Chapter 19
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 19
Dusk had fallen, and the last purple hues of twilight had faded into the night. In a quiet clearing east of Beringen, a bonfire crackled.
The flickering flames resembled a sinister demon licking its lips, as if it had caught the scent of death.
Crack. Crackle. Crack…
Though the logs themselves were still, the shadows they cast stretched and shrank in a grotesque dance, like cursed puppets on strings.
A young man who had been sitting on a fallen trunk grabbed the sword at his waist and rose smoothly to his feet. He stared across the fire at the boy standing on the other side.
"In the old days, seniors would nip promising sprouts in the bud before they could grow. Things have gotten far too soft lately."
Rickert’s eyes blazed with rage. And what does that have to do with me? he thought, before voicing a different, colder insult.
"A few silver coins for your life. What a cheap existence. You're worth less than country bandits."
His words were a clear reference to the Bilton brothers. Even those fools had been worth thirty silver coins a head.
At Rickert's harsh insult, his opponent skillfully drew his sword, adopting a practiced, steady stance. The sleek blade gleamed in the firelight.
Watching from a distance, Boribori felt the hair on his arms stand on end at the sight of a real, sharp sword. A real blade possessed a distinct, bone-chilling coldness—a dangerous allure that felt almost magical.
Rickert, on the other hand, showed no change in expression as he turned to Volka.
"Volka, lend me your sword."
"Huh? Uh…"
"Hurry."
Volka glanced anxiously at the others gathered around the bonfire, then rushed over to Rickert and whispered frantically, "He's Ranked 7th! He uses mana! It's not too late—apologize to him. I'll smooth things over."
Ignoring Volka's plea, Rickert snatched the sword from his friend’s waist. Pushing Volka back slightly, he said, "Stand back. You might get hurt."
With the situation spiraling out of control, Volka's heart pounded with dread. What am I supposed to do?
Indifferent to his friend’s distress, Rickert had pushed things to the absolute extreme. The die was cast.
Meanwhile, his opponent let out an incredulous laugh. The sword was sized for a grown youth; in Rickert’s hands, it looked like a deadly toy held by a toddler.
And yet, the boy looked oddly grounded. Well, I suppose he's had some basic training, the senior thought.
Without taking a formal guard, the senior sauntered to the side of the fire. Rickert shifted accordingly, keeping the flames between them.
"I don't know why you're so fearless, but this is how the world works. Talent is granted by God, and those without it are meant to serve those of us who have it."
Rickert was genuinely baffled. It was the twisted logic of an immature brat.
"Sorry to break it to you," Rickert said, "but talent doesn't guarantee your survival."
His sharp, uncompromising retort thoroughly irritated the older boy. Or perhaps what irked him most was that Rickert showed no fear, even with drawn steel between them. He should be cowering before me.
"Hmm… I'm definitely going to make you beg for mercy on your knees. Let's start with an arm."
Still taking no proper guard, he let his sword dangle at his side and inhaled deeply.
Though no wind blew, the bonfire fluttered unnaturally. He was drawing upon mana.
He exhaled slowly, paused for a fraction of a second, and then—the fire suddenly flattened as if struck by a gale.
Whoosh!
"Hah!"
The boy materialized directly in front of Rickert. With his eyes wide and cheeks puffed, he held his sword high above his head for a downward slash. As if the distance between them had been erased in an instant, his speed was inhuman.
Under the dark, moonlit sky, a blade flashed.
Clang—!
A sharp metallic ring ripped through the quiet night.
Rickert's opponent felt a heavy shock reverberate up his wrist, followed by a sudden emptiness. His sword had been snapped in half. Huh? Wait a second.
A barrage of thoughts flashed through his head. Was it defective? No way. I polished and maintained it every single day.
His mana control was still crude, and his momentum carried him well past Rickert.
He tried to shout to his friends for another sword, but no sound came out.
"Cough! Gag!"
Huh? What's happening? Wait… He felt his chest growing wet and clapped a hand to his neck. Warm blood soaked his fingers in an instant. Only then did his eyes widen in terror.
