Chapter 23
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 23
Real combat was always a worst-case scenario. There were no good days. Someone always died, or was left permanently maimed.
Therefore, assuming the best-case scenario was an impossibility. One always had to prepare for the worst—and its countless, unimaginable variations.
So, when the worst actually happened, how did one respond?
That was not something learned from books. It was something forged only in the crucible of life and death.
Rickert had that experience. Countless times. The thought calmed him slightly. He had faced situations dozens of times worse than this.
Yet, in stark contrast to his mental composure, his heart hammered as if it would burst from his chest.
Even the fear of death grew familiar with time, but his heart always raced when he faced the worst. Was it excitement? Fear? Or some strange cocktail of the two?
One of his friends was critically injured, their allies had fled, and only he and one other remained to fight.
The more objectively he assessed the situation, the faster Rickert’s heart hammered.
Rickert’s strengths lay in duels and ambushes. Yet here he was, the one who had been ambushed, and far from a duel, they were severely outnumbered.
Abandon the wounded and run? No. Protecting his friend wasn't a variable to be considered; it was the objective itself. A non-negotiable absolute.
Then the answer was clear. They had to defeat the enemy. And to defeat them, they had to fight.
Rickert peeked out from his hiding spot, scanning the enemies approaching their position. A little over ten of them were closing in, while the rest of their group seemed to be searching elsewhere.
Rickert’s mind began to whir like a machine. In an instant, countless plans were formulated, discarded, and revised in his head.
"Ricky…"
Volka called out. When Rickert looked back, Volka’s face was a storm of conflicting emotions.
We have to run. No, we have to fight for our friend. But what if we die? No, we'll definitely die. We should run right now. Every second counts… No, I can't do that…
All of Volka’s internal conflict was laid bare on his face. Rickert gripped Volka’s shoulder firmly, his gaze unwavering.
"Watch Molty."
"What?"
With that, Rickert bolted from cover, gripping his blood-stained sword. Volka’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest in sheer terror. There wasn't even time to try and stop him.
He knew Rickert was extraordinary for his age, but this was madness. He’s going to get himself killed!
Rickert gripped the hilt with one hand and the ricasso—the unsharpened base of the blade—with the other, lunging at the nearest enemy. The man spotted Rickert and hastily retreated.
"Over here!" the man shouted at the top of his lungs, drawing the attention of his comrades.
It takes two to tango; if the man refused to engage, Rickert couldn't force a fight.
But this was all within his calculations. Rickert pivoted and charged straight toward another target—the man who appeared to be the enemy leader.
The classic way to turn the tide in a losing battle was to kill the commander. The only question was how.
Rickert threw himself recklessly into the heart of the enemy formation to slay their leader. There was no turning back now. The enemies began to close in, surrounding him. Failure meant death.
"You little brat!"
The enemy leader gripped his sword with both hands and unleashed a swift slash. It was a fierce, practiced strike, proving he hadn't won his rank in a card game. Yet, Rickert’s eyes remained terrifyingly cold and calm.
Rickert's sword, moving at a pace that was neither fast nor slow, parried the incoming blow.
Clang!
The result, however, was unexpected. He had intended to shatter the man’s blade, but it held firm. Was it some legendary sword?
Not quite. Instead, deep blue, flame-like sparks erupted from the point of impact. The man had clearly achieved some level of mastery through mana cultivation.
Yet, the leader was far more shocked than Rickert. He had expected to easily cut down the small boy who had rushed him, but the unexpected counterattack left his wrists throbbing with pain.
With his wrists ringing, the leader struggled to mount a follow-up attack. Rickert didn't let the momentum slip and pressed his advantage.
Letting go of the ricasso, Rickert gripped the hilt with both hands. He raised the sword above his head and swung upward from below. It wasn't an exceptionally fast strike.
However, his opponent, desperate to avoid another jarring clash on his aching wrists, took a half-step back.
But Rickert's upward swing had been a feint. And here, his genius ignited.
As if anticipating the retreat, Rickert took a massive stride forward. Even in this unpredictable situation, he made an incredibly bold move—striving for the best outcome in the worst moment.
Rickert’s arms crossed, spinning the massive sword over his head. Harnessing the centrifugal force and the weapon's sheer weight, he brought it down in a swift, heavy arc.
In that singular moment, Rickert poured everything into a strike aimed at one precise point, at one perfect instant. His core and legs anchored him to the earth as the muscles across his ribs and back tensed. His arms merely guided the path; his will alone was channeled into the tip of the blade.
Unable to dodge, the leader had no choice but to raise his sword in a desperate block. Anticipating another bone-rattling impact, he grit his teeth to keep from dropping his weapon.
