Chapter 21
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 21
“First thing’s first: low-IQ bastards can’t handle mana.”
The meditation instructor’s opening words were blunt. Irritation was etched onto his face. He couldn't seem to fathom why he had to teach this class in the first place, and his tone was dripping with aggression.
A fairly large number of students, including a disinterested Rickert, filled the tiered auditorium.
Meditation classes were only held a few times a year. The Academy knew from experience that those with an aptitude for mana would grasp it quickly, while those without one never would, no matter how much they were taught.
“When it comes to controlling mana, it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, a noble or a bastard, handsome or ugly, tall or short—none of that crap matters. But any bastard who can’t even understand basic speech has no hope, so feel free to leave my class right now.”
In an era where the right to an education wasn’t guaranteed—or rather, where a formal education system was virtually nonexistent—many of the children lacked even a basic vocabulary.
While they excelled at physical activities, most couldn’t stand sitting still for a lecture. They would rather climb the cliffside stairs a hundred times a day than endure a single hour of sitting still, which they considered pure torture.
Unsurprisingly, the hundred or so students in attendance wore blank, vacant expressions. It was obvious they wanted to bolt out the door that very instant.
Seeing this only deepened the instructor’s already furrowed brow.
“Those who have what it takes will get it right away. Those who don’t won’t get it if they die trying. So I won’t drag this out, and I won’t hold multiple sessions. I’m only saying this once, today. Got it?”
“Yes!” the students shouted back vigorously, their clueless expressions unchanged. There was no proper curriculum here; everything was subject to the instructor’s whim.
“First, get as comfortable as possible. Sit down, lie down, whatever. Just spread out.”
The students did as they were told, including Rickert and Boribori. Rickert leaned back, settling into a half-reclined posture.
“Close your eyes. Do not fall asleep. Shut down all your senses—the sounds around you, even the smells. Focus only on my voice. We begin now. Take a deep breath in… and let it out. Feel the air entering your body. Slowly, even out your breathing. Rest as comfortably as you can.”
As they followed his instructions, a wave of drowsiness crept over the students. Sunlight poured in through the narrow arrow-slit windows, and the warm weather was a natural invitation to sleep.
The instructor knew that eight out of ten would fall asleep anyway. It wounded his pride every time he taught this class, but since it was a paid request, he begrudgingly carried on.
“From this moment on, think of nothing. Of course, you won’t be able to. Thoughts will constantly bubble to the surface. Let them. Instead, observe where those thoughts originate. Keep observing. You probably won’t find the origin point. This requires practice. With time, you’ll realize the origin of thought is empty. There is nothing there. Now comes the important part. Imagine filling that empty void with your breath. Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale… Most of the air flows out, but breathe with the mindset that a little remains behind. Let that remaining trace move along your veins, settle in your muscles, accumulate in your bones, and travel through your veins once more. Repeat this continuously.”
It was a meditation technique that sounded simple in theory but was incredibly difficult in practice. Something remains behind? From a breath? Was that even possible? The concept itself was difficult to grasp.
Even without fully understanding, Rickert followed the instructor's directions.
He tried to observe the origin of his thoughts—or whatever lay before them—and focused on his breathing, visualizing each breath moving through his blood vessels.
Then, at some point, the instructor's droning voice grew distant until it faded completely. The loud snoring of the students around him vanished as well.
It felt as though he had been submerged in water. Should he go deeper? How much deeper? Was there an end? What if he couldn’t get back out?
It was a bizarre experience where comfort and fear coexisted.
Sinking. Sinking. No, was he falling? Or was he ascending? Which way was up, and which was down?
Suddenly, brilliant stars bloomed in the middle of the abyss. Before he knew it, Rickert was standing in the Haiden Fields.
A short distance away, a version of Ricky around his current age was sitting in the meadow, gazing up at the star-filled night sky.
An inexplicable surge of emotion welled up inside him as he looked at that pitiful figure, and his eyes filled with tears.
A time when he had no particular desires, knew nothing of boredom, and was ignorant of both happiness and misery.
Yes, I had a time like that. In truth, I hadn't needed parents, had I? Why would anyone need family affection? Isn't love just another name for the most terrible curse?
So how did I end up enduring such immense pain, sorrow, and betrayal? What did I do wrong? Who is saving whom? Isn't that Ricky right there the most pitiable creature of all?
As demonic whispers echoed in his mind, emotions beyond his control began to thrash wildly within him—injustice, resentment, a curse-laden disappointment, and despair.
Overwhelmed, the tears welling in Rickert's eyes finally streamed down his face.
With that, the night sky shifted, the stars churning. At the same time, a thought emerged—a declaration of war against the world, the most destructive incantation imaginable:
...I don't know what's what anymore. To hell with everything. Just die, all of you.
Just then, Ricky, who had been staring up at the starlit sky, turned to look at Rickert. He spoke calmly.
“It’s all in the past, Ricky. The pain isn’t tormenting you; you’re the one holding onto the pain.”
As if the words were a spell, his seething emotions cooled instantly, and the strength drained from his body. It felt less like salvation and more like emptiness.
And then, someone pulled Rickert out of the abyss.
