Chapter 21

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

"First of all, dumb bastards can’t use mana."

The meditation professor made that blunt declaration with his very first words.

Irritation was written all over his face. He did not seem to understand why he had to teach this class in the first place, which might have explained his extremely aggressive manner of speaking.

A considerable number of students occupied the tiered lecture hall. Rickart, who rarely attended classes, was among them.

Meditation classes were held only a few times a year.

Through experience, the Academy had learned that those capable of sensing mana usually did so quickly and naturally. Those who could not sense it would never succeed, no matter how hard they tried.

"When it comes to using mana, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a boy or a girl, a noble or a bastard, handsome or ugly, tall or short. None of that means a damn thing. But if you’re too stupid to understand even the most basic instructions, there’s no hope for you. You might as well stop attending my classes."

This was an age when the right to education was not properly guaranteed—or rather, when an educational system barely existed at all. Consequently, many of the children lacked even a basic vocabulary.

The students generally performed physical activities well, but most of them could not tolerate sitting still and passively listening to a lesson.

They would rather climb the cliffside stairs a hundred times in a single day than endure an hour-long lecture while sitting quietly.

Sure enough, the hundred or so students attending the class all wore undeniably vacant expressions. It was obvious that they wanted to leave immediately.

Seeing those expressions caused the professor’s already furrowed face to twist even further.

"Those who can do it will succeed quickly, and those who can’t will never succeed even if it kills them. There’s no reason for a long explanation or repeated lessons. So I’ll explain it only once today. Do you understand?"

"Yes!"

The students looked stupid, but their response was energetic.

There was no proper curriculum here anyway. Everything was decided according to the professor’s whims.

"First, make yourselves as comfortable as possible. You can sit or lie down. Spread out and give one another plenty of room."

The students did as instructed, including Rickart and Boribori.

Rickart leaned back in a half-reclining position.

"Close your eyes. Do not fall asleep. Imagine yourself shutting off all your senses, including the sounds and smells around you. Focus only on my voice. We’ll begin now. Breathe in deeply, then exhale. Feel the air entering your body. Slowly steady your breathing. Breathe as comfortably as possible."

As they followed his instructions, the students quickly became drowsy.

Light streamed through several windows shaped like arrow slits, and the weather had grown pleasantly warm, naturally making everyone feel languid.

The professor already knew that eighty percent of these bastards would fall asleep.

Teaching this class wounded his pride every time, but it was technically a commission, so he reluctantly went through with it.

"From now on, think of nothing. You won’t be able to, though. Thoughts will continue rising into your mind. Let them. Then observe where those thoughts begin. Keep watching them. Even then, you probably won’t find their starting point. This requires practice. Eventually, you’ll realize that the place where thoughts begin is empty. There is nothing there.

"What comes next is important. Imagine filling that emptiness with your breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale... Imagine that most of each breath enters and leaves, but a small portion remains behind. Let what remains travel through your blood vessels, linger within your muscles, accumulate in your bones, and then circulate through your blood vessels again. Continue repeating that process."

It was the kind of meditation that sounded simple but was extremely difficult to perform.

What exactly was supposed to remain?

His breath?

Could breath remain inside the body like that?

It was difficult even to understand.

Although he did not fully comprehend it, Rickart followed the professor’s instructions.

He attempted to observe the point where his thoughts arose—or perhaps whatever existed before that point. He tried to feel himself inhaling and exhaling as clearly as possible, then imagined that breath traveling through his blood vessels.

At some point, the professor’s droning voice gradually faded into the distance until Rickart could no longer hear it at all.

Even the snores of the students around him disappeared.

He felt as though he had submerged himself underwater.

Should I go deeper?

How much deeper?

Is there an end?

What if I can’t come back?

It was a strange experience, making him feel peaceful and frightened at the same time.

He was sinking.

Sinking.

No, was he slowly falling?

Or was he rising?

Which direction was up, and which was down?

Then, suddenly, countless stars bloomed in the middle of the abyss.

Before he knew it, Rickart was standing in the fields of Heiden.

A short distance away, he saw Ricky at his present age, sitting in the field and looking up at a night sky filled with stars.

