Chapter 29

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

A campfire burned inside an abandoned house by the roadside, with nine people seated in a circle around it. It was Rickart’s group, making their way back to Beringen.

None of them wanted to so much as look at a forest for a while, so instead of retracing their original route, they were taking a longer way back to the academy.

As they settled down for the night, each student made themselves comfortable.

Perhaps they had started dating at some point, because Morty and Lara were nestled close together. Some of the others were tending to their weapons, while a few roasted sweet potatoes and regular potatoes over the campfire as snacks.

Rickart sat against the wall with his knees drawn up, gazing at a sliver of the night sky through a crack in the abandoned house.

"First, sense mana. Second, apply mana to physical movement. Third, use mana in actual combat. Fourth, extend it beyond your body and infuse it into your weapon. Fifth, become a Sword Master, obtain a sword that can cut through anything, and kill everyone. That’s right, isn’t it?"

Volka’s last remark was a joke, but those were the five stages the Beringen Guild used to classify the path to becoming a Sword Master.

It was rather dry compared to the more poetic system used by the Rubens Guild, but it was also more detailed.

"Yeah."

Jerome replied while poking one of the potatoes in the fire with a twig to see if it was cooked. He was one of the students who used to spend time with Ice.

Perhaps because they had survived a brush with death together, they were now sharing information that they had once kept tightly guarded and refused to teach anyone else.

But hearing it explained like this, there did not seem to be much worth hiding. Merely knowing it in theory did not mean one could actually do it. That was also why the professors taught these things only to students who had already learned to sense mana.

"You can somehow practice on your own up to the second stage, but from the third stage onward, it seems genuinely difficult."

Lara, whose short hair was tied back, spoke. By now, she was practically buried in Morty’s enormous embrace.

"True. I couldn’t think straight at all, let alone focus on mana."

Manipulating mana required an extremely high level of concentration. That was why focusing on mana was so difficult when blades were flashing wildly before one’s eyes and one’s life hung in the balance.

Other than Ice, none of the students present had reached the third stage. Ice, meanwhile, had already reached the fourth.

Yet even he had nearly died in actual combat. Walking the path of the sword was truly difficult—and dangerous.

"But Ricky is strong even though he can’t use mana. Unless you’re planning to become a Sword Master, I’m not sure mana matters all that much."

Morty’s remark made everyone look at Rickart. Rickart, who had been staring blankly into space, belatedly snapped back to his senses.

"No. You’re good at fighting."

"Uh..."

"So which is more important, mana or swordsmanship? This is difficult. Really difficult..."

Obviously, both were important. It was not as though only one of them mattered. The question was one of choosing what to focus on—but did Volka even have a choice? He could not sense mana in the first place, yet he was still worrying about it.

"I think that if you master swordsmanship to its absolute limit, mana doesn’t really matter. A well-honed sword is more than enough to kill someone."

"But they say a sword of light can cut through anything. That means it can cut through armor and shields alike. Even if someone mastered swordsmanship to its absolute limit, I don’t think they could defeat a Sword Master. It seems like the match itself wouldn’t even be fair."

"That depends on how you define the ’absolute limit.’ If you could dodge every attack from a Sword Master while landing your own, wouldn’t the swordsman win?"

"Ricky, what do you think?"

"...Huh?"

"But someone who became a Sword Master wouldn’t be completely ignorant of swordsmanship."

"That’s true, but I’m talking about someone who has mastered swordsmanship to its absolute limit."

"Then what exactly is that ’absolute limit’?"

Volka and Delphy traded arguments as though they were holding a formal debate. Watching them, Morty thought, This is why neither of you can get a date.

Still, since they were all students of the Adventurers’ Guild, it was a subject that naturally interested them.

When the discussion began to grow somewhat heated, Morty drew Rickart into it again. Despite his enormous build, Morty was surprisingly sensitive and inclined to mediate conflicts between people.

"What do you think, Ricky?"

"About what?"

"A duel between someone who can’t use mana but has mastered swordsmanship to its absolute limit, and a Sword Master. Who do you think would win?"

"Who knows? Doesn’t the whole question seem pointless? It sounds like wordplay to me."

