Chapter 80

Ricard loved the wind. He always had, since before he was born. Back when he tended sheep, he had loved watching it sweep across the fields. In Stormhertz, too, he would sometimes gaze out at the windswept fields alone, and he had done the same during his academy days.

That was why he dreamed of someday building a little cottage in a breezy field, tending a vegetable patch and raising sheep or some other livestock.

The wind blew, tossing his hair. Before him lay a cool, open field and, far in the distance, a little cottage: the peaceful scene he had always dreamed of. He did not know whether the wind came from the mountains or the sea, but he liked it all the same.

But he was not alone. A woman stood in the field with her back to him, her beautiful golden hair streaming in the wind. Ricard knew at once who she was. A smile rose unbidden to his lips. Twenty steps or so would bring him to her.

Then a shout rang out behind him, so loud it shook his skull.

"Riki, Reaper of Steel!"

Ricard turned. The whole world was engulfed in the crimson glow of flames, and countless corpses blanketed the ground. Fire and steel, blood and death. Veszprim, the legendary barbarian warrior, was clad head to toe in steel, crushing, smashing, and trampling everything that lived.

And he was not the only one. Every human being in the world was locked in a desperate struggle against everyone else. Among them, Ricard could see his friends: Boribori, Volka, Ice.

The world was split in two. One side was heaven, the other hell. Ricard stood precisely between them.

Where should I go? Why can I not let go of suffering?

Then he heard an angel whisper in his ear.

"Riki."

Ricard opened his eyes in bed. The morning sunlight filtering through the curtains was soothing rather than dazzling. Yet his heart pounded as though it would burst. Once he recognized reality, it quickly settled. His mind was at peace. It had only been a dream.

He got up and went to the washbasin on the table. He poured water from the pitcher, washed his face, then wet a towel and wiped his neck and body. The water was lukewarm rather than cold, just right.

Then he dressed in a silk tunic, the likes of which he had never worn before, and fastened a calfskin belt around his waist. His ankle boots had soles made of several layers of leather, giving them a little spring while keeping them exceptionally sturdy.

From head to toe, everything was brand-new, made from the finest materials by the finest craftsmen. The feel of it against his skin and the fit were wonderful. The Crown Prince had provided it all.

Ricard drew the sword he had left against the wall and checked its condition. After inspecting his dagger as well, he left both where they were and went out. Carrying weapons around the Crown Prince was hardly a good idea.

He went to the dining room for a simple breakfast of soft bread, cheese, ham, and milk. Even the bread was no ordinary loaf. Made with finely ground flour and freshly baked at dawn, it was as soft as down.

Most commoners ground their grain by hand instead of using a mill, leaving it coarse, and their bread would be days old and hard as stone. They had to soften it with water or saliva to eat it. That was the bread Ricard was accustomed to.

Everything in the imperial palace was comfortable and convenient. Nothing demanded effort. Ricard was hardly an ascetic, but even he thought this was excessive. He could feel himself growing lazy without realizing it, his mental resolve weakening. Perhaps this had much to do with why the Crown Prince and the imperial princes were such sorry specimens.

After breakfast, he walked down the corridors toward the Crown Prince's room. Each stretch seemed decorated around a different theme, and the corridor outside the prince's room was quite literally covered in gold. Sculptures of incredible craftsmanship and ancient relics preserved almost perfectly in their original condition stood on display.

Of course, the gilded surfaces were not solid gold, only thin gold leaf, so they had not cost quite as much as one might imagine. Even so, the sight was dazzling.

Yet even such splendor apparently grew tiresome. The imperial knights stationed along the corridor stood slouching or sprawled in chairs, their expressions bored. Apart from those serving in the immediate entourage of important figures such as the Emperor and Empress Dowager, imperial knights were not all highly skilled or well disciplined. They were chosen for their backgrounds rather than their abilities.

Even their horses and equipment were issued on loan; they had to pay for them out of their wages or return them later. Like the academy students, most were second sons of noble houses.

Still, they acknowledged Ricard with their eyes when they saw him. They had witnessed his duel with Liberio and respected a man of courage and strength.

"May I go in?"

When Ricard asked the imperial knight guarding the door, the man shrugged, his expression saying, How should I know? So Ricard knocked.

"It's Ricard."

"Oh, come in."

At Crown Prince Nibelius's reply, Ricard carefully opened the great door.

Inside, a maid whose hair was covered by a white headcloth was holding a small pot for the Crown Prince to urinate into. Ricard stood rooted to the spot, watching. For both the prince and the maid, this was an everyday occurrence; neither showed the slightest embarrassment. He could hear the stream hitting the pot.

Afterward, the maid shook him dry and wiped him with a damp towel, then brought a basin, washed his face, and helped him blow his nose. Naturally, she dressed him as well. Only after smoothing down his unruly hair did she bow her head and leave with the chamber pot and basin.

"You're early today."

