Chapter 26

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

When people spoke of distance, they generally described it in terms of how long an ordinary adult would take to walk there at a normal pace—a day’s journey, for example, or half a day.

That naturally meant the estimate varied from person to person. One had to take such claims with a grain of salt, especially when they came from locals. This was even more true in terrain such as forests and mountains.

For that reason, Rickart estimated that it would take them roughly two days to get out of the forest. Moreover, they had an injured person with them, so they could not move quickly.

The forest path was uneven, rising and falling as though it were undulating. Thick tree roots protruded here and there. There was no conceivable way for a carriage or wagon to travel along it.

Molti stubbornly insisted that he could walk on his own, but after Rickart spoke firmly to him, he accepted Volka’s support.

Thus, the group spent another night in the forest.

Owls hooted in the distance, and the moon was mostly hidden behind the branches. Two campfires burned amid the pitch-black darkness.

It was the sort of night that made one feel as though an unknown terror lurked beyond the reach of the firelight.

They sliced up the salted meat they had received in the village and shared it among themselves. It was practically caked in salt, so they had to eat it in tiny portions with hard bread.

The students pretended otherwise, but their anxiety was plain to see.

Ironically, they took comfort from Rickart’s composure. His ability to remain so calm was astonishing—so much so that they still found it difficult to get used to.

"The enemy will probably come from the direction we came."

Rickart began speaking as he wiped the dagger he had used to cut the meat. Although he had not asked for their attention, everyone turned toward him and listened.

"If they’d gotten ahead of us and waited, we would’ve encountered them near the village. It’s too far for them to go all the way around and wait for us at the end of this road. They’ll probably inspect the scene first, which means they’ll be late in pursuing us. When they catch up, we’ll have to fight."

Rickart stated it plainly.

There was no option to flee or choose some other course.

They had to fight.

"We have three groups of three, so each group should take on one enemy. You all know that once the fighting starts, you won’t remember anything you practiced anyway, right? If you see an opening, just stab or slash. When three people fight one person, an opening is bound to appear."

It might have wounded their pride, but pride meant nothing when their lives were at stake. The students had already experienced that once, so they understood it well.

However—

"But they outnumber us. There are nine of us, and one of us is injured. The enemy must have at least thirty people. How are we supposed to fight them three against one?"

One of the female students raised the question. Now that they had become reasonably comfortable around one another, she seemed able to offer her opinion without hesitation.

"That’s why the opening attack is important. If we ambush them and take several of them down in an instant, they’ll think there are more of us than there really are. It’s about momentum. We’ll overwhelm them with sheer momentum. Don’t think about anything else. Just focus on killing them one at a time. We’ll sweep right through them. I’ll handle anyone particularly strong."

Even if Rickart was right, and even if they trusted him as their leader, the students still seemed doubtful. They simply lacked enough genuine combat experience to feel confident.

Rickart tapped the bandage wrapped around his left hand.

"The wound on my palm still hasn’t completely healed."

Only a day had passed since they had sworn not to flee from battle—and to avenge anyone who died in the fighting.

The pain in Rickart’s palm remained sharp, constantly reminding him of that oath.

But the human heart was fickle. There was no telling how they would react once the fighting actually began.

Rickart looked over at Ice.

His seemingly unreal silver hair and perfectly proportioned features somehow continued to shine despite his not having washed properly for three days.

Yet the eyes that were usually so cold and indifferent now appeared somewhat melancholy.

Or perhaps they were frightened.

Rickart thought that he still did not understand the boy.

Ice had claimed that he left the others behind to complete the assignment. Had he meant it sincerely, or had it merely been a cowardly excuse?

"It might be better to fight. Running away can become a habit. And once that happens, you become truly miserable..."

Rickart muttered the words as though talking to himself—or perhaps intending for everyone to hear.

The campfires crackled while the students remained silent. It was impossible to tell whether they were steeling their resolve or simply trembling with fear.

Rickart was accustomed to fighting, so it was one thing for him to make such a decision. But he did not think that gave him the right to force the other students to risk their lives.