At the sight of that pitiful back, an indescribable emotion surged through Rickart, filling his eyes with tears.

It had been a time when he wanted nothing.

A time when he knew neither boredom nor happiness nor unhappiness.

That’s right.

There was a time when I was like that.

Had I not been perfectly fine without parents?

Why did anyone need familial affection?

Was love not merely another name for the most vicious of curses?

Then why had he been forced to suffer such immense pain, sorrow, and betrayal?

What had he done wrong?

Who could possibly save whom?

Was that Ricky not the most pitiful being of them all?

As those thoughts continued like a demon’s whispers, emotions beyond his control began surging wildly.

Indignation.

Rage.

Cursed disappointment and despair.

Overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions, Rickart finally began to weep, the tears that had filled his eyes streaming down his cheeks.

The night sky shifted.

The stars trembled.

At that moment, a declaration of war against the entire world—the most destructive spell imaginable—rose into his mind.

...I don’t know what any of this means anymore.

Everyone should just die.

Then Ricky, who had been gazing up at the star-flowered night sky, turned toward Rickart.

He spoke calmly.

"It’s all in the past, Ricky. The pain isn’t tormenting you. You’re the one still holding on to it."

At those words, his boiling emotions cooled as if they had never existed, and all the strength drained from his body.

It felt less like salvation than emptiness.

Then someone pulled Rickart out of the abyss.

"Ricky. Ricky."

Rickart felt his body being shaken as his hearing gradually returned.

When he opened his eyes, the lecture hall was completely dark.

The sun had already set.

Although darkness surrounded him, his eyes had already adjusted. He could see his surroundings by relying on the moonlight streaming through the windows.

"Ricky, if you sleep somewhere cold, your face will freeze crooked. Let’s go back to the dormitory and sleep there."

It was Boribori.

"I was asleep?"

Rickart felt as though only a brief moment had passed. Discovering that several hours had slipped by left him confused.

"Yeah. You were sleeping so soundly that I waited until now, but you wouldn’t wake up at all, so I finally shook you awake. Were you really tired?"

"Not particularly..."

Just then, they heard snoring behind them.

Volka was asleep with his arms folded, leaning back against something.

He had not attended today’s class, yet there he was.

When had he arrived?

"Grrrrk! Pheeeew... Grrrrk! Pheeeew..."

"It looks like someone else is the tired one. Anyway, what happened with the class?"

"Most of the students fell asleep. The professor explained something called Mana Drive for a little while, and then the class ended."

Rickart remained dazed for a moment.

As his awareness of reality returned, he gradually regained his sense of stability.

His memories of Stormherz, the events he had experienced after setting out on his journey, and everything that had happened since arriving here swept rapidly through his mind and merged into his identity.

"...So, did you sense it? Mana, I mean."

"Yup."

Boribori answered so easily that Rickart’s eyes widened in disbelief.

I don’t think I felt anything.

"Really? You’re not lying?"

"Yeah. You just breathe and imagine it, don’t you? The professor said he’d never seen anyone sense it as quickly as I did."

If even the professor acknowledged it, then it had to be true.

Rickart still could not sense anything.

Do I need more time?

He was not particularly obsessed with mana, but he nevertheless felt slightly disappointed.

"He told me to meditate regularly and not neglect my training. Sensing mana is only the beginning. Accumulating it and learning how to use it is what Mana Drive really is. He also told me not to become arrogant."

The professor might have spoken harshly, but it seemed he taught properly.

"Did anyone else sense mana besides you?"

"The high-ranked students already knew how. Other than them, no one did. It was just me. Did you feel anything, Ricky?"

"I’m not sure. I don’t think so."

Boribori smiled brightly.

"It’s all right. There’s no need to rush."

"Right. But..."

Rickart woke Volka, who was still snoring.

"Volka. Volka, wake up."

"Grrrk! Gasp! Ack! Huh? Uh... Smack, smack..."

Volka jolted awake and smacked his lips, his eyes still half-glazed with sleep. He must have been sleeping remarkably soundly despite the position he was in.

"Volka, didn’t you say you had something to tell Ricky?"

Boribori asked.

"Hmm... Oh. Right."

"What did you want to tell me?"

