Chapter 29

A campfire burned inside an abandoned house beside the road, with nine people sitting in a circle around it. It was Ricard’s party, on their way back to Beringen.

They could not bear even looking at a forest for a while, so instead of retracing their steps, they were taking a rather long detour back to the academy.

The students had made themselves comfortable for the night. Molty and Lara sat pressed against each other, apparently having become a couple somewhere along the way. A few students were tending their weapons, while others roasted sweet potatoes and potatoes in the fire for a snack.

Ricard sat against a wall with his knees drawn up, gazing at a patch of night sky through a gap in the ruined house.

“First, sense mana. Second, apply mana to physical activity. Third, use mana in actual combat. Fourth, extend it beyond your body and channel mana into your weapon. Fifth, become a Sword Master and kill everyone with a sword that cuts through anything. Is that right?”

Volka’s last remark was a joke, but those were the five stages the Beringen Guild used to classify the path to becoming a Sword Master. It was a dry system compared to the Rubens Guild’s rather poetic one, but it made finer distinctions.

“Yeah.”

Jerome answered while prodding a potato in the fire with a twig to see whether it was cooked. He was one of the students who had always kept company with Ice.

Perhaps surviving a brush with death together had changed things. They were now sharing knowledge they had once jealously guarded and refused to teach.

Hearing it laid out like this, though, there hardly seemed to be anything worth hiding. Understanding it intellectually did not mean you could do it. That was why the professor only taught it to students who could sense mana.

“You can manage to practice on your own up to the second stage, but I think it gets really difficult from the third onward.”

Lara, her short hair tied back, was now almost entirely nestled in Molty’s enormous arms.

“True. I was too out of my mind to think about mana or anything else.”

Controlling mana required intense concentration. Focusing on it while blades flashed before your eyes and your life hung in the balance was exceedingly difficult.

That was why none of the students here had reached the third stage except Ice. And Ice was at the fourth.

Even he had nearly died in actual combat. Walking the path of the sword was a difficult and dangerous undertaking indeed.

“But Riki’s strong even though he can’t use mana. Unless you’re going to become a Sword Master, I wonder if mana matters all that much.”

At Molty’s words, everyone looked at Ricard. He had been staring into space and belatedly snapped out of it.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just saying you’re a good fighter.”

“Oh...”

“So is mana more important, or swordsmanship? Tough question. Really tough...”

Both mattered, of course; it could hardly be just one or the other. It was a question of choosing where to focus, but did he even have a choice? Volka was agonizing over it when he could not even sense mana.

“Personally, I think if you master swordsmanship to its absolute limits, mana doesn’t really matter. One well-sharpened sword is enough to kill someone.”

“But they say a sword of light cuts through anything. That means armor, shields, everything. Even if you took swordsmanship to its absolute limits, I don’t think you could beat a Sword Master. It wouldn’t even be a contest, would it?”

“It depends on how you define those limits. If you dodge every attack from the Sword Master and land all your own, wouldn’t swordsmanship win?”

“But someone who’s become a Sword Master can’t be completely ignorant of swordsmanship.”

“Sure, but I’m talking about swordsmanship taken to its absolute limits.”

“And what exactly are these absolute limits?”

Volka and Delphi traded arguments as though holding a debate. Watching them, Molty thought, ‘That’s why those two can’t get together.’

Still, as students of an adventurers’ guild, they all found the subject interesting.

When the discussion threatened to grow heated, Molty brought Ricard back into it. Contrary to what his enormous build might suggest, he was surprisingly sensitive and inclined to mediate disputes.

“What do you think, Riki?”

“... Huh?”

“A fight between a Sword Master and someone who can’t use mana but has taken swordsmanship to its absolute limits. Who do you think would win?”

“Well, aren’t both sides of that argument meaningless? It sounds like wordplay to me.”

The first Sword Master. The extraordinary killer who had shocked the world. A one-man army. That was who Ricard had been in his previous life, but he himself gave little thought to swordsmanship or Sword Masters.

He did not know where the golden flames that blazed along his blade had come from, nor had anyone formally taught him the sword.

In truth, he was practically an ant compared to what he had been capable of in his previous life. But he had achieved a mastery of his own. Whatever his weakness or limitation, he always delivered the finest sword stroke possible under the circumstances. That was why he had yet to meet his match.

It also made other people seem rather slow to him. Why did they practice those things? Did they really need practice to do them? Couldn’t they simply do it?

Seen in that light, Volka’s ability to learn something from being beaten by Ricard was impressive. Ricard had no talent whatsoever for teaching.

In any case, he had no energy to spare for such matters right now. Since the incident with the deserter, he had been struggling alone to swallow the frustration and anguish accumulating inside him like poison.

Seemingly disappointed by Ricard’s flat response, Molty found his next target: Ice.

As it happened, Ricard and Ice held the first and second ranks. One could not sense mana; the other had attained considerable proficiency in Mana Drive.

“Ice, what do you think?”

“The Sword Master wins.”

Ice answered categorically, without a moment’s thought.