At the same time, he felt that the students’ circumstances were similar to his own.

In his previous life, he had been thrown onto a battlefield when he was around fifteen or sixteen years old.

When he raised his head and slowly examined the students’ faces, it felt as though the thoughts, trembling, worries, and anxiety of those days were returning to him.

That was why he could never say something like, "I’ll kill you if you run."

Even if they did flee, all he could do was reassure them that it was all right and gather them back into the fold.

But he could not actively encourage them to run, either.

Rickart decided that he had done all he could.

As the night deepened, an inexplicable melancholy settled over him.

It was because nothing had changed.

***

The next day, after traveling a little farther along the forest path, Rickart decided that they would set up an ambush midway along the route.

It was far better to prepare for the fight in advance than to keep walking defenselessly and suddenly find themselves under attack.

The students wondered if they might be able to leave the forest if they continued just a little farther. They also hoped that they might encounter guild adventurers once they reached Torvail.

Nevertheless, they trusted Rickart’s judgment and followed his instructions.

That was precisely what Rickart intended.

It was not merely about gaining a tactical advantage. Preparing an ambush also changed their state of mind. Human nature would force them to accept that they truly were about to fight.

Like a highly capable field commander, Rickart understood that he had to choose when and where the battle would take place.

"Hey, wouldn’t it be better to attack them from both sides?" Volka asked.

At present, all the students were hiding on only one side of the road.

"That only works if everyone can coordinate properly. You experienced it yourself. Once the fighting starts, everything becomes so chaotic that you might injure an ally coming from the opposite side."

"True..."

When extreme tension took hold during a genuine life-or-death battle, it became difficult to distinguish friend from foe.

That was why armies placed such importance on maintaining formation. A soldier simply had to stab whoever stood in front of him.

The larger a group became, the harder it was to command, while the soldiers themselves only needed to repeat simple actions. In a small-scale battle, however, the abilities of the individual combatants became far more important.

Rickart and the other students drew their weapons in advance and hid beside the road.

However, waiting proved far more tedious than expected.

All manner of thoughts passed through their minds—some pointless, others intended to steel their resolve.

Then, around the time the sun reached its zenith, a scream rang out from far down the road they had already traveled.

"Aaaaaaargh!"

Everyone’s eyes widened.

What was that?

Then it came again.

"Aaaaaaargh!"

The group flinched once more. Even Rickart stared in bewilderment, unable to understand what was happening.

What was going on?

More screams continued to ring out intermittently.

"Don’t leave me behind!"

"Save me!"

"I’m sorry!"

After a while, a faint breeze carried the smell of burning toward them.

Was there a fire?

What was happening?

"You fucking bastards! Do I look like a goddamn pushover to you?!"

They had no idea what was going on, but it was clearly something extremely serious.

The screams drew closer and closer.

Then—

"Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!"

A man came sprinting down the road in a panic, completely empty-handed.

Judging by his clothing, he was an adventurer—and probably one of their enemies. Two arrows were embedded in his back.

What the hell?

He fled as frantically as though he had seen a ghost.

Rickart instinctively grasped what had happened.

The enemy had come into conflict with the locals, and a fight had broken out.

Moreover, the enemy was being massacred one-sidedly.

In an unfamiliar place—especially difficult terrain such as a forest or mountain—outsiders could never hope to defeat the locals.

If those locals were rangers skilled in concealment and archery, the wisest approach was simply not to provoke them, just as one would avoid touching a poison frog.

The students tensed.

Were they supposed to rush out now?

What should they do?

Rickart raised an arm to restrain them.

For now, they needed to watch.

The students gripped their weapons tightly. Blood began seeping through the bandage wrapped around one student’s hand.

Their tension reached a fever pitch.

The screams continued drawing closer. Before long, another group came running frantically down the road.

Arrows protruded from their arms and various parts of their bodies. One man with an arrow embedded in his thigh limped desperately as he fled.

