Chapter 29
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 29
A bonfire crackled inside an abandoned house by the roadside, where nine people sat in a circle around it. It was Rickert and his companions, on their way back to Beringen.
Having no desire to even look at a forest for a while, they were taking a detour back to the academy instead of returning the way they came.
As they camped for the night, the students made themselves comfortable.
Molty and Lara sat huddled close together, having apparently started dating sometime during their journey. A few others were maintaining their weapons, while some roasted sweet potatoes and potatoes in the bonfire for a snack.
Rickert leaned against a wall, knees pulled to his chest, staring at a sliver of the night sky through a crack in the dilapidated house.
"First, feel the mana. Second, apply mana to physical movement. Third, utilize mana in real combat. Fourth, infuse mana into your weapon, extending it beyond your body. Fifth, become a Swordmaster and kill everyone with a sword that cuts through anything. Is that right?"
Volka's last remark was a joke, but the five stages he listed were indeed the Beringen Guild's classification for reaching the level of a Swordmaster. It was a dry, practical breakdown compared to the somewhat poetic system of the Rubens Guild, but it was more detailed.
"Yeah," replied Jerome, poking a potato in the fire with a twig to see if it was cooked. He was a student who used to hang around with Ice.
Perhaps because they had survived a brush with death together, they were now sharing things they would have normally kept as closely guarded secrets. Then again, hearing it laid out like this, there didn't seem to be much to hide. It wasn't something you could accomplish just by understanding it intellectually. That was why the instructors only taught students who could actually feel mana.
"You can manage to practice up to the second stage on your own, but the third stage is where it gets really hard," said Lara, her short hair tied back. She was now practically swallowed up in Molty's massive embrace.
"True. In the heat of battle, you lose all track of mana and everything else."
Channeling mana required intense concentration. To focus on it while blades flashed frantically before your eyes and your life hung in the balance was an incredibly difficult task.
Thus, with the exception of Ice, none of the students here had reached the third stage. Yet Ice was already at the fourth. Even he had nearly died in actual combat, proving just how difficult and perilous the path of the sword truly was.
"But Ricky is strong even without using mana. I wonder if mana really matters that much if you're not planning to become a Swordmaster," Molty said.
At his words, everyone turned to look at Rickert. Lost in thought, Rickert snapped back to reality a moment too late.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Just saying you're a good fighter."
"Oh…"
"So, is mana more important, or is swordsmanship? Man, that’s a tough one…" Volka mused.
Both were important; it couldn't be just one. It was a matter of choice and focus. But did he even have a choice? Volka was worrying about such things when he couldn't even feel mana yet.
"In my opinion, if you master swordsmanship to its absolute limit, mana doesn't really matter," Delphi chimed in. "A well-honed blade is more than enough to kill an opponent."
"But they say the Sword of Light can cut through anything. That means armor, shields, everything. Even if you master swordsmanship to the limit, I don't think you can beat a Swordmaster. It wouldn't even be a proper fight."
"It depends on how you define that 'limit.' If you can dodge all of the Swordmaster's attacks and land only your own, wouldn't the swordsman win?"
"But someone who became a Swordmaster wouldn't be completely clueless about swordsmanship."
"True, but what I'm talking about is when swordsmanship is mastered to the absolute limit."
"So, what exactly is that limit?"
Volka and Delphi bickered back and forth as if they were in a formal debate. Watching them, Molty thought to himself, No wonder they're single.
Still, since they were all students of the Adventurers' Guild, it was a topic of great interest. As their conversation threatened to grow heated, Molty dragged Rickert back into it. Despite his massive build, Molty was surprisingly sensitive and had a knack for mediating conflicts.
"What do you think, Ricky?"
"...Huh?"
"A duel between someone who can't use mana but has mastered swordsmanship to the limit, and a Swordmaster. Who do you think would win?"
"Well, aren't both meaningless? It just sounds like a play on words."
The first Swordmaster, the greatest killer in history, a one-man army who had shocked the world—that was Rickert's past life. Yet he himself didn't think much of swordsmanship or Swordmasters. After all, he didn't even know where the golden flames that blazed along his blade came from, nor had he ever formally learned the sword from anyone.
In truth, compared to his past life's prowess, his current self was practically an ant. However, because he possessed a deep, intuitive mastery, he could always execute the perfect strike, adapting to his weakness or discomfort in the moment. That was why he had remained undefeated.
Because of this, Rickert found others a bit foolish. Why do they practice things like that? Do they really need to practice to do it? Can't they just do it?
In that sense, Volka, who had actually learned something after getting beaten up by Rickert, was quite impressive. Rickert had absolutely no talent for teaching.
At any rate, Rickert had no room in his mind for such thoughts right now. Ever since the incident with the deserters, he had been struggling to digest the heavy, toxic frustration and resentment building up inside him.
Disappointed by Rickert's lackluster response, Molty looked for his next target: Ice.
Coincidentally, Rickert and Ice were ranked first and second. One couldn't even feel mana, while the other had mastered Mana Drive to a high level.
"Ice, what do you think?"
