Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

The two boys did not seem to be exercising, much less training.

One merely hung from a pull-up bar or supported himself atop the parallel bars for a while before lifting his legs and sitting on them.

The other held one of the parallel-bar supports and swayed back and forth while looking up at the boy sitting above him and chatting about something.

Judging by their smiling faces, they were probably having the sort of childish conversation boys their age often had.

Ten years old, perhaps twelve.

The sort of conversation that adults would find pointless and incomprehensible, yet to children was the most fascinating, important, and serious subject in the world.

Have you ever seen a turtle? I heard they’re really fast in water. Then who’d be faster if a rabbit ran on land and a turtle swam in the water? Have you ever seen the sea? They say it’s nothing but water all the way to the end of the world. But the strange thing is, it tastes salty, like someone poured salt into it. There must be an incredible amount of salt in there, right?

They were too far away for anyone to hear their voices, but it somehow looked as though that was precisely the kind of conversation they were having.

An occasional breeze swept past Rickart as he sat atop the parallel bars, gently stirring his blond hair beneath the glittering sunlight.

A week had passed since Rickart entered the dormitory at Beringen Academy. During that time, he and Boribori seemed to have grown somewhat closer. Boribori laughed, shook his head, and chatted comfortably with him.

Someone watched the two boys from a distance.

It was Volka.

No matter how he looked at him, Rickart appeared to be nothing more than a little brat. Volka still could not understand how Rickart had defeated him, almost as though the boy had used some kind of magic.

For three days, he had been unable to recover from the shock and humiliation.

On the fourth, he began to think carefully.

Why did I lose?

Setting aside his anger and resentment, he was genuinely curious.

Why had he lost?

No matter how he looked at Rickart, he was just a little kid.

Replaying the incident in his mind revealed nothing. A light had flashed before his eyes, and then he had lost consciousness. That was all he knew.

Volka brooded alone until he could bear it no longer. He strode directly toward Rickart.

When Boribori noticed Volka approaching, he jumped in alarm. The support of the parallel bars was not wide enough to conceal his entire body, but he hid behind it anyway and peered out with only half his face showing, looking like a frightened frog.

Rickart had been laughing and conversing comfortably with Boribori, but his expression turned indifferent when he saw Volka.

"Hey."

Volka spoke first.

"What?"

"Fight me."

"I told you I lost."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Then what do you want me to do? You said it wouldn’t end unless one of us died or surrendered. But you refused to surrender."

"Ha... Fine. I lost. Satisfied? Now fight me."

"Good grief..."

Rickart sighed before hopping down from the parallel bars.

"Boribori, bring me some bandages."

"O-okay."

Boribori promptly ran into the dormitory and returned with the bandages.

Having lost to Rickart and subsequently been dumped by his girlfriend, Volka wrapped his own hands.

When it became apparent that the two were about to fight, the children on the training ground turned to watch.

It appeared to be some kind of revenge match, although neither Rickart nor Volka seemed particularly emotional about it.

Consequently, the children did not come rushing over and whip themselves into a frenzy as they had on the first day. They merely watched from a distance.

This time, the two did not bother removing their shoes and entering the sandpit. They simply faced each other near the edge of the training ground.

Unlike on the first day, Volka was intensely alert.

It seemed he intended to take the fight seriously and would not let down his guard again.

He held his guard around chest level, tucked in his chin, and stared intently at Rickart.

Rickart, by contrast, merely stood at a natural angle.

Volka moved his shoulders in a gentle rhythm. He gradually circled Rickart before suddenly planting his lead foot and throwing a punch.

Or rather, he failed to throw it once again.

Before he could, Rickart’s fist slammed into his solar plexus.

Thud!

"Urk!"

Volka’s breath caught in his throat, and his mind reeled.

Rickart had not struck him in the jaw as he had on the first day, however, so Volka did not immediately lose consciousness.

Rickart had deliberately gone easy on him.

As Volka struggled to regain his stance and forcibly draw breath, Rickart merely stood there and watched him.

Then he said,

"How about using your rear foot? You’re much too predictable."

"Wh-what?"

"Look. This is what you do."

Rickart punched the air, reproducing Volka’s movements.

It was not a simple imitation. His form was flawless.

"You step forward with your lead foot while throwing the punch. It’s useful for striking quickly, but it’s too obvious. The instant you step forward, all I have to do is extend my hand, and you come forward to get hit all by yourself. I can knock you down without exerting any effort."

Volka listened as though possessed, too dumbfounded to respond.

"But watch. This is what it means to use your rear foot. First, you pull your rear foot in, and then you step forward with the lead foot. That lets you close a long distance all at once, making it difficult for your opponent to react. You’re deceiving him about the distance."