“Oh? Why? What’s your reasoning?”

“Because only someone who senses mana and reaches the pinnacle of swordsmanship can become a Sword Master.”

“Nice and clear. There, you heard him?”

Molty looked at Volka and Delphi. By Ice’s reasoning, Volka had lost.

“I was just curious.”

“So was I.”

A slightly awkward air settled between Volka and Delphi.

Unconcerned, Ice addressed Ricard, who was once again staring blankly through the gap in the ruined house.

“Are you all right?”

“... Huh?”

“I asked if you’re all right.”

“Oh. Sure, I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Listen, Riki.”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, and I won’t ask. Just as you don’t ask about my past. I just want you to feel better.”

Ricard, who had been in a daze ever since the deserter incident, finally gave a faint smile.

“I never knew you had such a way with words.”

Never one for lengthy speeches, Ice merely smiled in reply.

He was so handsome that when his perpetually cold expression softened into a smile, it was truly more beautiful than moonlight. Both girls involuntarily caught their breath.

“That’s fucking unfair.”

Volka grumbled, and laughter broke out among the students.

The next day, Ricard’s party resumed the journey to Beringen. There were no cities along the way, so they spent a night in a borrowed village barn and, on another occasion, enjoyed a rural lord’s hospitality.

His reason was simple: he had occasionally commissioned the Beringen Adventurers’ Guild and been pleased with its work. The students were bewildered, but hardly unhappy. Mead, freshly roasted meat, and soft bread did much to ease their weariness.

With nine well-armed people in the party, even poorly policed roads posed no trouble. They encountered no highway robbers, and bandits merely watched from afar.

It was not just their weapons or numbers. Something about them radiated a certain presence.

The students were completely different from when they had first set out to assist with the commission. Their eyes, composure, breathing, attitude—everything had changed. It was plain in the way they calmly watched the thugs, neither frightened nor averting their eyes.

They might not be lions or tigers yet, but they had the air of wolves, capable of cowing most lesser creatures.

And adventurers were, in essence, private investigators or private police. Simply passing along a road helped make it safer to some degree.

The world really did have its good and bad sides. Students dying was unquestionably a dark aspect of it, but then there were benefits like this.

After five days of walking, they finally reached Beringen. When they entered the headquarters at the foot of the hill, the adventurers inside all regarded them with curiosity. They had become celebrities without meaning to.

“Is this year’s crop of students special, or have our standards gone up? Either way, you’ve all been through a lot. I could hardly believe the news. You killed Lorenz the Jackal.”

Dunkel was sitting at a table. For some reason, instead of tending bar, he was lightly armed, wearing a leather vest and a dark brown hooded cloak.

“He made the fatal mistake of antagonizing a village of rangers.”

“He probably didn’t know the local situation too well either. It was a surprise operation, after all. Still, when things go wrong, you need to call it off. Keep dragging it out, and that’s what happens. He must have been feeling rushed, too. Anyway, good to have you back. But Riki, what happened to your hair?”

“It got singed.”

Ricard’s hair had grown a little and now resembled broccoli even more than before. He would have to shave it all off or something.

“Aren’t you tending bar today?” Volka asked.

“Ah, I’ve got some business to attend to.”

Dunkel gave Ice a meaningful look before turning to Ricard.

“The master wants to see you, Riki.”

“Me? Why?”

“Why do you think? You deserve the most credit for what happened. The rest of you can relax in town a while. No need to rush back to the dormitory. Don’t blow too much money on brothels or gambling. And it’s too early for you to be buying expensive equipment. Riki, follow me.”

Dunkel rose and left the building with Ricard alone, leading him up the hill. It was Ricard’s first time entering the central city.

Beyond the gates stood numerous tidy old buildings. Structures used as lodgings in peacetime and defensive facilities in war stood close against the walls.

The “real” Beringen Guild headquarters was not as grand as Ricard had expected. In places, the whitewash had peeled away from the outer walls, leaving the bricks plainly exposed.

“Master Ricard.”

Before they entered, Dunkel abruptly addressed him in a very different manner than usual.

“... Huh?”

“An elder is waiting inside. He is a nobleman as well, so please be particularly mindful of your words and actions. Above all, do not evade his questions or lie. Whatever you do, you will never deceive him.”

An elder? Not the Guild Master?

“I’m no good at lying anyway.”

“That is a relief. Please go in.”

Dunkel opened the door but did not follow him inside. Entering alone, Ricard felt as though he had walked into a temple with all its seats removed. Sound echoed loudly through the space.

CLUNK.

The door closed. Standing all alone in such a place gave him a feeling he could scarcely describe.

TAP. TAP. TAP...

Ricard walked slowly, looking around. No lamps burned inside; light from outdoors provided the only illumination, giving the interior a subdued atmosphere.

“You are smaller than I expected, young master.”

Far away stood someone with his hands clasped behind his back, his upper body concealed in shadow and a sword at his waist. His voice sounded rather old. The room carried sound so well that even his quiet words reached Ricard clearly.

“Hello. I am Ricard of House Kaldebern.”

