Chapter 32

Chapter 32: Chapter 32

The academy’s students lived beyond the attention of adults, in a world of their own, like wildflowers growing freely in an open field.

Adult attention did not always have a positive effect, but without proper guidance, children were bound to lose their way.

Sometimes, they even brought cruel fates upon themselves.

There were at least several dozen adventurers’ guilds throughout the Empire, and dozens of them operated academies.

No one could say what life was like at each academy, but the Beringen Academy possessed at least one thing:

Hope.

The students could work to earn money, train in martial arts, support one another as friends, and gain an opportunity to build lives of their own after graduation.

Desperate struggles and death might cast shadows over them, but children were more resilient than most people imagined.

Of course, despicable people existed everywhere. Fortunately, however, a positive atmosphere prevailed at the Beringen Academy, much like wildflowers surviving pests and disease.

Rickart was the one who fostered that atmosphere.

Just as bandits stayed away while a lord remained in his territory, only for vicious thugs to gather naturally whenever he left, Rickart’s mere presence at the academy created a better environment.

Even if he himself never intended it.

Volka, Morty, Ice, Lara, Delphy, Fallen, Jerome, and Melson—the eight students who had joined Rickart in pursuing the deserters—were now old enough to show signs of adulthood.

Including Rickart, those nine stood on an entirely different level from the other students. Together, they shaped the atmosphere throughout the academy.

Their overwhelming abilities and the futures they envisioned became an example for the other students.

I want to become like them.

In any case, boys and girls inevitably grew with the passage of time, and the graduation of those eight was gradually approaching. They had entered the academy between ten months and a year before Rickart.

Students were supposed to graduate after two years, though most remained for slightly more or less than that. Such inconsistencies were inevitable because of the academy’s haphazard management.

The eight did not always work together, but they frequently went out on commissions in small groups. They also interacted with active adventurers and discussed whether they should join existing clans or form one of their own.

After childhood, the paths of siblings diverged.

After adolescence, the paths of friends did the same.

"So, what do you think about forming a clan together?"

Volka asked.

He had always possessed an assertive personality, so he raised the subject without hesitation.

It was the middle of the night. A campfire burned in the clearing between the inner fortress and the girls’ dormitory, with nine students gathered around it.

Night insects chirped in the grass, while stars glittered silently across the black sky.

They would normally have been asleep at this hour, but the academy’s nine highest-ranked students—including Rickart—were afforded a degree of freedom from the rules.

"I can’t. There’s something I have to do."

Ice shook his head.

Jerome and Melson intended to accompany him. The three of them had been together from the beginning, so that was understandable.

"What do you have to do? Can you tell us?"

"I must take the Final Trial."

"Why?"

"It is my destiny."

The Final Trial required one to become a special-rank adventurer and travel to Fernlant. Legend claimed that anyone who passed it would become a Sword Master.

No one except those who had passed knew what happened during the trial or how such a transformation was possible.

Yet almost no one had ever passed it.

The Final Trial itself was exceedingly rare. No one knew who administered it, when it was held, or why it took place. People merely knew that such a thing existed.

Only one person passed every few decades, and throughout the Beringen Academy’s seventy-year history, not a single graduate had succeeded.

Merely taking the Final Trial, let alone passing it, was virtually impossible.

But if Ice claimed it was his destiny, what could they say?

The nine were friends and comrades-in-arms. They respected one another.

For some reason, Ice looked faintly sorrowful.

"Hmm... I suppose it can’t be helped. What about the rest of you?"

Volka looked around at the others.

Morty was also unwilling.

"I’m going to stop being an adventurer. I like working at the forge. Sorry."

"I can’t join either. Morty and I have decided to live together. Sorry."

Lara spoke next.

Apparently, the two of them intended to marry. They were already considered adults, so it was perfectly possible.

"Sorry, but I’m going to pass too. I know a senior adventurer, and I’ve already agreed to join his clan."

It was Fallen, who had briefly traveled with Rickart and Ice during their pursuit of the deserters.

He might have been timid, but he was more than capable of pulling his own weight.

"No, it’s fine. There’s nothing to apologize for."

Volka said that, but his disappointment was obvious.

