Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Spring had passed, and summer was gradually approaching.

When the seasons changed, the wind was always the first to become different—and those winds of change had reached the academy as well.

Wooden posts had been driven alongside the stairs running up the cliff, and railings were installed for safety. The students were relocated to the inner fortress, with twenty assigned to each room.

Seventy years after the founding of the Beringen Adventurers’ Guild Academy, the students were finally freed from their chicken coop.

And it was all thanks to a single student.

That was not all.

The stonemasons’ guild sent by Hellauman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and Champion of the Emperor, installed a pulley over the well and repaired the buildings. They even discovered an ancient underground reservoir and installed water pipes.

The stonemasons had taken one look at the academy’s appearance and structure and immediately recognized its architectural style and construction, even if they could not determine the precise year it had been built.

They claimed there should be an underground reservoir designed to collect rainwater—and then simply found it.

Something whose existence had gone unnoticed for seventy years could finally be put to use.

Water pipes were actually a luxury found only in certain districts of prominent cities. Yet perhaps because this was a stonemasons’ guild employed by someone as powerful as a count palatine, they installed the pipes using expensive copper.

The work was costly enough that even the Adventurers’ Guild would have struggled to afford it. Rickart and the other students could not even begin to imagine how much the entire project had cost.

Through this, they gained an indirect but tangible understanding of how much power the Count Palatine wielded—and how immeasurably greater the Emperor’s power beyond him must be.

The Beringen Academy had undergone such a dramatic transformation that the changing of the seasons itself seemed insignificant by comparison.

For some time, the students struggled to adjust.

They were not sure whether people like them were truly entitled to enjoy such luxuries.

And as Hellauman had promised, a professor arrived at the academy to teach the ancient script.

"We owe the survival of the ancient script to mages. According to them, the ancient script is itself a form of magical writing. Mages use it when recording magical concepts or drawing certain diagrams."

The speaker looked like a man who had never been in a fight in his entire life. He appeared to be in his late twenties and had studied at the renowned University of Hantz.

His name was Erlich, and he was a nobleman.

Yet only two students attended his class.

Rickart and Boribori.

And of the mere two students present, one sat with his arms crossed and his head tilted back, snoring loudly.

That student was Rickart—the very person who had spent so long insisting that he wanted lessons in the ancient script.

"Then if we learn the ancient script, will we be able to use magic?"

Boribori asked.

"Hahaha, no. Do I look like a mage to you?"

"Not really."

"Exactly. Writing is merely writing. My guess is that magic has such a long history that mages simply continue to use the old script."

Professor Erlich removed a thin booklet from the bag he had brought.

"This is a textbook I wrote myself. By studying from it during our lessons, you should be able to learn a great deal in a relatively short time."

"A book? But I don’t know how to read."

"...Oh dear."

Erlich could not understand why someone who could not even read the modern script had enrolled in a class on ancient writing.

Nevertheless, the newly arrived professor was an understanding man.

"Then it would be best for you to learn to read gradually while studying the ancient script at the same time."

Erlich took the booklet, blank sheets of paper, a pen, and ink, then stepped down from the lectern and approached Boribori.

Rickart was still sleeping beside him, but Erlich paid him no mind and opened the book in front of Boribori.

"The ancient script is logographic, meaning that each symbol carries its own meaning. The script we use today is phonetic. This symbol here is from the ancient script, while the letters written beneath it are the ones we use today."

The booklet displayed each ancient symbol in large print, with its meaning written beneath it in smaller modern letters.

"Is there anything you particularly like, Boribori?"

"Flowers and grass."

"Excellent. Then let us find the symbol for a flower."

Erlich turned the pages.

By coincidence, he found the ancient symbol meaning violet. For the moment, he did not explain the ancient symbol itself, focusing only on the smaller modern letters beneath it.

"This is the word for violet. Shall we begin by learning how it is spelled?"

The mention of violets immediately captured Boribori’s interest. His eyes widened as he carefully examined the winding black lines.

The professor explained each letter individually, teaching him the modern script first.

"Vi... o... let..."

"Now, would you like to try writing both the ancient symbol and the letters we use?"

Erlich handed him a blank sheet of paper, a pen, and some ink.

It was the first time Boribori had ever held a pen, so writing naturally felt awkward. But because he was so skilled at drawing, he managed to reproduce the shapes fairly well.

"You write better than I expected."

"Yes. I like drawing."

Boribori painstakingly copied both the winding ancient symbol and its modern equivalent.