Standing by the fire, Rickert turned to look at him. The rage in his eyes had cooled into a chilling indifference. The boy's friends—and everyone else present—were staring, their eyes wide with horror.
Two conflicting thoughts clashed violently in his mind. One denied reality, while the other tried to grasp it. I lost? That can't be. Wait… am I… dying? No. That's insane. Dying? I was just…
Having never considered the possibility of his own death, he was utterly unprepared. But no matter how fiercely denial and acceptance battled in his head, his soul was already halfway across the threshold of the underworld.
Above all, he couldn't breathe. Blood was filling his windpipe, choking him.
"Cough! Cough! Gurgle…"
Clatter.
The broken sword slipped from his fingers. He stumbled, his vision blurring, before collapsing heavily to the ground. Soon, his body went limp, and the light drained from his eyes.
His throat had been cut just enough to kill him—no more, no less. Even after he died, dark blood continued to gush from the wound.
The fire crackled on. The moon hung undisturbed in the sky, indifferent to his life or death.
Frozen by the unbelievable sight, everyone stood paralyzed. Even if breaking the blade was a one-in-a-million fluke, cleanly slitting a man's throat in a single fluid counterattack was simply impossible. To have done it deliberately… the thought was chilling beyond words.
To Rickert, however, his opponent was merely a fast-moving monkey.
Timing over speed; precision over power. He understood this truth, and he possessed the skill to execute it flawlessly.
An opponent who merely relied on mana to move faster or strike harder could never hope to stand against him.
Still holding Volka's sword, Rickert swept a contemptuous gaze over the Academy's top rankers. Remarkably, the blade didn't have a single notch. Instead, the firelight danced wildly off the steel, as though it hungered for more blood.
Framed by the fire, the boy stood tall. Before the highest rankers of the Academy, he was not merely unfazed—he dominated them entirely.
Labels like "newbie" or "pipsqueak" dissolved instantly. As if the world had flipped on its head, the condescending glares from moments ago vanished. In their place was a mix of disbelief, shock at the brutal reality, and the terrifying realization that they, too, could die.
Though he bore the body of a child, the aura of one who had once made the world tremble was far beyond what these students could withstand. The jarring contrast between his young appearance and his terrifying presence only made him more horrifying.
"Listen to me very carefully," Rickert announced. "Until you graduate, don't ever utter the word 'talent' in front of me again. You're all absolute trash anyway. There will be no more tribute money. And one more thing: as of right now, I am Ranked 1st. Anyone with a problem, step forward."
Still struggling to process what had happened, the crowd naturally turned their gaze to Ice, the former Rank 1, and his clique.
Rickert's eyes also fell upon the boy with silver hair like moonlight. However, Ice showed neither hostility nor submission—his expression was entirely impassive.
Ice pulled his tribute money from his coat, placed it on the ground, and silently walked away with his followers. To onlookers, it was total surrender.
As Ice departed, two black silhouettes watching from a distance also vanished into the night.
It might have seemed anticlimactic, but the matter was settled. Rickert was now Rank 1.
Having established the new hierarchy in a single strike, Rickert reclaimed all the tribute money. The dead boy, whose name he never even knew, was carried away by his friends.
As the three of them walked back toward the guild headquarters, Rickert returned the sword to Volka and handed him the coins.
"You don't have to pay tribute money anymore, Boss."
"R-Ricky…"
Taking the money, Volka looked at Rickert with trembling eyes, then down at the coins in his hand. Suddenly, he gritted his teeth and lowered his head, fighting desperately to swallow the lump rising in his throat. He clenched his jaw so hard it felt like his molars might shatter.
Independent as Volka tried to be, he was still just a child who wanted someone to lean on, someone to protect him. The sorrow and bitterness he had carried his whole life were beyond words, and now, all that suppressed vulnerability came pouring out at once.
"L-Let's go ahead, Ricky," Boribori whispered, tugging on the hem of Rickert's cloak.
"...Yeah."
Rickert was perceptive enough to know Volka needed space. Leaving him alone was the kindest thing to do.
Only after Rickert and Boribori had walked a short distance away did tears stream from Volka's tightly shut eyes. He dropped to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed aloud.
