Chapter 14
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 14
The Eastern Campaign Front, which had taken over a month to reach, was nothing short of hell. Inside that inferno, soldiers slumped in despair, their spirits broken and their bodies completely drained of strength.
When he was assigned to his unit and stepped into the barracks tent, an indescribable stench hit him—a foul mixture of fire, steel, blood, and death.
That night, a blanket was thrown over Ricky’s head and he was beaten relentlessly. He barely held onto his senses as he endured it. When the beating finally stopped, a senior soldier grinned and said, “To survive in hell, you have to become a demon. Welcome, rookie.”
At first, Ricky didn’t participate in battle. He just frantically ran whatever errands the senior soldiers threw at him.
If he hesitated over terminology he’d never heard before, a fist flew without fail. The lesson came second. He had to empty latrines, maintain weapons, and even steal daily necessities to offer up to them.
Once he survived his first battle and pulled his weight, the errands began to taper off, and the swearing and beatings slowly faded away.
By the time he had gained a bit of a veteran’s grit, he took part in a battle that incurred massive casualties.
Not knowing whether they had won or lost, Ricky pulled a dying senior soldier from the tidal-flat mud and heaved him onto his back. It was the very same veteran who used to beat him the hardest.
With every step, his legs sank up to his thighs, but he gritted his teeth and trudged all day back to the encampment. Carried on Ricky’s back, the wounded soldier lost control of his bowels, the stench cutting sharp through the thick smell of blood.
When Ricky managed to keep him alive against all odds, the man said, “I’m not gonna say thank you.”
After that, the senior soldier recovered and fought in a few more battles. Then one day, he threw himself in front of a spear meant for Ricky, dying in his place.
As his life ebbed away, he said with a smirk, “Don’t you dare say thank you. I finally get to rest. You keep slaving away, you bastard.”
“……”
Ricky realized that day how trust was forged. He understood that trust wasn't spoken in words but proven through actions. Rough language, crude jokes, and violent traditions—these were merely painkillers for soldiers surviving on the battlefield. It was not who they truly were.
That was why Rickert always looked past the surface of someone’s words to find their true intention.
It was in that same spirit that when he first walked into the Beringen Academy dormitory and was met with a barrage of taunts, he felt no anger and offered little reaction. After living among hardened soldiers and braving the manic malice of barbarians, no insult thrown by these kids could touch him.
Only now, looking down at the blanket in his hand, did a sudden thought strike Rickert. Ah. It was an initiation ritual. If that’s all it was, I should’ve just let them hit me.
“Ah, was this an initiation? Sorry. Want a redo?”
Unfortunately, it was too late. Four boys were sprawled on the floor, groaning in agony. A heavy silence settled over the room.
Then, from an upper bunk, a voice called down to Rickert. The speaker was hidden from view.
“Hey. You know how to handle yourself?”
“I don’t know. How about you?”
A dry chuckle echoed from above. A figure then leaped lightly from the top bunk, revealing himself.
He was a student with short blonde hair and a face so weathered it made you wonder if he had lied about his age. Yet his skin was clear enough that he might just be a teenager. It was hard to tell. More than anything, he stood a full head taller than Rickert. He was bare-chested, revealing a well-muscled torso.
“Bare fists, or weapons?”
“Whatever suits you best.”
“Good. Now this is fun. Pankration!”
The opponent roared out of nowhere. It wasn’t just a shout, but a full-throated bellow. The more timid boys—and even Rickert—flinched in surprise. What’s his problem?
As if on cue, the other boys roared back in response. Dozens of voices thundered together, making the entire dormitory shake.
“Pankration! Pankration! Pankration!”
Is that a rally chant or something? Rickert stood baffled, but the big guy turned and headed toward the exit on the far side. Taking it as a signal to follow, Rickert fell into step behind him.
Passing through the door, they stepped into a backyard that resembled a makeshift training field.
Stains of old and fresh blood dotted the sandy ground. Around the perimeter stood wooden parallel bars, pull-up stations, wall bars, and training dummies. In the yard, various youths were sparring, working out, or fooling around with girls. But as the crowd surged out from the dorms, everyone stopped to watch.
In one corner of the yard lay a circular sandpit. The student who had led Rickert outside walked barefoot right into the ring.
The crowd gathered around the ring in a natural circle. Rickert unclasped his cloak, kicked off his boots, and stepped into the pit.
All eyes fixed on them. Some crossed their arms with bored expressions, others gleamed with excitement at the spectacle, while a few looked on with dread at the bloody affair about to unfold.
Rickert’s opponent wore a smug smile, reveling in the attention—especially the gazes of the girls.
“Surrender or die. That’s the only way this fight ends. Anything goes except biting and groin strikes. That is Pankration!”
“Is that so? Are you ready to die, then?”
“What? Hahaha! Amusing. Very amusing. Hey, someone wrap his hands!”
