The Backpack Dorman Threw
The gathering point at the forest entrance smelled of damp earth long before the scent of the carriages reached them.
The cadets who had passed through the checkpoint disembarked from their carriages one by one.
A little further past the checkpoint, in front of a black stake driven into the ground like a boundary marker, Neris broke the wax seal on an envelope.
[First Campsite Assignment & Forbidden Zone Markers]
Do not ask questions until sunset.
The stone path had ended. Ahead lay a damp dirt road lined with stunted black trees.
As soon as Ronan's team's carriage ground to a halt, Dorman was the first to leap down.
Thud.
His backpack tumbled down right after him.
The sound was off.
It wasn't the soft rustle of canvas and leather, but the heavy scraping of iron and damp wood hitting the ground all at once.
Dorman slung the backpack straps over his shoulders, pretending nothing was wrong.
Yet the bottom of the pack dragged against the dirt.
A black pot handle poked through a torn seam.
Beside it, a bundle of waterlogged cloth trailed along the ground.
Lya's eyes narrowed instantly.
"Dorman, wait a moment."
"I'm fine. I can carry it."
Dorman always said that.
He was the largest member of Ronan's team, the one who bore the shield.
Because of this, some called his kindness strength, while others saw it as a weakness to exploit.
Snickers erupted from behind them.
"Look at that. The shield-bearer even shields our luggage."
"Dorman, take our pot too. Your pack is bigger anyway."
Two cadets from Marc's team spoke up, raising their voices intentionally.
Among them were the faces of those who had been picking up bread in front of the checkpoint.
Dirt still clung to the tips of their boots, and their laughter was thinner than it had been the night before. Still, their habit of looking down on others remained.
Cain tapped his belt and smirked.
"If you're going to play the nice guy, go all the way. It'd be pretty funny for a shield-bearer to complain about a little weight, wouldn't it?"
Dorman's shoulders flinched.
He didn't answer.
Lya stepped forward and grabbed the underside of the backpack strap.
"Show me your hands."
"I'm really fine."
"Dorman."
Lya's voice dropped.
Dorman finally extended his left hand.
A long tear ran right through the center of his palm.
It wasn't a wound from gripping his shield.
The rough straps of the backpack had dug deep into his flesh.
Though the blood had dried, the split skin pulled open every time he stretched his fingers.
All warmth vanished from Lya's face.
"You carried this and said you were fine?"
Dorman gave an awkward smile.
"I didn't want to cause a scene before we set off."
"You didn't cause this scene, Dorman."
Lya glared at the backpack.
"The person who snuck their luggage into your pack did."
Cerise stepped up beside Dorman.
She looked not at the backpack, but at Dorman's shield.
"Do not lower your shield."
The weight Dorman carried wasn't just the backpack.
He was bearing the mockery others had piled onto him.
Ronan didn't offer to carry it for him.
Instead, he looked for a way to send it back.
Dorman blinked.
"But my hand..."
"The moment a shield-bearer becomes a porter, the front line collapses."
Cerise spoke curtly.
"What you need to protect isn't someone else's pot, but our left flank."
Dorman's throat bobbed.
Her words weren't comfort; they were a declaration demanding Dorman choose his own burden.
It sounded like an order.
And because of that, it carried more weight.
Ronan did not reach for Dorman's backpack straps.
Ben whispered with an anxious face.
"Ronan, it looks way too heavy."
"If I carry it for him, it remains Dorman's burden forever."
Ronan looked at Dorman.
"You need to find out exactly how much stuff in there doesn't belong to you first."
Dorman looked down at the backpack.
A small ribbon in the colors of Ronan's team was tied to the side pocket.
Beneath it, unfamiliar markers poked out in layers.
A round iron ring.
A scrap of blue cloth.
A black knot.
Ben leaned down.
He was timid, but he was strangely quick at identifying the owners' marks on personal belongings.
"This pot handle has the mark of Marc's team. There are three scratches carved on the inside."
Marc's laughter died.
Ben lifted the edge of the damp cloth.
"This one is Cain's. It's the same knot as his belt. The guy who mocked us in the laundry room for having wet clothes snuck his own damp cloth into someone else's pack."
The surrounding cadets began to murmur.
Cain's face contorted.
"What kind of proof is a mark like that? The shield pig probably just picked it up off the ground."
Dorman's grip tightened on the strap.
Fresh blood welled from his torn palm.
The moment Lya saw it, she tried to step forward.
Ronan shook his head.
"Lya."
"Don't stop me."
"I'm not stopping you. But this time, Dorman needs to speak."
Lya took a sharp breath.
Her anger didn't subside easily.
But she stepped back.
Instead, she pulled out a small medicine vial and gripped it tightly.
She held it as if waiting to apply it only after Dorman had spoken his mind.
Marc sneered.
"What's this? Does the reject team need a group meeting just to lift a single bag?"
"No,"
Ronan replied.
"We're just returning lost property."
Cain took a step closer.
"So what if you found the owners? Dorman said he'd carry it."
Dorman raised his head.
His face was flushed red.
It was hard to tell whether it was from shame or anger.
"I..."
He paused.
A single drop of blood fell from his palm.
It stained the strap of the backpack.
Dorman stared at the blood.
Then, he firmly secured the shield to his left arm.
Cerise's eyes softened ever so slightly.
Ronan took a breath.
The pure mana of the atmosphere gathered at his fingertips.