When he finished, the professor said,

"Shall we set out in search of the next flower?"

"Yes!"

Erlich turned the page again.

That was how the lesson proceeded.

It could easily have felt painfully slow and frustrating, but neither of them felt that way in the slightest. The professor was considerate and patient, while his student brimmed with curiosity.

In a sense, Erlich might have been the first proper professor the academy had ever had.

The existing professors were really nothing more than adventurers who had accepted a type of commission from the guild. They did not care whether the students learned well or poorly—or whether they lived or died.

That was how they themselves had been taught. They naturally assumed they were supposed to teach the next generation in the same way, perpetuating the cycle.

The guild had never felt any need to supervise the students properly, nor did it possess the ability to do so. It simply sifted through them like grain, selecting whichever students seemed useful and training them to become adventurers.

When examined closely, it was neglect bordering on abuse.

The tragic part was that this was an age in which no one thought it strange.

After all, were these not merely children whom their families had already abandoned?

In any case, Professor Erlich’s lessons proceeded slowly but steadily.

Eventually, time passed and the class came to an end.

"I shall give the textbook to you, Boribori. Study it diligently. I will see you at our next lesson."

Despite being a nobleman, he was remarkably gentle and courteous—almost too much so for this bleak and violent world.

"Thank you, Professor. This is the third gift I’ve ever received in my life. I’ll treasure it."

"Hearing you say that makes me even more grateful. Well, I shall be on my way. I believe you may wake Young Master Rickart now."

"...Pardon? Young Master Rick—what?"

"Ah, it was nothing. I was joking. Hahaha."

Perhaps because Hellauman had sent him, Erlich seemed to know something about Rickart’s background.

"Oh... Ricky does seem a little like a nobleman. But to me, he’s the greatest hero in the Empire. Hehehe."

Erlich gave an awkward laugh and left the lecture hall.

Only then did Boribori wake Rickart.

"Ricky. Ricky."

"...Huh? What? Oh, is class over? You should’ve woken me. What’s that?"

"It’s the textbook. The professor gave it to me as a gift."

Rickart opened the textbook and skimmed through it. His keen eye and sharp mind allowed him to memorize several symbols almost instantly.

"Let me borrow it later."

"All right."

"Aah...! I slept well. My neck’s a little stiff, though."

"You should’ve slept with your head on the desk."

"I should have. Let’s go."

Rickart rose with his hands thrust into his pockets.

He had completely shaved off the hair that had once resembled golden broccoli, but by now it had grown back to some extent.

Rickart and Boribori descended the narrow spiral staircase of one of the defensive towers attached to the inner fortress. The first floor served as the students’ living quarters.

It had originally been constructed as a barracks for soldiers in ancient times, making it perfectly suited for habitation.

Several students were running through the corridor and playing with cleaning tools in their hands.

They paused briefly when Rickart appeared, but soon ignored him and resumed chasing one another around.

As Rickart passed the students’ rooms, he casually glanced inside. Everyone seemed to be doing well.

Then he noticed the students who had bullied Boribori.

Because Boribori had never told him what had happened, Rickart did not even know who they were.

The moment those children saw Boribori, however, they panicked and scurried out of sight like rats.

Boribori paid the rats no attention.

They were not worth even that much.

When the two boys emerged from the inner fortress, warm sunlight welcomed them. It felt as though a gentle giant had softly enveloped their entire bodies.

Castles were naturally shadowy and chilly inside, so both the temperature and the air differed noticeably from the outdoors.

Living inside a castle for too long was not particularly good for one’s health. That was why nobles frequently took walks and sunbathed.

Rickart and Boribori headed toward the area opposite the old chicken coop, beside the girls’ dormitory.

Part of the forest had been cleared to create a new training ground. The other eight students who had left to assist with the commission were gathered there, along with several more students.

Volka, Morty, and Fallen sat resting shirtless and drenched in sweat. Ice, Jerome, and Melson stood nearby, discussing something.

Perhaps because they had now experienced true battles in which their lives had hung in the balance, they were all training diligently.

Lara and Delphy, who had now become the "princesses," were also instructing the so-called "ladies."

"Don’t do it like that."

"Get a grip."

When Lara and Delphy spotted Rickart and Boribori, they raised their hands in greeting.

"How’s the training going?"

"It feels like I’m on the verge of grasping something, but not quite. Still, I think I’ve improved a little."

Volka answered modestly, but after experiencing a real battle, his abilities had risen to an entirely different level.

