Chapter 47

When winter passed and spring came into its own, it meant the season of huddling against the cold was over. It was a good time to work again. But a good time to work was also a good time to fight.

There was no telling whether the guild war had begun in earnest. Were preliminary skirmishes underway, or were both sides still watching each other? Cut off from the world, the academy rarely received news of it.

Yet perhaps that very isolation was what allowed it to offer abandoned children a final refuge.

"Welcome to the academy, new boy!"

Karlich shouted inside the boys' dormitory in the inner keep. Anyone listening could hear how much he was enjoying himself.

He threw a blanket over the newcomer and, together with the other students, gave him a thoroughly enthusiastic beating.

Once they had beaten him enough, they removed the blanket, seized his arms, and hauled him upright. The new boy was half out of his wits, his face contorted with pain.

"And now you're a proud member of Beringen Academy! Come on, everyone, give him a hand!"

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP!

As though presenting the winner of a tournament, Karlich raised the newcomer's arm high before the assembled students. Then he looked at Ricard, his expression all but asking, How did I do?

"..."

Watching from his top bunk, Ricard did not know whether to call it absurd. He had no words.

Unlike at their first meeting, Karlich was now more enthusiastic about academy life than anyone.

In truth, noble children far removed from the succession were little better off than bastards. It was only a matter of degree.

What family would be mad enough to send its heir to an academy? To put it harshly, being sent to an adventurer academy meant being cast out. More charitably, it was one final bit of support to help a child make their own way.

In the past, the profession's poor reputation had made nobles reluctant to become adventurers, but that stigma had faded somewhat.

Nobles had tried commissioning adventurers' guilds for various tasks and found them useful. Some also felt there was little difference between dying in a knightly order or a mercenary company and dying as an adventurer.

Whichever organization they joined, they could rise through its ranks and help their family. In fact, an adventurer could be of more practical use.

A knightly order put its commander's orders first, and mercenary companies were far too expensive. An adventurer offered greater versatility.

"You can use this spot. Stop making such a fuss. Are these all your clothes? Do you have anything to eat? Tell me whenever you're hungry. For odd jobs, ask him over there. Talk to me about work in the city. Classes cost money, you know? I can lend you some, but you'll need to find work in the city first..."

Karlich led the newcomer to an empty spot, explaining one thing after another.

There was nothing wrong with it, but if there was a problem, this was it: Karlich's enthusiasm was excessive.

The thrashing Ricard had given him on his first day had not so much brought him to his senses as made him realize, Ah, so this place has rules too. Then he had adjusted his behavior accordingly.

He adapted remarkably fast, was quick to read a situation, and overflowed with enthusiasm—so much so that it was almost unsettling. Why was he trying this hard?

And while Karlich was a noble, he was not of the traditional nobility. He came from the merchant nobility.

Traditional nobles held titles, owned land of their own, however small, and fulfilled their duties as knights.

Merchant nobles had no titles, only family businesses. They might possess private land, but that was not the same as a domain attached to a title.

Thus, traditional nobles often refused to acknowledge merchant nobles as fellow members of the nobility at all.

For instance, a merchant noble might appear on the battlefield fully armed, only for a traditional noble to refuse to fight alongside the likes of him. It happened more often than one might think.

Yet some traditional nobles lived in rural poverty, while wealthy merchant nobles occupied magnificent city mansions.

Such was reality, but in an age that prized pedigrees, bloodlines, and honor, urban nobles had to defer to traditional nobles no matter how wealthy they were.

Even their seats at a ruler's official functions were different.

Naturally, both sides privately despised the other: a country bumpkin putting on airs over his bloodline, or a mere tradesman pretending to be a noble.

"Riki, Riki."

Karlich approached Ricard with a sheet of paper in hand.

"... What?"

"You said you'd buy clothes for everyone. I took their measurements. I've put them all down here."

Ricard accepted the sheet. It listed the academy students' names alongside their heights, arm lengths, leg lengths, waist measurements, and more.

