Time Flows and Memories Fade
This year's Imperial Capital Festival had already come to an end.
Registration for the next tournament wouldn't open until June of next year. Even then, advancing through the academy's qualifiers, the regional preliminaries, and finally to the main tournament in the Imperial Capital would take several months more. I wanted nothing more than to pull my father out of prison this very second, and the reality of waiting nearly ten months was suffocating.
So I changed how I looked at it. It meant I had that much time to prepare.
With my current skill, winning was out of the question—I wouldn't even survive the preliminaries. Which meant there was only one thing to do: spend every remaining second catching up, as if my life depended on it. The sheer span of time lowered the insurmountable wall of impossibility by just a fraction of an inch.
From that day on, I gripped my sword.
I didn't use the academy's training grounds. I never doubted my father's innocence for a second, but that didn't mean I needed to walk straight into a crowd of people, endure their whispers, and invite pointless friction. That wouldn't have been pride; it would have been stubborn stupidity.
Once regular classes ended, I got on my bicycle and rode toward the outer edge of the academy grounds. The 7th Imperial Middle Academy spanned an enormous property. Far removed from the lecture halls, near the perimeter, lay several vacant clearings. I picked one that seemed suitable.
I raised my sword, swung it down, and raised it again. Whenever the exhaustion threatened to crush me, I lashed myself forward.
You know you can't half-ass this.
Only by pushing myself to the absolute brink would I catch even a glimpse of possibility.
Weeks passed like that.
"There's far too much clutter in that sword of yours."
It was the first time the man had ever spoken to me. For the past few days, he had been watching me from the edge of the clearing. One of his sleeves hung completely empty. An amputee. His beard was scruffy, as though he hadn't shaved in ages, and his hair was an untamed mess. He had the kind of face you didn't easily forget.
Even if foot traffic was sparse out here, this was still academy property, and he looked like anything but faculty. The entire estate wasn't enclosed by high walls, so he had likely wandered in through an open path along the perimeter.
While those thoughts crossed my mind, the man spoke again.
"And that's not all. The way you grip the hilt is a mess, your footwork is a mess, and your breathing is a mess. To put it bluntly, everything is a mess."
Was he picking a fight? I had no intention of playing along with that kind of wordplay. I was sick to death of flaring up and clashing over every little remark. If I ignore him, he'll leave on his own. With that thought, I readied my sword to swing once more.
Then his next words froze me in place.
"Still, your grit is worth something."
For the first time, I looked at him properly. "Who are you?"
"Shall we say I'm Passing Villager 1?"
Who on earth introduces themselves like that? Suspicion flared.
"To elaborate slightly," he added, "I know a thing or two about swordsmanship."
Now he seemed even more suspicious. Reading the look in my eyes, the man casually picked up a tree branch from the ground.
"Showing is faster than telling. Come at me."
"Even if you're joking, I have no intention of holding back."
"Holding back...? Don't spare me. Come with everything you have."
All he held was a stray branch from the dirt. Intending to shear right through it, I brought my blade down with full force.
"Huh?"
Suddenly, I was staring at the sky. A heartbeat later, a dull shock slammed into my back. I lay there in a daze, staring up at him, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
I lunged at him again. The result was identical.
A third time.
A fourth time.
I couldn't even tell how he was striking me down.
The man extended his lone hand toward me. "Is that enough to convince you?"
Long explanations weren't necessary. I dropped to my knees on the spot.
"Master!"
His eyes widened at my abrupt reaction, and then a hearty laugh burst from his chest.
"Hahaha! What an interesting kid. I'm liking you more and more. But my lessons don't come free."
What Master demanded was simple: every evening when I came out to train, I had to bring at least three lunchboxes from the convenience store. There were only two of us, so why three? Was he planning to save one for breakfast the next day?
Master clarified before I could ask. "One is yours. The other two are mine."
"Why do you need two?"
