Chapter 19

Night had fallen, and even the last purple traces of twilight were gone. A bonfire burned in a quiet clearing somewhere east of Beringen.

The wavering flames looked like a sinister demon licking its lips, flicking its tongue at the scent of death.

CRACK. CRACKLE. CRACK...

Though the figures themselves stood still, their shadows lengthened and shrank of their own accord, like cursed puppets dancing.

Someone sitting on a fallen tree trunk rose smoothly, taking hold of the sword at his waist. Across the fire, he looked at the boy.

"Back in the day, the older students used to nip promising sprouts in the bud. Things have certainly gotten nicer lately."

He meant they had killed potential rivals before they could grow any stronger.

But what did that have to do with him? Ricard stared at him with fury blazing in his eyes and said,

"To think your life is worth just a few silver coins. What a cheap life. Not even worth as much as some country bandit."

He meant the Bolton brothers. Even they had been worth thirty silver coins apiece.

At Ricard's merciless rebuke, his opponent deftly drew his sword from a steady stance. The sleek blade gleamed in the firelight.

Watching from a distance, Boribori felt his hair stand on end at the sight of a real sword. Seeing a sharp blade in person carried a peculiar chill. And there was a strange allure to it, something almost bewitching.

Ricard, meanwhile, turned to Volka with barely a change of expression.

"Volka, lend me your sword."

"Huh? Uh..."

"Quickly."

Volka glanced uneasily at the people around the bonfire, then hurried over to Ricard and whispered.

"He's ranked seventh. He can use mana. It's not too late to apologize. I'll try to smooth things over."

Ignoring him, Ricard simply drew the sword from Volka's waist. He gave him a slight push and said,

"Stand back, Volka. You might get hurt."

By now, Volka's heart was racing with worry, anxiety, and fear. What should he do? Oblivious to his feelings, Ricard had pushed things to the extreme. There was no taking it back now.

But his opponent let out a disbelieving laugh at the sight of Ricard holding the sword. Its length and weight were all wrong for him. In short, he looked like a little kid holding a blade. Yet there was something strangely steady about him. Well, he couldn't be entirely untrained.

Without adopting any particular stance, his opponent walked to one side of the bonfire. Ricard moved to the side as well.

"I don't know what's made you so fucking fearless, but that's how the world works. Talent is a gift from God. Which means those without it should support us."

Ricard was genuinely dumbfounded. What a childish fool's twisted philosophy.

"Sorry, but talent doesn't guarantee you'll live."

Ricard's pointed refusal to yield a single word grated badly on his opponent's nerves. Perhaps it was the very fact that he showed no fear, even with a sword drawn on him. He ought to be trembling and groveling.

"Hmm... I'm going to see you crying and begging for forgiveness. Let's start with an arm."

Still taking no particular stance, he let his sword hang at his side and drew a deep breath. Though there was no wind, the bonfire flickered strangely. He seemed to be drawing on mana.

He let out a long breath, then paused. A moment later, the bonfire suddenly bent sideways as though struck by a powerful gust.

WHOOSH!

"Hup!"

Suddenly, he appeared right before Ricard, eyes wide and mouth full of air, his sword raised high above his head. He had closed the distance at an inhuman speed, as though everything in between had simply been cut away.

Steel flashed in the dark, moonlit night.

CLANG!

A metallic ring tore through the silence of the night.

Along with the shock traveling through his wrists, Ricard's opponent felt something missing. His sword had snapped in half. Huh? Wait.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head in that tiny instant. Was it defective? No. He maintained it every day.

His control of mana was still unrefined, and he had overshot Ricard by a considerable distance. Hurriedly, he shouted to his friends for a new sword. But no voice came out.

"Cough! Gakh!"

Huh? What was going on? Wait, just a moment. He felt the front of his clothes growing wet and hastily raised a hand to his throat. Hot blood soaked it in an instant. Only then did his eyes widen.

Standing beside the fire, Ricard looked back at him. His anger had subsided somewhat, replaced by cold indifference in his eyes. Everyone, his friends included, was staring at him with eyes stretched impossibly wide.

