Chapter 21

“First things first: dumb fucks can't use mana.”

The meditation professor began with an utterly categorical declaration.

Irritation showed plainly on his face. He seemed unable to accept why he had to teach this class in the first place, which might explain his decidedly aggressive tone.

Quite a few students filled the tiered lecture hall, including Ricard, who rarely attended classes.

Meditation classes were held only a few times a year. Experience had taught the academy that those who could sense mana picked it up naturally and quickly, while those who couldn't would never manage it, no matter what.

“Whether you're male or female, a noble or a bastard, handsome or ugly, tall or short—none of that shit matters when it comes to using mana. But if you're too fucking stupid to understand even the basics of what someone's telling you, there's no hope. You needn't bother taking my class.”

In an age when the right to education was hardly guaranteed—no, when an education system itself was virtually nonexistent—many children lacked even a basic vocabulary.

They generally did well with physical activities, but most couldn't bear simply sitting still and listening to someone lecture at them.

They would sooner climb up and down the cliff steps a hundred times a day. Sitting through a one-hour lecture was greater torture.

Sure enough, the hundred-odd students attending wore unmistakably vacant expressions. It was obvious they wanted to leave that very instant.

Seeing that only deepened the professor's already pronounced scowl.

“Those who can do it will get it right away, and those who can't never will. There's no point dragging this out or holding class over and over. So I'll explain it just once today. Understood?”

“Yes!”

Their expressions were vacant, but their answer was vigorous. Still, what kind of class was this? There wasn't even a proper curriculum. Everything was up to the professor's whims.

“First, get as comfortable as you can. Sit down or lie flat, I don't care. Spread out. Give yourselves plenty of room.”

The students did as instructed, including Ricard and Boribori. Ricard leaned back into a half-reclining position.

“Close your eyes. Do not fall asleep. With your eyes closed, imagine shutting off all your senses. Even the sounds and smells around you. Focus only on my voice. We begin now. Breathe deeply in and out. Feel the air entering your body. Then slowly even out your breathing. Breathe as comfortably as you can.”

Following his instructions soon made the students drowsy. Light streamed through the narrow, arrow-slit windows, and the weather had grown warm enough to lull them into a comfortable lassitude.

The professor knew perfectly well that eighty percent of these brats would fall asleep anyway. It wounded his pride every time he taught, but this was a commission of sorts, so he reluctantly went through with it.

“Now stop thinking. You won't be able to, though. Thoughts will keep surfacing. Leave them alone. Then observe where those thoughts begin. Keep observing. You probably still won't find their starting point. This takes practice. Eventually, you'll discover that the place where thought begins is empty. There's nothing there. Now comes the important part. Imagine filling that empty space with breath. In and out, in and out... Most of the breath comes in and goes back out, but breathe with the intention of leaving a little behind. Let what remains travel along your blood vessels, linger in your muscles, accumulate in your bones, then travel through your blood vessels again. Keep repeating that.”

It was the sort of meditation that sounded easy but was difficult to put into practice. What was supposed to remain? His breath? Was that even possible? In fact, even understanding it was difficult.

Despite not quite understanding, Ricard followed the professor's instructions for now.

He tried to observe the point where his thoughts arose, or perhaps the moment before it, to feel his breathing as fully as possible, and to imagine that breath moving through his blood vessels.

At some point, the professor's words began to grow distant until Ricard could no longer hear them at all. Nor could he hear the students snoring around him.

It felt as though he had slipped underwater. Should he go deeper? How much deeper? Was there an end? What if he couldn't get out?

It was a strange experience, feeling comfort and fear at the same time.

Sinking. Sinking. No, was he slowly falling? Or was he rising? Which way was up, and which was down?

Then, suddenly, stars blossomed in profusion at the heart of the abyss. Ricard found himself standing in the fields of Heiden.

A short distance away sat Riki, about the same age he was now, gazing up at the star-filled night sky.

Looking at that forlorn figure from behind brought a surge of nameless emotion, and tears welled in his eyes.

Those were the days when he had wanted nothing in particular, known nothing of boredom, and understood neither happiness nor unhappiness.

Yes, I had days like that once. Didn't I get along just fine without parents? What did I need a family's affection for? Wasn't love merely another name for the most terrible curse of all?

How, then, had I come to endure such pain, sorrow, and betrayal? What had I done wrong? Who was supposed to save whom? Wasn't that very Riki the most pitiful creature of all?

As those thoughts continued like a devil's whispers, his emotions slipped beyond his will and began to surge wildly. Injustice, rage, disappointment laced with curses, and despair.

Overwhelmed by it all, Ricard finally let the tears brimming in his eyes stream down his face.

Then the night sky moved, and the stars roiled. At the same time, a declaration of war against the world came to him—the most destructive of incantations.

'... I don't know what's what anymore. Die, all of you.'

Then Riki, who had been looking up at the night sky blooming with stars, turned to look at Riki. He spoke calmly.

“It's all in the past, Riki. The pain isn't tormenting you. You're the one holding on to it.”

At those words, the emotions boiling inside him cooled with almost unbelievable suddenness, and all his strength seemed to drain away. It felt closer to emptiness than salvation.