How could a mere child wield a greatsword so far beyond his size with such terrifying proficiency?
But the expected shock never came. Because the blade shattered.
Crack!
It wasn't just sparks; blue embers scattered like falling blossoms. It was a beautiful sight, utterly incongruous with the violence of the moment.
Thud!
Rickert’s blade sheared clean through the leader’s neck. The man’s head flew into the air before tumbling to the ground. A fountain of blood erupted from the stump as the decapitated body slumped heavily to its knees.
Rickert kicked the chest, pushing the corpse away. A fine mist of blood splattered across his face and clothes.
He held the sword in one hand. Because of its size relative to his small frame, the tip dragged on the ground.
He glanced at the enemies to his left, then to his right. They stood frozen, their faces masks of sheer disbelief. What just happened…?
Everything from his initial charge to this moment had transpired in the blink of an eye. A child had suddenly leaped out, lunged at their leader, exchanged a couple of blows, and ended the fight just like that.
Parrying an incoming attack and breaking the opponent's weapon in the process was a difficult technique, but it was the easier of the two. Shattering a defending enemy's blade with an offensive strike, as Rickert had just done, was on an entirely different level—a feat bordering on the divine.
Of course, the remaining enemies weren't skilled enough to appreciate the nuance of his technique. Their minds had simply gone blank at the horrific spectacle. Their leader knelt there, headless, his torso slumped backward as blood geysered into the air.
"Gah!"
"Eek!"
When Rickert made a sudden movement and let out a sharp shout, they flinched and bolted. With the only man who could command or punish them now lying headless on the ground, their terror completely overrode any sense of loyalty.
Rickert walked back over the battlefield, scanning the ground for his scabbard. Fortunately, he found it nearby.
Among the scattered corpses, he discovered the bodies of five Beringen Academy students. He had no time to loot their bodies, nor the luxury of recovering their remains. He settled for gently closing their wide, staring eyes.
That was when he heard it.
"Cough… Urgh… Argh…"
Someone was still alive. It was one of the enemies. One of his arms was mangled and dangling by a thread, and a deep, horizontal gash across his abdomen had spilled his entrails onto the dirt.
In this state, he could linger in agony for up to three days. Worse still, he might be eaten alive by wild beasts.
Rickert approached him. Whether begging for mercy or pleading for a swift end, the nameless enemy looked up at Rickert, reaching out a trembling hand.
Rickert knelt beside him, gently covering the man's eyes with his hand.
"You bore me no personal grudge, and I bear you none. Life is suffering. May you find peace in death."
Rather than demanding to know why the man had tried to kill him or harboring any resentment, Rickert spoke with quiet detachment. He drove his dagger into the man's throat, slicing quickly to end his life in an instant.
"Cough! Ack! Urgh!"
The man convulsed briefly, but Rickert's hand remained steady over his eyes, pressing down gently. Soon, the spasms subsided.
Afterward, Rickert went around closing the eyes of the other dead enemies as well. They were already dead, after all.
Rickert wiped the blood from his blade on an enemy's clothes, sheathed it, and gathered a few of the ownerless swords scattered on the ground before returning to Volka and Molty.
Volka's expression, however, was even more stunned than the enemies' had been. He stared at Rickert with his jaw slack, looking utterly dumbfounded.
"I got lucky," Rickert said.
"...Lucky? I don't think luck had anything to do with that," Volka replied in disbelief.
Rickert brushed it off and got straight to the point. "We don't have time. I'll carry the packs. Volka, you carry Molty."
"Huh? Oh… right. But where are we going?"
"It's probably safest to head to the rendezvous point first."
"Right…"
Having spent a night on the road to get here, turning back to the Academy now would be far more dangerous.
Molty was breathing softly, fast asleep. It was a natural side effect of potions; as they rapidly knitted flesh and healed wounds, they induced a deep, heavy slumber.
Rickert slung the packs over his shoulders from a sitting position and stood up. Packed with the gear of three people, the load was nearly as heavy as a full-grown adult. He slung his own heavy sword around his neck, letting it hang in front of him to balance the weight.
Volka transferred as much of his own gear as possible to Rickert before hoisting Molty onto his back. Laden with their crushing burdens, the two boys began the long trek toward the rendezvous point.
Every single step was an ordeal. After hours of walking, sweat poured off them like rain.
If there was one silver lining to the physical exhaustion, it was that it chased away all their fear and anxiety. They were simply too tired to worry. Their minds held only a desperate, singular desire to sit down and rest.
Eventually, they caught up with the rest of their original group: Ice, his two companions, two female students, and another male student.
Their eyes widened in shock at the sight of Rickert and Volka. They survived? How?
Even Ice, whose face was usually an unreadable mask, couldn't hide his astonishment.