Using the rear foot initially looked like a somewhat unusual stance. But when Rickart demonstrated it fluidly as a continuous motion, it looked remarkably impressive.

"That’s why you have to begin by fighting over distance instead of thinking only about throwing your fist. Anyone who knows how to fight has already internalized the fundamentals. The distance where you’re confident. The distance where you’re vulnerable. The movements used to close the gap or widen it. Whether you want to move inside and fight or maintain your distance. But you don’t know any of that. Even if I wanted to let you hit me, you’d make it difficult."

Volka stood there with a bewildered expression.

Boribori looked equally stunned, as did the other children watching them.

"Now try again. For the moment, don’t think about throwing a punch. Come at me while focusing on closing the distance."

Volka had never imagined that Rickart would teach him, and his face remained blank with disbelief.

Still dazed, he assumed his stance again and forcibly gathered his concentration.

Following Rickart’s advice, he focused on his footwork instead of immediately swinging his fist.

He feinted several times against the motionless Rickart, but Rickart stared into his eyes and did not fall for a single one.

Then Volka used his rear foot exactly as Rickart had taught him and abruptly closed the considerable distance between them.

The instant the thought Now! entered his mind, his left leg buckled sideways.

Volka squeezed his eyes shut.

He could not understand where such destructive power came from in that small body. Rickart’s kick felt like being struck with a club.

Volka hurriedly tried to retreat, but his leg refused to move properly.

"This is why an injured leg is so devastating. Want to try again?"

"...Again."

Rickart stepped back and reestablished the distance between them.

Volka, however, was limping on his left leg.

What followed could no longer be called sparring or a match. It was effectively a one-sided beating.

After Volka was struck in the right leg as well, he could barely remain standing.

The pain in his legs inevitably drew his attention downward. Unable to decide what he should defend, he repeatedly moved his arms up and down.

He failed to block even once and took blows across both his upper and lower body.

His posture naturally began to curl inward.

Eventually, he lay on the ground, curled up like an insect.

Rickart silently looked down at Volka before unwinding the bandages around his fists.

Then he extended a hand, pulled Volka upright, and tried to support him with an arm around his shoulders.

"I’ll help you."

Boribori emerged from hiding and hurried over to support Volka from the other side.

Despite the pain, Volka managed to push them both away.

"I-I can walk by myself."

He attempted to stand on his own, but even remaining upright appeared nearly impossible.

Volka took several deep breaths as he endured the pain. Then he painstakingly placed one foot in front of the other.

Still, he stubbornly walked without assistance.

Watching Volka’s retreating back, Rickart felt strangely drawn to him.

Volka had refused to surrender until the very end during their previous fight, his determination burning all the while.

Rickart liked the way he now insisted on rising and walking through his own strength.

At the same time, however, he also felt sorry for him.

What evoked Rickart’s pity was the sense that Volka was constantly trying to isolate himself.

Rickart followed him, and Boribori ended up trailing after them as well.

"Can I visit your bed later?"

Rickart matched Volka’s slow pace as he asked from behind him.

Volka was dumbfounded. Despite the pain throughout his body, he nearly burst out laughing, which only made everything hurt worse.

He grimaced and barely managed to speak.

"I’m not interested in talking about races between rabbits and turtles."

"..."

"You can come if you want, but it won’t be interesting."

After entering the dormitory, Volka used the wall for support as he walked.

When the children in the aisle saw him, they returned to their beds and cleared a path without being told.

Then five or six unfamiliar boys opened the door at the opposite end and approached.

When Volka saw them, he stepped aside.

Rickart and Boribori, who were following him, naturally did the same and pressed themselves against the wall.

Huh? Wasn’t Volka the leader?

The unfamiliar boys passed Rickart.

His gaze briefly met that of the boy at the front of the group.

The boy possessed silvery hair that looked as though it had literally been coated in molten silver. He was astonishingly beautiful, as though he were descended from elves.

His overall demeanor, however, was cold and suggested complete indifference toward everything in the world.

Perhaps because of that, he quickly withdrew his gaze from Rickart.

Those boys used the upper bunks in the deepest part of the dormitory. They stayed there only briefly before leaving through the rear door.

"Volka, weren’t you the leader?"

"What?"

"Weren’t you ranked first here?"

"I’m not first. I am the leader, though. Owww..."

Volka groaned as he climbed onto his bed.

Rickart followed him up and sat on its edge, watching as Volka lay down.

The question was already apparent in Rickart’s eyes, so Volka answered without being asked.

"They’re Ice’s group. Those guys you just saw are ranked first through fifth here. I’m around twentieth. I’m the one who finds jobs for the kids and mobilizes them whenever a fight breaks out in the city, though. Those guys aren’t interested in anything that happens here. I’ve never even seen them speak to anyone outside their group."