Rickart suddenly sprang toward the one who appeared least injured.

The fleeing man recoiled in shock and flailed his arms.

Crack!

Rickart’s sword came crashing down and split his skull open.

That was the signal.

The students surged out of hiding.

"Revenge!"

Someone shouted.

Then, without being told, every student joined the cry.

"Revenge!"

Their enemies had possessed no momentum to begin with and were not even properly armed.

What followed was an almost entirely one-sided slaughter.

"W-Wait!"

"We surrender!"

The enemies begged for mercy in their final moments, but the students spared no one. They hacked every last one of them to death.

Rickart even had to restrain one student who had become so excited that he continued slashing at a corpse.

"Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!"

There was hardly any reason for them to be breathing so heavily after what little they had done, but adrenaline was coursing through their bodies, leaving them only half-sensible.

More fleeing men soon appeared.

The moment they saw Rickart’s group and the corpses of their comrades scattered around them, their faces went pale with terror. They abandoned the road entirely and fled into the pathless forest.

Meanwhile, the smell of burning continued to draw closer. They could see thick gray smoke rising in the distance.

"Let’s go. The fire may spread faster than we expect. Molti will take the lead, and I’ll bring up the rear."

Rickart deliberately placed the injured boy at the very front. He intended to ensure that every last one of them survived.

The other students understood his reasoning. Now brimming with confidence, they nodded in agreement.

Rickart slung his scabbard diagonally across his body and walked at the very back of the formation with his sword drawn.

About an hour after they set off, while they were practically driving the fleeing enemies before them rather than being pursued themselves, a dense cloud of gray smoke suddenly engulfed the group.

They had not even begun to feel the fire’s heat yet.

The cloud swept over them for only a moment, but the acrid smoke left them coughing and their eyes stinging. When it passed, the companions who had been walking directly ahead of Rickart had vanished as though they had never been there.

The same thing happened to the other students.

"Cough! Cough!"

The smoke shifted in every direction, disrupting their sense of orientation. They could not even see the path beneath their feet properly.

From that point onward, the students simply kept walking straight ahead.

Then someone suddenly burst through the smoke and attacked Volka.

A chilling sound sliced past his ear.

Whoosh!

Startled, Volka instinctively twisted aside. However, his leg caught on a tree root, sending him tumbling to the ground. The tip of the blade appeared to have grazed him, and blood streamed down his cheek.

Firelight glimmered beyond the thick smoke.

Someone glared at Volka with eyes shining with madness.

With his clothes in tatters and his chin-length hair wildly disheveled, the man resembled a demon that had crawled out of hell. Arrows protruded from his back like the quills of a porcupine. The leather armor that had sacrificed itself in its owner’s place hung from him in shreds.

He growled like a beast.

"Do you little bastards really think I’m some fucking pushover...?!"

It was none other than Lorenz.

After recklessly disturbing a hornet’s nest and being thoroughly mauled by the rangers, he seemed to have lost his reason entirely. Cornered and consumed by rage, he looked ready to kill anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

He was also the one who had started the fire.

When the rangers began slaughtering his subordinates and he found himself powerless to stop them, he had set the forest ablaze in a final act of desperation.

Volka scrambled to his feet and tried to flee. He had dropped his sword when he fell, leaving him unable to fight.

He had strayed from the path and no longer knew where he was. The terrifying killer rapidly closed in, aiming to stab him through the back.

Clang!

Metal rang against metal.

Volka fell once more and looked behind him.

A black cloak fluttered through the smoke.

Astonishingly, it was Ice.

Volka could hardly believe it.

Why...?

"That way. Go."

Ice spoke indifferently before stepping in front of Lorenz.

Dense smoke continued to swirl around them. It was so acrid that merely breathing made their noses sting. They could also feel the mounting heat as the flames drew steadily closer.

Without exchanging another word, Lorenz and Ice swung their swords at each other.

As Ice’s blade traced an arc through the air, pure-white crystals resembling snowflakes bloomed along its path.

