Chapter 30

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

Some memories were so powerful that they became tattooed upon the mind. The smells, colors, and emotions of that moment remained vividly alive.

Such memories were no longer merely things of the past. They became something that continued to live on—even after the unimaginable passage of a hundred years.

As a young man, Hellauman had been fairly talented. He was sturdily built as well, with a body well suited to martial training.

At some point, however, Hellauman began to feel stifled by something he could not identify. Something always seemed on the verge of coming to him, yet never quite did, and the feeling tormented him.

At the time, he thought he was simply growing weary of practicing the same things every day.

But that was not it.

Rumors of Ricky, the unprecedented mass murderer, had been circulating for several years. It was said that he had single-handedly killed renowned knights, swordsmen, and even an elite execution squad dispatched by the Emperor.

Was such a thing truly possible? Were they not merely baseless rumors?

Yet the stories about him continued to arrive, far too consistently to be dismissed as simple exaggerations or falsehoods. Eventually, Hellauman’s own family began pursuing Ricky, hoping to kill him and gain fame.

Then, one night, someone stormed into the guild building by kicking the door to pieces.

Hellauman’s father, his brothers, their relatives, and every disciple training in the hall stared at the intruder in shock. Hellauman watched from among them.

The man who had suddenly burst inside was Ricky.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that blazed fiercely.

"You chased me around like a swarm of flies, yet now that I’ve presented myself before you, why does no one dare attack?"

He spoke in a cracked, metallic voice.

Young Hellauman’s heart pounded violently.

Then he quietly went to a wardrobe, hid inside, and watched.

He did so because his instincts had told him at once:

They’re all going to die.

"L-Listen, please calm yourself. There appears to have been a misunderstanding."

His father stepped forward and attempted to placate Ricky.

What came in response was not an answer, but a lightning-fast stroke of the sword. His father’s head flew from his shoulders before he could even react.

As the corpse collapsed, Ricky—who had somehow already drawn his greatsword—looked at the others and said,

"I’ll kill every last one of you..."

The sight of their father’s corpse drove Hellauman’s brothers out of their minds. They charged first, followed by the rest of the family and every disciple in the training hall.

Was it courage?

Or were they merely trying to forget their unbearable fear?

To Hellauman, it looked like simple surrender. They were merely giving up on their lives.

It seemed foolish.

In any event, Hellauman witnessed that picturesque swordsmanship from closer than anyone else.

It was not merely a technique for handling a sword.

It was art.

He was so profoundly moved that tears welled in his eyes, and he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to suppress his sobs.

Along with that overwhelming emotion came the realization of what had left him feeling so stifled all those years.

It was the question of how far one could go with a single sword—the sheer scope of its potential.

Ricky’s sword existed at a height that his narrow-minded father and foolish brothers could never have imagined. It was a singular summit toward which Hellauman could climb for the rest of his life.

First came a broad step to the right and a sweeping cut. Then a shift in the opposite direction to create space, followed by another lightning-fast slash. He pressed forward, retreated slightly to secure space again, cut from the left, blocked and thrust, used a corpse to obstruct his opponent’s movements, moved right once more—and around then, golden flames rose from his blade...

With his eyes closed, Hellauman reenacted the memory, moving here and there as though practicing a formal dance. All the while, he muttered words such as "right," "left," "forward," and "backward."

Rickart stared at him, dumbfounded.

Unsure how long this would continue, he tried to speak.

"Excuse me..."

"Shh!"

Hellauman raised a finger, silencing Rickart, then continued performing something that existed only in his imagination.

No—he was imitating it.

He was repeating the movements he had tried countless times to emulate over the past hundred years, yet had always failed to attain by the narrowest of margins.

Perhaps the memory had not been tattooed upon his mind of its own accord.

Perhaps Hellauman had carved it there himself, over and over again.

Only after a long while did he take a deep breath with his eyes still closed, then finally open them.

"Inhale... Exhale... So he saw it all from the very beginning..."

A grave expression crossed his face as he sank into contemplation.

He had seen it from the beginning.

Seen it.

To see.

Not to think, but to see...

Hellauman deeply contemplated the principle—or perhaps the meaning—of seeing, completely oblivious to the way Rickart was staring at him as though he were a strange man.

Unfortunately, Hellauman did not achieve any definite enlightenment. Standing just short of the summit, he was left only with the feeling that the answer was almost within reach.