Only three remained:

Volka, Delphy, and Rickart.

The problem was that Rickart still had a long time left before graduation.

Volka looked at Delphy with an almost pleading expression. He was so blatant about it that Delphy could not suppress her laughter.

"All right, all right. I understand, so stop making that face. I know there’s no one else to look after you."

"Delphy..."

"But what about Ricky?"

Delphy asked, her short hair tied behind her head.

"Let’s include Bori too."

"Volka can be the leader. You’re already the one in charge, aren’t you?"

Rickart smiled without the slightest hesitation.

He had never possessed any desire for such a position in the first place.

When it came to individual combat or leading people during battle, Rickart was unmatched—even compared with active adventurers. But he was not particularly gifted at managing people during ordinary times.

Management meant handling people.

Trust and leadership were more important than simply paying subordinates, and Volka was better suited to that. He also possessed connections everywhere.

Whenever they accepted a commission, Rickart could temporarily take command in actual combat.

Nothing was fixed.

They were the ones deciding the rules, after all.

"Bori said he wants to become an adventurer, so it would be better if he joined us."

"I don’t mind, but you know how dangerous this profession is."

"Bori and I still have a while before we graduate. We can improve our skills during that time. And I believe he’ll do well. He’s stronger than he looks."

"Well, if you say so..."

"Good. Then what should we call the clan?"

Delphy asked.

Volka and Rickart exchanged glances. As though they had understood one another without speaking, smiles appeared on both their faces.

"Viola. Clan Viola."

Viola meant violet.

Delphy had no idea why they had chosen it, but she did not object. She merely thought it was an unexpectedly feminine name.

Most clans had names such as the Fire Axes, Widowmakers, Black Wolves, or Lion’s Roar.

In any case, that was how Clan Viola came into existence.

Rickart was eleven years old. Volka and Delphy were sixteen, while Boribori was thirteen.

Despite all that talk, they were not going their separate ways immediately.

Graduation would not occur until late autumn or winter, when someone from the guild came to collect the departing students.

It was only summer, so they still had several months remaining.

The students who had participated in the commission were busy making various preparations for graduation.

After graduating, they would step out into the harsh world, following their respective goals—or entering it without any goal at all.

As a result, the academy became somewhat unsettled from the beginning of summer. Classes were infrequent, and many students were either frantically saving money or worrying about how they would support themselves after leaving.

While everyone else remained busy, Boribori practiced swinging a wooden sword behind the old dormitory.

Rickart lay on his side in the shade, propping up his head as he watched with boredom.

His brow gradually furrowed.

"What are you doing?"

"Huh? Oh, I was writing. The ancient script. This way, I can study and train at the same time. Hehehe."

"Bori, didn’t you hear that we formed a clan?"

"Yeah. You told me before."

Rickart was so dumbfounded that he almost scolded him, but stopped himself.

Saying anything would not change Boribori.

Boribori resumed tracing lines through the air with his sword. As Rickart continued watching, however, it began to look more effective than ordinary swordsmanship.

Huh? Wait. What is this?

Rickart had attained complete mastery of the sword, so he sensed something peculiar within the movements.

But he could not identify exactly what it was.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen or heard of.

"Ricky, watch carefully. I can do something like this now."

Boribori gripped the sword and began to concentrate.

For some unknown reason, Rickart’s heart suddenly started pounding.

Boribori’s sword moved swiftly.

He wrote an ancient symbol in the air, and the black afterimage of his mana lingered behind the blade. For a brief moment, a genuine character appeared suspended in empty space.

"Oh!"

Rickart’s eyes widened, and an exclamation escaped him involuntarily.

The symbol drawn with mana vanished almost immediately, but what Boribori had done was unquestionably astonishing.

"What was that? What was that, Bori?"

Rickart sprang up from where he had been lying.

Even Rickart, who rarely lost his composure, was excited enough to react so strongly.

In one way or another, Boribori was the only person capable of stirring Rickart’s emotions.

At times, he frustrated Rickart nearly to madness.

At others, like now, he astonished him.

"Hehehe."

"Hey! Even your sword movement was clean! Forget everything else—let’s develop this!"

"Really?"

