Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Being reincarnated was like awakening at a very young age with faded memories of a distant past.

As I gained a new life and accumulated new experiences, the memories of my past gradually faded and receded. The lingering smell of iron and charred flesh was replaced by fragrant things.

My mother smiling when she saw me doing something silly.

Running and laughing through the forest with my brothers.

The crisp sensation of wearing new shoes.

Promises kept with friends.

Special treats on special occasions.

And the moment my usually stern father pulled me into his arms in alarm.

Those starlike fragments gathered one by one, filling the emptiness within me.

Day after day, whenever I opened my eyes in the morning, I found myself wondering what might happen that day.

I looked forward to it.

What word could describe these things?

I could not think of one that felt adequate.

I only knew that I owed an immense debt.

Memories of childhood could not be bought with money or acquired through any amount of effort.

The fact that my nickname was Ricky was quite the coincidence.

Rickart found the idea of fate distasteful, yet he supposed this particular twist was not so bad.

"How are you feeling now?"

Abelich asked while wiping the grease from his hands with a towel.

Graut, his wife, and Vilter, who were also seated at the dining table, all turned to look at Rickart.

Rickart’s hands had been injured so badly that even the muscles had torn from gripping the spear shaft with such force. The bandages had since been removed.

A month had passed since the incident.

With food still in his mouth, Rickart covered it with one hand before answering.

"I’m fine. I feel exactly the same as I did before. You don’t need to worry."

Silence followed his casual reply.

Whenever people witnessed something shocking, they initially struggled to accept it. Eventually, however, they found some explanation that allowed them to make sense of it.

The explanation they settled upon was extraordinary luck.

Several strokes of fortune must have overlapped at once. How else could a ten-year-old boy have killed such an enormous boar with a single strike?

Even so, the fact that he had neither frozen nor fled but instead confronted the charging beast clearly indicated that he possessed an extraordinary disposition.

The way people looked at Rickart changed.

The way they treated him changed subtly as well.

Rickart himself could feel it.

"Would you like to learn swordsmanship?"

"...I’m not sure."

Rickart answered without confidence.

He had not flinched from a charging boar, yet he was afraid to wield a sword?

His family concluded that he was still a child after all.

But Rickart’s reluctance came from something else entirely.

He simply disliked the thought of picking up the sword he had wielded more than enough in his previous life.

"I can’t make sense of you," Vilter said. "When I was your age and learned that I would be taught swordsmanship, I could barely contain my excitement."

Like most boys, he had initially been delighted by the prospect of learning the sword because it sounded impressive.

Before long, however, he had discovered that he possessed no particular talent. After countless hours of tedious practice, he had quickly lost interest.

Even so, learning for the first time should have been exciting.

Vilter was now certain that his younger brother was rather strange.

Noticing Rickart’s somewhat timid appearance, Graut spoke as though admonishing him.

"A man must sometimes do things he would rather avoid. Swordsmanship, in particular, is something you must practice diligently throughout your life. You cannot refuse merely because you don’t feel like doing it."

Swordsmanship was not merely a martial discipline. It was also part of a nobleman’s basic education.

One did not need to achieve astonishing mastery, but every noble was expected to learn the fundamentals.

Rickart did not answer his eldest brother.

A brief silence followed.

"Answer me."

"...All right."

Rickart replied reluctantly.

Vilter had entered adolescence and had recently begun snapping at his eldest brother, but the truth was that Graut had deliberately distanced himself from his younger brothers.

When had it started?

Probably after he married and began receiving formal instruction as the family’s heir.

Rickart had clearly noticed the change as well.

When they were younger, merely running across the fields beside his eldest brother had been enough to make him laugh.

Graut used to help him up when he fell and brush the dirt from his clothes. When they returned home at sunset after playing outside, Graut would sometimes carry him on his shoulders.

Rickart had now reached the age when he had to bid farewell to such things.

Neither sorrow nor happiness lasted forever.

That was what Rickart had come to understand.

After finishing his meal, Rickart left the manor.

He wore the thick gambeson his brothers had worn at his age and a pair of mittens. In his hands was a blunt-tipped practice sword.

The manor had no separate training ground, so his first lesson took place in the courtyard.

Naturally, the stablehands, kennel keepers, and other workers gathered to watch.

Their father and Vilter observed from a short distance away.

Holding a practice sword, Graut rolled his wrist in circles and spoke.

"Proper strength comes from proper form. It may feel awkward at first, but through constant practice, you must learn to maintain it as naturally as breathing, no matter the situation. Ultimately, your sword must become an extension of your limbs. The principle is simple, but achieving it is not."

After finishing his explanation, Graut swung the practice sword forcefully through the air.

Whoosh!

It produced an intimidating sound. His body did not sway beneath the force of his own strike, lending the movement a disciplined sharpness.

Rickart merely stood there blankly, gripping his sword in both hands and holding it upright against his shoulder.

