Chapter 19

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Night had fallen, and even the last violet hues of twilight had vanished. In a secluded clearing somewhere east of Beringen, a campfire burned.

The flickering flames resembled a sinister demon that had caught the scent of death, smacking its lips and licking its tongue in anticipation.

Crackle. Pop. Crackle...

Though the people themselves remained still, their shadows stretched and shrank of their own accord, like cursed dolls performing a dance.

Someone sitting on a fallen tree trunk gripped the sword at his waist and slowly rose. With the fire between them, he stared at the boy on the other side.

"Back in the day, whenever someone showed promise, the seniors would cut them down early. Things sure have gotten soft lately."

He meant that anyone who might become a future rival was killed before they could grow stronger.

What does that have to do with me?

Rickart glared at him with fury blazing in his eyes.

"To think your life is worth only a few silver coins. How cheap. You’re worth less than a country bandit."

He was referring to the Bilton brothers. Even those bastards had been worth thirty silver coins each.

At Rickart’s cutting insult, his opponent smoothly drew his sword with a practiced motion, maintaining a steady stance. The sleek blade gleamed in the firelight.

Watching from a distance, Boribori felt the hairs on his head stand on end at the sight of a real sword.

A sharpened blade possessed a distinctive chill when seen in person. At the same time, it had a strange allure—or perhaps something closer to magic.

Rickart, on the other hand, showed no particular change in expression. He turned to Volka.

"Volka, lend me your sword."

"Huh? Uh..."

"Hurry."

Volka glanced nervously at the people gathered around the campfire, then hurried over to Rickart and whispered in a low voice.

"He’s ranked seventh. He can use mana. It’s not too late, so just apologize. I’ll try to smooth things over."

Ignoring him, Rickart yanked the sword straight out of Volka’s scabbard. Then he gently pushed him back.

"Stay back, Volka. You might get hurt."

By now, Volka’s heart was racing with worry, anxiety, and fear.

What was he supposed to do?

Oblivious to Volka’s feelings, Rickart had driven the situation to its absolute limit. The die had already been cast.

But when his opponent saw Rickart holding the sword, he let out an incredulous snort.

The sword’s length and weight were ill-suited to Rickart. Put simply, he looked like a little kid holding a weapon.

Yet there was also something strangely steady about him.

Well, I suppose he’s had at least some training.

Without taking a formal stance, the other boy walked to one side of the campfire. Rickart moved to the other side accordingly.

"I don’t know how you managed to lose all sense of fear, but that’s simply how the world works. Talent is bestowed by God. Therefore, those without talent must support people like us."

Rickart was genuinely dumbfounded. It was the twisted ideology of an immature brat.

"Sorry, but talent isn’t going to keep you alive."

Rickart’s sharp retort made the other boy extremely irritated. Perhaps what bothered him most was that Rickart remained fearless even after seeing him draw his sword.

He should be terrified of me. He should be trembling and crawling at my feet.

"...I’m going to make sure I see you crying and begging forgiveness. Let’s start with one of your arms."

Still without assuming a proper stance, he simply let his sword hang at his side and drew a deep breath.

The campfire began to flicker strangely despite the complete absence of wind.

He was most likely manipulating mana.

Then he exhaled slowly and paused.

A moment later, the campfire suddenly bent sideways as though struck by a violent gust.

Whoosh!

"Hup!"

The boy abruptly appeared right in front of Rickart. His eyes were wide, his cheeks filled with air, and his sword was raised high above his head.

He had closed the distance at an inhuman speed, as if the intermediate steps had been cut out entirely.

Beneath the dark moonlit sky, a flash of steel gleamed.

Clang—!

The crash of metal tore through the silence of the night.

A jolt ran through Rickart’s opponent’s wrist, followed by a strange feeling of emptiness.

His sword had been broken in half.

Huh?

Wait.

Countless thoughts raced through his head in that infinitesimal instant.

Was it defective?

No. That couldn’t be.

I maintained it every day.

His skill in controlling mana was still crude, and he had already shot far past Rickart.

He hurriedly tried to shout to his friends for another sword.

But no voice came out.

"Cough! Ghk!"

What?

What’s happening?

Wait a second.

He felt the front of his clothes becoming damp and hurriedly raised a hand to his throat. Warm blood instantly soaked his palm.

Only then did his eyes widen.

Standing beside the fire, Rickart looked back at him.

Much of the anger had faded from Rickart’s face, leaving only icy indifference in his eyes.

Everyone—including his own friends—was staring at him with their eyes stretched wide.

At that moment, two conflicting thoughts collided inside his mind.