For a brief moment, the temperature genuinely seemed to drop.

According to the Rubens Guild’s classification system, it was unmistakably a Blooming Sword.

Startled, Lorenz deliberately avoided meeting Ice’s blade. He leaned away and hurriedly opened the distance between them.

"It was you! You’re the bastard who caused all this! Hehehe... Yes. If I kill you, I can make up for everything! You little shit! I’ll kill you—no matter what!"

Lorenz had clearly been informed that the guild’s promising swordsman had been killed by a young boy in a red cloak. Yet after witnessing the Blooming Sword before his very eyes, he no longer seemed capable of thinking about anything else.

Ice paid no attention to his ravings and focused entirely on his opponent.

Lorenz’s sword came at him again.

Ice extended his own blade, intending to block the strike with his guard. He had already envisioned the move that would follow.

However, the difference in their practical experience soon revealed itself.

The blades were about to collide when Ice suddenly felt no resistance at all.

Using his wrist, Lorenz spun his sword away from the clash—then abruptly kicked dirt into Ice’s face.

Ice hurriedly turned his head aside.

But in a battle between skilled fighters, even that momentary opening was dangerous.

A burning sensation tore across his side.

He had been cut rather deeply.

Even then, Ice gritted his teeth and counterattacked. He deflected the strike Lorenz had aimed at his throat.

But once again, Ice’s own blade cut through nothing but empty air.

For an instant, one thought flashed through his mind.

It’s over.

The outcome of a life-or-death struggle could not be determined by swordsmanship alone.

Unless it was a formal duel between knights, what kind of fool would fight fairly? Moreover, the battlefield itself introduced far too many variables.

Acrid smoke assaulted his nose. His eyes stung. The air was sweltering, the ground uneven, and his vision blurred.

Had they been competing purely in swordsmanship, Ice might have won easily.

But this was a battlefield where life and death hung in the balance—a place where one had to employ every means available.

Snowflake-like mana bloomed beautifully around Ice’s sword as it swept futilely through empty air.

But that was all.

Lorenz had already shifted slightly to the side and raised his sword overhead like an executioner.

Ice dropped to the ground, bracing himself with one hand.

He hurriedly twisted around and looked up at Lorenz. Whether the blow landed on his neck, head, or chest, it seemed that all that remained was for Lorenz’s sword to descend.

At that moment, someone came flying through the firelight.

To Ice, he looked like an angel whose wings were made of flame.

Rickart raised his sword over his head and brought it down.

Lorenz, however, was no ordinary opponent. His reflexes were almost animalistic.

He hurriedly leaped away from Rickart.

But having seized the initiative, Rickart gave him no time to regain his footing. A continuous barrage of sword strikes followed.

Clang! Whoosh! Clang!

Rickart’s sword was neither particularly fast nor particularly slow. At first glance, his technique appeared perfectly ordinary.

Strangely, however, Lorenz continued to be driven backward, unable to find an opportunity to counterattack.

A sense of wrongness sent a chill down his spine.

Lorenz was skilled enough to recognize that something was amiss. A weaker swordsman would not even have had time to feel that incongruity. His sword would have broken upon meeting Rickart’s, and he would already have been dead.

Then Lorenz noticed Rickart’s cloak.

A red cloak...

Wait.

Something was wrong.

Hadn’t that other boy just used a Blooming Sword?

Rickart advanced through what swordsmen called "taking the angle," using his footwork to occupy and control his opponent’s space.

By the time Lorenz realized his mistake, he had nowhere left to retreat.

He attempted the same trick he had used against Ice, pretending to counterattack while actually making the first move and enticing his opponent into an error.

But Rickart’s eyes—both burning hot and ice-cold—did more than see through the deception.

They pierced straight through it.

Whoosh!

Slash!

Lorenz twisted his wrist to prevent their blades from colliding.

But Rickart had already closed the distance.

Lorenz could not block in time.

Half his head was severed.

Everything above his lower jaw had been cleanly sliced away.

Thud.