"Well, Mr. Dunkel said he needs some students. Capable ones. So I was going to ask you."

"What does he need them for?"

"The guild received a commission, but it sounds like they’re short on manpower. You haven’t been at the Academy for long, but you’re the strongest. And you have some money."

Having money meant being able to obtain equipment.

The guild did not provide equipment to adventurers or students. Everyone had to purchase their own gear with their own money.

In truth, even armies operated that way.

That was simply the kind of age they lived in. A person had to buy their own equipment before going out to risk their life in battle. In return, however, the profession guaranteed a certain degree of social status.

The guild did lend money to its affiliated adventurers, but that was not an especially wise choice. Borrowing carelessly could ruin a person’s entire life.

The guild was not a charitable organization.

"What’s the commission?"

"I think he mentioned something about deserters. Apparently, a mercenary company submitted the request. They must not be in a position to deal with the problem themselves."

Regardless of the culture or era, desertion was one of the most severely punished military crimes.

Nevertheless, it occurred with remarkable frequency.

The danger to one’s life was one reason, but the battlefield also subjected people to countless other hardships that were almost impossible to endure as human beings.

Desertions became especially rampant following a defeat. Sometimes, even emperors and kings were powerless to bring the situation under control.

Rickart knew that well from experience.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Are there any commissions that aren’t?"

Rickart recalled what Arno had once told him.

Academy students were mobilized for competition between guilds—and died as a result.

"The compensation is generous, and they’ll take it into account when assigning our grades after graduation. Anyone who completes the commission will be recognized as an intermediate-ranked adventurer. Anyone who performs exceptionally well will be considered advanced rank."

"If they survive."

"Right. If they survive. Are you going to do it?"

Rickart thought briefly about whether he should accept.

It did not take him long to conclude that he should.

No matter how long he waited, it did not seem as though a professor would ever arrive to teach ancient script. He had even pestered Uncle Dunkel about it, but Dunkel obviously lacked the authority to appoint professors.

Dunkel was the only person Rickart knew with connections to the "real" headquarters, so there was nothing Rickart could accomplish while remaining an ordinary student.

His only remaining option was to attain special rank, take the final examination, and gain access to the Codex.

He was not particularly fixated on that goal yet, but there was no harm in raising his rank.

"I’ll do it."

"Am I going too?"

Boribori asked the instant Rickart answered.

"No. You’re staying here."

Rickart rejected the idea without hesitation.

Mana or not, it required a foundation of basic skill to demonstrate any real power. Boribori still did not even have a place in the rankings.

What would he do on the mission besides become a burden?

Even if Boribori possessed an innate talent for sensing mana, what good was it if he could not fight?

The two abilities ultimately needed to be developed together to become useful.

This was still an era when the techniques for manipulating mana had not advanced particularly far. Humanity had only recently begun taking its first steps toward the lofty heights embodied by the Sword Masters.

Volka roughly ruffled the dejected Boribori’s hair.

"Hey, why are you getting all gloomy again? I still haven’t sensed mana either. How about attending more classes instead of learning from Ricky? You need to compete against people around your own level if you want to improve."

"Okay."

"Let’s go. It’s cold. Is this place cold, or is the weather still cold? Oh, right. Ice’s group is participating too. Just so you know."

Volka rose as he spoke.

Rickart and Boribori also stood and left the darkened lecture hall.

Before stepping through the door, Rickart suddenly looked back.

For some reason, he felt as though someone might be sitting there.

But no one occupied the hall.

Only faint moonlight lingered within the dense darkness.

***

Rickart headed into the city the following day.

The sky had been overcast since morning, and it eventually began to rain. Rickart walked with his cloak’s hood raised as raindrops pattered against him.

Fortunately, although the road was wet, it was firm and had not become especially muddy.

The rain was not particularly heavy, but the wind was fierce.

His hood kept getting blown from his head, so he eventually stopped bothering to wear it.

After walking for approximately five hours, he arrived at the guild headquarters. He stood beside the fireplace and dried his wet hair and body as much as possible.

Then he headed to the smithy.

Morty was working hard as usual. Upon recognizing Rickart, he approached him.

"I’d like to buy a sword."