One denied reality, while the other struggled to accept it objectively.

I lost?

That’s impossible.

No, wait.

I’m... dying?

That’s a lie.

It doesn’t make sense.

Dying?

I was only... I was just...

He had never even resolved himself to face death, so he was utterly unprepared to accept what was happening.

But no matter how fiercely denial and acceptance battled inside his head, his soul was already halfway to the afterlife.

More than anything else, he was beginning to suffocate. Blood that had escaped the proper path of his veins was blocking his airway.

"Cough! Cough! Grrrk..."

Clatter.

The broken sword slipped from his hand.

He staggered for a while before dizziness overcame him and his vision blurred. Then he collapsed heavily to the ground.

His body soon went limp, and the life drained from his eyes.

His throat had been cut neither too deeply nor too shallowly—only precisely enough to kill him.

Even after his death, blood continued to gush from his mouth for some time.

The campfire continued to burn.

The moon remained suspended in the sky, completely indifferent to whether he lived or died.

Everyone froze at the unbelievable sight.

Even if they assumed that Rickart had somehow broken the sword through a one-in-a-million stroke of luck, cleanly slicing through the boy’s throat with the very same arc should have been impossible without magic.

If Rickart had done it deliberately, the implications were chilling.

But to Rickart, his opponent had been nothing more than a fast-moving monkey.

Timing surpassed speed.

Precision overwhelmed strength.

Rickart understood those principles and possessed the ability to embody them in reality.

Therefore, an opponent who merely used mana to move faster or tried to overpower him with brute force could never be a match for him.

Still holding Volka’s sword, Rickart swept a contemptuous gaze across the Academy’s highest-ranked students.

Strangely, Volka’s sword had not suffered so much as a single chip. Instead, the firelight reflected wildly across the blade, as though it thirsted for even more blood.

Standing in the firelight, the boy looked proud and imposing.

Despite facing the highest-ranked students in the Academy, he was not merely unafraid—he overwhelmed them.

The labels that had been attached to Rickart—newcomer, little kid—all fell away.

As though the entire world had been overturned, every dismissive gaze directed at him only moments ago vanished completely.

Those looks had been replaced by disbelief at the result, shock at the reality they struggled to accept, and fear born from the realization that they, too, could die.

He may have looked like a young child, but these students, who had not even taken their first steps into society, could never withstand the presence of a man who had once made the entire world tremble in fear.

The discrepancy between his appearance and his aura made him seem even more chilling and terrifying.

"From now on, listen carefully to what I say. Until the day you graduate, don’t ever talk about talent or any of that nonsense in front of me. You’re all weaklings anyway. There’ll be no more tribute payments. And one more thing—from this moment on, I’m ranked number one. If anyone has a problem with that, step forward now."

The others failed to immediately process the reality before them.

Then, as if by instinct, they turned toward Ice—the current number-one student—and his group.

Rickart’s gaze also fell upon the silver-haired boy whose hair resembled moonlight.

Yet Ice’s expression remained utterly dry. He displayed neither hostility toward Rickart nor submission.

Ice took the tribute money from his clothes and placed it on the ground. Without voicing any objection, he quietly left with his group.

To everyone watching, it looked like surrender.

Once Ice departed, two black silhouettes that had been observing the scene from afar also left.

The conclusion might have seemed somewhat anticlimactic, but the matter was settled.

Rickart was now ranked number one.

Having quite literally established the new ranking with a single stroke of his sword, Rickart returned all the tribute money.

The corpse of the student whose name he had never learned was taken away by the dead boy’s friends.

After returning the sword to Volka, the three of them began walking back to the guild headquarters. On the way, Rickart handed Volka his money.

"You don’t have to pay tribute anymore, Boss."

"R-Ricky..."

Volka accepted the returned money and stared at Rickart with trembling eyes. Then he looked down at the coins in his palm.

Suddenly, he clenched his molars and lowered his head. He fought desperately to swallow the emotions surging up from inside him, biting down so hard that his teeth seemed ready to crack.

Volka might have been independent, but he was still young.

Of course there were times when he wanted someone to rely on, when he wanted someone to protect him.

The grief and resentment he had accumulated over the course of his entire life could never be fully expressed in words.

All the vulnerability he had suppressed for so long was now threatening to burst out at once.

"W-We should go on ahead, Ricky."

Boribori tugged on the hem of Rickart’s cloak.

"...Yeah."

Rickart was perceptive enough to understand.

He left Volka alone, knowing that giving him some privacy was the kindest thing they could do.

Only after Rickart and Boribori had moved far away did tears stream from Volka’s tightly shut eyes.

