Chapter 32

Beyond the attention of adults, the academy students lived in a world of their own, like wildflowers growing in an open field.

Adult attention was not always a good thing, but without proper guidance, children were bound to lose their way. Sometimes, they even brought cruel fates upon themselves.

There were at least dozens of adventurers' guilds in the Empire, and dozens of them operated academies.

There was no telling what life was like at each of those academies, but at Beringen Academy, at least, there was hope. Students could work to earn their own money, train in martial arts, and draw strength from their friends. They had a chance to forge their own lives after graduation.

Even with desperate struggles and death casting their shadows, the children were tougher than one might think.

Of course, there were despicable people everywhere. But like wildflowers weathering pests and disease, Beringen Academy was fortunate enough to maintain a largely positive atmosphere.

And the person behind that atmosphere was Ricard.

Just as a lord's presence alone could keep bandits away, while his absence naturally attracted vicious thugs, Ricard's mere presence fostered a healthy atmosphere at the academy. Whether he intended it or not.

Volka, Molty, Ice, Lara, Delphi, Fallen, Jerome, and Melson, who had undertaken the deserter-hunting commission with Ricard, were beginning to seem quite grown-up, as befitted their ages.

Those nine, including Ricard, stood on an entirely different level from the other students, and they helped him shape the atmosphere within the academy.

Their overwhelming superiority in skill, and the futures they envisioned, gave the other students something to aspire to. They wanted to become like them.

Still, boys and girls grew with the passing years, and the day of those eight students' graduation was drawing closer. They had entered the academy roughly ten months to a year before Ricard.

Students were meant to graduate after two years, though most stayed a little longer or a little less. That was what came of running things so haphazardly.

They often went out on commissions in small groups, though not all together. As they mingled with active adventurers, they would discuss whether to join an existing clan or form one of their own.

After childhood, siblings went their separate ways. After adolescence, friends did the same.

"So, what do you think about starting our own clan?"

Volka was naturally inclined to take the initiative, and he broached the subject without hesitation.

It was the middle of the night. A campfire burned in the clearing between the inner keep and the girls' dormitory, with nine students gathered around it.

Night insects chirped in the grass, and stars twinkled soundlessly in the black sky.

They should have been asleep, but the nine highest-ranked students, Ricard among them, enjoyed some freedom from the rules.

"I can't. I have something I need to do."

Ice shook his head. Jerome and Melson were with him on that. The three had been together from the beginning, so that was understandable.

"What is it? Can you tell us?"

"I have to take the final exam."

"Why?"

"It's my destiny."

Taking the final exam meant reaching special grade and traveling to Fernland. Legend held that anyone who passed it became a Sword Master.

No one except those who had passed knew what happened there to make that possible. And hardly anyone had passed.

The final exam itself was exceedingly rare. No one knew who administered it, when it was held, or why. They simply knew that such a thing existed.

Only one person passed every few decades, and in Beringen Academy's seventy-year history, not a single graduate had ever done so.

Taking the final exam and passing it was, in practical terms, almost impossible.

But if he said it was his destiny, what could they do? The nine were friends and comrades-in-arms, and they respected one another. For some reason, Ice looked a little bitter.

"Hmm... Can't be helped, I guess. What about the rest of you?"

Volka looked around at the students. Molty turned him down as well.

"I'm going to quit adventuring. I like working at the forge. Sorry."

"I can't either. Molty and I have decided to live together. Sorry," Lara said.

Apparently, the two intended to marry. They were both past the age of adulthood, so it was entirely possible.

"Um, sorry, but count me out too. There's a senior adventurer I know. I've agreed to join his clan."

That was Fallen, who had briefly traveled with Ricard and Ice during the deserter hunt. He might have been timid, but he was more than capable of pulling his weight.

"No, well, there's nothing to apologize for."

Despite his words, Volka looked unmistakably disappointed.

Only three remained: Volka, Delphi, and Ricard. The problem was that Ricard still had a long way to go before graduation.

Volka turned an almost pleading look on Delphi. He was so blatant about it that she couldn't help laughing.

"All right, all right. I get it, so stop looking at me like that. I know there's no one else to look after you."

"Delphi..."

"But what about you, Riki?"

Delphi asked, her short hair tied back.

"Let's bring Bori in too."

"Huh?"

"He said he wanted to be an adventurer. We might as well do it together."

"I don't mind, but you know it's dangerous work, right?"

"Bori and I still have some time before graduation. We'll see how much he can improve before then. And I believe he'll do well. He's tougher than he looks."

"Well, if you say so... Then who's going to be clan leader?"

"You do it, Volka. You're our leader."

Ricard smiled as he said it, without a trace of regret. He had never had the slightest ambition for such things.

In personal fighting prowess and the ability to lead people in battle, Ricard had no equal, even among active adventurers. Day-to-day management, however, was not his strength.

Management meant managing people. Trust and leadership mattered more than paying people to obey, and Volka was better at that. He had plenty of connections, too.

Besides, when they took on a commission, Ricard could temporarily take command in the field. Nothing was set in stone. They could make their own rules.

"All right. Then what do we call the clan?" Delphi asked.

Volka and Ricard exchanged glances. As though they had reached an understanding without a word, smiles spread across both their faces.

"Viola. Clan Viola."

Viola meant violet. Delphi didn't understand the reason for the choice, but she offered no objections. She merely thought it was an unexpectedly feminine name.

Clans usually had names like Fire Axe, the Widowmakers, the Black Wolves, or the Lion's Roar.

And so the Viola clan was born. Ricard was eleven, Volka and Delphi sixteen, and Boribori thirteen.

Despite all that talk, they weren't actually parting ways just yet. Graduation meant someone from the guild coming to collect the students, and that wouldn't happen until late autumn or winter.