A single silver Phantom Sword materialized low to the ground.
This time, the blade did not fly toward anyone.
Instead, it slipped thinly beneath the tangled knots at the back of the backpack.
Ronan spoke in a low voice.
"Throw it."
Dorman looked at Ronan.
"If it tears..."
"I won't tear it."
Ronan smirked.
"What you're throwing away isn't the backpack. It's their audacity."
Dorman pressed his lips together.
He didn't grab the backpack with both hands.
Nor did he force his injured hand to work.
Gripping a single shoulder strap with his right hand, he braced himself with his shielded left arm.
Then, he swung it.
Whoosh.
The heavy backpack traced a semi-circle over the dirt ground.
Marc instinctively recoiled.
At that exact moment, the Phantom Sword moved.
The tip of the blade didn't slash the bag.
It merely flicked a small loop inside the knot.
Snip.
The bound cords unraveled all at once.
The mouth of the backpack burst wide open.
The items stuffed inside scattered through the air.
Yet they didn't fall randomly.
The pot spun in a neat arc and landed squarely on Marc's boot.
CLANG!
The metallic ring echoed across the gathering point.
Marc swallowed a scream and began hopping on one foot.
"Argh! It's not even hot, why does it hurt so much?!"
Someone burst out laughing.
This time, the laughter wasn't directed at Ronan's team.
The damp cloth with the black knot unfurled in midair.
The end of the cloth wrapped around Cain's belt.
Once.
Twice.
The moment he tried to step back, the heavy, waterlogged fabric sagged and bound his waist tight.
Cain lost his balance and fell backward onto his rear in a pathetic heap.
Muddy water soaked into the seat of his trousers.
"Untie this!"
Ben spoke flatly.
"It's your knot. Untie it yourself."
Two small iron cups clattered to the feet of two other cadets.
The bundle of dry firewood tied with the blue scrap of cloth rolled right back onto the pile of its original owner.
Every single item hidden in Dorman's pack returned to the person whose mark it bore.
No one called for an instructor.
There was no need for a formal ruling.
The dirt ground and the scattered items had already spoken.
Dorman stood holding his empty backpack.
Or rather, he was holding what had finally become his own backpack.
Inside, there was only his own canteen and the ribbon of Ronan's team.
Marc shrieked as he pried the pot off his boot.
"How dare this bastard throw my stuff!"
Dorman cut him off.
His voice wasn't loud.
Yet every cadet at the gathering point heard him clearly.
"Carry your own luggage."
Marc's mouth snapped shut.
Dorman found this silence to be the strangest part of all.
Usually, he would have laughed it off at this point.
He had believed that if he just said it was fine, everyone would be happy.
But the only ones who ever got comfortable were the ones dumping their burdens on him.
His palms had torn, his shield had slowed, and his team had been forced to leave their left flank exposed.
Today, he decided he would no longer call that 'fine.'
Dorman spoke once more.
This time, he looked directly at Cain.
"And if you want to hide behind my shield, don't you dare mock my team first."
A gust of wind swept through.
The tips of the black trees rustled against one another.
Amidst the sound, quiet chuckles and murmurs of admiration mingled.
A few cadets who had avoided Ronan's team in the laundry room yesterday looked at Dorman's shield in a new light.
He wasn't just a lumbering porter.
He was the shield-bearer guarding their left.
Lya took Dorman's hand.
This time, he didn't pull away.
"Can I treat it now?"
Dorman nodded.
"Yes. This time, it's my own hand."
Lya's expression softened slightly.
"Good. That's a much better answer than carrying someone else's luggage."
She applied the medicine and wrapped it in cloth.
As the bandage enveloped his palm, Ronan folded and tied the top of Dorman's empty pack.
"Nice throw."
Dorman flushed all the way to his ears.
"Did I throw it too hard?"
Cerise looked at Marc, who was still struggling to pry the pot off his boot.
"No. It was neither too much nor too little."
Neris added quietly from the side.
"The trajectory wavered slightly, but the result was efficient."
Dorman stared blankly, unsure if he should take that as a compliment.
Ronan chuckled.
"For Neris, that's a glowing review."
Neris didn't reply.
Her hand remained near the black envelope, but today she spent more time staring at the knots on Dorman's backpack straps than the document itself.
Ben kicked the remaining scraps of markers on the ground into a pile.
"If anyone else snuck something in, you'd better take it back now."
At his words, two cadets slunk forward to retrieve a small spoon and a pair of wet gloves.
They kept their heads lowered.
Dorman said nothing.
Instead, he raised his shield once more.
This time, his shoulders didn't sag.
Before the dirt path at the forest entrance, Ronan's team fell back into formation.
Cerise watched the front, Dorman guarded the left, and Ben checked the trail markers.
Lya gave the end of Dorman's bandage one final press.
Ronan patted the empty backpack lightly.
"Let's go."
Dorman nodded.
"Yes. I will carry only my own burden."
Those words felt strangely reassuring.
Behind them, Marc limped along, cradling his pot.
Cain was still groaning, bent double as he struggled to untie the wet cloth knot.
The laughter that had targeted Ronan's team was gone.
In front of Dorman's shield, there was no one else's luggage.
Instead, there was only a broad shadow capable of blocking the dirt road.
Ronan walked beside that shadow.
The forest was still quiet.
But the ones stepping into that silence now were no longer a team dragging along the burdens of others.