Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

The eastern expeditionary camp, which had taken more than a month to reach, was hell on earth. Trapped within that hell, the soldiers sagged helplessly, disheartened and defeated.

When Ricky was assigned to a unit and entered its encampment, he encountered an indescribable smell.

Fire, steel, blood, and death—all mingled together.

That night, a blanket was forcibly thrown over Riki, and the other soldiers beat him. He barely managed to remain conscious and endure it. When the beating ended, a senior soldier grinned and said,

"To survive in hell, you have to become a demon. Welcome, rookie."

At first, Ricky did not participate in battle. He merely ran around in a frenzy, carrying out whatever errands the veteran soldiers gave him.

If he became confused by terminology he had never heard before, a fist would invariably come flying at him. The explanation came afterward.

He emptied latrine buckets, maintained weapons, and had to procure all manner of daily necessities—even if he had to steal them.

After he entered his first battle and proved capable of pulling his own weight, they began giving him fewer errands, and the insults and beatings gradually subsided.

Then, once he had accumulated a degree of experience, he participated in a battle that resulted in heavy casualties.

He did not even know whether they had won or lost. Half-buried in mud as thick as a tidal flat, Ricky pulled out a dying senior soldier and carried him on his back.

It was the same senior soldier who had beaten Ricky more than anyone else.

His legs sank into the mud up to his thighs with every step. In that state, he clenched his teeth and walked all day until he reached the encampment.

The injured soldier even soiled himself on Riki’s back. The stench was strong enough to penetrate the cloying reek of blood.

When Ricky finally managed to save his life, the man said,

"I’m not going to thank you."

The senior soldier eventually recovered and participated in several more battles.

Then, during one battle, he threw himself in front of Ricky to save him and was killed by a spear in his place.

As he lay dying, he smiled and said,

"Don’t thank me. I can finally rest now. You keep working your fucking ass off."

That day, Ricky learned how trust was forged.

He also learned that trust had to be demonstrated through actions, not words.

The coarse banter, the endless filthy jokes, and the somewhat violent traditions were merely a way for soldiers living on the battlefield to vent their feverish tension.

They did not represent who those soldiers truly were.

That was why Rickart tried to look beyond people’s words and discern the intentions behind them.

It was also why he had not become angry or reacted much when the children showered him with provocations upon his first entrance into the Beringen Academy dormitory.

He had lived among rough soldiers and fought while enduring the frenzied hostility of barbarians. No matter how viciously these children insulted him, it was difficult for their words to stir any particular emotion in Rickart.

However, when Rickart noticed the blanket he was now holding, something suddenly occurred to him.

Oh. It was an initiation.

If that was all it had been, he should have simply let them hit him.

"Oh, was this an initiation? Sorry. Want to try again?"

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

Four children lay sprawled around him, groaning in pain.

Silence descended upon the dormitory.

Then someone spoke to Rickart from one of the upper bunks. He could not see the speaker.

"Hey, you know how to fight?"

"Who knows? How about you?"

A quiet chuckle came from above.

Then the speaker leaped down from the top bunk and revealed himself.

He had short blond hair and looked so prematurely aged that one might have suspected he was lying about his age. His clear skin, however, made it possible to believe that he really was still a student. Rickart could not tell exactly how old he was.

Most notably, he stood a full head taller than Rickart.

He was also shirtless, revealing a well-developed, muscular upper body.

"Want to fight barehanded, or do you want swords?"

"Whichever you prefer."

"Good. This should be fun. Pankration!"

The other boy suddenly shouted.

He did not merely raise his voice—he roared at the top of his lungs. The more timid children flinched, and even Rickart was startled.

What’s wrong with him?

As though responding to his cry, however, the other children began shouting as well.

Dozens of them chanted vigorously in unison, nearly making the entire dormitory tremble.

"Pankration! Pankration! Pankration!"

Was it some kind of slogan?

While Rickart stood there in confusion, his opponent turned around and headed toward the door on the opposite side of the dormitory.

Apparently, he was being challenged to a fight.

Rickart followed him.

The opposite door opened into the dormitory’s backyard, which resembled a training ground.

Old and fresh bloodstains dotted the sandy ground. Wooden parallel bars, pull-up bars, wall bars, training dummies, and other equipment stood along its edges.

Some children were sparring for practice, some were exercising, and others were fooling around romantically with girls. When the crowd poured out of the dormitory, however, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to watch.

A circular sandpit occupied one corner of the training ground.

The boy who had brought Rickart outside walked barefoot into it.

The other children naturally formed a circle around the pit. Rickart removed his cloak and shoes before stepping onto the sand as well.

Some watched with their arms crossed and bored expressions. Others’ eyes sparkled simply because they found the commotion exciting. Still others looked on fearfully, anticipating the terrible thing that was about to happen.

Rickart’s opponent smiled confidently, as though relishing their attention.

He particularly enjoyed the gazes of the girls.

"Surrender or die. Those are the only two ways the fight ends. Everything except biting and kicking the groin is permitted. That is pankration."

"Is that so? Then are you prepared to die?"