"..."

In an academy run so haphazardly, he had never seen anything so... clearly organized.

"I think dark blue would be best. Most other colors come from plants, so supplies can be scarce depending on the season. Lapis lazuli is expensive, but there's a source nearby, so we should be able to get it cheaper here than elsewhere. By my calculations, it more or less fits the budget. If we're having these made, shouldn't we make them look good and give everyone more pride in Beringen Academy? Listen, if you leave it to me, I'll take care of it. I absolutely won't disappoint you."

Karlich stared at Ricard expectantly, his eyes so wide that the whites showed all around his irises. Ricard saw madness in those clear eyes and felt a kind of fear he had never known before.

"Uh, sure..."

"Great!"

Karlich clenched a fist in delight.

"But why are you trying so hard? Is it because you're worried I'll get on your case?"

At Ricard's question, Karlich grinned, his eyes still wide. The smile only made him scarier.

"Nobody interferes with me here. No scolding from my father, no contempt from my brothers. I finally feel like I'm useful. I'd rather have no social status at all. I'm sick of all this traditional noble, merchant noble nonsense. Here, everyone's a brother. And I looked through imperial law. There's a clause that says, 'In the name of Emperor Martellus, under the protection of the Empire, academies shall follow their own laws, rules, and traditions.' That means we can make our own laws, rules, and traditions, doesn't it? Isn't that exciting?"

Ricard had never heard of such an imperial law. In practice, most regions followed their own customary laws, and the written laws of the Empire often existed in name only.

Strict enforcement was difficult: if the Emperor tried to impose imperial law, he risked provoking the local nobles. Thus, even the Emperor did not invoke it lightly.

To be honest, the Emperor himself did not know it very well. He simply consulted a legal officer whenever the need arose.

Still, everyone observed a few important provisions: men had priority in inheriting titles and domains; local lords possessed their own judicial, executive, and military powers but could not negotiate with countries outside the Empire; the determination of guilt and administration of punishment must be fair before God; and so on.

At home, Ricard had learned only the bare essentials, such as reading, writing, and simple arithmetic, not any advanced subjects. He could only marvel.

Karlich's eyes shone like stars as he pursued a goal of his own. Admittedly, there was a little madness mixed in.

Watching him, Ricard felt that a properly educated noble really was something different.

Still, being around Karlich was rather overwhelming and uncomfortable, so he quietly slipped away.

He left the room and went upstairs, intending to study the ancient script in an empty classroom, only to find Boribori already there, reading something.

"Oh, Riki."

"What are you reading?"

"The Sex Lives of the Ancients."

"... Why would you read that?"

"There aren't many ancient books, and there are even fewer handwritten copies. I can't afford to be picky. Besides, it's surprisingly interesting."

Ricard had no answer to that. He sat beside Boribori, propped his chin on his hand, and gazed out the window instead. The blue sky and the broad sweep of open fields were reflected in his hazel eyes. A gentle breeze stirred his shining blond hair.

"Bored?" Boribori asked.

"Hm? No."

"You look bored. Want to make a bet?"

"What kind of bet?"

"I can't beat you myself, so let's each teach someone and have them fight. Whoever's student wins is the winner."

"No. None of them understand a word I say anyway."

Ricard occasionally taught the students, but their failure to understand him often left him alone in his frustration.

So, apart from sparring with his friends before they graduated—the group commonly called the Nine—he rarely taught anyone.

"Then write a book or something. Someone who understands might come along someday."

"A book?"

"Yeah. But just writing one would be boring, so why not use the ancient script? You can study while you're at it."

That caught Ricard's interest. It sounded like a decent way to pass the time.

Lately, he had felt as though the academy was gradually passing out of his hands. Not that he had ever managed it as such, but the students were working hard and improving on their own.

Watching them did make him happy and proud. Yet it seemed there was nothing left for him to do.

All Ricard had done at the academy was lay the groundwork, in a sense. No needless bullying, no exploitation, and at the very least, no starving to death. Maintaining order and making sure people followed the rules.

