Chapter 23

Real combat was always the worst. There were no good days. Someone died. Or suffered a grievous injury that left them disabled.

Assuming the best-case scenario was therefore a contradiction in terms. You always had to prepare for the worst—for countless different kinds of worst.

Then how were you to respond when the worst happened?

That was not something study could teach. Only experience on the brink of death could do that.

Ricard had that experience. More times than he could count. The thought seemed to calm him a little. After all, he could think of dozens of situations worse than this one.

Yet even as his mind settled, his heart raced as though it might burst.

Even the fear of death became familiar, but somehow his heart always raced when he faced the worst. Why?

It might have been excitement, or fear, or both.

One friend was gravely wounded. The rest of their allies had fled. The only ones left who could fight were himself and one other friend.

The more objectively Ricard assessed the situation, the harder his heart pounded.

Ricard excelled at single combat and surprise attacks. This time, however, he was the one who had been ambushed, and rather than facing a single opponent, he was badly outnumbered.

Should he abandon the wounded and flee, then? No. This was not a factor to weigh, but an objective: protect his friend at all costs.

That made the answer clear. He had to defeat the enemy. And to defeat them, he had to fight.

Ricard peeked out of hiding just far enough to survey the enemies approaching. There were more than ten of them, by his rough count. The others seemed to be searching elsewhere.

His mind began racing like a machine. Countless plans took shape, were discarded, and were revised in an instant.

"Riki..."

Volka called to him. Ricard turned to find an extraordinarily conflicted expression on his face.

He had to run. No, he had to fight for his friend. But wouldn't that get him killed? No, he would definitely die. He had to flee while he still could. Every second counted. Even now, even now—no, he could never do that...

That entire inner struggle showed on his face. With an unwavering gaze, Ricard gripped Volka's shoulder firmly.

"Stay here and protect Molty."

"What?"

Then Ricard seized his bloodstained sword and burst out of hiding. Volka nearly jumped out of his skin. There was no time to stop him or do anything else.

He knew Ricard was extraordinary for his age, but wasn't this going far too far? He was going to get killed!

Gripping the ricasso at the base of the blade with one hand and the hilt with the other, Ricard charged the nearest enemy. The man spotted him and hurriedly backed away.

"Over here!"

His shout drew his allies' attention.

Just as it took two hands to clap, Ricard could do nothing if his opponent refused to engage.

But he had already accounted for that. He changed direction and ran straight at another man—the one who appeared to be their leader.

The oldest way to turn a losing battle around was to kill the enemy commander or leader. The question was how.

Ricard boldly plunged into their midst to kill their leader. There was no turning back now. The enemies began forming a wide circle around him. Failure meant death.

"You little brat!"

The enemy leader gripped his sword in both hands and slashed swiftly at Ricard. The vicious stroke suggested he hadn't won his position in a card game. But Ricard's eyes were terrifyingly cool and composed.

His sword moved neither quickly nor slowly as it struck the incoming blade.

CLANG!

But the result was unexpected. He had meant to break the enemy's sword, yet it remained intact. Was it some legendary blade?

No. Something like blue flames fluttered at the point of impact. The man seemed to have achieved some degree of mastery through mana training.

His opponent was even more surprised than Ricard. He had expected to make short work of the small figure charging him, only for an unexpected counter to leave his wrists stinging.

That made it difficult to deliver his next stroke. Ricard pressed his advantage without letting up.

Releasing the ricasso, he took the hilt in both hands and swept his sword upward, raising it above his head. It was not a particularly fast attack.

But with his wrists still stinging, his opponent wanted to avoid another clash of blades and stepped back slightly.

Ricard's last strike, however, had not been a true attack. It was a feint. Here, his genius burst forth like flame.

He took a long stride forward as though he had known his opponent would evade. Despite the unexpected turn of events, he committed to an even bolder move—to achieve the best result in the worst moment.

His arms crossed as the great blade wheeled above his head. Harnessing its weight and centrifugal force, he brought it crashing down, swift and heavy.

At that instant, Ricard swung with all his strength, aiming for one precise point at one precise moment. His abdominal muscles and legs braced his body, and his serratus muscles tightened. His arms merely guided the way; his will rode the tip of the blade.

