Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

What was so enjoyable about hitting people and hurting them? Conversely, what was so enjoyable about getting beaten until your nose broke and your lips split?

Well, some kids only enjoyed hurting others, but I was a little different.

There was something bottled up inside me. Right here, in my chest. Letting it burst made me feel a little better, and every time I felt myself improving, it was as though something empty inside me was being filled.

Yeah. A sense of fulfillment.

Don’t you feel that too?

I don’t know whether you’ll understand, but trading blows with someone feels a lot like having a profound conversation.

Even without saying anything, you can feel it all.

Ah, this bastard is a piece of shit.

Ah, this one’s a decent guy.

But fighting means having an opponent, and there’s no guarantee I’ll always win. Losing feels unfair and infuriating, but I trained hard while telling myself I would win the next time.

Then I discovered that there were some kids I could never beat, no matter how hard I tried.

Were they simply born that way?

What were they born with?

How could they do so effortlessly what I could never accomplish, no matter how hard I worked?

They say an entirely different world opens up once you learn to sense mana and wield it. But when I face children like that, I can’t feel anything from them.

They’re just walls.

Walls that never answer.

So, you know...

I think I’m going to stop training.

For some reason, Volka remembered the words he had once spoken.

He could not remember who he had said them to.

Had it been his former girlfriend?

When Volka opened his eyes that morning, he remained lost in thought before sitting up. For some inexplicable reason, there was a restless tingling in his chest.

His thoughts naturally turned to everything Rickart had taught him.

As he carefully reconsidered each lesson, all his attention became focused on it.

He should pay attention to distance before thinking about throwing a punch. He should first secure the distance at which he felt most confident. Kicks were just as important as punches.

Things like that.

In truth, these were merely fundamentals. The Academy’s instruction consisted largely of proper form and each instructor’s personal techniques.

Beyond that, the students had to improve by fighting actual opponents.

Volka, however, was busy working. Various incidents constantly occurred, and as the leader, he had to resolve them. He had never been able to devote his complete attention to training.

Moreover, because the students were all at different stages of physical development, finding a suitable training partner was extremely difficult.

Volka reconsidered the fights he had lost before meeting Rickart.

Now that he looked back on them, the reasons for his defeats seemed remarkably clear.

His past self appeared incredibly foolish.

After a good night’s sleep, Volka devoted himself to solitary practice, even though his body had not yet fully recovered.

He continuously contemplated the concept of distance while trying to ingrain the corresponding movements into his body.

He had not seen Rickart’s strikes in their entirety, but their almost beautiful precision gave him an ideal to pursue.

Rickart hung from the pull-up bar and silently watched Volka practice. Every so often, he corrected Volka’s form or offered another piece of advice.

Two days passed in that fashion.

Then came the day of their unarmed-combat class.

Approximately fifty children attended the class, with roughly three boys for every girl.

Volka’s former girlfriend was among them.

As usual, the instructor separated the less experienced students into a group and taught them personally. The others formed their own groups, using one another as training partners while practicing their techniques.

Some merely fooled around and laughed with their friends.

Volka, however, stood alone striking a training dummy, looking somewhat isolated.

Perhaps because of what had happened with Rickart, the other children were directing strange looks toward him.

"Hey, Volka."

Someone called to him.

Volka turned and saw a student ranked above him—one who spent more time in the city than at the dormitory.

"What?"

"I heard the new kid beat the shit out of you."

"So?"

"You’re supposed to be the leader. How are you going to look after everyone after something like that?"

"Since when have you cared about the others?"

"I don’t. I care about improving my own abilities. It’s not as though I’m talentless like you."

The boy sneered.

"You only gave up because you had no talent, didn’t you? That’s why you settled for playing leader to a bunch of brats. But now even that’s over, so what are you going to do? Become a shoeshine boy?"

Snickers erupted around them at the mention of shining shoes.

The Adventurer Academy was a truly cruel place.

Its students took pleasure in watching others fall and did not hesitate to ridicule them. They considered tormenting anyone weaker than themselves perfectly natural.