In other words, Volka acted as the dormitory’s leader in practice, but other children surpassed him in pure fighting and swordsmanship ability.

"If they aren’t interested in this place, why did they come here?"

"They’re probably aiming for the special rank. Maybe they even intend to become the Emperor’s Champion. Isn’t that what you’re after too?"

Becoming the Emperor’s Champion was the very definition of an impossible dream.

It meant becoming a noble through one’s own accomplishments. For an illegitimate child, it offered the chance to surpass the prestige of the house into which he had been born.

No one would ever persecute him again. On the contrary, most nobles would cower before a Champion.

Serving as the Emperor’s personal troubleshooter effectively granted one the privilege of killing even nobles.

Rickart, however, had no interest whatsoever in such a position.

If anything, he resented the imperial family for starting the war a hundred years ago. He certainly felt no affection toward them.

"Not me. I’m interested in that Mana Drive—the Codex. That’s why I want to take the ancient-script classes."

From what Rickart had observed during his week at the Academy, the swordsmanship and unarmed-combat classes seemed to teach only the fundamentals.

For someone with no knowledge of combat techniques whatsoever, taking those classes would make an enormous difference.

That did not apply to Rickart.

That was why he wanted to study ancient script. Unfortunately, there was currently no one available to teach it.

He would have to wait until the Academy appointed a professor for the subject.

The Academy had no permanent instructors who resided there and continuously taught the children.

The Guild simply dispatched someone to teach for several months—or perhaps a year or two—before that person left and was replaced.

"...You have a bit of a lunatic streak too."

Volka spoke as though dumbfounded.

Being interested in Mana Drive was understandable. But paying money to attend such a difficult and tedious class was beyond Volka’s comprehension.

In fact, quite a few children at the Guild Academy could not even read.

They could not understand the script currently in use, yet Rickart wanted to study ancient writing?

As far as Volka was concerned, only a lunatic would attempt something like that.

"Hahaha. That’s the first time anyone’s called me a lunatic."

Rickart was always being described as an extraordinary genius, so he actually enjoyed being called a lunatic.

It meant Volka saw him exactly as he was.

"Can you show me around the city sometime?"

"...If you want. But I have to attend this week’s lessons. We can go afterward."

"Boribori can come too, right?"

"Bori-what?"

"The kid who was with me. His name really is Boribori."

"...Sure. Let’s do that."

Rickart smiled faintly and prepared to jump down from the upper bunk.

Then Volka called out to him.

"Hey."

Rickart looked back.

Volka appeared to have something to say, but he hesitated.

Unable to meet Rickart’s eyes, he looked away and struggled to force out the words.

"...Thank you."

"For what? Beating you? Don’t tell me you’re—"

"No. For teaching me."

This place was ultimately built upon competition.

The higher the children climbed through the ranks, the more jealously they concealed their personal methods and techniques.

Teaching someone else was simply unheard of.

Although Rickart had beaten him, Volka had also received instruction and gained insights of his own.

At some point, he had encountered the limits of his talent. No matter how hard he worked, he had been unable to rise above twentieth place.

After hearing Rickart’s explanation, however, it felt as though something that had long been obstructing him had loosened slightly.

He was truly grateful.

Rickart smiled gently.

"You don’t need to thank me."

Then he hopped down to the floor.

Volka stared at the place where Rickart had disappeared, overwhelmed by a feeling he could not identify.

Rickart was a strange boy.

After all, this was a world where ignoring and tormenting students weaker than oneself was considered perfectly natural.

Everything revolved around rank.

Yet Rickart did not boast about his strength or act arrogantly because he had defeated Volka.

In that sense, he did not belong in this cruel and desolate place.

Rickart had taught him without asking for anything in return. He had spoken to him with genuine interest and casually asked if Volka could do this or that for him.

Volka did not know how to respond.

He had almost never received sincere kindness or heard gentle, warm words.

His father’s violence, the ostracism of his half-siblings, and his mother’s indifference—Volka had grown up without even realizing that these things had wounded his heart.

That was why the feeling of gratitude was so unfamiliar and embarrassing to him.

Never say you’re sorry. Never say thank you.

Volka did not know when that tradition had begun here, but he had interpreted it to mean that the strong were entitled to oppress the weak.

The other children appeared to believe the same thing.

If he was stronger than someone else, he did not have to thank them for anything he obtained through exploitation.

If he beat and insulted someone, he did not have to apologize.

Why?

Because he was stronger.

But those words did not seem to hold that meaning for Rickart.

Then what did they mean?

Volka did not know.

But even as his entire body throbbed with pain, he could clearly feel warmth spreading through his chest.

End of Chapter 4 — Don’t Say Thank You