Since when did you care about the others?”

“I don’t. I care about improving my skills. I’m not talentless like you.”

“...”

“Didn’t you just give up because you’ve got no talent and settle for bossing the little shits around? Now that’s over too, so what are you going to do? Shine shoes?”

Mocking laughter rose here and there at the mention of shining shoes.

An adventurer academy was a truly cruel place. They delighted in watching someone fall and never hesitated to mock them. They took bullying those weaker than themselves for granted.

Just then, the instructor noticed the students fooling around and spoke.

“You little brats. I told you to practice, and some of you are playing around already. I may not care about you, but I believe I told you that fooling around in my class is disrespecting me.”

The students tensed at his words. They might be made to undergo training that bordered on torture under the guise of physical conditioning.

But the instructor gave a little chuckle and said,

“Well, it is boring. Let’s liven things up a bit. Pankration.”

The students’ eyes widened, and they shouted in unison.

“Pankration! Pankration!”

Listening to their chant, the instructor briefly reminisced about his own academy days. Then he said,

“Anyone who’s confident, step forward.”

The student who had been taunting Volka raised his hand.

“Can I pick my opponent?”

“As long as they don’t refuse?”

At that, the student turned to Volka.

“Going to refuse?”

Volka thought for a moment. To the others, he seemed to be deciding whether to swallow his pride or fight anyway.

But that wasn’t it. He wasn’t calculating his chances of winning. He was going over what he had practiced during the past few days.

When he finished, he raised his head.

“No. Get out here.”

He walked toward the sand ring as cries of “Ooh!” rose around him. Ignoring everything around him, Volka repeated to himself, 'Judge the distance. Judge the distance. Judge the distance...'

'Fight at the range I want, and stay out of the range I don’t. Once I’m at my preferred range, the punches will come on their own. So judge the distance.'

How much could two days of practice really change? Yet sometimes a small change could produce something great.

Volka felt his heart pounding. It wasn’t fear of defeat or a craving for victory. It was simply anticipation at the thought that something within him had changed.

“Let’s not make this ugly by wrestling. We ought to give the spectators something to enjoy.”

The student facing Volka in the ring was about his age—already an adult, in terms of years.

They had entered the academy around the same time and had even spent a little time hanging out together.

How had their relationship come to this? Whether it was an inferiority complex about talent or some unspoken hurt, there was no way to know.

“Are you both ready?”

The instructor asked. Volka nodded, while his opponent held one shoulder and swung the arm in circles.

“Good. Everything is allowed except biting and kicks to the groin. Death or surrender. Pankration, begin!”

At the command, Volka took his stance. It was a little different from before. Right-handed, he held his left hand out front and kept his right drawn back, with his left foot slightly forward.

Above all, he kept his upper body upright and his footwork light. He flicked his left hand forward, gauging the distance while keeping his opponent in check.

Then his opponent suddenly ducked and rushed in first. He threw a hard left, quickly drew it back, and drove his right fist upward. Huh? Wait a second.

Volka extended an arm and tilted his head back slightly, opening up the distance. More than anything else, his opponent’s attacks seemed so slow. Was he testing him?

“Ha! Turned coward, Volka? Let’s make this a little more exciting.”

His opponent bounced loosely on the spot as if warming up. Then he settled back into his stance and charged boldly in again.

Once again, Volka could see every attack coming. If he just stuck out his hand, wouldn’t the guy run right into it? Could it really be this easy?

After enduring Ricard’s lightning-fast attacks from his blind spots, his opponent’s attacks felt like a joke. Never mind the lessons: the gulf between Ricard and the opponent before him was glaring.

His opponent kept pressing until Volka was driven to the edge of the ring. Sand flew beneath their pounding feet, and the watching students grew more and more engrossed.

Someone’s nose would break or their lip would split. Blood would drip onto the sand. Everyone expected it to be Volka’s.

But then, as his opponent swung a powerful punch, his head suddenly snapped sideways and he flopped to the ground. Volka had slipped to the side and struck him in the face.

THWACK!

The blow had struck his cheekbone rather than landing squarely on his chin, so his opponent caught himself with his hands outside the ring. If it had hit his chin properly and knocked him out, he would have landed on his face instead.

Even so, his vision spun, leaving him dazed for a moment. He scrambled to his feet, shock written across his face.

Everyone stared wide-eyed at the unexpected outcome. Those who bore neither fighter any particular ill will found this departure from their expectations intriguing.

As though that single blow had stripped away all his confidence, Volka’s opponent hesitated and edged backward, looking bewildered.

But then he remembered the fifty or so spectators. Shame and his refusal to accept what had happened drove him to attack recklessly.

Volka opened up the distance again. Then, using his rear foot as Ricard had taught him, he closed the long gap in an instant and punched.

THWACK!

The punch must have landed cleanly. It did more than split his opponent’s lip: broken teeth scattered onto the sand. He fell face-first to the ground, out cold.

“Oh? What’s this? You can throw a punch.”

The instructor spoke without a care for the student lying unconscious. In truth, he was merely an upper-grade adventurer with the guild, and his character left something to be desired in an instructor.

“Just two hits. Very clean. Striking like that will serve you in a real fight. Now, time to settle this, isn’t it? This is Pankration.”

Unarmed combat was important because weapons often broke or slipped from one’s grasp in real combat. That made wrestling techniques particularly important, but striking techniques mattered every bit as much.

They were useful for everyday self-defense as well. Above all, being able to fight well without a weapon inspired confidence. It meant knowing you had a last resort, whatever the situation.

In any case, it was death or surrender. Merely knocking someone unconscious did not end the match.

Volka’s opponent soon came around, but his body seemed unwilling to obey him, and he lay squirming on the ground. Volka pressed his foot firmly against the boy’s chest and looked down at him.

“What’s it going to be?”

“... I-I surrender.”

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP.

Applause broke out here and there.

“Huh. He can really hit, can’t he?”

“Volka’s pretty good. Maybe he’d beat you too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what does that make the newcomer?”

Students who had only heard the rumors while staying in town tossed out comments. Naturally, Volka’s overwhelming victory drew their attention to Ricard.

The skill they had just seen Volka display was considerable. Hearing that the newcomer had knocked him flat on his very first day could hardly fail to arouse their curiosity.

Meanwhile, the friends of Volka’s opponent couldn’t get over their shock.

A gap of one or two ranks might leave room for an upset, but Volka had been twentieth and their friend fifteenth. A whole five ranks separated them.

It was absurd, baffling, and hard to accept. Yet with the match over in just two blows, they couldn’t put it down to luck.

Volka himself was a little bewildered too. He couldn’t quite tell whether he had grown stronger or his opponent had grown weaker.

But he certainly felt good. The drive to improve that he had let slip away at some point seemed to flare back to life. His heart pounded.

As he left the inner fortress after class, students who had been keeping their distance, subtly or otherwise, approached him and acted friendly. The ex-girlfriend who had dumped him came over too.

“Looks like you’ve started training again?”

Her deliberately casual tone made Volka smile. His heart was captured by something else now, and his ex-girlfriend seemed utterly unimportant. He didn’t have the slightest lingering attachment.

So he neither snapped at her nor voiced any resentment. He simply said,

“Hey, don’t talk to me. I’m busy.”

His ex-girlfriend’s face flushed scarlet. Leaving her behind, Volka headed to the dormitory, then took Ricard and Boribori into town.

The higher-ranked students who had stopped by the academy dormitory to attend class watched the boy in the red cloak from afar.