At that, Boribori darted out from the crowd, grabbed Rickert’s hands, and began binding them with cloth wraps. The wraps were to protect the fighter's own fists, not to cushion the blow for the opponent.
While his opponent had his girlfriend wrap his hands, Rickert had Boribori do his. Seeing not a single callus on Rickert’s soft hands, Boribori assumed the fight was already over.
“The moment he lands a hit, just pretend to be in pain and stay down,” Boribori whispered softly. “Volka won’t kill you, but you’ll get hurt really bad.”
So his name is Volka, Rickert noted.
“Yeah, I didn’t get the feeling he had much resolve anyway.”
“…Huh?”
Boribori blinked, confused by what Rickert meant.
“How long are you gonna take wrapping him up? You trying to watch us fuck or what?”
“BHAHAHAHA!”
As Volka shouted the crude joke, the crowd burst into loud laughter. His girlfriend feigned annoyance, but her beaming face betrayed her delight.
“That’s enough. Head back,” Rickert said to Boribori.
Sensing something off about Rickert’s calm demeanor, Boribori stepped back out of the sand ring.
Volka bounced lightly on his feet, circling Rickert as if taking a casual stroll. Slowly closing the distance, he stepped forward hard on his front foot and threw a heavy right.
CRACK!
Or rather, he tried to throw it. White light flashed before Volka’s eyes. His head snapped backward, his punch swinging wildly into empty air. His knee hit the sand with a heavy thud.
An icy silence fell over the yard as if cold water had been dumped on the crowd.
Clinging to consciousness by a thread, Volka wobbled violently, trying desperately to square his stance. But another flash exploded in his vision, and everything went pitch black.
Rickert had lashed out with a high kick directly to Volka’s head. To the onlookers, watching him fluidly strike a target a head taller than himself was like a picture-perfect painting.
If silence had weight, a massive boulder was pressing down on the yard. It was so suffocating that no one dared to draw a loud breath. The smirks on the students' faces slowly froze, their jaws dropping in dumbfounded shock. The bystanders who had been watching with arms crossed lazily let their hands fall to their sides.
Three or four seconds ticked by. Volka’s consciousness flickered back. Looking thoroughly dazed, he strained his stiff limbs to force himself up, completely unaware of the blood pouring from his nose and mouth.
“I could have killed you twenty times over by now. Sure you don't want to yield?” Rickert asked, standing quietly over him.
Only then did Volka realize he had been knocked out cold. When he noticed the stunned, horrified eyes of the crowd fixed on him, humiliation flared. Worst of all, his girlfriend was watching.
“…Fuck… you…!”
Mustering every ounce of remaining fighting spirit, Volka swung a wild haymaker.
Or rather, another flash blinded him before his punch could even connect. With a loud CRACK, his swing sliced pitifully through empty air, and Volka sank onto both knees.
This time he didn't black out. Driven by sheer willpower, he reached out to grab Rickert for a desperate tackle, but his arms were completely devoid of strength, uselessly grasping at nothing.
Rickert’s knee drove straight up into Volka’s jaw, knocking him cold instantly.
CRUNCH!
Thump.
Five seconds passed before Volka opened his eyes, face-planted in the sand. It wasn't just that his body wouldn't obey him—he couldn't muster an ounce of strength. Barely turning his head to look up, he saw Rickert staring down at him dispassionately.
“You said it yourself,” Rickert noted coolly. “It doesn’t end unless you surrender or die.”
With a broken nose, split lips dripping blood, and half-lidded eyes, Volka wheezed out ragged breaths as he rasped, “…F-Fuck… you…”
“Is that so? Fine, then I lose. Satisfied?”
Rickert unwrapped the cloth from his hands, tossed it casually over the collapsed Volka, and turned on his heel to walk away. He reclaimed his cloak from a stunned spectator, grabbed his boots, and walked back toward the building without offering a second glance.
An even heavier silence blanketed the arena. The students stood frozen, utterly unable to process the shocking display.
Volka lay face down in the sand, unable to rise for a long time. His shoulders quivered—whether from pain or quiet tears, no one could tell. The discarded hand wraps lay draped messily over his head. Even if unintended, it looked like the ultimate insult to a vanquished foe.
Back inside, Rickert stood looking around, unsure which bunk was available. Students who filtered in behind him froze in their tracks the moment they saw him. Too afraid to approach him or ask him to move, they backed up in the narrow corridor like a congested street.
Then, among the huddled crowd, Rickert spotted the boy who had wrapped his hands earlier. It was Boribori.
“Oh, hey. You know me, right? You wrapped my hands earlier.”
“…M-Me?”
“Yeah, you. Which one is your bunk?”
“M-Me?”
“Are you trying to imitate some kind of animal?”
“M-Me?”