Rickart took out his coin purse, opened it, and showed Morty its contents.

It contained one or two gold coins and a little over ten silver coins. That was what remained after covering his various living expenses.

"Wait here."

Morty left Rickart for the moment and approached the blacksmith, who was sharpening a sword on a grindstone.

Morty said something while pointing toward Rickart, apparently explaining why he had come.

The blacksmith, whose face was covered by a thick, curly beard, turned and stared silently at Rickart.

When he rose from his seat, Rickart saw that the man was extraordinarily tall and broad-shouldered. His sheer bulk looked like a formidable weapon in its own right.

Without saying anything, he gestured for Rickart to follow.

Rickart followed him into a storage building attached to the smithy.

It was pleasantly cool inside, and several long wooden crates had been neatly arranged across the floor. The patter of raindrops against the roof was soothing to the ear.

The blacksmith opened the crates one by one.

Inside were smooth, unsheathed swords of various lengths and widths.

"Choose whichever one you want."

Rickart alternated his gaze between the blacksmith and the swords before examining them as instructed.

Eventually, he stopped before a longsword that appeared somewhat too large and long for him.

The blade bore subtle wave-like patterns created through the Nords’ distinctive forging techniques.

The ricasso—the unsharpened base of the blade—had been wrapped in leather. This allowed the wielder to grip the blade there and use the sword like a short spear whenever necessary.

"This one. May I handle it?"

The blacksmith silently nodded.

Rickart picked up the sword and examined its balance, the thickness of its blade, and whether the edge had been properly aligned.

It was a flawless masterpiece.

However, it did feel somewhat heavy.

Perhaps because he had wielded a greatsword in his previous life, this weapon actually felt more natural in his hands.

The blacksmith watched Rickart inspect the weapon with an impassive expression.

Strangely, the boy and the sword seemed to suit each other remarkably well. Watching Rickart handle it gave him the same impression as watching a renowned master examine a blade.

"I’ll take this one. How much is it?"

Rickart reached for his coin purse.

In truth, however, he did not have remotely enough money.

A weapon forged from high-quality iron by an experienced Nord blacksmith cost at least five gold coins. If taken to another region, it could be sold for several times that amount.

Moreover, the sword Rickart had selected happened to be forged from meteoric iron, famously the most expensive metal that humans could work.

In other words, it was not something one could purchase with a handful of gold coins.

It was the kind of weapon one had to win at an auction.

Fortunately, the blacksmith shook his head.

"A hero needs a weapon worthy of him. The glorious deeds you accomplish in the future will serve as payment."

Rickart’s eyes widened at the word hero.

"A hero? Me?"

"I heard about you from Morty. You’re the one who risked his life to duel those thugs."

He appeared to be referring to Rickart’s battle against the higher-ranked students over the tribute payments.

Before Rickart subdued them, they had caused trouble throughout the city. They might not have openly run rampant, but they had harmed people in various ways.

They were too frightened to provoke the Nords, so instead they extorted money from iron-ore suppliers, cheated pimps, and ran up tabs at taverns without ever paying.

Their misdeeds had extended far beyond bullying children and stealing their money.

Now all of that had disappeared.

As a result, it was not only the Academy students who owed Rickart a debt. The city’s merchants and craftsmen had also benefited from his actions.

Hadn’t defeating such villains made him a hero?

The person in question, however, found the entire notion awkward.

He gave an embarrassed smile.

"They were such small fry that I didn’t exactly risk my life."

The blacksmith took the sword, placed it in a scabbard, adjusted its leather straps, and handed it back to Rickart.

"Well, whatever the case. Take it."

And so Rickart received a sword for free.

Then again, since the blacksmith considered himself indebted to Rickart, perhaps it was not truly free.

"Thank you."

Rickart did not forget to express his gratitude.

After thanking Morty as well, he left the smithy. The sword was too long and heavy to wear comfortably at his waist, so he slung it over one shoulder.

Still, he could not understand why being called a hero felt so awkward.

It was far more embarrassing than he had expected.

The people in my hometown say I’m gentle and kind, but I’m not really that good a person.

Rickart walked beneath the steadily falling rain.

Strangely, being soaked did not feel unpleasant at all.