The headless body collapsed to the ground. The tongue and teeth were plainly visible along the severed surface.

The detached portion of his head twitched one eye for the briefest instant, while the body separated from its brain continued convulsing for some time.

Before long, both halves of Lorenz’s body fell completely still.

Rickart immediately sheathed his sword, slung it around his neck, and approached Ice.

"Can you move?"

Ice could not answer.

He stared up at Rickart with the expression of someone who had witnessed something impossible—or perhaps someone who had just experienced a miracle.

Ice felt as though time had stopped.

Amid the forest filled with roiling smoke and flames, it seemed as if the entire world were ending and a celestial being had descended from the heavens to gaze down at him.

Ice remained dazed for a moment before abruptly coming to his senses.

Blood was surging from the wound in his side.

"J-Just go..."

Just leave him?

Was he saying that because of his wound?

Or because he was ashamed of having abandoned Rickart before?

Rickart silently studied him before speaking firmly.

"You might be capable of abandoning me, but I won’t abandon you. That’s the difference between us."

Ice lowered his head and spoke in a desperate, almost pleading voice.

"...Even you can’t save me... Just leave me here to die..."

"If you keep spouting nonsense, I’ll knock you unconscious and carry you out. Now get on my back. And put this over yourself—unless you want that handsome face of yours ruined."

Speaking as though there were no time to argue, Rickart removed his cloak.

It was already thoroughly soaked.

Rickart seized Ice by the arm and forcibly pulled him onto his back. He covered Ice with the wet cloak, then charged into the flames.

Ice buried his face against the boy’s shoulder.

How long had they run?

When they finally escaped that hellish place, an unbelievably cool and open field spread out before them.

Clear sunlight and a refreshing breeze welcomed the two boys.

Heaven and hell seemed so close together that it was difficult to believe.

At last, they had reached the end of the forest.

All the other students had already escaped. The Beringen Guild adventurers, having belatedly received word of what had happened, had also come to meet them.

The students had been waiting in agonizing suspense. When Rickart finally emerged after rescuing Ice, they rushed toward him with involuntary cheers.

An overwhelming sense of relief washed over Volka. His expression crumpled, and he sank heavily to the ground.

All nine of them had survived.

On top of that, they had killed a clan master from a rival guild.

Nothing like this had happened since the academy’s founding.

Despite being ambushed first, a group of students had fought back, killed the enemy leader, and survived.

They had accomplished something that even experienced and highly skilled adventurers would have found difficult.

The active adventurers of the Beringen Guild were at a loss as to how they were supposed to report such an absurd outcome.

For now, however, it was time to put all of that aside and simply rest beneath the sunlight, enjoying the breeze.

These boys and girls had more than earned it.

In any case, Rickart laid Ice down and attempted to administer first aid.

The adventurers stepped in and took care of it. They cleaned the wound, applied potions without restraint, and stitched it closed with a needle.

Outside the forest, everything was so peaceful that the events they had just experienced felt like a lie.

Ice lay atop Rickart’s cloak, gazing at the white clouds drifting slowly across the blue sky. He could feel the potion pulling him toward sleep.

Nearby, the students chatted excitedly.

There was no longer any awkwardness or wariness between them.

They had all become one.

Ice felt as though he alone had been left behind in some distant place. He stared at the clear sky and was about to fall asleep when Rickart’s face suddenly appeared above him, blocking his view.

"Are you all right? Do you need anything else?"

Rickart asked.

However, Rickart looked absolutely ridiculous. His skin had turned bright red from charging through the flames, and his singed hair had curled up until it resembled broccoli.

"Pfft... Hehehe..."

Despite the pain, Ice burst out laughing.

Rickart’s eyes widened when the boy who never laughed suddenly began to chuckle.

Then he realized what Ice found so funny and started grinning as well.

Cool weather.

Warm sunlight.

The gentle pull of an afternoon nap.

And a comforting friend beside him.

There was nothing else he needed.

End of Chapter 6: When a Frozen Heart Melts

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