Volka sometimes appeared simple-minded, but he was surprisingly quick to attain insight—just as he had when Rickart beat him in the past.

Boribori fidgeted awkwardly and kept trying to hide behind Rickart, even though Rickart was nowhere near large enough to conceal him.

Ice looked at Boribori.

"Have you been practicing?"

"Huh? Y-Yeah..."

"Show me."

Whether he was reluctant, embarrassed, or simply did not want to do it, Boribori awkwardly picked up one of the practice swords the students had been using.

Naturally, every student present turned to watch.

Boribori gripped the sword and concentrated, his entire body trembling so violently that they wondered what was wrong with him.

Yet no one laughed.

A moment later, his clumsy swing left a black, ink-like trail of mana hanging in the air.

His swordsmanship was hopelessly awkward, and his inability to control his own strength made his whole body sway. Even so, a flower of mana had unmistakably bloomed from his blade.

After a single swing, Boribori seemed completely exhausted. Sweat poured from his body as he gasped for breath and cautiously watched Ice’s reaction.

"Well done. Keep practicing. Otherwise, you’ll hurt yourself."

When mishandled, mana could rupture muscles and blood vessels, burst one’s eyes, or—if things went badly—damage the internal organs. Injury to a vital organ such as the brain or heart meant instant death.

Every student present knew that Boribori possessed an extraordinary talent for mana.

After all, he had beaten another student to death with his bare hands.

His inability to control such power could therefore be extremely dangerous. Ice was the one teaching him how to control it—the technique known as Mana Drive.

Boribori had once disliked Ice for being a heretic.

Perhaps he felt guilty about that, because he seemed unable to compose himself around him.

"Most people accumulate mana slowly, little by little, so they can begin by applying it to their bodies. But in your case, it would be safer to learn in the opposite order."

Boribori was an exceedingly unusual case.

He had been born with an immense amount of mana and a vast capacity for containing it. Despite his abysmal swordsmanship and complete lack of fighting ability, he was already training in the so-called Sword of Blooming.

"Yeah... Thank you..."

Boribori’s voice was so quiet that even an ant would have struggled to hear it.

Ice, however, apparently was not teaching him in exchange for gratitude. As always, his expression remained indifferent.

He turned toward Rickart.

"Please."

Rickart had been standing there blankly. He approached Boribori and took the practice sword from him, then walked to the center of the clearing.

Ice picked up a practice sword of his own and slowly joined him.

The expressions of the watching students immediately changed.

The opportunity to witness a bout between highly skilled fighters was more precious than gold. It was something they could see only because they attended an academy. Elsewhere, such opportunities were exceedingly rare.

Rickart casually inspected the sword in his hand, turning it over several times as if merely checking its condition.

Then he raised his head and looked at Ice.

His gaze was perfectly calm.

The moment Ice met those tranquil eyes, however, he felt as if something incomprehensible had bound his entire body. The fine hairs on his skin slowly rose as a chill swept through him.

It was not the first time.

He felt the same thing whenever he sparred with Rickart. Meeting those eyes directly always made him shudder and his body stiffen.

Those eyes were the greatest problem.

Rickart did not seem to be merely looking at his opponent. He seemed to be gazing at something beyond him—seeing through his thoughts and even into his heart.

Ice had to force himself to turn his neck and move his arms and legs, confirming that nothing was physically wrong with him.

Even so, meeting those eyes made his chest feel constricted.

He took several deep breaths, struggled to relax, and finally assumed his stance.

"Please attack first."

Ice asked Rickart to make the first move because whenever Ice attacked first, he had never lasted through even a single exchange.

Without hesitation, Rickart abruptly moved left, immediately slipped back to the right, and swung at Ice’s waist.

His form was clean, but there was nothing remarkable about the movement. He was only moving about as quickly as a well-trained boy his age possibly could.

To an expert, it was not particularly fast.

There was more than enough time to respond.

Ice evaded in the direction of the incoming attack, moving into Rickart’s blind spot.

Up to that point, there was no problem.

Rickart turned to face him again and immediately raised his sword high above his head.

At that instant, Ice’s blade was already moving toward Rickart’s flank.

But although Rickart held his sword overhead, its blade was pointed downward.

Clang!

Their swords collided for the first time.

Ice decided he needed to disengage.

Countless possible developments after that exchange rapidly unfolded in his mind.

Yet Rickart chose a movement that did not exist among any of them.

