A New Beginning
"Riven… where are you……."
Arien was going out of her mind.
The moment the war ended, the first place she went was neither the capital nor the imperial household that had sent her countless invitations, but the small village where the orphanage she and Riven had grown up in still stood.
It was on the off chance, really. Perhaps Riven had stayed at the orphanage all this time, waiting for her after she left for the capital… that was what she told herself.
Or even if he had left somewhere else once he came of age, surely the Director would at least know where he'd gone.
She had come carrying that hope, but not a single trace of Riven remained in this place.
The orphanage where they'd grown up together still stood in the same spot, weathered by the passing years, and the Director, who recognized her at once, was there just as she remembered. But when Arien asked about Riven, the answer she received was nothing she could have anticipated.
Riven had disappeared the very day after she left, the Director said. Without telling anyone, without so much as packing what you could call luggage, he had slipped out of the orphanage and never once returned in all the years since.
At first, she wondered if he had come to the capital looking for her.
But if he'd been in the capital, there was no way she wouldn't have known. After becoming the Hero, her face was known everywhere she went — there wasn't a soul in the capital who didn't recognize her. If Riven had truly been there, he would have come to find her at least once.
Then where in the world had he gone?
Leaving the orphanage behind, Arien walked slowly down the paths the two of them had worn threadbare as children.
The old tree where they used to sit together and pass the time was there. So was the market where they'd stolen fruit behind the merchants' backs, and even the spot where the little street stall once stood — the one where they'd emptied every coin they had to buy each other's necklaces. All of it, unchanged.
But nowhere among it all was Riven.
"What am I supposed to do now…?"
Arien's hand drifted, without her realizing, to the necklace at her throat.
She had thought he'd be here in their hometown. She had thought that coming here, she'd find at least some small trace of him — and there was nothing.
No one knew where Riven had gone, not even where he had lived after leaving the orphanage.
The continent was vast.
She knew that better than anyone — she had traveled through country after country, city after city, throughout the war.
It was far too wide to find one person with nothing but a name, and worse, "Riven" was such a common name you could hear it anywhere.
Above all, the image of Riven she carried in her memory had frozen at fourteen.
Just as she herself had grown into someone entirely different from the girl she'd been at fourteen, Riven must have changed too.
How tall was he now? How did he wear his hair? What did his voice sound like? What kind of life had he lived? She knew none of it.
He might have changed so much that she could pass him on the street and never recognize him at all.
And that thought led, inevitably, to something even more terrible.
What if Riven was already dead?
The instant it surfaced, her chest felt as if it were shattering, and she couldn't draw a proper breath.
Without meaning to, Arien clenched the necklace in her fist.
"No……."
It couldn't be. It absolutely couldn't.
Riven couldn't be dead.
That night, even after she had cried and begged him to forget her, Riven had stubbornly insisted he never would.
He had sworn he would never throw away his necklace, and she had promised the same.
They'd made each other that promise — so how could he just die?
Arien stared down at the necklace in her hand for a long while. They had given these to each other so that even if their faces changed beyond recognition, they would still know each other on the day they met again. Which meant Riven had to still be carrying his.
And as she gazed at the necklace, another promise the two of them had made long ago rose naturally to mind.
It was from their childhood, back when they knew nothing of war or the Demon King.
They had been orphans with nothing to their names, and still they had promised each other that someday, when they were grown, they'd find a little house and live in it together.
Since they had no family of their own, they said, they would marry when they came of age and become each other's family.
And someday, if they had children, they would give those children so much of the parental love they themselves had never received that it would be almost suffocating.
Back then, there was only the happy dream, and nothing else.
They couldn't afford so much as a snack, let alone a house, and they had no way of knowing whether they would truly live to see adulthood — but they believed that as long as they had each other, things would somehow work out.
And now, she could keep that promise.
With the war over, she had enough money now to buy several grand estates and still have plenty left over, and she had become someone everyone looked up to — these days it was harder to find a person who didn't know the name Hero.
She no longer had to leave for a battlefield where she might die tomorrow, no longer had to set her own life aside for the sake of saving the world.