"Why ask the obvious? One doesn't fill me up."
If that was the tuition, it was practically free. Starting the next day, I brought lunchboxes—except I brought four instead of three.
"Why four?"
"I thought about it, and one wouldn't be enough for me either."
"Hmm." Master gave a solemn nod. "A guy in training needs to eat well."
From that day on, we ate two lunchboxes each, and the training began.
Master tore down everything I thought I knew about swordsmanship and rebuilt it from scratch.
"Start over from how you grip the hilt."
"Like this?"
"Relax more. You swing a sword; you don't wrestle with it."
Where to plant my feet and the direction of my toes. The exact moment to shift my weight and pull it back. The angle of my hips. Even the rhythm of my breath. I relearned every single detail. It felt like learning how to walk all over again.
Of course, I had taken swordsmanship classes at the academy, but those were group lectures taught to dozens of students at once. No one had ever grabbed hold of me to fix every bad habit tailored to my own build and posture from start to finish. Master was different. With a single swing, he spotted what was wrong. Once I fixed it, he pointed out another flaw. It was an endless cycle of correction, swing, correction, swing.
The daily price of his instruction was two convenience store lunchboxes. I never once doubted him for being cheap; if anything, the teaching was far too generous for what I paid.
What was his goal? Why had he taken an interest in me? I pushed all of that aside. Sticking to the ordinary would never get me close to winning the Imperial Capital Festival. If so, my only choice was to put my faith in the extraordinary.
I poured myself into absorbing every single lesson he gave me without missing a detail. All day long, my mind was consumed by the sword.
During school hours, I focused strictly on my classes, purely because I had no spare time to study later. Whatever could be learned in the classroom, I resolved right then and there. I inhaled my lunch quickly and spent the remaining time reading through textbooks. I had no desire to let my grades slip. I wanted to fulfill my responsibilities as a student properly, so that every second after the final bell could be dedicated entirely to the blade.
On weekdays, I headed straight for the clearing the moment class ended, swinging my sword until the sun dipped below the horizon and the darkness settled in.
Saturdays and Sundays were even worse. I went out to the clearing at six in the morning and swung my sword alone until nearly ten at night. I had hoped Master might show up on weekends, but he never once appeared.
When Monday came, I finally asked, "Master, why don't you come out on weekends?"
"Weekends are for resting."
"...You look like someone who rests on weekdays too, though."
"Ho-oh?"
For some reason, that day's sparring felt a little more personal than usual.
Gradually, our occasional bouts began to shift. He no longer used a tree branch, though I had to bring an extra wooden sword for him to wield. Even knowing he was holding back, I eventually gained enough leeway to trade quips mid-spar.
"Where are you looking? That was just my afterimage."
Clack!
I caught his incoming blade squarely.
"And yet I blocked it."
"You thought you blocked it, but that was an attack aimed at your blind spot!"
Clack!
"And yet I blocked that too."
"...Hmph. Cheeky little disciple. You learn fast."
It didn't sound like a compliment. "It's all thanks to you, Master."
"Why doesn't that sound like a compliment either?"
"I was wondering the same thing. Or would you prefer something like... 'Golly, it's all thanks to you, Master~'?" I pitched my voice into a sickly sweet tone.
"No, that's just revolting."
Time moved swiftly.
Winter arrived. I swung my sword, puffing white clouds of breath into the biting cold. On days with heavy snowfall, I grabbed a shovel before Master even arrived. Clearing the clearing of snow was enough of a workout to leave steam rising off my skin.
Then spring came. Fresh green leaves sprouted on the trees across campus. A new school year began—my final year at the middle academy. My first day as a third-year started, and seeing Noel, Seiji, and Erika no longer stirred anything inside me. My mind was already too crowded with thoughts of the festival to care.
Time marched on once more. Spring uniforms gave way to summer short-sleeves. The sun grew scorching, and just a few swings in the clearing were enough to send sweat tracing down my spine.