But he did not feel frustrated or tormented.

Having something new to contemplate meant that, for the first time in ages, something interesting had entered his tedious life.

Only then did Hellauman turn back toward Rickart.

"I behaved disgracefully. Please forgive me, Young Master."

"It’s all right..."

"We should not remain here. I invited you here, yet I have kept you standing this entire time. Follow me."

Hellauman led Rickart up a narrow spiral staircase and to another part of the building.

It was not an especially remarkable place, merely an ordinary reception room. There was a single window through which they could clearly see the entire city below the hill. The view was excellent.

"I do not visit Beringen often, so I have little with which to entertain you."

Hellauman spoke as he sat in a hard wooden chair. Despite his advanced age, his seated posture was perfectly upright.

"That’s all right."

"I happened to be passing through on other business when I heard about you and became curious. I have gained something unexpectedly valuable from our meeting."

"I’m glad I could help, even if I didn’t mean to."

"Hohoho... How modest of you. Even without mana, talent in swordsmanship is still a precious gift. For fifty years, I was obsessed with swordsmanship. For the next thirty, I devoted myself solely to mana. Then I returned to where I had begun. Recently, I have come to wonder whether mana is truly as important as people believe. No matter how abundant one’s mana may be, and no matter how pure, the vessel that contains it has a fixed capacity. Mana Drive has clearly defined limits. The principles of swordsmanship, however, are endless."

It was the opposite of Ice’s opinion.

Hellauman must have pondered the matter for a very long time. Did that mean he was right?

Still, if the question was not which path made one stronger but which belief was correct, there might be no definite answer. Perhaps the claim that Mana Drive had clear limits was itself mistaken.

In any case, it was not a subject that particularly interested Rickart.

"Is there anything you desire? If it is within my power, I would like to grant it."

Hellauman asked.

"Hmm. I’d like you to send us a professor of ancient languages. I’ve been waiting for one for a long time, but the academy still hasn’t appointed anyone. And after I learn the ancient script, I’d like to see something called the Codex."

Hellauman looked as though he could not understand Rickart’s request.

He had expected the boy to ask for some world-renowned sword—or at the very least, a great deal of money. Perhaps even a territory of his own.

"May I ask why?"

"There was a war in the Eastern Expeditionary Lands about a hundred years ago, wasn’t there? I heard the Codex was the reason for that war. I want to see it and find out whether it was truly worth going to war over."

Hellauman reacted much like everyone else who had heard Rickart say such a thing.

Why would you possibly be curious about that?

Still, Rickart was the one who wanted to know. Hellauman could hardly criticize him for it.

"I do not know the precise details myself, but the war was not fought solely because of the Codex."

"Pardon?"

"As long as humans live upon this earth, there will always be wars. Do you not agree? Even now, somewhere in some province, people are surely killing one another for reasons both petty and grave. And rulers who dream of greatness inevitably wage great wars. That is how they achieve immortal deeds—and through those deeds, attain eternal life."

The absurd and unexpected statement seemed to bring Rickart’s thoughts to a complete halt.

Eternal life? That isn’t true, is it? Were all those people mentally and physically destroyed because of something like that?

"I can have a professor sent here soon. Seeing the Codex, however, will likely be difficult. It is kept in the Imperial Archives. As for the versions circulating among the public, it would be nearly impossible to determine whether they are authentic. Most of them are forgeries. I have seen the genuine Codex once myself, but I do not know the ancient script, so I could not understand why it was considered so important."

"I see... In any case, thank you. I’ll finally be able to take classes in the ancient language."

"Hohoho. To be honest, I find it rather baffling. When I was a child, boys were deliberately prevented from learning to read. People believed that literacy made men weak. Looking back now, I think there may have been some truth to it—and yet you wish to learn an ancient script. Hohoho..."

"There’s nothing wrong with doing it as a hobby."

"Geniuses always have their eccentricities. But I asked to see you privately not only because I was curious about you. I also have a separate matter to discuss."

"Go ahead."

"More and more nobles will enter the academy in the years ahead. The times have changed, and so has the way people think. I would therefore like you to lead them well."

"Me?"

"In my estimation, any eleven-year-old capable of killing a clan master has no equal among the academy’s students. I shall become your patron. If you ever require anything or find yourself in difficulty, contact me through Dunkel at any time."

Having the Count Palatine and the Emperor’s Champion as one’s patron meant acquiring an extraordinarily powerful backer.