Just then, the instructor noticed the students who were fooling around.

"You little bastards. I told you to practice, yet some of you are already playing around. I may not care much about you, but I believe I told you that playing during my lesson amounts to disrespecting me."

The children tensed at the instructor’s words.

He might subject them to training so brutal that it bordered on torture under the guise of improving their stamina.

The instructor merely smirked, however.

"Then again, it’s true that this is boring. Let’s liven things up a little. Pankration."

The children’s eyes widened, and they shouted in chorus.

"Pankration! Pankration!"

The chant briefly reminded the instructor of his own Academy days.

"Anyone confident in his ability, step forward."

The student who had been taunting Volka raised his hand.

"May I choose my opponent?"

"If the person you choose doesn’t refuse."

At the instructor’s answer, the student turned toward Volka.

"Are you going to refuse?"

Volka sank briefly into thought.

To everyone else, it looked as though he was deciding whether to swallow his pride or fight despite the odds.

That was not the case.

Volka was not calculating his chances of winning. He was reviewing everything he had practiced during the past few days.

Once he had finished, he raised his head.

"No. Get out here."

He walked toward the sandpit, eliciting murmurs of excitement from the surrounding students.

Volka ignored them and repeated the same words to himself.

Measure the distance.

Measure the distance.

Measure the distance...

Fight at the distance I want and avoid the distance I don’t. Once he enters my range, the punch will come naturally.

So measure the distance.

How much could two days of practice possibly change?

Sometimes, however, a small change could produce an enormous result.

Volka felt his heart pounding.

It was neither fear of defeat nor a desire for victory.

It was simply anticipation born from the feeling that something within him had changed.

"Let’s not turn this into some ugly wrestling match. We should give the spectators something enjoyable to watch."

The student spoke after facing Volka in the sandpit.

He was roughly the same age as Volka and was already considered an adult.

They had entered the Academy at approximately the same time and had even spent some time together in the past.

How had their relationship deteriorated like this?

Perhaps it had been caused by an inferiority complex regarding talent. Or perhaps the other boy harbored some resentment he had never expressed.

There was no way to know.

"Are you both ready?"

The instructor asked.

Volka nodded. His opponent grabbed the opposite shoulder and rotated his arm in wide circles.

"Good. Everything except biting and kicking the groin is permitted. Death or surrender. Begin the pankration!"

At the command to begin, Volka assumed his stance.

It was slightly different from before.

As a right-handed fighter, he held his left hand forward and drew back his right, with his left foot slightly advanced.

His upright torso presented a smaller target for strikes to the face.

Most importantly, he kept his upper body erect and moved lightly on his feet. He occasionally extended his left hand, both measuring the distance and keeping his opponent in check.

Then his opponent suddenly lowered his upper body and charged.

He threw his left fist with all his strength, swiftly retracted it, and followed with an upward right.

What? Wait.

Volka extended his arm, drew his head slightly backward, and widened the distance.

Setting everything else aside, his opponent’s attack looked incredibly slow.

Is he testing me?

"Haha! Have you become a coward, Volka? Let’s make this a little more exciting."

His opponent bounced lazily in place as though loosening his body.

Then he assumed his stance and boldly charged again.

Once more, Volka could see the entire attack.

All I have to do is extend my hand, and he’ll come forward and get hit by himself.

Is it really supposed to be this easy?

After facing Rickart’s lightning-fast strikes, which had shot in from his blind spots, this opponent’s attacks felt like a game.

Before any consideration of Rickart’s lessons, the difference in ability between Rickart and the boy before him was simply too vast.

His opponent continued driving him backward until Volka reached the edge of the sandpit.

Sand scattered beneath the students’ forceful steps, and the spectators watched with growing interest.

Someone’s nose would break, or someone’s lips would split. Blood would drip onto the sand.

Everyone expected that person to be Volka.

Then his opponent swung with all his strength.

Suddenly, his head snapped sideways, and he collapsed onto the ground.

