Chapter 3

Being reincarnated was like carrying faded memories of a distant past from the moment consciousness first awakened in early childhood.

As you gained a new life and new experiences, the memories of the past grew fainter and more distant. The clinging smell of iron and the stench of burning gave way to sweeter scents.

Mother smiling at my antics. Running and laughing with my brothers in the woods. The fresh feel of new shoes. Promises kept with friends. Special treats on special days.

And the moment my perpetually gruff father pulled me into his arms in alarm.

Things like fragments of starlight gathered, filling the emptiness inside me piece by piece. Day after day, I would open my eyes each morning and look forward to what might happen.

What should I call these things? I could think of no fitting word. I only knew this: I owed a tremendous debt. Childhood memories were something no amount of effort, let alone money, could buy.

Was it a strange coincidence that his nickname was Riki? Ricard detested the very idea of fate, but he thought this was not so bad.

“How are you feeling now?”

Abelich asked as he wiped the grease from his hands with a towel. Graut, his wife, and Bilter all looked over at Ricard from around the dining table.

Ricard had gripped the spear shaft so tightly that the injury to his hand had torn into the muscle. Its bandages were off now. A month had passed since the incident.

With food still in his mouth, Ricard covered it before answering.

“I'm fine. I feel the same as I did then. Please don't worry.”

“...”

Silence followed his nonchalant reply.

When people witnessed something shocking, they struggled to accept it at first, then inevitably found some explanation that let them come to terms with it.

The explanation they had settled on was extraordinary luck. One stroke of luck after another had coincided. How else could a ten-year-old have killed such an enormous boar with a single blow?

Even so, the fact that he had faced a charging boar instead of freezing or fleeing clearly meant he had been born with an extraordinary disposition.

People looked at Ricard differently now. Their treatment of him had subtly changed as well. He could feel it himself.

“Would you like to learn swordsmanship?”

“... I'm not sure.”

Ricard sounded uncertain.

He hadn't shied away from a charging boar, yet he was afraid to pick up a sword? He really was still a child, his family thought.

But Ricard had no other reason than a reluctance to take up the sword again after wielding it until he was sick of it in his previous life.

“Just when I think I understand you, you puzzle me again. I was thrilled when I started learning swordsmanship at your age,” Bilter said.

As boys generally did, they welcomed the chance to learn the sword because it seemed impressive.

But once they realized they had no talent and were left doing nothing but tedious drills, they soon lost interest.

Still, surely he ought to be excited about his first lesson. Bilter thought his little brother really was a bit strange.

Looking at the somewhat cowed Ricard, Graut spoke in an admonishing tone.

“A man must do things even when he doesn't feel like it. Swordsmanship in particular is something you must never neglect throughout your life. You can't refuse simply because you don't want to.”

Learning the sword was more than martial training. It was a basic part of a noble's education. Even without achieving anything remarkable, one had to master the fundamentals.

Yet Ricard offered no answer to his eldest brother, who was eight years his senior. A brief silence fell.

“Answer me.”

“... All right.”

Ricard answered reluctantly.

Bilter had been snapping at their eldest brother lately, perhaps because he had reached adolescence, but the truth was that Graut was deliberately keeping his younger brothers at a distance.

When had it begun? Probably after his marriage, when his training as heir began in earnest. Ricard, too, could clearly feel the change.

When he was younger, simply running through the fields with his eldest brother had made him burst into laughter. Graut used to help him up when he fell and brush off his clothes. Sometimes he would carry Ricard on his shoulders as they headed home at sunset after playing outside.

Now he had reached the age when he had to say goodbye to those things. Neither sorrow nor happiness lasts forever, Ricard realized.

After the meal, Ricard left the manor. He wore the thick gambeson his brothers had worn at his age, along with a pair of mitten-like gloves, and carried a blunt-tipped practice sword.

There was no dedicated training ground, so this first lesson of sorts took place in the courtyard. Naturally, it drew the eyes of the stable hands, the keeper of the hounds, and the other servants.

His father and Bilter watched from a little distance as Graut rolled his wrist, practice sword in hand, and spoke.

“Proper strength comes from proper form. It may feel awkward at first, but with constant practice, you must make it as natural as breathing in any situation. Ultimately, you must wield a sword as though it were part of your body. Simple, but not easy.”