"Yes! This was the answer! Even I’ve never seen anything like it!"

He had never seen such a sword—not even throughout his previous life.

"Really? Then should we give the swordsmanship a name?"

"...No. It’s too early to call it swordsmanship. At the moment, it’s nothing more than a petty trick. Don’t get carried away."

Rickart’s expression immediately turned grave. When something was not yet worthy, he made that perfectly clear.

"...All right..."

"No, wait. Why not give it a name? There’s no harm in that."

"Right, right. Then what should we call it?"

"Boribori Swordsmanship, obviously. Sword styles are traditionally named after their creators. The Bori Sword Method!"

"But my name doesn’t sound very impressive."

"That’ll change. People will think it sounds impressive someday."

"Do you think so?"

"I do. Now, shall we spar? I’ve become much better at sparring too."

Rickart had mastered a sword designed solely for killing, so he had never known how to moderate himself during practice.

After repeatedly sparring with Ice, however, he had finally learned how to fight without injuring his opponent.

Ice had been beaten rather badly in the beginning. There had even been occasions when his bones were fractured.

When viewed that way, Boribori owed Ice a great deal, both for helping Rickart learn restraint and for teaching him Mana Drive.

Rickart picked up a wooden sword and faced Boribori.

His eyes took on the distinctive intensity they displayed whenever he entered a duel, and a confident smile appeared on his face.

"Come at me however you like."

Boribori nervously swallowed, yet unlike Ice, his body did not stiffen.

He knew that no matter what he attempted, he could never injure Rickart. Reassured by that certainty, he swung his sword without restraint.

There was no lingering mana this time. Producing those afterimages demanded too much mental energy.

Rickart effortlessly evaded Boribori’s sword.

With slight movements of his head or turns of his body, he continued dodging while remaining within Boribori’s reach.

When Rickart widened the distance slightly, Boribori tried to follow by force. His steps became tangled, and he nearly fell on his own.

Rickart had not swung his sword even once.

He caught Boribori before he could hit the ground.

"This is much better. The strokes become slashes, while the dots become thrusts. Even the same character could produce countless variations depending on how you write it. Pay a little more attention to your footwork."

Despite seeing this sword for the first time, Rickart instantly understood its essence.

He also saw its limitless potential.

"Okay."

Boribori nodded energetically.

Their sparring resumed.

Boribori first pictured a character he liked.

Then he drew its strokes and placed its dots.

Sometimes his movements were forceful, and sometimes they were gentle. No one had taught him how to do it. He simply did what felt natural.

Before long, he realized that holding the sword in one hand felt more comfortable than using both, and his stance changed naturally to accommodate it.

Then, as though by magic, he began improving at an unbelievable speed.

The difference between one swing and the next was so great that they hardly seemed to have come from the same person.

This was possible because it was neither training nor practice.

It was simply play.

Boribori drew freely upon the limitless canvas that was Rickart, while Rickart—the great mountain and boundless sea before him—accepted everything Boribori created.

At some point, Boribori began laughing without even realizing it.

Rickart joined him, laughing loudly.

"Hahahahaha!"

Who was it that had said enlightenment made a person laugh aloud?

At that moment, the two boys seemed to embody those words.

Rickart felt so elated that he could have flown.

This was the first time he had ever experienced such a thing.

He had never known that holding a sword could be so joyful.

His sword had been forged solely upon desperate battlefields.

It was a sword tempered by fire and steel, blood and death.

A sword that had condemned its wielder to an agonizing self-immolation...

But when that sword encountered Boribori’s, it experienced liberation.

It was as though a demonic sword had shed its clinging curse and transformed into a holy blade.

For the first time since the incident with the deserters, Rickart felt the knot that had remained lodged in one corner of his heart finally dissolve.

He did not know why.

Nor did he need to know.

If the reason could be explained in words, then it would not be enlightenment.

Some received a question for contemplation from Rickart.

Some encountered a wall and suffered before it.

Others simply found joy.

No one could say what created the difference between them.

For now, behind the dormitory that had once resembled a chicken coop, the laughter of two boys—more refreshing than the wind—continued to ring out for a long time.

End of Chapter 7 — Only a Pure Soul