The first Sword Master, the unprecedented murderer who had shocked the world, the one-man army—that was who Rickart had been in his previous life. Yet Rickart himself had never given much thought to either swordsmanship or Sword Masters.

That was because even he did not know where the golden flames that had burned along his blade had come from, nor had anyone ever formally taught him the sword.

Compared to his abilities in his previous life, he was currently little more than an ant. However, he had achieved mastery in his own way. Whether he was weak or disadvantaged, he always produced the finest swordsmanship possible for the situation. That was why no one had managed to rival him thus far.

For that reason, Rickart sometimes thought other people were rather foolish.

Why did people practice things like that? Was practice really necessary before they could do them? Couldn’t they simply do it?

Seen in that light, Volka was quite impressive for having gained an insight of his own after being beaten by Rickart. Rickart had absolutely no talent for teaching others.

In any case, Rickart currently had no room to concern himself with such matters. Ever since the incident with the deserters, he had been struggling alone to digest the suffocating frustration and resentment that had accumulated inside him like poison.

Morty appeared somewhat disappointed by Rickart’s lackluster answer, so he searched for his next target.

It was Ice.

Coincidentally, Rickart and Ice ranked first and second among the students. One could not sense mana at all, while the other had mastered Mana Drive to a high level.

"What do you think, Ice?"

"The Sword Master would win."

Ice answered decisively without even pausing to think.

"Oh? Why? What’s your reasoning?"

"Because only someone who has sensed mana and reached the pinnacle of swordsmanship can become a Sword Master."

"Clear and concise. There, you heard him."

Morty looked at Volka and Delphy. According to Ice’s answer, Volka had lost the argument.

"I was only curious."

"So was I."

A slightly awkward atmosphere settled between Volka and Delphy.

Ice paid it no mind and spoke to Rickart, who had returned to gazing blankly through the crack in the abandoned house.

"Are you all right?"

"...Huh?"

"I asked if you were all right."

"Oh. Sure, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong."

"You know, Ricky..."

"Yeah. Go ahead."

"I don’t know what happened to you in the past, and I won’t ask—just as you don’t ask me about my past. I only wanted to say that I hope you’ll cheer up."

Rickart had been absentminded ever since the incident with the deserters, but now, at last, a faint smile appeared on his face.

"I didn’t know you were capable of saying so much."

Ice was not normally one for long speeches, so he merely smiled in response.

But he was so handsome that, after wearing his usual cold expression all the time, his smile was truly more beautiful than moonlight. The two female students gasped involuntarily at the sight.

"That’s so fucking unfair."

Volka grumbled, prompting laughter from the students all around them.

The following day, Rickart’s group resumed their journey toward Beringen. Since there were no cities along the way, they sometimes rented a village barn for the night, and on one occasion, they were even treated as guests by a rural lord.

The reason was nothing extraordinary. The lord had occasionally commissioned the Beringen Adventurers’ Guild in the past and had been satisfied with its work.

The students were puzzled, but they certainly did not dislike the hospitality. The mead, freshly roasted meat, and soft bread did much to ease their travel fatigue.

Since they were a well-armed group of nine, they passed through even poorly policed roads without incident. They encountered no highwaymen, and the bandits merely watched them from a distance.

It was not simply because of their numbers or their equipment. The students now gave off an indescribable air—an aura.

They were completely different from when they had first set out to take on the commission.

Their eyes, composure, breathing, and mentality—everything had changed. It was obvious from the way they calmly stared down the thugs without flinching or averting their gazes.

They might not yet have been lions or tigers, but they now possessed the air of wolves capable of overwhelming any ordinary rabble.

And adventurers were, in truth, little different from private detectives or privately employed law enforcement. Their mere presence on the road was enough to improve public safety to some extent.

Well, everything in the world had its advantages and disadvantages. Students dying in the field was undoubtedly the dark side of it, but when one saw something like this, it was clear that there were positive aspects as well.

In any case, after five days of walking, they finally arrived in Beringen. When they entered the headquarters building at the foot of the hill, all the adventurers inside stared at them with curiosity. The students had unintentionally become famous.

"Maybe this year’s students are exceptional, or maybe our overall standards have risen. Either way, you all did well. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. You actually killed that jackal Lorenz."