“……”
Rickert had intended to ask gently with a small smile, but now, suspecting the boy was mocking him, his face turned cold. Noticing the sudden shift in Rickert's expression, the surrounding boys grabbed Boribori and shoved him forward like a sacrificial lamb.
Rickert and Boribori were left standing face-to-face. Boribori’s eyes darted frantically everywhere except at Rickert.
“If you have a speech impediment, just nod. I’ll understand.”
“……”
Boribori stood frozen.
“If you’re trying to mess with me, stop. Can you do that?”
“Y-Yeah. I mean, n-no! I wasn’t trying to mess with you…”
“Where’s your bunk?”
Boribori pointed a trembling finger toward the bottom bunk near the far end of the room.
“Is the spot next to yours free?”
Boribori glanced back. The boy who currently occupied that bed shook his head frantically.
“…Yeah. It’s free.”
“Really? Then let’s bunk together. Are you alright? Feeling sick?”
“N-No, I’m fine.”
“I’m new here, so there’s a lot I don’t know. Give me a hand, will you?”
“S-Sure…”
With his bed decided, Rickert went over to unpack. He casually shoved aside the clutter left by the previous occupant. Normally, a newcomer would never dare act so brazenly, but not a single boy uttered a word of complaint.
The atmosphere in the room was tense, as dead silent as a frozen lake, though Rickert simply assumed the dormitory was naturally quiet. Boribori sat rigidly beside Rickert, clearly hyper-aware of his new neighbor’s every move.
Rickert broke the silence.
“How do lectures work here?”
“Lectures?”
“Yeah. They must teach something, right?”
“Uh… for the first year, you go out into the city to earn money, train on your own, or make connections. Then, for the second year, you use the money you saved to pay tuition so you can attend classes.”
“I brought some money. Wonder if this is enough.”
Rickert untied his coin pouch and poured its contents onto the bed with a heavy clatter. Dozens of silver coins and several shiny gold ones—the profit from selling the jewelry harvested from the corpses of the Bilton Brothers—spilled out.
Boribori’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had never seen such a vast fortune in his life.
“Uh… w-well…” Although Boribori had arrived before Rickert, he had only been here for a month himself, so he didn't know all the details.
“So we basically just sleep here, earn our own money, pay tuition, and once our two years are up, we leave to work in the guild for three years? And after that, we either become full adventurers or take the final exam?”
“Uh… I think so? Probably? They give out bread morning and night at a designated spot, but it’s so hard it’s barely edible. If you want to eat decent food and survive comfortably, you need money regardless…”
Rickert was already loaded. While it wouldn't be enough to purchase top-tier weapons and equipment down the road, it was more than plenty to get by for now.
“I see. Thanks.”
“Huh? B-But… you’re not supposed to say thank you around here…”
“Really? Ah, I get what you mean. Sorry.”
“…You shouldn’t say sorry, either…”
“Haha, right. Feels a bit like the military.”
“The military?”
“Yeah. True comrades don’t need to say thank you or sorry to each other. Because I know I’d risk my life to save my squadmate, and they’d do the same for me.”
Boribori peeked cautiously at Rickert. He looked far too young to have military experience. Was he bluffing? But then again, considering how he had just fought, maybe it was true…
“Ah, and hierarchy is everything here. It determines who gets which bunk, or who backs down first when two people meet in a narrow hallway.”
“Hierarchy? Who sets the ranks?”
“It’s not officially set by anyone. Everyone just knows.”
Even without an official leaderboard, the boys all knew who was the strongest and where everyone else stood. The order was solidified through actual challenges and squabbles.
Rickert leaned forward from his bunk and scanned the kids in the room. No matter how he looked at them, they were just children. They all looked like total pushovers, making him wonder why they even bothered with a hierarchy.
“Where do you rank, then?” Rickert asked.
“I don’t have a rank. I’m at the very bottom.”
“The bottom? That’s harsh. So, if I want an easy life here, is it better to have a high rank?”
“They say it’s easiest to just keep your head down, lay low, and give up on everything. Then once the two years are over, you leave and find a normal job.”
“…That’s a little sad. By the way, I forgot to ask your name. I’m Ricky. What’s yours?”
As they talked, Boribori felt his fear of Rickert begin to melt away. At first, the newcomer had felt like a demon, but he turned out to be quite human.
“I’m Boribori.”
The moment he uttered his name, an abrupt silence descended. The faint smile on Rickert’s face vanished, replaced by an icy glare.
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”
“N-No! I-It’s true! My real name is actually Boribori!”
Rickert squinted at Boribori with lingering suspicion. But before the conversation could go further, the door on the opposite end opened and someone stumbled in. It was Volka.
Blood was smeared all over his nose and mouth. He staggered inside and collapsed heavily onto a random lower bunk rather than his own.
“Where does he rank?” Rickert asked.
Soothing his startled heart, Boribori whispered back, “…He’s our top guy…”