Rickart, however, was not particularly impressed.

He believed that if he needed something, he could obtain it himself, and if he ever found himself in trouble, he could resolve that himself as well.

No—there actually was something he needed.

An idea suddenly occurred to Rickart.

"There is something I need right now."

"Hmm? What is it?"

"Please have railings installed along the stairs leading to the academy. It’s dangerous if someone loses their footing. Also, the students’ living quarters are rather cramped. The professors’ quarters are in the inner fortress, but the professors hardly spend any time there, so it seems like a great deal of space is going to waste. I’d like the students to be allowed to use it."

"I shall see to it immediately. Is there anything else?"

For the Count Palatine, such a request was nothing.

In any event, the students of Beringen Academy would finally be able to escape their chicken coop.

"That’s all for now."

"Is this noblesse oblige, then? A noble should naturally practice charity. Excellent. It appears I judged your character correctly. I had a feeling when I first heard the news. By the time one reaches my age, one’s intuition becomes remarkably well developed. My instincts are almost always correct."

"Then you must be able to make a fortune gambling with dice."

Rickart recalled something Arno had once said and borrowed the remark.

Caught off guard by the unexpected response, Hellauman threw back his head and burst into laughter.

"What? Hahahaha! I cannot believe that thought never occurred to me! Young Master! Hahahahaha!"

A faint smile appeared on Rickart’s face as well.

The old man seemed to have lost his mind after becoming too obsessed with swords, but Rickart still liked his easygoing nature.

After meeting Hellauman, Rickart was finally able to return to the academy.

***

About a week after Rickart and the higher-ranked students had left the academy to assist with an adventurers’ commission, ominous news reached the school.

Rickart and the other students had reportedly been killed in an attack by a rival guild.

No one was more shocked by the news than Boribori.

His heart pounded violently. Even as he told himself that it could not possibly be true, tears trickled from his eyes.

"N-No. That can’t be true. Ricky is so strong."

Given the times they lived in, false reports were sometimes passed around, so at first, the other students only half believed it as well.

But news from the outside world did not reach the academy quickly. While Rickart’s group remained in Torvail, the story of their deaths gradually came to be accepted as fact within the academy.

As that happened, the way the other students looked at Boribori subtly began to change.

One day, while Boribori was resting on his bed, another student approached him.

"Huh?"

"Switch places with me."

Because Boribori had originally slept beside Rickart, his bed was on the second level of a bunk near the middle of the aisle. As someone with no rank, he could never have occupied such a place without Rickart’s protection.

"Uh... All right."

Boribori knew that, so he yielded without protest.

He gathered his belongings and climbed down from the bed. As he did, he felt people staring at him from all around.

They were not friendly looks.

But no sooner had he switched beds and unpacked his belongings than another student approached.

"Huh?"

"Switch places with me."

"Uh... O-Okay."

Boribori packed up everything he had just unpacked and moved again.

Yet the moment he finished unpacking at his new bed, another student demanded that he switch places.

They went out of their way to make him move, pushing him farther and farther toward the outskirts of the dormitory.

But that was only the beginning.

The students around him cunningly intensified the bullying little by little.

At first, they merely shoved or bumped into him. Then they began pinching him for no reason whenever they passed. They stole his personal belongings, and eventually, they threw the shoes Rickart had bought him over the edge of a cliff.

Boribori climbed all the way down and searched the surrounding area for them. It took him the entire day, from morning until evening.

When he finally returned with the shoes, the students threw them over the cliff again.

The bullying grew endlessly worse.

They employed every cruel method they could imagine, tormenting him both mentally and physically.

They would drag him away by force, tell him to close his eyes and open his mouth, then feed him insects. If he failed to swallow them and spat them out, several students would gang up on him and beat him.

They prevented him from sleeping properly by constantly assigning him to night watch, and they even extorted the money and valuables he needed to pay his tuition.

The saddest part was that the ranked students were not the ones doing it.

Most of his tormentors were the so-called lower-class students who, like Boribori, had no rank of their own.

They had never been on particularly bad terms with him before. Yet the moment Rickart was gone, they completely changed.

Boribori did not resist.

Whether he was unable to resist or simply chose not to was impossible to tell.

But what tormented Boribori most was having to accept that Rickart was dead.

With each passing day, Boribori became increasingly haggard. Despite that, the bullying only grew more severe.