"What? Hahaha! You’re funny. Really funny. Hey, someone wrap his hands."

Boribori promptly darted out of the crowd, took Rickart’s hands, and began wrapping them with bandages.

The bandages were meant to protect the fighter’s fists, not to keep his opponent from getting hurt.

Rickart’s opponent had his girlfriend wrap his hands, while Rickart had Boribori.

When Boribori saw that Rickart did not have a single callus on his hands, he decided that the outcome had already been determined.

"If he hits you, just pretend it really hurts and fall down. Volka probably won’t kill you, but you could still get badly injured."

Boribori spoke in a quiet voice.

Apparently, his opponent’s name was Volka.

"Well, he didn’t seem particularly prepared to die."

"...What?"

Boribori stared at him in confusion, unable to understand what Rickart meant.

"How long are you going to keep wrapping his hands? Do you want him to watch us fuck or something?"

"Hahahahaha!"

When Volka said that, laughter erupted from the surrounding children. His girlfriend pretended to dislike the remark, but her face betrayed how secretly pleased she was.

"That’s enough. You can go."

Rickart spoke to Boribori.

Sensing that something was strange, Boribori nevertheless stepped out of the sandpit.

Volka bounced lightly on the balls of his feet before beginning to circle Rickart as casually as though he were out for a stroll.

He subtly closed the distance between them, planted his lead foot, and threw a punch.

Thud!

Or rather, he tried to.

Light flashed before Volka’s eyes. His head snapped backward, and his punch cut through empty air along a bizarre trajectory.

One of his knees struck the ground.

Silence fell over the spectators as abruptly as though someone had doused them with cold water.

Barely clinging to consciousness, Volka staggered wildly while trying to correct his stance.

Another flash burst before his eyes.

Then everything went black.

Rickart had struck him in the head with a high kick.

To the spectators, the sight of him kicking an opponent taller than himself in the head looked like something straight out of a painting.

If silence could possess weight, this one would have felt like a massive boulder pressing down upon them.

They could scarcely bring themselves to breathe.

The smiles on the students’ faces gradually froze. Every one of them stared stupidly with their mouths hanging open.

Even those who had watched with bored expressions and folded arms unconsciously let their arms fall to their sides.

Three or four seconds passed.

Volka regained consciousness. At first, he looked bewildered. Then he began laboriously moving his stiff limbs, trying to rise.

He did not even notice the blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

"I could have killed you twenty times by now. Aren’t you going to surrender?"

Rickart stood still, gazing down at Volka as he spoke.

Only then did Volka realize that he had lost consciousness.

He noticed the other children’s shocked gazes converging upon him, and humiliation surged through him.

Most importantly, his girlfriend was among those staring at him.

"...Go fuck yourself...!"

Volka mustered what fighting spirit he had left and swung his fist in a wide arc.

Or rather, he tried to.

Once again, a flash burst before his eyes before he could complete the swing. With a dull smack, his fist sliced uselessly through empty air.

Volka collapsed onto both knees.

Unlike before, however, he did not lose consciousness. He clung desperately to awareness through sheer willpower and reached forward, attempting to turn the fight into a wrestling match.

There was no strength behind his movements. He could only flail helplessly.

Rickart’s knee slammed directly into his chin, knocking him unconscious once more.

Crack!

Thud.

This time, roughly five seconds passed before Volka opened his eyes, lying facedown in the sand.

It was not that his body refused to obey him. He simply could not summon any strength whatsoever.

He barely managed to turn his head and raise his gaze. Rickart was staring silently down at him.

"You said it yourself. This doesn’t end unless one of us surrenders or dies."

Volka’s nose was broken, and his split lips were bleeding. Breathing heavily through his half-glazed eyes, he barely forced out a response.

"G-go... fuck... yourself."

"Really? Then I lost. Satisfied?"

Rickart unwound the bandages from his hands, casually tossed them onto Volka—who was still unable to rise—and left the sandpit.

He retrieved his cloak from one of the spectators, picked up his shoes, and walked away without looking back.

An even heavier silence settled over the training ground.

The children could not decide how to process what they had just witnessed and remained too stunned to collect themselves.

Volka lay facedown in the sand for a long time, his face buried against the ground. The way his shoulders shook almost made it seem as though he were crying.

The bandages Rickart had worn lay in a messy heap on top of his head. Even if Rickart had not intended it that way, it looked as though he were mocking the defeated fighter.

Meanwhile, Rickart spotted the boy who had wrapped his hands among the other children.

It was Boribori.

"Oh, you. You know me, right? You wrapped my hands earlier."

"M-me?"

"Yeah, you. Where’s your bed?"

"M-me?"

"Are you imitating some animal that goes ’maa, maa’?"

"M-me?"

Rickart had no idea which bed he was supposed to use, so he merely stood in the aisle and looked around.

The children who entered later stopped dead when they saw him.

None dared approach Rickart or tell him to move aside. The narrow aisle became clogged with children like a congested road.

Rickart had been smiling and trying to ask as gently as possible. By now, however, he was beginning to wonder whether the boy was mocking him, and his expression turned cold.