Finishing his explanation, Graut swung his practice sword hard through the air.

WHOOSH!

It made a menacing sound. His body never wavered under the force of his own swing, lending the movement a look of precision.

Ricard merely stood there blankly, holding his sword upright in both hands as though resting it against his shoulder.

“Stand with your feet apart like this. Your left foot is your pivot. Keep your weight a little forward. Your left foot. Yes. From here, take a big step with your right foot to move forward. To move sideways, do this. Footwork is important. If your feet get tangled, you can't put proper power into a blow.”

Graut taught his youngest brother the most basic fundamentals. Yet he did not teach carelessly; he took pains to instruct him properly.

Ricard did everything his brother told him. But to someone with the memories of his previous life, such elementary instruction only constrained his skill.

It didn't really matter. None of it was wrong.

“Think of pushing the blade into the strike rather than swinging it. Like this. That lets you defend and attack at the same time. In a real fight, you'd pull back and slice as hard as you can. There are several variations, but we'll leave it there for today. Just try what I've taught you.”

Ricard did as his brother instructed. He placed one foot ahead of the other, bent his knees slightly, shifted his weight forward, then took a large step with his rear foot as he drove the sword out.

Once, twice, three times, four...

The sword whooshed through the air, and the spectators felt something was a little off. This was clearly his first sword lesson, yet he showed none of a beginner's characteristic awkwardness. Beginners invariably staggered under the force of their own movements.

It was not merely his stance. There was precision in it. He wasn't simply copying the outward form of what his eldest brother did. He had grasped its essence and made it his own.

He was unmistakably extraordinary. Unbelievably so. This went beyond a little talent. Wasn't this genius?

Perhaps that was why Abelich felt conflicted as he watched his youngest son. He felt immense pride and unease at the same time.

An excess of talent was not always a blessing. Not if it could threaten the future he envisioned.

“Graut, spar with him,” Abelich said from where he watched a short distance away.

Graut turned to his father. He understood those words to mean that he should teach the boy a harsh lesson.

Ricard had heard his father too, and stopped swinging at the air. His body was that of an ordinary child, and he was slightly out of breath.

Graut looked at his little brother, hesitation in his eyes.

Ricard quietly met that gaze, then bowed his head.

Looking at his young brother, Graut steeled himself and spoke.

“Remember what I just taught you? Try it on me. Don't worry about hurting me.”

But Ricard gave no answer. He simply stood there with his head lowered.

After a brief silence, he spoke.

“... No.”

“What?”

“I said no. I don't want to.”

This had never happened before. Gentle, obedient Ricard was defying him.

Graut glanced back at his father. The middle-aged man was watching them steadily, his expression impassive. Graut turned back to Ricard.

“Are you going to talk back like Billy now?”

“That's not it...”

Graut prodded Ricard's chest repeatedly with the blunt tip of his practice sword, forcing him to stumble backward.

“Then what do you call this behavior? I told you to swing your sword the way I taught you. Do it.”

“... No.”

“You little—!”

Graut lashed out at his brother's upper arm. Even through the thick gambeson, it could hardly have been painless.

“Ow!”

Ricard squeezed his eyes shut, hunched his shoulders, and trembled in pain.

“I'll tell you again. Swing your sword.”

“No.”

“You think you can make a fool of me.”

This time, Graut struck his other arm. The blow landed with a thud, and he did not stop at one. He struck again and again, at his thighs, his shoulders, all over.

THUD. THWACK. THUD. THUD...

Even then, Ricard only gripped his sword tightly in both hands and cowered under the blows. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face contorted with pain.

Whatever the onlookers felt inside, they watched with impassive faces. They knew that even nobles—no, precisely because they were nobles—were sometimes subjected to harsher discipline.

Refusing an order from an elder of the household, especially its head, was unthinkable.

“I'll give you one last chance. Swing your sword. Disobey me again, and I'll hit you on the head.”

Even a practice sword was made of metal. A blow to the head could cause serious injury.

“No. I won't.”

Ricard spoke firmly. Graut's sword hand began to tremble. Having made the threat, he now had to strike his brother's head, but he could not bear the thought of doing it.

He turned to his father again, his look almost pleading. Beside Abelich, Bilter fidgeted anxiously.

To his despair, Abelich nodded. It was permission to strike his brother's head. No, it was an order.

Graut turned back to his brother and spoke too softly for the others to hear.