The happy future she'd once thought of as nothing more than a childish dream was now something she could truly build.
And yet…
The most important person was missing from that future.
"Riven… where did you go……."
Her voice trembled.
"We can keep our promise now……."
They could have bought a little house and lived in it together.
Waking up to each other's faces every morning, bickering over nothing and making up just as quickly, sitting at the same table every evening chattering about the day's events.
If they gave each other their love and someday had children, they could have poured out all the love they'd never received themselves, without holding anything back.
It had truly become possible.
"I have so much money now……."
Arien murmured, her voice breaking with tears.
"Everyone knows who I am now…… nobody can look down on us anymore…."
Nearly everything the children they'd once been had longed for was now within her grasp.
And yet, strangely, none of it made her happy.
Because the warmth she needed most — Riven's warmth — wasn't there.
"I'm so lonely……."
Her eyes grew hot.
She remembered how, as a child, whenever she hid away crying alone, that boy would somehow always find her, like he had a sixth sense, and sit down beside her.
How he never asked why she was crying, never told her it was okay or told her to stop — he simply stayed by her side until the tears ran dry. God, she missed him.
"I'm crying right now, so… hic… come out already… I miss you…."
Things were different now. She didn't have to worry about putting food on the table, didn't have to lie awake anxious about what tomorrow might bring.
She could paint that happy future the two of them had once talked about lying side by side as children as boldly and freely as she liked.
So why?
Why is the most important person in that future not here beside me?
Arien stood there for a long time, clutching nothing but her necklace.
Then, slowly, she wiped her eyes.
She had to find him.
Whether it took a month, a year, or ten years didn't matter. If she had to go to the very edge of the continent, then she would go to the very edge of the continent.
The war was over, and she had time now. She had lived to save the world — from here on, she could live for herself.
Arien squeezed the necklace tight in her hand.
"Wait for me."
She didn't know where he was.
She didn't know what he looked like now, or how long the search would take.
Even so.
"I'm coming to find you."
Pressing the necklace even harder into her palm, Arien began to walk again.
And so Arien set out on the road once more, searching for Riven — never knowing that she had already crossed paths, once, with the very person she was looking for.
The day of my first class at the Academy had arrived.
Honestly? I didn't find out until I woke up that morning.
That old bastard of a Headmaster had sworn he'd handle the scheduling himself, but I never imagined he'd actually take care of everything and then toss me nothing but a single sheet of paper.
When a staff member came knocking first thing in the morning and handed it over, all it said was what time to be where, and what class I'd been assigned.
Combat Practice.
I stared at the four words for a long moment, then sloppily folded the paper and shoved it in my pocket.
Teach them how to survive, was it?
So does that mean I'm supposed to teach them swordplay, too?
I considered going to ask the Headmaster, but I had no particular desire to track down that old fossil and stand face to face with him. He was the one who dragged me here in the first place, so whatever class his pet hire ends up teaching, he can deal with it himself.
So I left the dormitory wearing exactly what I always wore.
Hair tied back in its usual careless knot, clothes only a shade cleaner than what I'd worn on the Frontline — nothing about me, from any angle, looked like someone you'd call an Academy professor.
When I showed up at the training ground the Headmaster's note had pointed me to, there were far more students waiting for me than I'd expected.
"……."
The moment I stepped into the training ground, the area went quiet.
The students, who'd been chattering away just moments before, all turned their eyes to me at once.
At first, they didn't seem to believe I was the professor.
Which was fair enough — looking at the people around me, every single one of them was dressed to the nines.
They were wearing nothing but training uniforms, and yet each one looked like I couldn't afford it even if I sold everything I owned, and the swords at their hips were anything but ordinary, down to the last ornament.
Meanwhile, I was standing there in a shabby shirt and whatever pants were comfortable, so their reactions made sense.
Still, by the time I walked to the center of the training ground and looked out over the students, a few of them seemed to finally grasp the situation.
"No way…"
"Is that person the professor?"
"He doesn't even look like a knight."
Ambiguous voices drifted from all around — hard to tell whether they were meant to be heard or not.