“Ricky. Ricky.”
Rickert felt his body being shaken as his hearing returned. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a pitch-black auditorium. The sun had set without him noticing.
Though it was dark, his eyes had already adapted, allowing him to make out his surroundings in the moonlight streaming through the windows.
“Ricky, if you sleep in the cold, your face will freeze up. Let’s go back to the dorm,” Boribori said.
“I fell asleep?”
Rickert was momentarily confused. It felt like only a brief moment had passed, but several hours had actually flown by.
“Yeah. You were sleeping so soundly that I waited, but you wouldn’t wake up, so I had to shake you. Were you that tired?”
“Not really…”
Just then, a snore echoed from behind them. It was Volka, sleeping with his arms crossed while leaning against a wall. He hadn't attended the class, yet here he was. When did he show up?
“Krrrrhk! Phew… Krrrrhk! Phew…”
“Looks like someone else was the tired one. Anyway, what happened with the class?”
“Most of the kids fell asleep. The instructor explained a bit about something called Mana Drive, and that was it.”
Rickert sat dazed for a moment. As his grip on reality returned, a sense of stability washed over him. Memories of Stormherz, the events of his journey, and his experiences since arriving at the Academy flashed through his mind, settling into his sense of self.
“...So. Did you feel anything? That mana thing.”
“Yeah.”
Boribori answered so casually that Rickert’s eyes widened. But I didn’t feel a thing…
“Really? You’re not lying?”
“Yeah. You just breathe and visualize it, right? The instructor said he’s never seen anyone catch on as fast as me.”
If the instructor acknowledged it, it had to be real. Yet Rickert couldn't feel anything at all. Do I just need more time? He wasn't particularly obsessed with mana, but he couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment.
“He told me to keep meditating and not slack off on my training. He said sensing mana is just the beginning; accumulating and utilizing it is what Mana Drive is all about. He also told me not to get arrogant.”
The instructor might have a foul mouth, but it seemed he was a proper teacher.
“Did anyone else besides you feel it?”
“The high-ranking kids already knew how. Besides them, it was just me. Did you feel anything, Ricky?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
Boribori smiled brightly. “It’s okay. There’s no rush.”
“Yeah. But…”
Rickert woke up Volka, who was still snoring away.
“Volka, Volka. Wake up.”
“Krrrhk! Gagh! Ack! Huh? Uh… smack, smack…”
Volka flinched awake, smacking his lips with half-closed eyes. He must have been dead asleep, even in that uncomfortable position.
“Volka, didn’t you say you had something to tell Ricky?” Boribori asked.
“Umm… Oh, right.”
“What is it?”
“Well, Mr. Dunkel needs some kids. Capable ones. So I thought I’d ask you.”
“What for?”
“A request came into the guild, and I guess they’re short-handed. You haven’t been at the Academy long, but you’re the strongest. You’ve got some coin, too.”
Having money meant he could afford his own gear. The guild didn't provide equipment; adventurers and students alike had to buy their own out of pocket, much like the military in this world. It was that kind of era. You had to risk your life in battle with gear you bought yourself, but in return, it guaranteed a certain degree of social standing.
Of course, the guild sometimes lent money to its adventurers, but that was rarely a good idea. Borrowing money unwisely could ruin a person's life. The guild was no charity.
“What’s the request?”
“Something about deserters, I think. Looks like a mercenary company put in the request. Must be a situation they can’t handle on their own.”
Regardless of culture or era, desertion was one of the most harshly punished crimes in any military, yet it happened frequently. The threat to one’s life was a factor, but the battlefield presented countless other hardships that were unbearable for a human being. Especially after a defeat, desertions would spiral out of control, to the point where even emperors were often helpless to stop them.
Rickert knew this all too well from experience.
“Is it dangerous?”
“Is there any request that isn’t?”
Rickert was reminded of what Arno had said before—that Academy students were mobilized and killed in competitions between guilds.
“The pay is generous, and they said it’ll count toward our rank after graduation. Completing the request will get us treated as Mid-Rank, and exceptional performance could even get us recognized as High-Rank.”
“Assuming we survive.”
“Yeah, assuming we survive. Are you in?”
Rickert pondered for a moment. To do it or not? He reached a conclusion without much thought: he had to.
No matter how long he waited, it didn't seem like an Ancient Script instructor would ever appear. He had even pestered Old Man Dunkel about it, but Dunkel obviously didn't have the authority to hire one. Since Dunkel was the only person he knew with a connection to the real headquarters, there was nothing else he could do as a student.
In that case, his only option was to become a Special-Grade adventurer, take the final exam, and gain access to the Codex. Though he wasn't fixated on it just yet, he figured raising his rank couldn't hurt.
“I’ll do it.”
“Should I go too?” Boribori asked the moment the words left Rickert’s mouth.
“No. You stay,” Rickert answered flatly.
Mana or not, one needed a foundation of basic martial skill to exert any real power. Boribori didn't even have a rank yet. What was he going to do, carry baggage? Even if someone possessed a natural talent for sensing mana, it was useless if they couldn't fight. The two had to go hand in hand to be of any real use.