It was Dunkel who spoke. For some reason, however, he was seated at a table in light combat gear rather than standing behind the bar. He wore a leather vest and a dark brown hooded cloak.

"He made the fatal mistake of targeting the ranger village."

"He probably didn’t know much about what was going on there. It was supposed to be a surprise attack, after all. Still, when a plan goes wrong, you’ve got to know when to abandon it. If you keep dragging it out for no reason, that’s how you end up dead. He must’ve been in a hurry, too. Anyway, I’m glad you made it back safely. But Ricky, what happened to your hair?"

"It got singed by fire."

Rickart’s hair had grown out a little and now looked even more like broccoli than before. He would have to shave it all off or something.

"Aren’t you working as a bartender today?"

Volka asked.

"Ah, I have some business to take care of."

Dunkel gave Ice a meaningful look before turning his gaze to Rickart.

"The Guild Master wants to see you, Ricky."

"Me? Why?"

"Why do you think? You contributed more than anyone else to the success of this mission. The rest of you can relax in the city for a while or head back to the dormitory at your leisure. Don’t spend too much money at the brothels or gambling houses. And it’s still too early for you to buy expensive equipment. Ricky, come with me."

Dunkel rose from his seat. Taking only Rickart with him, he left the building and climbed the road leading up the hill.

It was Rickart’s first time entering the central city.

Beyond the gate stood rows of neat, old-fashioned buildings. Structures normally used as lodgings and converted into defensive facilities during wartime had been built close against the city walls.

When they arrived at the real Beringen Guild headquarters, it was not as magnificent as Rickart had imagined. In fact, the white plaster had peeled from the outer walls in places, exposing the bricks beneath.

"Young Master."

Before they entered, Dunkel suddenly addressed Rickart in a manner completely unlike his usual one.

"...Huh?"

"An Elder is waiting inside. He is also a nobleman, so please be especially careful with your words and conduct. In particular, you must not evade his questions or lie to him. No matter what you do, you will never be able to deceive that man."

An Elder? Not the Guild Master?

"I’m not good at lying anyway."

"That is fortunate. You may enter, then."

Dunkel opened the door for him but did not follow him inside.

Rickart entered the building alone. It felt like stepping into a temple from which all the chairs had been removed. Every sound echoed loudly through the spacious interior.

Thud.

The door closed behind him. Standing all alone in such a place left him with a feeling that was difficult to describe.

Step. Step. Step...

Rickart walked slowly forward, glancing around as he went. No lamps had been lit inside. The building was illuminated solely by the light filtering in from outside, giving it a subdued atmosphere.

"You are smaller than I expected, Young Master."

Someone far in the distance spoke with his hands clasped behind his back, his upper body concealed by the shadows. A sword hung at his waist. His voice sounded rather old.

Because sound carried so clearly in this place, even his quiet words could be heard without difficulty.

"Hello. I am Rickart of House Kaldevern."

For the first time since leaving home, Rickart formally introduced himself. He was neither intimidated nor forcing himself to appear confident.

"I am Hellauman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and Champion of the Emperor. You may speak freely with me."

A count palatine held a position above an ordinary count and governed the Emperor’s territory on his behalf. In other words, Hellauman outranked not only Rickart’s father, but even the main branch of House Kaldevern.

Yet regardless of the relative rank of their titles, nobles had the right to address one another as equals. Any sensible noble behaved accordingly. Only royalty or members of the imperial family stood apart from the nobility.

More importantly, being the Emperor’s Champion meant that Hellauman was a Sword Master.

Anyone else would have nearly fainted and immediately prostrated themselves, but Rickart remained calm.

"I heard you wanted to see me."

"Indeed. I wished to see with my own eyes the promising young talent who beheaded a powerful opponent at the age of eleven."

Rickart had heard similar remarks many times on the journey back, but Lorenz must have been exceptionally notorious.

"I was lucky."

"Luck is also a form of ability."

"If you say so, I suppose it is."

Hellauman fell silent for a moment at Rickart’s answer. Then he slowly walked out of the shadows.

His pure white hair was neatly swept back, and there was something peculiar about his appearance. He clearly looked old, yet his skin was as flawless as porcelain, making his age difficult to describe.