I didn't bother responding and just took stock of my surroundings.
Come to think of it, the ones assigned to me were first-years, weren't they?
Enrollment at the Academy started at seventeen, so that would make them… around seventeen or so?
Well-fed and well-raised, every one of them stood tall, and judging by their stances, at least none of them were holding a sword for the first time.
As I was surveying the students, a boy at the front cautiously raised his hand.
"Pardon me, but may I ask you one question?"
"What is it."
"Are you… a knight, sir?"
I looked down at myself in silence for a moment.
Dressed like some town idler, scars visible here and there — I took stock of it all one more time, then raised my head and looked at the student.
"Do I look like a knight to you?"
"…No, sir."
"Then why'd you ask."
The boy shut his mouth, and a few quiet laughs rippled through the crowd.
This time, a different student raised a hand.
"Then which school of swordsmanship did you train in?"
"School of swordsmanship?"
"Yes. I'm curious which style you've mastered — Royal Swordsmanship, Imperial Swordsmanship, perhaps the Lion Sword."
His face said he was expecting some impressive answer.
But what I'd learned was never really a proper "school" to begin with.
I'd just picked things up however I could to survive on the battlefield and used them as best I could. Still, if I had to name one, there was only ever one answer.
"Ghoul Fang Style."
"…Excuse me?"
"Ghoul Fang Style."
A beat of silence passed, and soon a fresh murmur rose among the students.
"Ghoul Fang Style?"
"Isn't that what mercenaries use?"
"It's barely even fair to call it swordsmanship."
"How does someone who learned that end up a professor?"
About the reaction I'd expected.
Ghoul Fang Style.
A style of swordsmanship with a flashy name and no known founder.
No formal stances, no elegant techniques. The enemy swings, you block. An opening appears, you cut or thrust. You go down, you go for the vitals. Lose your sword, throw dirt in their face and mix in fists and kicks, and survive however you can.
That was all there was to it.
And with nothing but that, I survived eleven years in the hell of the Frontline. So for me, at least, it was more than enough.
"Quiet."
One word, and the murmuring gradually died down.
But one girl standing at the very front was still staring at me with a face like stone.
Her presence felt a little different from the other students.
Her posture was ramrod straight, the sword at her hip was a fine piece, and above all — the way the students around her kept glancing at her said she held considerable standing in this crowd.
And just as I expected, the girl stepped forward.
"I cannot accept this."
"Accept what."
"Your qualifications as a professor, sir."
The area went silent.
"We have trained with the sword since childhood to enter this place, and we stood here after passing countless trials. For us to be taught combat by someone who has never even studied proper swordsmanship — that is difficult to accept."
"So?"
"I would ask that you at least prove you are qualified to teach us."
I looked at the girl for a moment.
She wasn't wrong.
If I'd been in her shoes and some ragged stray of a mercenary showed up out of nowhere claiming he'd teach me, I might have thought the same.
The problem was that I had never once asked to be a professor here.
"Qualifications, my ass."
"……Excuse me?"
"That old bastard told me to come here and play professor, then dumped me and walked off. What am I supposed to do about it?"
Every student's expression froze at once.
Apparently no one had imagined anyone would speak of the Headmaster that way.
"If it bothers you that much, go take it up with the Headmaster."
"……."
"Anything else?"
The girl's face stiffened visibly.
Her pride had taken a hit.
"Then I challenge you to a duel, sir."
The girl rested her hand on the hilt of the sword at her hip.
"A duel?"
"I am the top student of our year. If you prove your skill against me, I will no longer question your qualifications as professor."
The surrounding students stirred. At her words, I looked the girl over once more.
Her stance wasn't bad.
Her body was well-trained, and the way she held her sword showed years of disciplined practice.
"Fine."
"…You accept, sir?"
"You asked for it."
I stepped forward with an air of utter boredom. The girl motioned for the surrounding students to back away, and a wide-open space quickly formed at the center of the training ground.
The girl drew the sword at her hip.
One look told you it was a fine blade, its well-kept edge flashing in the sunlight.
"Will you not take up a weapon, Professor?"
"Nope."