“Just swing once. Please. I don't want to do this either.”

“That's why I can't.”

“What do you mean?”

“...”

Graut could not understand why he was taking this so far. It was the first time he had ever beaten his brother like this, and the first time Ricard had ever defied him.

Ricard would not swing his sword at his eldest brother because the swordsmanship he knew was not meant for sparring. His blade had been tempered in blood alone, on brutal battlefields.

He knew that nothing but pure killing intent would fill its tip. He could not turn that on his brother.

They might have grown distant lately, but he could not cut through the memories of their past or his brother's tender affection for him. That would be far worse than suffering an injury himself.

Nor did he know how to put on an act, make a clumsy swing, and lose on purpose. All he could do was nothing.

To the onlookers, however, Ricard seemed to be rebelling for no reason. He had always been such a gentle, obedient child. Had he picked this up from Billy?

Graut was growing visibly flustered by Ricard's defiance. No matter how trivial the matter, once their father gave an order, it had to be obeyed.

Why did he have to do this on the very day of his first sword lesson? Should Graut hold back the force of the blow? Or pretend to aim for his head and strike his shoulder instead? Would Father be able to tell from where he stood?

All sorts of thoughts ran through Graut's mind. At last, he decided that he simply could not hit his brother on the head.

Gripping his sword, he brought it down hard on Ricard's shoulder. From the side or behind, it looked just like a blow to the head.

THWACK!

“Urgh!”

THUMP.

Ricard had endured every blow on his feet until now, but at last he collapsed. He tried to rise, yet could not seem to find the strength.

Graut's eyes wavered wildly as he looked at his fallen brother. By now, he was at a loss, looking back and forth between his father and his brother. He was not yet fully mature himself.

Then Abelich strode over. Looking down at Ricard, he spoke dispassionately.

“Get up. Swing your sword.”

At his father's imperious command, Ricard merely lay trembling like a bird drenched in rain.

Then he opened his tightly shut eyes. Looking up at his father, he clenched his teeth and spoke.

“I won't. Not even if you kill me.”

They were not empty words. His distinctive hazel eyes blazed as though on fire.

That gaze was so fierce that Abelich felt a sudden chill at the back of his neck. Cold seemed to sweep down his spine and raise the fine hairs on his skin.

A long silence followed. Graut let his sword hang and bowed his head, as though ashamed before his father and sorry for his brother.

Ricard lowered his head again and wept. His tears dotted the dry ground with dark spots.

Abelich felt something he could not identify. But he gave no sign of it, speaking as gruffly as ever.

“... That ends the lesson.”

Bilter hurried over, helped Ricard to his feet, and supported him back to his room.

His whole body ached so badly that even lying down on the bed was a struggle.

“Are you an idiot...?”

Bilter chided him out of helpless concern. Lying on the bed, Ricard said nothing, offering only an inscrutable smile.

A little later, a knock sounded, and someone entered. It was his sister-in-law. Despite being pregnant, she had personally brought ointment and bandages.

She must have seen what had happened through the window. Bilter took the hint and left, and she spoke.

“Let me put some ointment on you.”

Bearing the pain, Ricard sat up. He took off his shirt and lowered his trousers.

Both arms and the outsides of his thighs were already covered in livid bruises. At his shoulder, red and blue mingled into something almost black.

The sight seemed to shock her. Her hands trembled slightly as she applied the ointment.

She had come to tell him that Graut could not have meant it, that he had had no choice, and that Ricard should not resent him too much. But she could not bring herself to speak.

Still, the faint trembling of her hands told Ricard all he needed to know of her tangled feelings and remorse.

“It's all right. I'm fairly used to pain. It's more like an old friend, really.”

“... Pardon?”

“I think I've already been given more happiness than I deserve. Though perhaps it's only a mirage, as someone once said. I'm more worried that Graut will take this badly. He pretends otherwise, but he's still tenderhearted. So please tell him I understand everything. That my heart hasn't been hurt too. That I still love him.”

His sister-in-law's hand stopped applying the ointment. Her eyes widened, and she looked as though she could not quite take in what she had just heard.

There were limits to how mature a child could be. She had never imagined Ricard would say such things, or harbor thoughts so profound.

As she stared and blinked in bewilderment, Ricard bore the pain in his battered body and gave her a gentle smile.