For the first time since leaving home, Ricard introduced himself formally. He was neither intimidated nor putting on a show of confidence.

“I am Helauman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and champion of the Emperor. Please speak freely.”

A count palatine ranked above a count and administered the Emperor’s lands on his behalf. In other words, this man outranked not only Ricard’s father, who hardly bore mentioning, but even the main house of Kaldebern.

Regardless of rank, however, nobles had the right to speak to one another as equals. Any sensible noble observed that convention. Only royalty or members of the imperial family could set themselves above the nobility.

More to the point, being the Emperor’s champion meant he was a Sword Master.

Anyone else would have nearly fainted and prostrated themselves on the spot. Ricard remained composed.

“I hear you wanted to see me.”

“Indeed. I wished to see this promising young talent with my own eyes—the boy who beheaded a formidable opponent at the age of eleven.”

Ricard had heard much the same on the journey back. Lorenz must have been remarkably notorious.

“I was lucky.”

“Luck is a kind of skill.”

“Well, if you say so.”

Helauman fell silent for a moment at Ricard’s answer, then slowly walked out of the shadows.

His snow-white hair was neatly swept back, and his appearance was truly curious. He clearly looked old, yet his skin was as flawless as porcelain, making him difficult to describe.

His eyes were blue, and he effortlessly kept in check a presence that would otherwise have weighed upon anyone before him.

He approached Ricard, stopped a short distance away, and quietly studied him face-to-face.

“How peculiar. Even an ordinary person possesses a little mana, yet you have not a single drop.”

“Yes... I see...”

Honestly, Ricard had no idea what he was supposed to do about that.

“Without a seed, nothing can sprout. Such is the natural order. Without the ability to wield mana, you cannot become a Sword Master. Does that not disappoint you?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“Hmm...”

To Helauman, Ricard appeared to possess neither ambition nor even a simple desire to grow stronger.

Outwardly he was a young boy. Perhaps his skill with a blade was merely innate.

A hint of disappointment crossed Helauman’s face. As he himself had said, without the ability to wield mana, the boy could never become a Sword Master.

Still, a noble enrolling at the academy was rare, and the boy had undeniably accomplished something admirable. Helauman decided to make at least a little light conversation.

He smiled as though looking at a young grandson.

“Do you know how old I am, young master?”

“Honestly, it’s hard to guess from your appearance.”

“Hahaha. The Empress Dowager often says the same. I am one hundred and twenty-two this year.”

That did surprise Ricard. Could someone live that long? And remain this hale and hearty? He wondered whether the man was joking.

Helauman’s smile grew warmer at his reaction. How endearing.

“Difficult to believe, perhaps, but true. I live in something of a semi-retirement, so most people believe my son is the count palatine. Or is it my grandson now? My great-grandson? I cannot quite recall. I take little interest. In any event, I was alive to see that legendary Sword Master, Riki, with my own eyes. Is that not remarkable?”

What? Ricard examined Helauman carefully once more. No matter how he searched his memories, he could not place him.

“... Remarkable indeed.”

“I was born into a swordsmanship guild in the Hilsen region. There, I trained in the martial arts alongside my siblings under our father’s instruction. Then one day, Riki came and killed my parents, my siblings, and all my relatives. I watched it all from inside a wardrobe.”

Ricard was at a loss for words. But what the man said next was something else.

“And yet I am grateful to him. Do you know why? Because he allowed me to witness his flawless swordsmanship. The golden flames blazing along his blade, the spraying blood... It was beautiful enough to bring tears to my eyes. Ah, even now, recalling it sometimes sends a shiver through me.”

To Ricard, he seemed slightly unhinged. So infatuated with the sword that he cared nothing for the deaths of his own flesh and blood. Was it because he was so old?

Helauman continued.

“Every single stroke was something I had never seen, never even dreamed of. Inventive, yet never strange or misplaced. What is more, the whole thing felt like a single poem from beginning to end. To this day, I wonder: did he envision the ending from the outset, or did it simply come about as he improvised from moment to moment? For a hundred years, I have sought an answer and found none.”

Listening, Ricard finally began to remember. The Hilsen Swordsmanship Guild. They had hounded him, trying to kill him to make names for themselves, until he finally stormed their headquarters and killed them all.

At least, he had thought he had killed them all. Apparently not. To think someone had been hiding there. He had not exactly searched the place.

Still, meeting someone who had been alive in his previous life left him in an awkward position. Should he be pleased? Apologetic? He had no idea what to say.

Feeling sorry nonetheless, he wanted to give the man his answer. Not that there was much of an answer to give. All he had to do was recall what had happened.

“Well, um, couldn’t it have been both?”

“Hmm?”

“Perhaps he saw it all the moment he entered the training hall. How the fight would unfold, what might change, how he would kill them... So perhaps he wasn’t really thinking at all. It simply happened that way, and that’s why it looked as it did to you.”

Ricard answered as faithfully as he could to his memories of that day.

Suddenly, Helauman went rigid and began to tremble, as though struck by lightning.