"Spread your legs like this. Your left foot is your pivot. Shift your center of gravity slightly forward. Your left foot—yes, like that. When moving forward from this position, take a large step with your right foot. When moving sideways, do this. Your footwork is important. If your feet become tangled, you won’t be able to put any real power into your strike."

Graut began by teaching his youngest brother the absolute fundamentals.

He did not teach carelessly, however. He took the lesson seriously and did his best to teach Rickart properly.

Rickart did everything his brother instructed.

However, for someone who retained memories of a previous life, such excessively basic instruction served only to restrict his true ability.

Not that it mattered.

Nothing Graut said was incorrect.

"Think of it less as swinging the sword and more as pushing it into the opponent. Like this. This allows you to defend and attack at the same time. In a real battle, you pull the blade toward yourself as you slice through with all your strength. There are many variations, but this will be enough for today. For now, show me only what I’ve taught you."

Rickart obeyed.

He spread his legs, placing one in front of the other, bent his knees slightly, shifted his center of gravity farther forward, and took a long step with his rear foot as he thrust the sword.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four....

Swish! Swish!

The sword cut through the air.

Those watching began to feel that something was strange.

This was supposedly Rickart’s first time learning the sword, yet he displayed none of the characteristic awkwardness of a beginner.

Beginners tended to lose their balance beneath the force of their own movements.

It was not merely his posture.

There was discipline in every motion.

He had not simply watched his eldest brother and imitated the outward appearance of the technique. He had seen through to its essence and immediately made it his own.

He was unquestionably extraordinary.

Unbelievably so.

This went beyond possessing a little talent.

Was the boy a genius?

Perhaps that was why Abelich felt such complicated emotions as he watched his youngest son.

He was immensely proud.

At the same time, he felt uneasy.

Possessing too much talent was not always a blessing—especially if that talent might threaten the future he envisioned.

"Graut, spar with him."

Abelich spoke from where he was watching a short distance away.

Graut turned toward his father.

He understood what his father meant.

Teach him a harsh lesson.

Rickart had heard his father as well, so he stopped swinging his sword through the air.

His body was still that of an ordinary child, and he was breathing slightly heavily.

Exceptional talent was not always a blessing—especially if that talent might threaten the future one envisioned.

"Graut, spar with him."

Abelich spoke from where he was watching a short distance away.

Graut turned toward his father. He understood what his father meant.

He was to teach Rickart a harsh lesson.

Having heard his father, Rickart stopped swinging his sword through the air. His body was still that of an ordinary child, so he was slightly out of breath.

Graut looked at his younger brother.

There was hesitation in his eyes.

Rickart quietly met his brother’s gaze, then lowered his head.

Looking at his young brother, Graut steeled himself and spoke.

"You remember what I just taught you, don’t you? Use it against me. And don’t waste your time worrying that you might hurt me."

But Rickart did not answer. He simply stood there with his head bowed.

After a brief silence, he spoke.

"...I don’t want to."

"What did you say?"

"I said I don’t want to. I don’t want to do it."

This had never happened before.

The gentle and obedient Rickart was defying him.

Graut looked back at his father. The stern-faced, middle-aged man was staring steadily in their direction.

Graut turned back to Rickart.

"Are you talking back to me now, just like Villy?"

"That’s not it...."

Graut prodded Rickart in the chest with the blunt tip of his practice sword.

Rickart stumbled backward with each jab.

"Then what are those words and that attitude supposed to mean? I clearly told you to swing your sword at me using what I taught you. Do it."

"...I don’t want to."

"You little—!"

Graut struck his brother hard across the upper arm.

Rickart might have been wearing a thick gambeson, but there was no way the blow did not hurt.

"Ow!"

Rickart squeezed his eyes shut, hunched his shoulders, and trembled in pain.

"I’ll tell you again. Swing your sword."

"I don’t want to."

"You must think I’m a joke."

This time, Graut struck his other arm.

Thud!

He did not stop after one blow. He struck him repeatedly, across the thighs and shoulders.

Thud. Smack. Thud. Thump....

Even so, Rickart merely clutched his sword tightly in both hands, curled in on himself, and endured the beating.

His eyes were tightly shut, and his face was twisted in pain.

Whatever the onlookers might have felt inside, they watched with impassive expressions.

They knew that even nobles—or rather, nobles in particular—could sometimes be subjected to stricter discipline.

It was unthinkable to disobey an order from an elder of the household, especially its head.

"I’ll give you one final chance. Swing your sword. If you disobey me again, I’ll strike you on the head."

Even a practice sword was made of metal. A blow to the head could cause a severe injury.

"No. I won’t."

Rickart’s answer was resolute.

Graut’s sword hand began to tremble.

After saying what he had, he was supposed to strike Rickart’s head. But he could not bring himself to do something so terrible.

He looked back at his father once more, almost pleading with him.

Vilter stood beside their father, fidgeting anxiously.

To Graut’s despair, Abelich nodded.

It was permission to strike Rickart’s head.

No.

It was an order.