Two thoughts collided in his mind at once. One denied reality; the other tried to accept it objectively. He'd lost? Impossible. No, wait. He was... dying? A lie. That made no sense. Dying? He'd only... He'd just...

He had never even prepared himself for the possibility of death, so he was not ready to accept what was happening. But however fiercely denial and acceptance fought inside his head, his soul was already halfway to the afterlife.

More than anything, he was beginning to suffocate. Blood had escaped its designated course through his vessels and was blocking his airway.

"Cough! Cough! Grrk..."

CLATTER.

The broken sword slipped from his hand. He staggered for a while, then his head spun and his vision blurred, and he crumpled to the ground. He soon went limp, the life draining from his eyes.

His throat had been cut just deeply enough to kill him, no more and no less. Even after death, blood continued to gush from it for a while.

The bonfire blazed. The moon still hung unchanged in the sky. Whether he died or not.

Everyone froze at the unbelievable scene. Even if breaking the sword had been a one-in-ten-thousand fluke, cleanly slicing his throat in the same stroke was impossible without magic. If it had been deliberate, the thought could only send chills down their spines.

To Ricard, however, his opponent had been nothing more than a fast-moving monkey. He understood the principle that timing surpassed speed, and precision overpowered strength. And he possessed the skill to put it into practice. An opponent who merely used mana to move faster or relied on brute strength was therefore no match for him.

Holding Volka's sword, Ricard swept a contemptuous gaze over the academy's higher-ranked students.

Strangely, Volka's sword had not suffered even the slightest chip. Instead, the flames reflected in its blade writhed as though it thirsted for more blood.

The boy stood tall in the firelight. Faced with the academy's highest ranks, he was not merely unintimidated; he overwhelmed them.

The labels of newcomer and little kid had all fallen away from Ricard. As though the world had turned upside down, every dismissive look from moments earlier had vanished. Now their gazes held disbelief at the outcome, shock that made reality difficult to accept, and fear that they too could die.

He might look like a child, but these students, who had yet to take a single step into society, could not withstand the presence of a man who had once made the world tremble. The disparity with his appearance made him all the more chilling and terrifying.

"Listen carefully to what I'm about to say. Until you graduate, don't run your mouths about talent or any of that shit in front of me. You're all fucking small fry anyway. There'll be no more tribute. And one more thing. From now on, I'm ranked first. Anyone who has a problem with that, step forward now."

It took them a moment to grasp what was happening. Then, naturally, their eyes turned to Ice, the current first-ranked student, and his gang.

Ricard, too, turned toward the boy whose silver hair resembled moonlight. Yet his face showed neither hostility nor submission, only a flat lack of expression.

Ice took the tribute from inside his clothes and placed it on the ground. Without raising any objection, he quietly left with his gang. To the others, it looked like submission.

As Ice departed, two dark silhouettes watching from a distance also left.

It might have been somewhat anticlimactic, but that settled it. Ricard was ranked first.

Having sorted out the ranks with literally one stroke of his sword, Ricard recovered all the tribute. The dead student's friends took care of his body; Ricard did not even know his name.

He returned Volka's sword. As the three headed back to guild headquarters together, Ricard handed him the money.

"No more tribute, leader."

"R-Riki..."

Taking the money back, Volka looked at Ricard with trembling eyes, then down at the coins in his hand. Suddenly, he clenched his teeth and bowed his head, desperately trying to swallow what kept welling up inside him. He bit down so hard it seemed his molars might break.

Independent as Volka was, he was still young. He could not help wanting someone to lean on, someone to protect him at times. A lifetime's sorrow and bitterness could never be put fully into words. The vulnerable feelings he had suppressed for so long were surging up all at once.

"L-Let's go ahead, Riki," Boribori said, tugging at his cloak.

"... Yeah."

Ricard had enough tact to leave Volka alone. He knew that giving him privacy was the kindest thing to do now.

Only once Ricard and Boribori were some distance away did tears stream from Volka's tightly shut eyes. Then he sank to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed.