Volka had slipped to the side and struck.

Wham!

The blow did not land squarely on the jaw. It struck the cheekbone instead, causing the student to catch himself with his hands outside the sandpit.

Had Volka landed properly on the jaw and knocked him unconscious, he would have fallen face-first rather than catching himself.

Even so, the world spun around him, leaving him disoriented for several moments.

He scrambled to his feet with a shocked expression.

The unexpected result made everyone’s eyes widen.

Those who harbored no particular ill will toward either Volka or his opponent became interested by the sudden reversal of their expectations.

After taking a single blow, Volka’s opponent appeared to lose all his confidence. He hesitated and retreated with a dazed expression.

Then he remembered that nearly fifty students were watching.

Humiliated and unwilling to accept what had happened, he recklessly attacked again.

Volka widened the distance.

Then, using the rear foot exactly as Rickart had taught him, he abruptly crossed the wide gap and threw his fist.

Crack!

The blow landed perfectly.

His opponent’s lip split, and several broken teeth scattered across the sand.

Then he simply fell face-first onto the ground.

He was completely unconscious.

"Oh? What’s this? You’re pretty good."

The instructor spoke without the slightest concern despite the unconscious student lying before him.

In truth, the man was merely an upper-rank adventurer affiliated with the Guild. As an educator, his character left a great deal to be desired.

"Only two blows. Very clean. Striking skills like that could be useful in a real fight. Now, it’s time to decide the match, isn’t it? This is pankration."

Unarmed combat was important because weapons were frequently damaged or knocked from one’s hands during actual battles.

Wrestling techniques were particularly valuable for that reason, but striking skills were no less important.

They were also useful for ordinary self-defense.

Most importantly, knowing one could fight effectively without a weapon inspired confidence. It gave a person the assurance that there was always one final option, no matter the circumstances.

In any event, death or surrender.

Merely knocking someone unconscious did not end the match.

Volka’s opponent soon regained consciousness, but his body refused to obey him, and he could only writhe on the ground.

Volka gently planted a foot on the boy’s chest and looked down at him.

"What will you do?"

"...I-I surrender."

Clap, clap, clap, clap!

Applause erupted throughout the training ground.

"What the hell? He’s actually pretty good."

"Volka’s no joke. Think he could beat you too?"

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"But then what does that make the new kid?"

The students who had only heard the rumors while staying in the city began offering remarks of their own.

Volka’s overwhelming victory naturally directed their attention toward Rickart.

They had just witnessed Volka’s considerable ability with their own eyes.

Naturally, they could not help becoming curious about the newcomer who had beaten him senseless on his very first day.

Meanwhile, the defeated student’s friends could not recover from their shock.

Losing might have been understandable if only one or two positions separated them in the rankings.

Volka, however, had been ranked twentieth, while their friend had been fifteenth.

There had been a difference of five entire places.

The result was absurd, incomprehensible, and difficult to accept.

Yet the fight had ended after only two blows, making it impossible to dismiss as mere luck.

Volka himself also felt somewhat bewildered.

He could not determine whether he had become stronger or his opponent had somehow become weaker.

One thing was certain.

It felt good.

The desire to improve—something he had unknowingly abandoned—seemed to flare back to life like a flame.

His heart pounded.

When class ended and Volka left the inner fortress, children who had subtly kept their distance from him approached and pretended they were close friends.

Even the former girlfriend who had dumped him came over.

"Looks like you’ve started training again."

She deliberately spoke as though nothing had happened.

For some reason, Volka found it amusing.

Something else had completely captured his attention, making his former girlfriend seem utterly insignificant.

He did not harbor even the slightest lingering attachment to her.

He neither became angry with her nor expressed resentment.

He merely said,

"Hey, don’t talk to me. I’m busy."

His former girlfriend’s face turned bright red.

Leaving her behind, Volka headed toward the dormitory. Then he took Rickart and Boribori into the city.

The higher-ranking students who had visited the Academy dormitory to attend class watched the red-cloaked boy from a distance.