"You motherfuckers…" Volka growled, glaring at them with murderous intent.
Rickert, however, remained indifferent. "Drop it, Volka. Hey, you guys. Someone help us out here."
One of the male students stepped forward and took Molty onto his back. Ice gave a subtle nod to one of his companions, who approached and relieved Rickert of the heavy packs.
The moment the weight left his shoulders, a wave of relief washed over Rickert's neck and back. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the dirt, but he forced himself to stay upright, leaning heavily against a nearby tree.
Suddenly, Volka lunged at Ice, grabbing him roughly by the collar.
"You motherfucking piece of shit. I knew it the moment I saw you—you're not even human. You hear me, you godless bastard? Why don’t you quit being an adventurer and go sell that pretty face of yours as a whore? You absolute trash."
A torrent of abuse poured from Volka's mouth. He was clearly pushed past his limit. Ice merely stared back, offering no resistance as Volka gripped his collar.
Surprisingly, it was Rickert who intervened.
"Let him go, Volka. It's fine. Who actually wants to die? Honestly, you were torn, too."
"Ricky!" Volka yelled, his eyes asking how Rickert could possibly defend them.
But Rickert only shook his head in silence.
It wasn't that Rickert didn't resent Ice and the others for abandoning them. But he knew that letting emotions dictate their actions now would do nothing to help them survive. That was why he stopped Volka.
Volka shoved Ice away, releasing his collar. Ice stumbled back a step but quickly regained his footing.
Then, surprisingly, Ice spoke. "I didn't run because I feared death. I retreated to ensure the request could be completed. That is all."
Was the request really that important to him? Rickert couldn't quite comprehend his logic, but he chose not to argue.
"Sure, the request is important. That's what it means to be a fixer. To be an adventurer. Let's just move. We can rest once we reach the rendezvous point."
Naturally, the mantle of leadership seemed to shift to Rickert. In a crisis like this, he was the only one who remained completely composed.
Despite his stoic facade, Ice was clearly shaken as well. If he weren't, he wouldn't have felt the need to offer such an excuse.
"By the way, do you know who those people were? The ones who attacked us?" Rickert asked, looking at Volka.
"It's either the Brabant Guild or the Rubens Guild."
Those were the two main rivals of the Beringen Guild. In the end, Arno's warning had been spot on: students were being dragged into a proxy war between guilds and dying for it.
But this situation was slightly different. They had been ambushed while executing a request. Or rather, they were on their way to support the senior adventurers who were handling it. It wasn't even their own assignment.
"Let's move," Rickert said.
For now, securing their safety was the top priority. Once they were safe, they could decide whether to press on or abandon the mission.
The nine remaining Beringen Academy students set off toward the rendezvous point. Those whose weapons had been damaged or lost were armed with the swords Rickert had salvaged.
What would have happened to them if Rickert hadn't been there? By now, they would have abandoned the request entirely, scattering in a desperate bid to escape.
They likely would have lost their way in the forest, only to be captured by the enemy, devoured by wild beasts or monsters, or starved to death.
The students weren't blind to this reality. Having lived through the horror firsthand, they understood it better than anyone. A newfound sense of awe for Rickert began to take root.
He possessed something far greater than mere martial prowess; he had the rare ability to navigate through absolute despair.
He had the sense of responsibility to never abandon a comrade, the clarity of mind to make precise decisions amidst chaos, the grit to take calculated risks, the audacity to seize victory, and the cold composure to keep his emotions in check.
Yet, as impressive as he was, they couldn't help but feel a sense of bewilderment. He was only eleven years old. It was almost unnatural. Was this what it meant to possess the qualities of a hero?
Regardless, the students found themselves naturally gravitating toward Rickert. They felt a deep sense of shame for having run away. Though they weren't close to him, they were now absolutely certain of one thing: they could trust him.
As they neared Griffinswald, the group began searching the surrounding forest for the guild's hideout. Unfamiliar with the terrain, they wandered aimlessly for quite some time. It wasn't as if they could stroll into the local village and ask for directions to a secret guild safehouse.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, and just as anxiety was starting to set in, they spotted a secluded cabin shrouded by dense foliage. This was indeed the Beringen Guild's Griffinswald hideout.
The students approached the cabin, finally letting out a collective sigh of relief—only for their hopes to be instantly crushed.
The senior adventurers who were supposed to guide and protect them lay scattered on the ground—cold, lifeless corpses.
"This is fucking bullshit," Volka muttered.
This time, Rickert couldn't help but agree. The sentiment was shared by every student there.
They hadn't even caught a glimpse of the deserters they were meant to be pursuing, and now they were on the verge of being slaughtered by rival guilds.