It was only summer, with several months still to go. Those who had undertaken the commission together were busy preparing for graduation in one way or another.

Afterward, they would step out into a harsh world, each pursuing their own goals—or doing so without any goal at all.

Thus, from summer onward, the academy became somewhat unsettled. Classes were infrequent. Some students were frantically saving money, and many worried about where they would go and how they would make a living.

While everyone else was busy, Boribori swung a practice sword in the yard behind their old dormitory.

But was he practicing his swings or merely fooling around? Ricard, who lay on his side in the shade with his head propped on one hand, watching listlessly, frowned a little.

"What are you doing?"

"Hm? Oh, I was writing characters. Ancient script. This way I can study and practice at the same time. Hehehe."

"Bori, didn't you hear we started a clan?"

"Yes. You told me last time."

Exasperated, Ricard almost said something, then stopped himself. Scolding wouldn't accomplish anything.

But as Boribori resumed sweeping his sword through the air, Ricard watched more closely. It actually looked better than his attempts at ordinary swordsmanship. Huh? Wait a minute. What was this?

With his mastery of the sword, Ricard sensed something curious, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He had never seen or heard of anything like this.

"Watch, Riki. I can do this now too."

Boribori gripped his sword and began to concentrate. At that instant, Ricard's heart gave a thump. He didn't know why.

Then Boribori's sword moved swiftly. He traced ancient characters through the air, leaving trails of black mana that, for a moment, truly formed writing in midair.

"Oh!"

Ricard's eyes widened, and an exclamation escaped him. The characters formed from lingering mana faded almost immediately, but it was astonishing all the same.

"What was that? What was that, Bori?!"

Ricard sprang to his feet. Even he, who so rarely lost his composure, was excited by the surprise.

Boribori really was the only person who could send Ricard's emotions tumbling every which way. One moment he drove him mad with frustration; the next, he amazed him like this.

"Hehehe."

"Hey, your sword movements were clean too! Let's go with this instead!"

"Really?"

"Yes! This was the answer! Even I've never seen anything like it!"

Not once, in all of his previous life, had he seen swordplay like this.

"Really? Then should we give the sword style a name?"

"... No. It's too early to call it a sword style. It's just a trick for now. Don't get ahead of yourself."

Ricard's face turned stern. Apparently, he drew a firm line when something wasn't right.

"... All right..."

"Actually, why not give it a name? What's stopping us?"

"Right, right. Then what should we call it?"

"The Boribori Sword Style, obviously. You're supposed to name your sword style after yourself. Bori Swordsmanship!"

"But my name isn't very impressive."

"That's going to change. It'll become an impressive name."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Now, shall we spar? I've gotten a lot better at sparring too."

Ricard had mastered swordsmanship meant solely for killing, so he had never known how to hold back in a spar. But through his bouts with Ice, he had more or less learned how to fight someone without injuring them.

At first, Ice had taken some severe beatings, even suffering cracked bones. Between this and the Mana Drive lessons, Boribori owed Ice quite a lot.

Ricard took up a practice sword and faced Boribori. His eyes gleamed with that look they always took on before a fight, and he smiled confidently.

"Go on. Do whatever you like."

Boribori swallowed nervously, but, surprisingly, he didn't stiffen the way Ice did.

He knew he couldn't hurt Ricard no matter what he tried, so he swung his sword with complete freedom. No trails of mana remained behind it. That took too much mental energy.

Ricard evaded Boribori's sword with ease, remaining within striking range as he tilted his head or turned his body to slip past each blow.

Then he drew back a little. Boribori forced himself to follow, tangled his feet, and began to topple over on his own. Ricard hadn't swung his sword once.

Catching him as he fell, Ricard said, "Much better. The strokes are cuts, and the dots are thrusts. Even the same character could produce all sorts of variations depending on how you write it. Try paying a little more attention to your footwork."

Even faced with swordplay he had never seen before, Ricard grasped its essence at once. He also saw its boundless potential.

"Okay."

Boribori nodded stoutly, and they began sparring again.

First, Boribori pictured a character he liked. Then he drew its strokes and dotted its points, sometimes forcefully, sometimes gently. No one had taught him to do that. He simply found his own way.

As he went, he decided that holding the sword in one hand felt more comfortable than using two, and his stance changed naturally.

Then, almost miraculously, he began improving from moment to moment at an unbelievable rate. The difference between one swing and the next was immense.

It was possible because this wasn't training or practice. He was simply playing.

Boribori drew to his heart's content on the limitless canvas that was Ricard, and Ricard, a vast mountain and an ocean, accepted it all.

At some point, Boribori found himself laughing without even realizing it. Ricard joined him with a great laugh of his own.

"Hahahahaha!"

Who had said it? That those who attained enlightenment would burst into laughter. That seemed to be what was happening to the two boys now.

Ricard felt as though he could fly. He had never experienced anything like this before. To think that holding a sword could bring such joy.

A sword forged solely on desperate battlefields. A sword tempered in fire and steel, blood and death. A sword with which he had so mercilessly burned himself alive...

Meeting Boribori's sword brought that sword a sense of liberation. As though a demonic blade were shedding a clinging curse and transforming into a holy sword.

Ricard felt as though the knot that had remained in a corner of his heart ever since the deserter incident was finally coming undone.

He didn't know why, but he didn't need to. If he could explain why, it wouldn't be enlightenment.

Through Ricard, one person had found a question to contemplate. Another had encountered a wall and suffered. A third had simply found joy. There was no knowing what made the difference between the three.

For now, in the yard behind the dormitory that had once resembled a chicken coop, the laughter of two boys rang out for a long, long time, more refreshing than the breeze.

End of Part 7 — Only a Pure Soul.