Then someone pulled Ricard out of the abyss.

“Riki. Riki.”

Ricard felt himself being shaken and his hearing returning. When he opened his eyes, the lecture hall was pitch-black. The sun had set without his noticing.

Everything was dark, but his eyes had already adjusted, allowing him to make out his surroundings by the moonlight coming through the windows.

“Riki, sleeping in the cold will leave your mouth crooked. Let's go sleep in the dormitory,” Boribori said.

“I was asleep?”

Ricard was briefly disoriented. It felt as though only a moment had passed, yet several hours had slipped by.

“Yes. You were sleeping so soundly that I waited until now, but you just wouldn't wake up, so I woke you. Were you that tired?”

“Not really...”

Just then, snoring came from behind him. It was Volka, sleeping with his arms folded and his back propped against something. He hadn't attended today's class, yet here he was. When had he arrived?

SNORRRT! WHOOO... SNORRRT! WHOOO...

“Looks like someone else was, though. Anyway, what happened with the class?”

“Most of the others were asleep. He explained a little about something called Mana Drive, and that was it.”

Ricard sat in a daze for a while. As his sense of reality returned, he began to feel grounded again.

Memories of Stormhertz, of everything that had happened on his journey, and of his experiences since coming here flashed through his mind, becoming part of his sense of self.

“... So, did you feel it? That mana thing?”

“Yes.”

Boribori answered with such absurd ease that Ricard's eyes widened. He didn't seem to have felt anything himself.

“Really? You're not lying?”

“No. You just breathe and imagine it, right? The professor said he'd never seen anyone sense it as quickly as I did.”

If the professor had confirmed it, it must be real. Ricard couldn't feel anything at all right now. Did he need more time? He wasn't particularly fixated on mana, but he did feel a little disappointed.

“He told me to meditate regularly and not neglect my training. Sensing mana is only the beginning. Accumulating it and putting it to use is what Mana Drive is. He said not to get conceited, either.”

The professor might have a vicious tongue, but apparently he did teach properly.

“Did anyone besides you sense mana?”

“The higher-ranked students already knew how. Apart from them, nobody. Just me. Do you feel anything, Riki?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think so.”

Boribori smiled.

“It's all right. There's no rush.”

“True, but...”

Ricard shook Volka awake, interrupting his continued snoring.

“Volka. Volka, wake up.”

“Snrrk! Huh! Urgh! Huh? Oh...”

Volka woke with a start, then smacked his lips, his eyes still half-unfocused. Apparently he had managed to sleep quite soundly even in that position.

“Volka, didn't you have something to tell Riki?” Boribori asked.

“Mm... Oh. Right.”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, Mr. Dunkel says he needs some students. Capable ones. So I was going to ask you, Riki.”

“What does he need them for?”

“The guild got a commission. I suppose they're short on bodies. You haven't been at the academy long, but you're the strongest one here. And you've got some money.”

Having money meant being able to purchase equipment. The guild didn't provide gear to its adventurers or students. Everyone had to buy their own, and the army was no different.

That was the sort of age they lived in. People had to pay for their own equipment before going off to risk their lives in battle. In return, however, they were guaranteed a corresponding measure of social standing.

Of course, the guild did lend money to its adventurers, but that wasn't a particularly good option. Borrow unwisely, and it could ruin your life. The guild was no charity.

“What's the commission?”

“Something about deserters, I think. Apparently a mercenary company put in the request. I suppose they're not in a position to handle it themselves.”

Across cultures and throughout history, desertion had always been among the most harshly punished military offenses.

Despite that, it was exceedingly common. Aside from the danger to one's life, the battlefield presented many hardships almost impossible for a human being to endure.

Defeat, in particular, often triggered desertions on an uncontrollable scale, sometimes beyond even an emperor's or king's ability to contain.

Ricard knew that well from experience.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Is any commission safe?”

Ricard remembered what Arno had once told him: academy students were drawn into competition between guilds and died as a result.

“The pay's good, and they say it'll count toward our grade after graduation. Complete the commission, and they'll consider us middle grade. Distinguish ourselves, and they'll give us upper grade.”

“If we survive.”

“Right. If we survive. Are you in?”

Ricard considered it briefly. Should he or shouldn't he? It didn't take him long to decide that he should.

No matter how long he waited, it didn't seem an ancient-script professor would ever arrive. He had even cornered old Dunkel and pestered him about it, but of course the man couldn't possibly have the authority to appoint a professor.

Dunkel was the only person he knew with ties to the “real” headquarters. As a mere student, there was nothing else Ricard could do.

That left only the option of attaining special grade and gaining access to the codex through the final exam. He wasn't that concerned about it yet, but raising his grade certainly couldn't hurt.

“I'm in.”

“Am I going too?”

Boribori asked the moment Ricard gave his answer.

“No. You're staying here.”

Ricard was firm. Mana or not, it needed a foundation of basic ability to be effective. Boribori still didn't even have a rank. What would he do there—carry their bags?

What good was a natural talent for sensing mana if he couldn't fight? The two ultimately had to go hand in hand to be useful.