It was as though he had read Ice’s thoughts in advance and responded accordingly.

Startled, Ice met Rickart’s eyes again.

Those eyes... What in the world are they seeing? What does he see when he looks at me?

Tap-tap-tap!

Rickart swiftly pursued the retreating Ice.

Clenching his teeth, Ice launched a counterattack. He could not simply continue blocking until he lost. He had to do something.

Clink! Thud!

The two swords passed each other.

One cut through empty air.

The other struck its opponent squarely in the neck.

Ice staggered briefly after the dull blade hit him. His body reflexively prepared to continue fighting, but he stopped himself.

Had they been using real swords, the match would already have been over.

Rickart had withdrawn and was now standing at a distance, silently watching him.

"You’re still thinking too much. How many times do I have to tell you not to let your thoughts swing the sword? You should simply swing at what you see. Constantly trying to outmaneuver your opponent is a bad habit."

To be honest, Rickart saw no improvement in Ice whatsoever.

In that respect, Ice appeared no different from Boribori.

After all, when someone at a lofty level looked down at those beneath him, they all tended to appear much the same.

In reality, battles between fighters who had attained a certain level almost inevitably became contests of strategy.

Rickart, however, was speaking of something beyond that.

A state of no-thought and no-mind.

Ice had struck a wall.

How could a person possibly fight without thinking?

Ice was unquestionably a genius. It was difficult to find anyone near his age who could rival him. He could instantly envision every optimal attack and defense, then select and execute the best option among them.

Yet Rickart was telling him to abandon thought entirely.

How am I supposed to do that...?

"...Thank you."

Ice spoke with a slightly pained frown as he rubbed his neck. The spot where he had been struck stung sharply.

Morty, who had been watching, remarked flatly,

"That makes ten fights and ten losses."

"No matter how often I watch those two spar, I still don’t understand it."

Volka answered.

From the outside, there had been nothing particularly remarkable about the match.

Their bouts were always like that.

To Volka and the other students, Ice was the very definition of a genius. Anyone who sparred with him understood that immediately. Fighting him meant losing so badly that it felt as though he had been toying with them.

Yet whenever Ice sparred with Rickart, he always lost with anticlimactic ease.

Even after witnessing it themselves, the students could not understand how it happened.

"It’s like building a tower."

Rickart spoke to Ice while playfully spinning the practice sword.

"You work hard to build it as high as you can, then knock the whole thing down at once. When it collapses, new things appear before you. You realize that the tower you treasured and painstakingly built was actually nothing. Once you understand that, you no longer need to think. It seems you still aren’t prepared to tear down your tower."

The explanation was difficult to understand.

Yet there was no point instructing Ice on how far apart to place his feet or what stance to assume. This was the only kind of guidance Rickart could give him.

Rickart himself believed his explanation was fairly precise.

There was simply no other way to express it.

In his previous life, however, Ricky’s foremost objective had always been survival. Whether he wanted to or not, he had constantly been forced to destroy the towers he had built with such care.

The moment his movements settled into a recognizable pattern, death would follow.

Creative attacks and defenses.

Attacks and defenses that transcended creativity and appeared ordinary once more.

The exertion of force. Paths. Lines. Points. No-thought and no-mind. The heart. The life one had lived.

The higher one climbed, the more difficult it became to express anything in words.

"E-Excuse me..."

As Ice and Rickart returned to the other students, Boribori unexpectedly approached Ice.

When they turned to see what he wanted, Boribori held out a small bundle of paper.

"It’s for your neck... I chewed it thoroughly to make it..."

Without saying anything, Ice accepted the paper bundle.

When he opened it, he found something resembling crushed herbs inside.

"It won’t leave a scar, and it should heal quickly..."

Boribori spoke without meeting Ice’s eyes.

Seeing that, Volka laughed.

"Hey, you wouldn’t make anything like that for me even if your life depended on it."

"B-Because Volka is sturdy."

"What are you talking about? Ice is sturdy too."

"Even so... Ice is handsome. It would be a much greater loss if he got a scar."

"What?! Ha! Hahaha! Ha!"

Volka was so dumbfounded that he could only laugh incredulously.

The other students burst into loud laughter as well.

And so, the students of Beringen Academy continued to grow, supporting and encouraging one another while competing in good faith.

They could never have imagined that the teachings they casually received from the boy beside them came from the first person to transcend the limits of humanity and open an entirely new horizon of swordsmanship.

Nor did the students have any idea how vast their own potential truly was.