Cutting grass, emptying latrine buckets, cleaning, and performing other menial tasks were all things he had always done. Now, however, he was forced to take over everyone else’s work as well.

There was no way his small body could endure it.

One day, he lay limply on his bed, feeling as though he might truly die if this continued. His eyes were swollen, and dark blue bruises covered his face and body.

Even then, the other children came over and hurled vicious remarks at him for no reason.

There was nowhere for him to run.

After all, this was the place to which he had been sent after being abandoned.

"Hey, I heard your mother was a maid. Did she seduce her master? Wow, that’s no good."

What made it especially vile was that the speaker’s circumstances were hardly any different, yet he still insulted Boribori’s parents.

"You’re promiscuous just like your mother, aren’t you?"

"Did you seduce Ricky that way too? Why don’t you do it for me?"

"Hehehe. Hey, are you insane?"

"N-No. Don’t say bad things about Ricky."

Boribori finally spoke.

He had silently endured every form of abuse, even when they insulted his parents. Yet the moment they mentioned Rickart, he reacted.

"Has this bastard lost his mind? Hey, that Ricky you love so much is dead. That weak little fucker—I was going to kill him myself."

"I should’ve knocked all that bastard’s teeth out before he left. Hehehe."

People said that even kings and emperors were cursed behind their backs, but this was contemptibly cowardly.

"I-I said stop."

"This bastard really needs another beating before he comes to his senses."

The children tried to drag Boribori down from his bed.

Though he had no strength left, Boribori clung to the bedpost and desperately resisted being pulled away.

"You bastard! Come down while we’re still asking nicely!"

"Say that Ricky was a pathetic fucking weakling!"

"Ricky’s gone now, you idiot! He’s dead!"

They struck, pulled, and scratched Boribori.

They knew from everything they had done to him before that he could not resist.

They believed it would always remain that way.

But they were wrong.

"I told you to stop!"

Crack!

The voice unmistakably belonged to a boy, yet it boomed like thunder. The entire dormitory reverberated with it.

Without realizing what he was doing, Boribori tore the bedpost free. With one of its supports gone, the bed lurched sideways.

The other children were so startled that they toppled backward.

Before they could understand what had happened, Boribori—having lost all reason—grabbed one of his tormentors by the collar and lifted him off the floor.

The boy in his grasp saw it.

A black, ink-like energy was surging within Boribori’s eyes.

It was mana.

Yet mana was not supposed to become visible outside the body in this manner.

This was nothing like Ice’s refined Mana Drive, which gave mana form along the path of his sword.

Pure mana was simply overflowing from Boribori’s body.

Hellauman had spoken about the capacity of the vessel that contained mana.

Boribori’s body might have been small. He might have been physically weak and incapable of fighting.

Yet the capacity of his vessel for mana was so vast that it could not even be estimated.

Still gripping the boy by his collar, Boribori slammed him violently against the wall.

Bam!

"Ghk!"

Thud! Thud! Thud! Bam!

Boribori beat him with his bare hands until he was little more than a bloodied rag.

He had never hit another person before, so there was neither technique nor restraint in his movements. He merely struck him wildly.

Yet some inexplicable strength surged through him. Wherever his fists landed—collarbone, ribs, internal organs—bones shattered and flesh ruptured.

Still holding the boy by the collar, Boribori spoke. Tears poured from eyes overflowing with black energy.

"Please. Insult Ricky just one more time. If you do, I think I’ll be able to kill you."

It was difficult to understand exactly what he meant, but the words were undeniably terrifying.

The boy in Boribori’s grasp, however, was already knocking on the gates of the afterlife.

Then, at that moment—

"Bori, what are you doing?"

Boribori instantly froze like a stone.

His friend’s death had been impossible to accept, yet his heart had continued to buckle beneath the weight of it.

But that was his friend’s voice.

The black energy in Boribori’s eyes scattered.

When he turned his head, he saw Rickart standing at the dormitory entrance with the light behind him.

An indescribable sense of relief flooded over Boribori. The sorrowful rage that had burned so fiercely it seemed ready to consume his brain cooled with unbelievable speed.

Fortunately, Boribori had not crossed the boundary between human and monster.

He had not broken.

Unlike Ricky in his previous life.

Unlike the deserter.

True friends became pillars that supported each other’s souls merely by being alive.

They kept one another from collapsing.

It had been quite a long journey.

For everyone.