If the academy ran well on its own, there was nothing for him to do. And since he himself had no need to learn swordsmanship or hand-to-hand combat, he was simply idling away his time.

"That sounds pretty good."

"Hehe. Doesn't it?"

Ricard immediately laid out some paper and fetched ink and a pen. But he hit a snag right at the start.

"What should I call it?"

"Riki-Style Swordsmanship! You're supposed to name it after yourself."

"That doesn't sound very impressive."

"What? You told me to call mine Bori Swordsmanship."

"Well, that's how I feel. Putting my name in it is too predictable. I'll just call it The Fundamentals of Swordsmanship."

"Huh? Isn't that too dull?"

"I'd rather use that. It won't matter if I do a bad job. Whoever can understand it will."

"You're surprisingly shy, aren't you, Riki?"

Ricard merely smiled without denying it. He started by writing the title in large letters: The Fundamentals of Swordsmanship.

His mother's love was woven into his handwriting, making it truly graceful as a willow. Boribori's handwriting, by contrast, was full of vigor.

Gathering his thoughts, Ricard began putting down at least a rough outline. Whenever he was unsure about the ancient script, he asked Boribori or referred to sentences in the book as he wrote.

Unfortunately, the book was The Sex Lives of the Ancients, and every so often he squeezed his eyes shut after seeing something he wished he hadn't.

Reflecting on his own swordsmanship was rather interesting, but remembering the frustration he had felt while teaching the others left him at a loss as to what to write.

Should he leave things out? Was that difficult? Why was it difficult? What did difficult even mean? Hmm. He had no idea.

The whole point of writing it was to let whoever could understand it do so anyway. Ricard continued without giving it much more thought.

Watching beside him, Boribori commented,

"It feels like you're writing literary prose rather than explaining anything."

"Does it? Well, language isn't perfect anyway. It can't be helped. I'm just describing things as they are. This is the accurate way to put it."

"I don't know. Wouldn't it still be better to explain as much as you can?"

"Then write your own, Bori."

"I think I will. I'll call mine Bori Swordsmanship. Hehehe."

Boribori put down his book, took a blank sheet of paper, and began writing as well. His handwriting was neat and firm.

Neither boy's work was properly organized yet, but the difference was already stark.

Ricard seemed to be composing an epic with no beginning or end, while Boribori actually divided his work into chapters and built it up one step at a time.

After writing for a while, they looked at each other's work. Their opinions differed too.

"Hey, why waste paper writing this stuff? Anyone can do all this."

Ricard frowned at Boribori's writing, his tone disapproving.

Paper was by no means cheap. Prices varied by quality, but the sort used for books was among the truly expensive goods.

"The reader might be a beginner. They need to take in and understand the simple things first, then move on to harder ones. Who's going to understand if you just throw things at them like, 'If you think before striking, you're too late,' 'Focus on accuracy rather than speed,' or 'A powerful attack is meaningless if you don't understand how force works'?"

Thinking it over, Ricard realized Boribori was right.

But if he wrote out every detailed explanation, the result would be enormous, and he no longer felt like writing it. Besides, wouldn't being long-winded only take him further from the essence of the matter? A needless resistance rose in him.

"... That's why I'm writing it for the people who can understand it."

"Hmm... Then how about this? I'll write a separate commentary, and you can read it over and check it. What do you think?"

"Having a commentary makes it less impressive."

"No, it'll be fine. It'll still be impressive. You really are shy."

Ricard laughed in disbelief. Then he reached out and patted Boribori's tawny bowl cut, thoroughly ruffling it. Boribori chuckled too.

He really had grown so much—in a good way. Ricard felt proud of him.

Boribori was his dearest friend, his student, and now, it seemed, his teacher as well.

Perhaps when you taught and guided someone, and watched them grow, you too were being guided and growing in turn.

Spring had come into its own. It was fine weather for working, and for fighting.

And for deepening friendships, too.