"The Swordmaster wins," Ice spoke flatly, without a moment's hesitation.
"Oh? Why? What's your reason?"
"Because only those who can feel mana and have reached the limit of swordsmanship become Swordmasters."
"Clear and simple. See? You heard him," Molty said, looking at Volka and Delphi. According to Ice's answer, Volka had lost.
"I was just curious," Volka muttered.
"I was just curious too," Delphi replied.
A slightly awkward air lingered between the two.
Ignoring them, Ice spoke to Rickert, who was once again staring blankly at the crack in the wall.
"Are you okay?"
"...Huh?"
"I asked if you're okay."
"Ah. Yeah, I'm fine. Nothing's wrong."
"You know, Ricky."
"Yeah. Go ahead."
"I don't know what you went through, and I won't ask. Just like you don't ask about my past. I just… hope you feel better."
Having been in a daze ever since the incident with the deserters, Rickert finally let out a faint smile.
"I didn't know you were such a smooth talker."
Since he wasn't one for long speeches, Ice simply replied with a smile of his own. But because he was so incredibly handsome, his smile—breaking through his usual cold expression—was more beautiful than moonlight. Two of the female students gasped softly without realizing it.
"Fucking cheat," Volka grumbled.
At that, the students burst into laughter.
*
The next day, Rickert and his companions resumed their journey toward Beringen. Since there were no cities along the way, they sometimes rented a village barn for the night or were hosted by a rural lord. The reason was simple: the hosts had been highly satisfied with the Beringen Adventurers' Guild when they had commissioned requests in the past. Though the students were bewildered by the hospitality, they didn't mind. Mead, freshly roasted meat, and soft bread did wonders to soothe their travel fatigue.
As a well-armed group of nine, they passed through even the most lawless roads without any trouble. They encountered no highwaymen, and even bandits only watched them from a distance.
It wasn't just because of their weapons or numbers. There was an indefinable air about them now, an aura.
The students were completely different from when they had first set out for the mission. Their gaze, their composure, their breathing, their mindset—everything had changed. It was clear in the way they calmly stared back at thugs, neither afraid nor averting their eyes. Though they weren't lions or tigers yet, they possessed a wolf-like presence capable of overwhelming any common rabble.
In truth, adventurers were essentially private investigators or private police. Their mere passage had the effect of stabilizing local public order to some degree. Indeed, everything in the world had its pros and cons. While students dying was undoubtedly a dark side of the system, seeing this transformation showed there were positive outcomes as well.
After five days of walking, they finally arrived in Beringen. When they entered the headquarters building at the bottom of the hill, the adventurers inside stared at them with curiosity. They had unintentionally become celebrities.
"Are the students this year just built different, or has our standard gone up? Anyway, you all did great. I couldn't believe it when I heard the news. To think you killed that jackal, Lorentz," Dunkel said. For some reason, he wasn't dressed as a bartender but was sitting at a table in light armor, wearing a leather vest and a hooded, dark brown cloak.
"He made the fatal mistake of attacking the Ranger village," one of the students said.
"He probably didn't know the situation there in detail. It was a surprise raid, after all. In any case, when things go sideways, you've got to pull out. Dragging it out is how you end up like that. He was probably impatient. Anyway, welcome back. But Ricky, what's up with your hair?"
"It got singed by fire."
Rickert's hair had grown out a bit, making him look even more like a broccoli than before. He figured he should just shave it all off.
"But aren't you working the bar today?" Volka asked.
"Ah, I have some business to attend to." Dunkel looked at Ice with a meaningful expression before turning his gaze to Rickert. "The Master wants to see you, Ricky."
"Me? Why?"
"Why do you think? You're the biggest contributor to this mission. The rest of you, go rest in the city and take your time heading back to the dormitory. Don't spend too much money in the red-light districts or on gambling. It's not time to buy expensive gear yet, either. Ricky, follow me."
Dunkel stood up. Leaving the others behind, he led Rickert out of the building and up the hill. It was Rickert's first time entering the inner city.
Passing through the castle gates, they saw many neat, ancient buildings. Structures that served as lodgings in peacetime and defensive facilities in wartime stood close to the fortress walls.
When they arrived at the real Beringen Guild headquarters, it wasn't as grand as Rickert had expected. In fact, the plaster on the outer walls was peeling in places, exposing the bare bricks underneath.
"Young master." Before entering the building, Dunkel suddenly addressed Rickert with uncharacteristic formality.
"...Huh?"
"An Elder is inside. He is also a noble, so please be extremely careful with your words and actions. Above all, do not give vague answers or lie. No matter what you do, you can never deceive him."
An Elder? Not the Guild Master?
"I'm terrible at lying anyway."
"That is a relief. Then, please go inside."
Dunkel opened the door for him but remained outside. Rickert stepped into the building alone. It felt like entering a temple stripped of all its pews—a vast, empty space where every sound echoed.
Thud.
The door closed. Standing all alone in such a place, he felt a strange, indescribable sensation.