"I'm right on time."

"Am I mistaken? Was the maid late, then? Should I punish her? What would be a good punishment? How about making her eat a live praying mantis?"

The sheer casualness of it, without a trace of malice, was astounding. Fortunately, he generally listened to Ricard.

"Please don't punish her."

"Why not? Grandmother told me to punish people who don't do their jobs properly."

By Grandmother, he meant his great-grandmother, the mother of his grandfather, the reigning Emperor: the Empress Dowager. She was the true power behind both the imperial household and the Empire.

"You should show leniency unless someone has made a serious mistake. If you point out and punish every little fault, they will only do their work worse. In the end, Your Highness will suffer the inconvenience. She was probably more tired than usual today."

"Oh, I see. She could have been tired. All right. I'll let her off, then."

"A wise decision."

Ricard sighed inwardly. What he was doing had more to do with raising a child than teaching swordsmanship. The prince's father had died young, his grandfather was a libertine, and the Empress Dowager regarded even the Crown Prince as a tool for her own power. A child was easier to control, after all.

Perhaps the Empress Dowager was the one responsible for turning the imperial household into such a damned mess. She sent its competent members far away and filled the palace with people she could easily manipulate. Amid all this, Helauman was doing what he could to protect the imperial household, but there was no telling how long his efforts would hold.

One advantage of feudalism was that a country could muddle along even with a useless sovereign. Everyone governed their own domains independently. Many lords did not even care whether the Emperor was a libertine or whether he lived or died. What does that have to do with me? was their attitude.

Even so, instability in the imperial household was dangerous. Without even that minimal oversight, lords throughout the Empire might start doing whatever they pleased. No one could predict what would happen. Peace might endure without incident even if the imperial household fell apart, or the entire Empire might be engulfed in war.

Ricard only wanted to get the tournament over with and leave with Marie.

"Um, Riki, there's something..."

Holding a sword made to fit his small frame, the Crown Prince hesitantly spoke.

"Yes? Please go on."

"C-could we take today off?"

"Of course. I don't mind."

The truth was that Ricard had little talent for teaching. As for the Crown Prince, talent or the lack of it hardly mattered when he had neither patience nor enthusiasm. The swordsmanship lessons were of little use.

"Then I'll take my leave."

"N-no! Let's do something else for the length of the lesson."

"Such as?"

"Um... Didn't you say you were curious about the imperial library?"

It had come up while they were discussing codices.

"I did."

"I got Grandmother's permission. Want to go?"

"May I really?"

Ricard's eyes lit up. Seeing that, the Crown Prince broke into a broad smile too. He wanted nothing more than to win Ricard's favor. He lifted his chin proudly.

"Of course! Grandmother does anything I ask."

"Ha ha. How enviable."

The boy was a bit of a dumbass, but Ricard bore him no ill will. Still, it was hard to excuse everything simply because he was a child. Ricard had left home and lived on his own at the prince's age, and so had all his friends.

In any case, they skipped sword practice that day and headed to the imperial library a short distance from the palace. Their knightly escorts followed, looking merely bored. Why couldn't they have chosen a trip into the city instead?

The imperial library stood in a cool location to preserve its books and scrolls, in a building that resembled a temple. The few librarians tending it were visibly flustered by the Crown Prince's unexpected arrival. They feared he might do something dreadful to the books: set them alight, perhaps, or tear them apart.

But they had no power to stop him. All they could do was plead with their eyes for Ricard to watch the boy and keep him out of mischief.

The imperial library dated back to the first Emperor, who had valued knowledge, and had collected and preserved books for centuries. Perhaps because of that long history, it felt as sacred as a true temple. Its interior was magnificent, and, strangely, it stayed cool regardless of the season.

Unexpectedly, Prince Bellator was already there. He was sitting on the floor reading when he sensed their approach and looked up.

"Your Highness."

At the sight of the Crown Prince, he rose and bowed his head.

"Uncle? Did you get Grandmother's permission to come here?"

Though close in age, they were uncle and nephew, with the nephew outranking the uncle.

"Pardon? Oh, I've been coming here for quite some time..."

"What? You're supposed to be punished for coming in without permission."

Punishment, punishment—why did everything he said come back to that? Ricard intervened.

"Reading is something to encourage. Even if he did not have permission, I don't think he needs to be reprimanded."

"All right. If you say so, Riki. That's the admirable thing to do."

"Exactly. Since we're here, why not read with the prince? If he's been coming here for a while, he probably knows plenty of interesting books."

Since the two were close in age, Ricard thought it would be good if they became friends.

"All right."

Bellator was bewildered, but he had no right to refuse.

"What were you reading, by the way?" Ricard asked him.

"Oh, this? A collection of ancient civil cases."

For a moment, Ricard was speechless. He knew nothing about such things himself.

He looked over the shelves. Every book was stored separately, lying flat. Among them, a volume called Telemos's Fables caught his eye.