This was not yet an era where mana manipulation was highly developed. It was a time when humanity was taking its first tentative steps toward the star known as a Swordmaster.
Volka roughly patted the crestfallen Boribori's head. “Hey, why the long face? I still can’t feel mana either. Instead of just learning from Ricky, why don’t you attend some combat classes? Competing with kids around your level is how you get stronger.”
“Alright.”
“Let’s go. It’s cold. Is this hall always cold, or is the weather still freezing? Oh, right. The Ice Gang is joining too. Just so you know,” Volka said as he stood up.
Rickert and Boribori stood as well, and they all stepped out of the pitch-black auditorium. Before leaving, Rickert paused and glanced back. He felt as though someone might still be sitting there. But there was no one—only the faint moonlight lingering in the deep dark.
*
The next day, Rickert headed toward the city. The sky had been gloomy since morning before finally giving way to rain. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, he walked through the pitter-patter of the downpour. Fortunately, though the road was wet, it wasn't muddy and remained fairly firm.
The rain wasn't heavy, but the wind blew fiercely. The hood kept slipping off no matter how many times he pulled it up, so he eventually gave up.
After about five hours of walking, he arrived at the Guild Bureau and dried his wet hair and body as best he could by the fireplace.
He then headed to the smithy. Molty, hard at work as usual, recognized Rickert and walked over.
“What brings you here?”
“I’m looking to buy a sword.”
Rickert took out his coin pouch, opened it, and showed it to him. Inside were a couple of Gold Coins and a dozen or so Silver Coins—what remained after paying for his living expenses.
“Hold on a second.”
Molty left Rickert and walked over to a blacksmith who was sharpening a sword on a grindstone. Pointing toward Rickert, Molty seemed to explain the situation.
The blacksmith, who sported a thick, bushy beard, turned to stare quietly at Rickert. When he rose from his seat, his towering height and broad shoulders made him look like a formidable weapon himself.
Without a word, he gestured for Rickert to follow. Rickert followed him into a storage building attached to the side of the smithy. It was a cool place, and the pitter-patter of rain on the roof was pleasant to the ear. Neatly lined up were several long wooden boxes.
The blacksmith opened the lids one by one. Smooth, sheathless swords were laid out inside, sorted by width and length.
“Pick whatever you want.”
Rickert looked back and forth between the blacksmith and the swords, inspecting them as instructed. He stopped in front of a longsword that seemed somewhat large for his frame.
Forged with the distinctive techniques of the Norsemen, subtle wavy patterns rippled across the blade. The ricasso—the unsharpened base of the blade—was wrapped in leather, designed so it could be gripped like a short spear if needed.
“This one. May I hold it?”
The blacksmith nodded silently. Rickert picked up the sword and checked its balance, blade thickness, and alignment.
It was a flawless masterpiece. As expected, however, it felt a bit heavy. Yet, perhaps because he had wielded a greatsword in his previous life, it felt surprisingly natural in his hands.
The blacksmith watched Rickert with a stoic expression, struck by how strangely well the boy suited the weapon. It reminded him of how a renowned master examined a blade.
“I’ll take this one. How much is it?” Rickert asked, taking out his coin pouch. In truth, his funds were vastly insufficient.
A weapon crafted from high-quality iron by a skilled Norse blacksmith was worth at least five Gold Coins, and bringing it to another region would multiply its price several times over. Moreover, the sword Rickert had chosen was forged from meteoric iron—renowned as the most expensive metal that could be worked by human hands. It was not something a mere handful of Gold Coins could buy; it was an item meant to be won at auction.
Fortunately, the blacksmith shook his head.
“A hero needs a weapon to match. Consider it paid for by the glorious deeds you’ll accomplish in the future.”
Rickert's eyes widened. “A hero? Me?”
“I heard from Molty. That you were the one who risked your life to step forward and duel those punks.”
He was referring to the fight against the high-ranking students over the tribute money. Before Rickert subdued them, those bastards had caused trouble all over the city. Scared of the Norsemen, they had resorted to harassing iron ore suppliers to extort money, ripping off pimps, and running up tabs at taverns without paying. Aside from bullying the younger students, they were troublemakers through and through.
Now that they were gone, not only the Academy students but also the city's tradesmen and merchants owed Rickert a debt of gratitude.
He had rid them of a plague, so wasn't he a hero? The thought, however, felt thoroughly awkward to Rickert.
He offered an embarrassed smile. “They were just small fry. I didn’t really risk my life.”
The blacksmith took the sword back, slipped it into a sheath, adjusted the leather straps, and handed it to Rickert.
“Whatever. Take it.”
Just like that, Rickert obtained the sword for free—or perhaps not entirely, since the blacksmith clearly felt indebted in his own way.
“Thank you.”
Still, Rickert didn't forget to express his gratitude. After thanking Molty as well, he left the smithy. Since the sword was too long and heavy to wear at his waist, he slung it over his shoulder.
Why did the word ‘hero’ feel so awkward? It was far more embarrassing than he expected.
People back home always said I was gentle and good-natured, but I'm not really that good of a person.
Rickert walked on through the pattering rain. Strangely enough, getting rained on didn't feel bad at all.