Ricard could hear Volka crying behind him. It sounded like a sorrowful beast pouring out its anguish.

The moonlight was especially gentle that night.

The next day, Ricard and Boribori awoke tangled together, their blanket crumpled into such a mess that it barely covered them.

His hair sticking up, Ricard looked around and realized Volka was gone. Wondering whether something had happened during the night, he hastily dressed and went downstairs.

"Uncle Dunkel, have you seen Volka?"

"I'd rather you didn't call me uncle."

"Old man Dunkel, I asked if you'd seen Volka."

"... He left early this morning, Master."

Dunkel had slipped in a subtle threat: keep calling him uncle or old man, and he would expose Ricard's noble birth.

Catching his meaning, Ricard grinned in amusement. Well, look at him. Smooth operator. Anyway, as long as Volka was safe.

"Do you know where Volka works?"

"No. He does different jobs each time."

"Uh... Then how long can we stay? We're leaving today, but I'd like to at least say goodbye to him."

"Wait until lunchtime. Any longer, and you'll have to pay for the room."

Ricard tapped his fingers on the bar, considering the time it would take to return to the academy and various other things. He decided to wait until lunch. If they still missed Volka, there was nothing to be done.

First, he went back to their room, woke Boribori, and had breakfast. Afterward, they wandered around the headquarters building to see a little more of the town.

But none of it was fun or exciting. They simply looked around listlessly before returning to headquarters around noon.

They packed for departure and ate, but Volka still did not appear. Well, it wasn't as though he was missing or anything had happened to him, Ricard thought, and decided to return to the academy.

"See you next time, old man Dunkel."

He tossed out the farewell and immediately left the building. With Boribori, he retraced the route they had taken into town.

Once they were out of the crowded streets, a spring breeze greeted them, carrying the scent of grass and flowers to their noses. As they paused to look across the fields, Volka's voice rang out behind them.

"Hey! Riki! Boribori!"

Ricard and Boribori had pretended not to care all morning. But when they finally heard the voice they had longed for, they spun around as though they had been waiting for it. Volka was running toward them in the distance. Only then did smiles spread across their expressionless faces.

"Is the work all right? What do you do?"

"Never mind that. Here, take these. I have to get back."

Volka handed them something: clothes. When they held them up, they saw garish purple violets embroidered on the chest.

Surely he hadn't done the embroidery himself. He must have been busy since early morning, rushing to ask someone he knew to make them. Purple thread couldn't have been easy to find.

"This way, they won't wilt. And..."

Volka hesitated, rubbing his nose as though embarrassed, then spoke to Boribori.

"Sorry about before. For throwing the flowers out."

It was astonishing. Volka, apologizing. Perhaps it was something of a miracle.

"I-I'm sorry too. For acting like a girl."

Boribori apologized as well, though whether that was anything to apologize for was another matter.

Volka kept scratching his short hair, apparently embarrassed.

Just then, a cool spring breeze brushed over the three boys like the hand of God. It seemed to tell them that everything was all right.

"I'd better go. We'll see each other at the academy anyway."

"No."

Ricard shook his head. Taken aback by his unexpected denial, Volka and Boribori looked at him.

"Not just at the academy. We can see each other anywhere. We're friends forever, after all."

Ricard pointed at the clumsily embroidered violets on the clothes. The other two boys smiled too.

Then Boribori spoke, as though something had suddenly occurred to him.

"Come to think of it, didn't we agree not to thank each other or apologize?"

Ricard considered a few fine-sounding answers, or at least an excuse, then simply gave up.

"Hmm... Once in a while should be all right, shouldn't it?"

"Hehehe. Yeah."

"You two should get going. They close the gates in the evening."

"All right. You go too, Volka."

Despite urging one another to leave, none of them could readily turn away. They would rather watch a friend depart than be the friend who walked away. Somehow, that was simply how they felt.

Spring flowers bloomed in profusion across the fields, like a garden in heaven. Purple violets swayed softly in the breeze.

End of Chapter 5 — Not Comrades-in-Arms, Just Friends.