Graut turned back to his brother and spoke quietly enough that no one else could hear.

"Just swing it once. Please. I don’t want to do this either."

"That’s why I can’t."

"What do you mean?"

Graut could not understand why Rickart was going this far.

This was the first time he had ever beaten his younger brother like this, just as it was the first time Rickart had defied him.

Rickart refused to swing his sword at Graut because the swordsmanship he knew was not meant for sparring.

It was swordsmanship forged solely in blood upon brutal battlefields.

Rickart knew that when he pointed his blade at someone, its tip would contain nothing but pure killing intent.

He could not direct that at his eldest brother.

Their relationship might have grown distant lately, but he could not cut through the memories of their past or the affection his brother still held for him.

Doing so would be far worse than allowing himself to be hurt.

Nor did Rickart know how to fabricate some clumsy technique, swing halfheartedly, and deliberately lose.

His only choice was to do nothing.

To those watching, however, it merely seemed as though Rickart was being needlessly defiant.

He had always been such a gentle and obedient boy.

Had he learned this behavior from Villy?

Graut became visibly flustered by Rickart’s defiance.

No matter how trivial the matter might be, once their father issued an order, it had to be obeyed.

Why did Rickart have to act this way on the very day of his first swordsmanship lesson?

Should he control his strength when he struck?

Could he pretend to strike Rickart’s head but hit his shoulder instead?

Would their father be able to tell from where he stood?

Countless thoughts raced through Graut’s mind.

Ultimately, he decided that he simply could not strike Rickart on the head.

Gripping his sword, he brought it down hard upon Rickart’s shoulder.

From the side or behind, it would look as though he had struck the boy’s head.

Crack!

"Urgh!"

Rickart collapsed.

Until now, he had remained on his feet despite the beating, but this final blow knocked him to the ground.

He tried to rise, yet he could not summon any strength in his body.

Graut’s gaze shook violently as he stared at his fallen brother.

By this point, he no longer knew what to do. He kept looking back and forth between his father and his brother.

Graut was not yet fully grown himself.

Then Abelich strode forward.

He looked down at the fallen Rickart and spoke coldly.

"Stand up. Swing your sword."

Under his stern father’s command, Rickart merely trembled like a bird caught in the rain.

Then he opened the eyes he had squeezed shut.

Looking up at his father, Rickart clenched his teeth and spoke.

"I won’t. I won’t do it even if you kill me."

They were not empty words.

His distinctive hazel eyes blazed as though they were on fire.

The intensity of his gaze sent a sudden chill across the back of Abelich’s neck. Coldness traveled down his spine, making every fine hair stand on end.

A long silence followed.

Graut let his sword hang loosely at his side and bowed his head. He seemed ashamed before his father and guilty toward his brother.

Rickart lowered his head once more and began to cry.

His tears fell one by one, leaving dark spots upon the dry earth.

Abelich felt an emotion he could not identify.

He did not allow it to show.

As sternly as ever, he spoke.

"...That will be enough for today."

Vilter immediately hurried over, helped Rickart to his feet, and supported him as he took him back to his room.

Rickart’s entire body throbbed with pain. Even lying down on the bed was difficult.

"Are you an idiot...?"

Unable to bear seeing him in such a state, Vilter needlessly scolded him.

Rickart lay on the bed without answering. He merely wore an inscrutable smile.

A short while later, someone knocked and entered the room.

It was his sister-in-law.

Despite being pregnant, she had personally brought ointment and bandages.

She must have witnessed what happened through the window.

Vilter tactfully left the room, and his sister-in-law spoke.

"I’ll apply some medicine."

Enduring the pain, Rickart sat up.

He removed his shirt and lowered his trousers.

Dark blue bruises had already formed across both arms and the outer sides of his thighs. His shoulder was mottled red and blue, appearing almost black.

His sister-in-law seemed shocked by the sight. Her hands trembled as she applied the ointment.

She had come intending to tell him that Graut had not done it deliberately, that he had been left with no choice, and that Rickart should not resent him too much.

But now she could not bring herself to say any of it.

Even so, Rickart could sense her complicated emotions and remorse through her trembling touch.

"It’s all right. I’m rather accustomed to pain. It’s more like an old friend."

"...Pardon?"

"I believe I’ve already been blessed with more happiness than I deserve. Perhaps it is nothing more than a mirage, as someone once told me. I’m actually more worried that my eldest brother might be suffering. He may pretend otherwise, but his heart is still tender."

Rickart continued.

"So please tell him that I understand everything. Tell him that my heart was not wounded—and that I still love him."

His sister-in-law’s hands stopped in the middle of applying the ointment.

Her eyes widened, and her expression suggested that she could not immediately comprehend what she had just heard.

There were limits to how mature a child could be.

She had never imagined that Rickart would say such a thing—or that he was capable of such profound thoughts.

As his stunned sister-in-law merely blinked at him, Rickart endured the pain coursing through his body and gave her a gentle smile.