The children around Boribori grabbed him and practically shoved him forward.

Rickart and Boribori ended up standing face-to-face. Boribori merely darted his eyes around, unable even to look at Rickart.

"If you have some kind of disability, nod your head. I’ll understand."

"..."

"Okay..."

Boribori simply stood motionless.

"Then if you were trying to make fun of me, please stop. Can you do that?"

"Y-yeah. No, I mean... I wasn’t trying to make fun of you..."

"Where’s your bed?"

Boribori raised his hand and pointed. It was near the very end of the bottom row.

"Is there an empty bed next to yours?"

Boribori turned around.

The owner of the bed beside his frantically shook his head.

"...No."

"Really? Then let’s stay together. Is that all right? Are you sick or something?"

"I-I’m not sick. I’m fine."

"It’s my first time here, so there’s a lot I don’t know. Help me out."

Having chosen his spot, Rickart went to his new sleeping quarters and unpacked his belongings. First, he swept the miscellaneous clutter already there to one side.

A newcomer was not supposed to behave so presumptuously, but no one said anything to him.

The atmosphere inside the dormitory was unsettled, and no one spoke. It was as quiet as though cold water had been thrown over the entire room.

Rickart simply assumed it was always this quiet.

Boribori sat motionless in the bed directly beside Rickart’s, though anyone could tell he was acutely conscious of Rickart’s presence.

Rickart asked,

"How do the classes work?"

"Classes?"

"Yeah. They must teach us something."

"Um... Apparently, you spend about a year going into the city to earn money. During that time, you train your body on your own or make friends. Then, for the remaining year, you use the money you’ve saved to make a contribution and attend lessons."

"I have some money. I wonder if this will be enough."

Rickart untied his coin pouch and poured its contents across the bed with a metallic clatter.

It was the money he had received after selling the valuables he had taken from the Bilton brothers’ bodies and severed heads.

There were dozens of silver coins and even several gold coins.

Boribori’s eyes widened. He had never seen so much money in his life.

"Uh... I-I’m not sure."

Boribori had arrived before Rickart, but he had only been here for a month himself. He did not know every detail of how the place operated.

"So this place only gives us somewhere to sleep, while we have to earn our own money and pay a contribution to attend classes. Then, after spending two years here, we leave and work with the Guild for three years. After that, we either become proper adventurers or take the final examination. Is that how it works?"

"Uh... I think so? Probably? But they do give us bread in the morning and evening. There’s a place where you can collect it. It’s so hard that it’s difficult to eat, though. So if you want proper meals and a decent life, you need money anyway..."

Rickart already had plenty of money.

It would not be enough to purchase high-quality weapons and equipment later, but it was more than sufficient to cover his immediate living expenses.

"I see. Thanks."

"What? B-but you’re not supposed to say ’thank you’ here..."

"Really? Oh, I understand what they mean. Sorry."

"...You’re not supposed to say ’sorry,’ either..."

"Haha. Yeah, this place feels a little like the army."

"The army?"

"Yeah. True comrades don’t need to thank one another or apologize. That’s because I know I’d risk my life to save my comrades, and they’d do the same for me."

Boribori cautiously looked at Rickart.

He seemed far too young to have served in the army. Boribori wondered whether he was boasting, but after seeing his fighting ability, he could not dismiss the possibility that Rickart was telling the truth.

"Oh, and rank is important here. It determines things like where you sleep and who has to step aside when two people meet in the narrow aisle."

"Rank? Who decides it?"

"No one decides it. Everyone just knows."

There were no official rankings, but the children all knew who was the best fighter and approximately where everyone else stood.

The precise hierarchy was determined through challenges and actual fights.

Still seated, Rickart leaned out and surveyed the children throughout the dormitory.

No matter how he looked at them, they were just children.

They all looked like weaklings to him, so he could not understand why they even bothered establishing a hierarchy.

"Then what rank are you?"

Rickart asked.

"I don’t have one. I’m just one of the lower-class kids."

"Lower class? That’s harsh. So if you want to live comfortably here, is it better to have a high rank?"

"They say it’s more comfortable if you give up on everything and live as quietly as a dead mouse. Then, once your two years are over, you can leave and find something else to do."

"...That’s rather sad. Come to think of it, I never asked your name. I’m Riki. What about you?"

As their conversation continued, Boribori’s fear of Rickart gradually subsided.

At first, Rickart had seemed like some terrifying specter, but now Boribori realized that he was human after all.

"I’m Boribori."

The instant he said his name, silence fell between them.

Rickart had been speaking with a smile, but his expression once again turned cold.

"You really are making fun of me, aren’t you?"

"N-no! I-I’m serious! My name really is Boribori!"

Rickart continued eyeing Boribori suspiciously for a moment.

Just then, however, the door at the opposite end opened and someone entered.

It was Volka.

His nose and mouth were completely covered in blood. He staggered inside before collapsing onto a bottom bunk that was not his usual bed.

"What rank is he?"

Rickart asked.

Boribori calmed his startled heart before answering.

"...He’s our leader..."