Unable to dodge, his enemy had no choice but to bring his sword up to block. Expecting another jarring impact to his wrists, he gritted his teeth, determined not to lose his grip.

How could a mere child handle a sword far too large for him with such skill?

But the heavy impact never reached him. His sword had broken.

CRACK!

These were no ordinary sparks. Blue flames scattered like a shower of falling blossoms, beautiful in a way utterly at odds with the scene.

THUD!

Ricard's sword carried on through the man's neck. His head leaped slightly into the air, then dropped. Blood fountained from the severed neck, and the man beheaded where he stood collapsed to his knees.

Ricard planted a foot against the man's chest and pushed. A fine spray of blood spattered his face and clothes.

He held his sword in one hand. So large was it compared with his frame that its tip touched the ground.

He looked at the enemies to his left, then those to his right. All wore expressions of stunned bewilderment. What had just happened...?

From the first attack to this moment, everything had happened in a flash. A young boy had suddenly appeared, charged their leader, exchanged a stroke or two, and left them facing this.

Breaking a sword by countering an opponent's attack was an exceptionally difficult feat, but it was comparatively easy. Attacking first and breaking a defending enemy's sword, as he had just done, was on another level altogether—almost a divine feat of swordsmanship.

But these enemies were not skilled enough to recognize that. The shocking sight before them had simply wiped their minds blank. Their leader knelt with his torso bent backward and his head gone. Blood spurted from him.

"Boo!"

"Eek!"

When Ricard suddenly shouted as though he were about to lunge at them, they all flinched and fled. The person who might scold or punish them had been beheaded where he stood, so they ran without a single reservation.

Ricard returned to the site of the battle and looked around for his scabbard. Fortunately, it lay nearby.

Among the bodies, he found those of five Beringen Academy students. There was no time to collect spoils or tend to their remains. He did, however, close their staring eyes.

That was when he heard it.

"Cough. Urgh. Ugh..."

Someone was alive. An enemy. One of his arms was mangled and hanging in tatters, and a long horizontal gash across his abdomen had spilled his entrails.

In that condition, he might live for as long as three days in agony. Worse still, animals might eat him alive.

Ricard approached. Whether begging to be saved or to have it ended, the nameless enemy looked up at him and reached out a trembling hand.

Ricard sat beside him and covered his eyes with a hand.

"Just as you had nothing against me personally, I have nothing against you. Life is suffering. I hope you find rest after death."

Rather than question or resent the man's attempt to kill him, Ricard spoke calmly. As he did, he drove his dagger into the man's throat and sliced, ending his life in a single motion.

"Cough! Gah! Urgh!"

The enemy convulsed briefly, but Ricard pressed firmly with the hand covering his eyes. Soon the spasms subsided.

In the end, Ricard closed the eyes of each dead enemy as well. They were dead now, after all...

He wiped the blood from his blade on an enemy's corpse and sheathed it, then gathered a few ownerless swords scattered on the ground and returned to Volka and Molty.

Volka's expression as he stared at him was even more extreme than the enemies' had been. His mouth hung open, and he looked as though his mind had left him.

"I got lucky," Ricard said.

"... Lucky? I don't think that had anything to do with luck."

Volka sounded incredulous. Ricard simply ignored him.

"There's no time. I'll take the pack. You carry Molty, Volka."

"Huh? Right... But where do we go?"

"The rendezvous should be the safest place for now."

"Right..."

They had spent a night on the road to get this far. Under the circumstances, returning to the academy would be more dangerous.

Molty was asleep, breathing in soft wheezes. It was natural to grow overwhelmingly sleepy after using a potion as the wound rapidly healed.

Ricard sat down to put on the pack, then stood. With supplies for three inside, it weighed almost as much as a person. He slung his own heavy sword around his neck so that it hung in front.

Volka handed over as much of his gear as possible, then hoisted Molty onto his back. Bearing burdens almost beyond their strength, the two set off for the rendezvous.

Every step was a struggle. After hours of walking, sweat poured off them like rain.

One good thing was that the physical strain drove away every anxious, fearful thought. They were simply exhausted. All they wanted was to sit down and rest.

Then they caught up with the companions who had gone ahead: Ice and his two friends, along with two girls and one boy.

Their eyes widened at the sight of Ricard and Volka. They had survived? How?