He sank to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed loudly.

Rickart could hear Volka crying behind him.

It sounded like a wounded animal finally releasing years of pent-up anguish.

The moonlight was unusually soft that night.

***

The next morning, Rickart and Boribori awoke in a tangled heap, with the blankets crumpled around them so carelessly that it was impossible to tell whether they had even used them.

Rickart looked around with his hair sticking up in every direction and noticed that Volka was gone.

Wondering if something had happened during the night, he threw on his clothes and headed downstairs.

"Mr. Dunkel, have you seen Volka?"

"Could you not call me ’mister’?"

"Uncle Dunkel, I asked if you’ve seen Volka."

"...He went out early this morning, Young Master."

Dunkel was threatening Rickart in an indirect but unmistakable way. It was a silent warning that if Rickart kept calling him "mister" or "uncle," he would reveal Rickart’s noble status.

Understanding his intention, Rickart grinned in amusement.

Would you look at this man? He’s good.

Well, as long as Volka was safe, that was all that mattered.

"Do you know where Volka works?"

"No. His jobs change from day to day."

"Uh... Then how long can we stay here? We’re leaving today, but I at least want to say goodbye to Volka."

"You can stay until lunchtime. If you want to remain any longer, you’ll have to pay for the room."

Rickart tapped his fingers against the bar while considering various things, including how long it would take to return to the Academy.

He decided to wait until lunchtime. If Volka still had not returned by then, there was nothing he could do.

He went back upstairs, woke Boribori, and ate breakfast with him.

Afterward, they wandered around the buildings near the guild headquarters and saw a little more of the city.

But none of it was fun or exciting.

They simply stared blankly at this and that until returning to headquarters around noon.

They ate after preparing to depart, but Volka still did not appear.

Well, it’s not as though he’s missing or something happened to him.

Thinking that, Rickart decided it was time to return to the Academy.

"See you next time, Uncle Dunkel."

He tossed out the farewell and immediately left the building, retracing the road he had taken with Boribori.

Once they had left the densely populated district, a spring breeze blew past them. The scents of grass and flowers brushed the tips of their noses.

As Rickart briefly looked across the fields, Volka’s voice rang out from behind them.

"Hey! Ricky! Boribori!"

Rickart and Boribori had been pretending all morning that nothing was wrong.

But the instant they heard the voice they had been waiting for, they spun around as though on cue.

They saw Volka running toward them from a distance.

Only then did smiles spread across their previously expressionless faces.

"How’s work? What kind of job are you doing?"

"Forget whether it’s going well. Just take this. I have to go again."

Volka handed them something.

It was a piece of clothing.

When they unfolded it in the air, they saw a tacky purple violet embroidered across the chest.

Surely Volka had not embroidered it himself. He must have been busy since early morning, urgently asking someone he knew to make it.

Purple thread could not have been easy to find.

"This way, it won’t wilt. And..."

Volka hesitated, rubbing his nose in embarrassment. Then he spoke to Boribori.

"I’m sorry about last time. For throwing the flowers outside."

It was astonishing.

Volka had apologized.

It might even have been a miracle.

"I-I’m sorry too. For acting like a girl."

Boribori apologized as well, though it was unclear whether he had anything to apologize for.

Embarrassed, Volka kept scratching his short hair.

At that moment, a cool spring breeze swept past, caressing the three boys like the hand of God.

It seemed to tell them that everything was all right.

"I should get going. We’ll see each other at the Academy anyway."

"No."

Rickart shook his head.

His denial was so unexpected that Volka and Boribori both turned to look at him.

"We won’t see each other only at the Academy. We can meet anywhere. Because we’re friends forever."

Rickart pointed at the clumsily embroidered violet on the clothing.

The other two boys smiled.

Then Boribori spoke as though something had suddenly occurred to him.

"By the way, didn’t we agree not to say things like ’thank you’ or ’I’m sorry’ to each other?"

Rickart tried to think of something nice to say—or at least a reasonable excuse—but eventually gave up.

"Hmm... I suppose it’s all right once in a while?"

"Hehehe. You’re right."

"You two should hurry. The city gates will close once evening comes."

"All right. You should get going too, Volka."

They kept telling one another to leave, yet none of them could bring themselves to take the first step.

They were willing to watch a friend depart, but for some reason, none of them wanted to be the one whose departing back was shown to the others.

That was simply how they felt.

Spring flowers bloomed in profusion across the fields, making them resemble the gardens of paradise.

Purple violets swayed gently in the breeze.

Chapter 5: Not Comrades, Just Friends — End