His eyes were blue, and he effortlessly kept the naturally oppressive force of his presence under control.

He approached Rickart, stopped a short distance away, and quietly studied him from the front.

"How peculiar. Even an ordinary person possesses at least a trace of mana, yet you, Young Master, do not have so much as a single drop."

"Yes... I see..."

Frankly, Rickart did not understand what he was supposed to do with that information.

"It is only natural that no sprout can grow without a seed. If you cannot wield mana, you cannot become a Sword Master. Do you not find that regrettable?"

"I don’t know. I’m not really sure."

"Then..."

In Hellauman’s eyes, Rickart seemed to possess neither ambition nor any pure desire to become stronger.

On the surface, he appeared to be nothing more than a young boy who happened to possess an innate gift for wielding a sword.

A faint trace of disappointment crossed Hellauman’s face. As he had said, someone unable to wield mana could never become a Sword Master.

Still, it was rare for a noble to enter the academy, and the boy had undeniably accomplished something remarkable. Hellauman decided that they should at least have a brief conversation.

Smiling as though he were looking at a young grandson, Hellauman asked,

"Do you know how old I am, Young Master?"

"To be honest, you look like someone whose age is difficult to guess."

"Hahaha! The Empress Dowager often says the same thing. I turned one hundred and twenty-two this year."

Rickart could not help being surprised by that. Could a person truly live for so long? And remain this vigorous? He wondered if the man was joking.

Seeing Rickart’s reaction, Hellauman smiled with even greater satisfaction.

How adorable.

"It may be difficult to believe, but it is true. I live in near seclusion, so most people think my son is the Count Palatine. Or is it my grandson now? Perhaps my great-grandson. I am not sure. I have no interest in such things. In any event, while he was still alive, I personally saw the legendary Sword Master Ricky. Is that not astonishing?"

Huh?

Rickart carefully examined Hellauman again. No matter how deeply he searched his memory, he could not recall the man at all.

"...That is astonishing."

"I was born the son of a swordsmanship guild master in the Hilsen region. Under my father’s instruction, I trained in martial arts alongside my brothers. Then, one day, Ricky came and killed my parents, my siblings, and all my relatives. I hid inside a wardrobe and watched it all."

Rickart could think of nothing to say.

What Hellauman said next, however, was even more extraordinary.

"And yet, I am grateful to him. Do you know why? Because I was able to witness his flawless swordsmanship. The golden flames burning along his blade, the blood scattering through the air... It was so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes. Ah, even now, I sometimes tremble when I remember that day."

To Rickart, the man seemed slightly deranged. He was so deeply obsessed with the sword that he did not care whether his own family lived or died.

Perhaps it was because he was so old.

Hellauman continued.

"Every single stroke of his sword was unlike anything I had ever seen or even imagined in my dreams. It was creative, yet not a single movement was bizarre or out of place. Moreover, from beginning to end, it felt like a single poem. That is why I have always wondered whether he envisioned the conclusion from the very beginning and acted accordingly, or whether it was all merely improvisation from moment to moment. I have sought the answer for a hundred years, yet I still have not found it."

As Rickart listened, the memory finally began to return.

The Hilsen Swordsmanship Guild.

They had pursued him in hopes of killing him and making a name for themselves. Eventually, he had stormed their headquarters and killed them all.

At the time, he had assumed that he had finished everyone off, but apparently, that had not been the case. Who would have imagined someone was hiding? It was not as though Rickart had carefully searched every corner of the building.

Still, meeting someone who had also been alive during his previous life left him at a loss. Should he be pleased to see him? Should he apologize? Rickart had no idea what he was supposed to say.

Even so, he wanted to give the man the answer out of a sense of remorse.

In truth, there was hardly any answer to give. He merely had to recall what had happened back then.

"Um... perhaps it was neither."

"Hmm?"

"Maybe he saw everything the moment he entered the training hall. How the fight would unfold, what variables might arise, and how he would kill everyone... In other words, perhaps he wasn’t consciously thinking at all. It simply happened that way, and that was how it appeared to you."

Rickart answered while recreating the memory of that day as accurately as he could.

At that moment, Hellauman’s entire body suddenly stiffened and began to tremble, as though he had been struck by lightning.