Even Ice, whose expression rarely changed, widened his eyes in what must have been considerable shock.

"You fucking bastards..."

Volka growled, glaring at them as though he wanted to kill them. Ricard, however, brushed it aside.

"That's enough, Volka. Hey, you lot. Someone give us a hand."

One boy came over and took Molty onto his back. Ice signaled to one of his companions, who approached and took Ricard's pack.

Relief washed over Ricard's neck and shoulders, and he wanted to sink straight to the ground. Instead, he braced a hand against a nearby tree and leaned on it, refusing to sit.

Just then, Volka lunged at Ice and roughly seized him by the collar.

"You fucking bastard. I saw you for what you were ages ago. You're not even human, you know that? You heretic fuck. Why don't you give up adventuring and sell that pretty face as a male whore? You piece of shit."

Abuse poured from his mouth. He must have been furious. Ice merely watched him in silence, still held by the collar.

Unexpectedly, Ricard intervened.

"Don't, Volka. It happens. Who wants to die? Be honest—you were torn yourself."

"Riki!"

Volka shouted as though asking how he could say such a thing. Ricard only shook his head quietly.

It wasn't that he felt no resentment toward Ice for leaving first or toward the students who had followed. But he knew an emotional confrontation now would do nothing to get them out of their present predicament. That was why he stopped Volka.

Volka released his collar with a rough shove. Ice barely moved, apart from a single faltering step backward.

Then, surprisingly, he spoke.

"It wasn't because I feared death. It was to complete the commission. Nothing more."

Was the commission really that important? Ricard couldn't quite understand. But he had nothing in particular to say to that.

"Sure. Commissions matter. That's what being a fixer is. An adventurer. Let's get moving. We can rest once we reach the rendezvous."

Leadership seemed to pass naturally to Ricard. He was the only one keeping a clear head in this emergency.

Ice's lack of expression concealed it, but he too seemed somewhat shaken. Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered offering anything that sounded so much like an excuse.

"By the way, who were those people who attacked us? Any idea?"

Ricard directed the question at Volka.

"Probably either the Brabant Guild or the Rubens Guild."

Those were the Beringen Guild's chief rivals. Arno had been right after all: students were being dragged into guild conflicts and killed.

But this case was a little different. They had been attacked while carrying out a commission. No, to be precise, they had been on their way to support adventurers carrying out a commission. It wasn't even theirs.

"Let's move," Ricard said.

Whatever the circumstances, their first priority was to reach safety. Only then could they decide whether to continue or give up.

The nine Beringen Academy students made their way toward the rendezvous. Those who had lost or broken their weapons took the swords Ricard had collected.

What would have happened without him? By now, they might all have scattered and fled, forgetting the commission entirely.

Then they would have lost their way in the forest and been caught by their enemies, devoured by beasts or monsters, or starved to death.

The students were not unaware of this. Having experienced it firsthand, they understood better than anyone. They saw Ricard's greatness anew.

He was more than simply a skilled fighter. He had the ability to navigate hopeless situations.

The sense of responsibility to never abandon a companion. The judgment to make the right call amid chaos. The nerve to risk danger, the boldness to stake everything on a move, and the cool head to keep emotion from dictating his actions.

They knew he was extraordinary, but what sort of person was he? He was only eleven. Wasn't this a little much? Was this what made a hero?

Whatever the case, the students found themselves drawn to Ricard without realizing it. They felt ashamed of having run away. Even if they weren't close to him, they were beginning to feel certain they could trust him.

Almost at Griffinswald, the group began searching the nearby woods for the guild's hideout. Unfamiliar with the area, they wandered around for quite some time. It wasn't as though they could go into the village and ask if anyone knew where their hideout was.

The sun began to set. Just as they were growing anxious about what would happen if they couldn't find it, they spotted a secluded cabin hidden among the trees. It was the Beringen Guild's Griffinswald hideout.

At last relieved of one worry, the students approached the cabin—only to have that relief give way to despair.

The adventurers who were supposed to lead them lay scattered about as corpses.

"This is fucking shit..."

Volka muttered the words. This time, Ricard agreed, as did the other students.

At this rate, they were all going to be killed by rival guild adventurers without ever laying eyes on a deserter.