"This should do. Could you take His Highness through this one?"

Bellator gazed at the book.

"This seems a little too childish..."

'It needs to be childish,' Ricard said inwardly.

"It should be just right for reading together. It'll be more fun if you ask each other what you think as you go."

"Well, all right..."

"Then, Your Highness, please read this with the prince. I'll look for something to read myself."

"Okay."

Pleased with how things had worked out, Ricard left the two together and went to ask a librarian where he could find codices concerning Sword Masters or mana. The librarians kindly directed him, and he found the books in a secluded corner.

<The Magnus Family's Basic Swordsmanship Manual>

<A Classification of Mana Manipulation Methods>

<The Influence of Personality on Mana>

<Mana Properties by Color>

<The Essence of Mana>

<A Critique of the Mainstream Classification of Mana>

Clearly, mana had been an active field of study in ancient times. But he had no idea where to begin.

<The Threshold of a Sword Master, Part Two – by Rustes –>

He had found the continuation of The Threshold of a Sword Master, a codex he had read some time ago. He picked it up and opened it. It was considerably thicker than the first volume.

As expected, its contents were full of ominous things: specific methods for carving away the human heart. It described utterly inhuman practices such as sacrificing one's closest loved one through heathen rituals, torture, murder, and brainwashing. He found himself frowning, and it was difficult to keep reading.

Yet the methods seemed undeniably effective. By losing sympathy, empathy, and compassion, one apparently awakened as a Sword Master. But they would not work for just anyone. According to the text, they had to be undertaken voluntarily by someone already on the verge of becoming a Sword Master, with all the necessary prerequisites fulfilled.

The author wrote that Sword Masters were neither born nor made through training; only destiny could forge them. Thus, he claimed that his method was an art of manipulating destiny.

Art, my ass. Ricard barely suppressed the urge to burn the book and returned it to the shelf.

Despite his disgust, he must have become engrossed in the reading, for a great deal of time had passed. The Crown Prince and Prince Bellator had left long ago. When he stepped outside, the sun was setting.

Realizing his mistake, Ricard hurried to Irmin Castle. He climbed the vines and went in through the window as though it were his own home.

Marie stood with her back to him, her head tilted as she brushed her long hair.

"Marie."

At his voice, she turned.

"Oh?"

"I'm hungry. Feed me."

"Just a second. I'll get you something."

She stopped brushing, hastily twisted her hair up and tied it, then laid out the food the maids brought. Ricard sat on the bed with a tray on his knees, heartily munching his way through the assortment.

"You haven't eaten?"

"No. I went to the imperial library and lost track of time reading."

"Are you still teaching the Crown Prince swordsmanship?"

"I am, but it doesn't amount to much. He didn't seem to want to do it today, either, so we went to the library. I wish Bellator would keep him company."

"The clever prince? The Fifth Prince, was it?"

"Yes. He seems a little odd himself, but he's incredibly clever. What was it? He was reading some book about civil cases."

"How unusual. Law is something you leave your subordinates to study."

"Anyway, no one's been bothering you, have they?"

"It's been quiet since then. I just watch the clouds drift by, listen to the birds, wait for you to come... No, forget that last part. That was a lie."

Marie had let slip that she waited for Ricard without thinking and flustered herself. He only smiled softly, without teasing her.

This was Ricard's daily routine now: spend time with the Crown Prince, then visit Irmin Castle and stay with Marie for the rest of the day. Since he did it every day, everyone knew there was something between them. They merely assumed the two had fallen for each other at the academy; no one spoke ill of them. They did, however, find Ricard strange.

Having won the Crown Prince's favor, why would he bother with an imperial princess who offered him nothing? Marie was all the way down at thirty-second. Comparing her to the Crown Prince, first in line to the throne, was unthinkable. It defied their common sense.

People inevitably invent reasons for what they cannot understand. They simply assumed Ricard was young and had lost his head over a girl.

"I'm late, aren't I? Sorry. I'll come earlier tomorrow."

"No, it's all right if you're late. As long as you come..."

It was a little embarrassing, but that was all right. They knew how they felt about each other now.

To keep her from getting bored, Ricard brought up all sorts of little things. Did she know people called the imperial princes fucking bastards? Personally, he thought there was something wrong with the Empress Dowager. Things like that.

They laughed at some stories, grew angry together over others, and felt sorry about still others. Time passed, and before they knew it, stars had appeared in the sky.

Ricard kissed her, then climbed back down through the window. Marie watched to make sure he reached the ground safely and stayed at the window until he was completely out of sight.

The sadness of parting coexisted with anticipation for tomorrow. Waking in the morning brought a flutter of excitement. Every day felt like a dream.

But happy times pass quickly, and the day of the tournament drew ever closer. Ricard's skill was well established, yet the fear of what might happen made sleep elusive. All they could do was believe.

He would win. He would win without fail, and they would go home together. Both of them believed that.