"I can have one prepared for you."
"Not necessary."
The girl's eyebrows twitched slightly.
"Are you looking down on me, sir?"
"No."
I answered with my hands still in my pockets.
"Just come at me."
That was the final blow to her pride, apparently.
I could see the girl grinding her teeth, and small voices rose from the crowd again.
"Even so, bare hands are…"
"Isn't he underestimating the top student a bit too much?"
"What if she gets hurt?"
I didn't bother answering, keeping my eyes forward.
Once the mood had settled, the girl raised her sword into guard.
Her form was good.
Her footwork was precise, and there was no wasted tension in her sword hand.
This was definitely properly taught swordsmanship.
"I'm coming."
"Go ahead."
The moment the signal dropped, the girl exploded off the ground.
She was fast.
Fast enough, at least, that she needn't be ashamed to call herself an Academy student.
The thrust came flying straight at my shoulder, and I twisted my body sideways to evade the blade, then pressed the back of my hand against the flat of the oncoming sword to shift its course.
"…!"
The girl's eyes went wide.
Her sword flowed in a direction entirely unlike what she had intended, throwing her balance off by the barest fraction — and in that instant, I stepped in.
Crack!
My fist landed squarely on her jaw.
Her head snapped sideways, the light drained from her eyes, and the strength left her body all at once.
Thud.
The so-called top student of the year collapsed onto the training ground floor.
Not one of the students who'd been making such a racket moments before opened their mouth.
I gave my wrist a shake and looked down at the girl sprawled on the ground.
She wasn't dead.
I hadn't hit her hard enough to shatter her jaw — just enough to knock her out, so she'd come around in a bit.
"Pay attention. People like this are the first to die on a battlefield."
The students' faces hardened, and someone cautiously spoke up.
"…She's the top student of our year."
"So what?"
"Excuse me?"
"Does being top of the year make her immune to a blade?"
No one answered.
"Your skill's not bad. Good form, decent speed, and you've clearly been taught a lot."
I nudged the fallen sword with the tip of my boot.
"But before it even started, you'd already decided you were going to win. The moment I said I used Ghoul Fang Style, I looked like a joke to you. I didn't even draw a weapon, so I looked even more harmless — and that's why you were already planning to end it with your first strike."
I slowly swept my gaze across the students.
"On the battlefield, it's people like this who die first. A battlefield is drowning in every filthy trick and scheme imaginable, and it won't wait around for you to get your stance right. No one picks you up when you fall, and no one waits while you go retrieve the sword you dropped."
I'd seen it countless times on the Frontline.
People with genuinely good skills — who died anyway.
Some got their heads taken off for underestimating an opponent who looked weaker than them; some died with a blade in their back because they honored some code and waited for a downed enemy to rise.
Being good with a sword and surviving were two entirely different problems.
"So what I'm going to teach you is not how to swing a sword prettily. It's how not to die."
I looked once more at the girl lying on the ground, then turned my eyes back to the students.
Nobody was laughing.
Even the ones who had sneered at the words "Ghoul Fang Style" earlier were watching me in silence.
This should be enough for a first lesson, right?
Not that I had any idea what else I was supposed to teach.
"We're done for today."
"……Excuse me?"
"I said we're done."
The students looked at each other in bewilderment.
"But there's still class time left…"
"Didn't I just teach you which bastard dies the fastest?"
"……."
"Somebody take her to the infirmary."
I jerked my chin at the top student sprawled on the ground and turned away. Behind me, I could hear the students murmuring, but I ignored it. Just as I was about to walk out of the training ground, I suddenly felt a gaze on me and turned my head.
Among the students stood a single girl. Even her appearance was a little different from the rest.
Nothing about her looked pampered or well-bred, and the sword at her hip looked worn and old.
Above all, while the others were staring at me like I was some kind of monster, she alone was looking at me with eyes practically sparkling.
"……."
Even after our eyes met, she didn't look away.
If anything, she seemed to sparkle a little brighter.
What is with her?
There's one weird one in the bunch.
I turned my head back without a second thought.
It wasn't as if I planned on remembering every student by name anyway.