The art of manipulating mana had not yet developed very far. They had only recently taken their first tottering steps toward the star that was a Sword Master.

Volka roughly tousled the dejected Boribori's hair.

“Hey, what are you looking so miserable for now? I still can't sense mana. Why not take some classes instead of learning from Riki? You need to compete with people around your own level first if you want to improve.”

“All right.”

“Let's go. It's cold. Is it this place, or is the weather still cold? Oh, right. Ice's gang is joining too. Just so you know.”

Volka rose as he spoke. Ricard and Boribori stood as well, and they headed out of the dark lecture hall.

Before leaving, Ricard suddenly glanced back. For some reason, he felt as though someone might be sitting there. But there was no one—only soft moonlight amid the deep darkness.

Ricard set out for town the next day. The sky had been gloomy since morning and finally began to rain. He pulled up his cloak's hood and walked on beneath the pattering drops.

Fortunately, despite being wet, the road wasn't particularly muddy and remained fairly firm.

The rain wasn't heavy, but the wind was strong. It kept blowing his hood off, so he simply left it down.

After about five hours of walking, he reached guild headquarters and dried his wet hair and body a little by the fireplace.

Then he headed to the smithy. Molty, hard at work again today, recognized him and came over.

“What is it?”

“I'm here to buy a sword.”

Ricard took out his purse and opened it to show him. There were one or two gold coins and a dozen-odd silver ones—the remainder after paying for various living expenses.

“Wait a moment.”

Leaving Ricard where he was, Molty approached a blacksmith who was sharpening a sword on a grindstone and said something. He pointed this way as he spoke, apparently explaining why Ricard had come.

The blacksmith, sporting a thick, curly beard, turned and gazed at Ricard. When he rose from his seat, he proved enormously tall and broad-shouldered. His sheer size looked like a formidable weapon in its own right.

Without a word, he beckoned Ricard to follow. Ricard went with him into a storage building adjoining the smithy.

It was cool inside, with several long wooden cases neatly arranged. The patter of rain on the roof was pleasant to hear.

The blacksmith opened the cases one by one. Inside lay sleek, unsheathed swords of different widths and lengths.

“Pick whichever you want.”

Ricard glanced between the blacksmith and the swords, then looked them over as instructed. He stopped before a longsword that seemed somewhat too large and long for him.

Subtle, flowing wave patterns marked the blade, a product of the Nords' distinctive forging technique. The base of the blade, called the ricasso, was wrapped in leather so it could be gripped when necessary and the weapon wielded like a short spear.

“This one. May I handle it?”

The blacksmith nodded silently. Ricard picked up the sword and checked its balance, the thickness of the blade, the straightness of its edge, and so on.

It was a flawless masterpiece, though it did feel a little heavy, as he'd expected.

Still, perhaps because he had used a greatsword in his previous life, this one actually felt familiar in his hands.

The blacksmith watched impassively as Ricard examined it. Strangely enough, the sword seemed to suit him. It gave him much the same impression as watching a renowned master handle a blade.

“I'll take this one. How much is it?”

Ricard produced his purse as he spoke. In truth, however, he had nowhere near enough money.

A weapon forged from quality iron by a skilled Nord blacksmith cost at least five gold coins, and would fetch several times that in another region.

As it happened, the sword Ricard had chosen was made of meteoric iron, renowned as the most expensive metal humans could work.

In other words, it wasn't something one could buy for a handful of gold coins. It belonged at auction.

Fortunately, the blacksmith shook his head.

“A hero deserves a weapon worthy of him. The glorious deeds you accomplish from here on will serve as payment.”

Ricard's eyes widened at the word “hero.” What was he talking about?

“A hero? Me?”

“Molty told me. You're the one who risked his life to stand up and duel those thugs.”

He seemed to mean the fight with the higher-ranked students over the tribute.

Before Ricard subdued them, those students had quietly caused trouble all over town, even when they stopped short of openly making a scene.

Too afraid of the Nords themselves, they had harassed and extorted iron-ore suppliers, shaken down pimps, and run up tavern tabs they never paid.

Bullying students and taking their money hadn't been the only trouble they caused.

Now all of that had vanished. As a result, not only the academy students but also the town's merchants and tradespeople owed Ricard something of a debt.

Didn't vanquishing villains like those make him a hero? Ricard himself, however, only felt awkward.

He gave an embarrassed smile.

“They were such small fry that I wasn't really risking my life.”

The blacksmith took the sword, slid it into a scabbard, adjusted the leather straps, and handed it back to Ricard.

“Well, whatever. Take it.”

And so Ricard acquired a sword for free. Or perhaps it wasn't free, given that the blacksmith felt indebted to him?

“Thank you.”

Even so, Ricard didn't forget to express his gratitude. He thanked Molty as well before leaving the smithy. The sword was too long and heavy to wear at his waist, so he slung it over one shoulder.

Still, why did the word “hero” feel so awkward? It embarrassed him far more than he'd expected.

People back home called him gentle and kind, but he wasn't really such a good person.

Ricard walked on through the pattering rain. Yet being rained on didn't feel so bad.