Behind Rickert, the sound of Volka's crying echoed—a raw, agonized sound, like a sorrowful beast pouring out its grief.
It was a night bathed in unusually soft moonlight.
*
The next morning, Rickert and Boribori woke up tangled together, their blanket crumpled haphazardly over them.
With his hair sticking out in all directions, Rickert looked around and noticed Volka was missing. Wondering if something had happened, he threw on his clothes and headed downstairs.
"Mister Dunkel, have you seen Volka?"
"Er… 'Mister' is a bit…"
"Uncle Dunkel, did you see Volka or not?"
"...He left early in the morning, My Lord."
Dunkel was subtly threatening him back—a silent pressure warning that if Rickert kept calling him "Mister" or "Uncle," Dunkel would reveal his noble lineage.
Rickert caught on and smirked. Look at this guy. Pretty slick. Well, as long as Volka is safe.
"Do you know where Volka works?"
"No idea. His jobs change every time."
"Uh… then how long can we stay here? We have to leave today, but I want to at least say goodbye to him."
"Try waiting until lunchtime. If you want to stay past that, you'll have to pay for the room."
Rickert tapped his fingers on the bar counter, mulling over the travel time back to the Academy. He decided to wait until noon; if Volka didn't show up by then, it couldn't be helped.
He returned to the room, woke up Boribori, and they ate breakfast. Afterward, they wandered around the headquarters, taking in a bit of the city, but it wasn't fun. They aimlessly stared at various sights before returning around noon.
Even as they packed their things and ate lunch, Volka was nowhere to be seen.
Well, it's not like he went missing or got hurt, Rickert thought, deciding it was time to head back.
"See you next time, Uncle Dunkel."
Tossing out the farewell offhandedly, he stepped out of the building. He and Boribori retraced their steps down the path they had come.
Once they passed the crowded areas, a spring breeze blew past, carrying the scent of fresh grass and blossoms. As Rickert paused to look back across the fields, Volka's voice called out from behind.
"Hey! Ricky! Boribori!"
Though they had acted indifferent all morning, hearing the voice they had been hoping for made both of them snap around instantly. They saw Volka sprinting toward them from afar, and smiles finally broke across their previously expressionless faces.
"How's work? What kind of job are you doing?"
"Never mind that! Here, take this. I have to get back."
Volka handed something over. It was a piece of clothing. Unfolding it, Rickert saw a clumsy, purple violet embroidered on the chest.
He surely hadn't embroidered it himself; he must have been busy since early morning, begging an acquaintance to make it in a rush. Finding purple thread couldn't have been easy.
"This way, it won't wither," Volka said. "And…" He hesitated, rubbing his nose embarrassedly before turning to Boribori. "Sorry about last time. For throwing the flower outside."
It was astonishing. Volka, apologizing? It was practically a miracle.
"I-I'm sorry too," Boribori mumbled. "For acting like a girl."
Though whether that was something to apologize for was questionable.
Flustered, Volka kept scratching his short hair.
Just then, a cool spring breeze gently caressed the three boys like the touch of a deity, as if assuring them that everything was all right.
"I'm off then," Volka said. "We'll see each other at the Academy anyway."
"No."
Rickert shook his head. Taken aback, Volka and Boribori stared at him.
"Not just at the Academy. We can see each other anywhere. Because we're friends forever."
Rickert pointed to the crudely embroidered violet on the shirt. The other two boys burst into smiles.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, Boribori spoke up.
"By the way, didn't we agree never to say 'thank you' or 'sorry' to each other?"
Rickert pondered a clever retort but ultimately gave up.
"Well… once in a while is fine, right?"
"Ehehe, true!"
"You guys better hurry," Volka urged. "The gates close at dusk."
"Got it. You get going too, Volka."
Though they kept telling each other to leave, none of them moved. They wanted to watch their friend go, but hated the thought of being the one to turn their back and walk away. For some reason, it just felt that way.
Spring flowers bloomed abundantly across the fields, resembling the gardens of heaven. Purple violets swayed gently in the breeze.
*
Arc 5 – Not Comrades-in-Arms, Just Friends. End.