Finally, June arrived.
The month I had waited for so desperately was here. Registration for the Imperial Capital Festival had officially opened.
For days, the entire academy had buzzed with nothing else.
"Who do you think will make the roster this year?"
"The Swordsmanship Club will probably take almost every spot."
"I heard Erika is signing up too."
Even without anyone close to discuss it with, the chatter around me was impossible to miss.
I headed toward the main building. A temporary registration desk had been set up on the first floor. As I stepped into the queue, hushed whispers rippled through the hallway.
"Isn't that Han Yoosung?"
"Why is he here?"
"No way... is he trying to enter the festival?"
For months, I had lived like a ghost, keeping my head down and drawing zero attention. My sudden appearance at the registration desk naturally turned heads. Ignoring the stares, I took an application form and wrote down my name.
That was when a familiar shade of crimson hair caught my eye.
Erika.
Beside her stood a guy she had been hanging around with frequently of late. From what I'd heard, was he the captain of the Swordsmanship Club? I didn't care enough to know for sure. The upperclassman she used to follow around last year had graduated and left the academy, so it seemed she had found someone new. Distance makes the heart grow cold, as they say. Perhaps Erika was the type to swap men more often than she appeared. Not that someone else's love life was any of my business.
I turned in my completed form. The staff member checked the paperwork and handed me a receipt slip. I made sure to tuck it securely into my pocket. If anyone tried to dispute it later, having proof of registration was always wise.
With that done, I turned to leave.
I thought Erika had left ahead of me, but she was waiting near the side of the main building. Leaning against the wall, she straightened up the moment I approached.
"Could we talk for a minute?"
I had no reason to refuse. "Sure."
I followed her around to the back of the building where nobody was around. But the one who had called me out remained silent, leaving me to ask first.
"So, what's this about?"
"...It's been a long time since we talked like this."
She hadn't dragged me out here just for small talk. Then, a sudden realization struck me. It had been so long since we'd spoken that I hadn't noticed: that stiff, masculine tone she used to wear was completely gone. She sounded like an ordinary schoolgirl now.
Our silent agreement to act like strangers had driven an unimaginable distance between us. What lingered now was a gulf wider than that between mere acquaintances. The days we had once spent laughing together felt like a complete lie.
Erika asked, "Are you entering the Imperial Capital Festival too?"
"Yeah."
"You never joined the Swordsmanship Club."
"I trained on my own. Not like circumstances would have let me join anyway."
Ever since my father's conviction was finalized, the academy had thoroughly ostracized me. If the club had announced they were accepting me, it would have sparked an uproar. Erika hesitated, her lips trembling slightly before she spoke.
"...Do you resent me?"
"Not really."
The answer came without hesitation. Months ago, I would have had plenty to say, but given enough time, those emotions had faded into thin air.
Erika's eyes wavered, as though my indifference had caught her completely off guard.
"Listen. Even now... do you want to join the Swordsmanship Club? They're holding special training sessions for festival entrants, so you could..."
"No. I'm fine as I am."
I cut her off before she could finish.
"I see," she murmured, sounding as if all the words had drained out of her.
Apparently, that was all she had wanted to say. Just as I turned to walk away without hesitation, her voice caught me once more.
"...Don't you have anything you want to say to me?"
Was I supposed to say something? Nothing came to mind. So I simply pointed out the obvious.
"You cut your hair."
The red locks she had always kept pulled back were now sheared into a neat bob cut. Come to think of it, Erika had started wearing a ponytail because of something I once said. Originally, she had let her long straight hair hang loose over her shoulders. Then, one day, I had remarked offhandedly.
'I think you'd look better with it tied up.'
From the very next day, she had started tying it back. When I asked if it was because of what I said, she vehemently denied it, yet she kept that ponytail for years afterward.
Well, she had no reason to listen to me anymore. Maybe it was that new guy's preference.