Step. Step. Step…
Rickert walked slowly, looking around. There were no lights lit inside; the hall was illuminated solely by the natural light filtering in from outside, casting a soft, dim atmosphere.
"You are smaller than I expected, young master."
A voice spoke from a distance. The speaker stood with his hands behind his back, his upper body shrouded in shadow. A sword hung at his waist. It was an elderly voice, but because the hall echoed so much, even his quiet words carried clearly.
"Hello. I am Rickert of the House of Caldebern." For the first time since leaving home, Rickert introduced himself formally. He was neither intimidated nor artificially putting on airs.
"I am Hellauman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and the Emperor's Champion. Speak comfortably."
A Count Palatine held a rank higher than a standard count, acting as the administrator of the Emperor's personal territories. In other words, he was far higher in status than Rickert's father, and even the main branch of the Caldebern family.
Yet, regardless of the hierarchy of titles, nobles had the right to speak to one another as equals. Any noble with common sense behaved as such. Only royalty or members of the imperial family could demand deference from another noble.
Besides, being the Emperor's Champion meant he was a Swordmaster.
Anyone else would have gasped and immediately prostrated themselves, but Rickert remained calm.
"You asked to see me."
"Indeed. I wished to see you with my own eyes. A promising talent who took the head of a formidable opponent at the tender age of eleven."
Rickert had heard it often on the way back, but it seemed Lorentz had been exceptionally infamous.
"I was lucky."
"Luck is also a skill."
"If you say so, then I suppose it is."
Hellauman fell silent for a moment at Rickert's response, then slowly stepped out of the shadows.
With his snow-white hair neatly slicked back, he had a truly peculiar appearance. He clearly looked old, yet his skin was as flawless as porcelain, making it difficult to guess his age. His eyes were blue, and he naturally suppressed the oppressive aura that would otherwise overwhelm those around him.
He approached Rickert and stopped a short distance away, staring at him intently.
"How peculiar. Even the most ordinary commoner possesses at least a trace of mana, yet you, young master, do not have a single drop."
"Yes… I suppose so…" Honestly, Rickert didn't know what he was supposed to do about that.
"It is only natural that a seed cannot sprout if it does not exist. Without the ability to manipulate mana, you can never become a Swordmaster. Do you not find that regrettable?"
"I don't know. I don't really think about it."
"Hmm…"
To Hellauman, Rickert seemed to lack ambition or any pure desire to grow stronger. On the surface, he was just a young boy who seemed to have been born with a natural talent for handling a blade. A flicker of disappointment crossed Hellauman's face. As he had said, without the ability to wield mana, the boy could never become a Swordmaster anyway.
Still, it was rare for a noble to enter the academy, and the boy had indeed accomplished a great feat, so Hellauman decided to engage in some light conversation. He smiled warmly, as if looking at a young grandson.
"Do you know how old I am, young master?"
"To be honest, it's hard to guess from your appearance."
"Hahaha, the Empress Dowager often says the same. I am one hundred and twenty-two years old this year."
Rickert couldn't help but be surprised. Could a human really live that long? And remain so healthy? He wondered if the man was joking.
Seeing Rickert's reaction, Hellauman's smile grew even warmer. How endearing.
"It may be hard to believe, but it is the truth. Since I live in semi-retirement, most people believe my son is the Count Palatine. Or is it my grandson now? Or perhaps my great-grandson? I am not sure, as I have little interest in such matters. At any rate, I saw the legendary Swordmaster, Ricky, with my own eyes while he was alive. Is that not astonishing?"
Huh? Rickert stared at Hellauman once more, searching his memories. No matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn't recall him.
"...That is astonishing."
"I was born the son of a fencing guild master in the Hilsen region. There, I trained in the martial arts with my brothers under my father's tutelage. But one day, that Ricky came and slaughtered my parents, my brothers, and all my relatives. I hid inside a wardrobe and watched it all unfold."
Rickert was speechless. But what the man said next was utterly absurd.
"Yet, I feel grateful to him. Do you know why? Because I was able to witness his perfect swordsmanship. The golden flames blazing along the blade, the spraying blood… It was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Ah, even now, I still shudder with thrill whenever I think of that moment."
To Rickert, the man seemed slightly unhinged. He was so obsessed with the sword that he didn't even care about the slaughter of his own flesh and blood. Perhaps it was because he was too old.
Hellauman continued.
"Every single strike was something I had never seen before, something I couldn't have even dreamed of. It was creative, yet completely devoid of awkwardness or error. Moreover, from beginning to end, it felt like a single poem. That is why I still wonder to this day: did he plan it all out from the start, or was it merely spontaneous improvisation in the heat of the moment? I have been searching for that answer for a hundred years, and I have yet to find it."
Listening to him, Rickert finally remembered. The Hilsen Fencing Guild. They had chased him, trying to kill him to win fame, so he had eventually raided their headquarters and slaughtered them all. He had thought he’d killed everyone back then, but apparently not. To think someone had been hiding. He hadn't bothered to search the place thoroughly.
Still, meeting someone who had been alive during his past life left him in an awkward position. Should he be glad to see him, or should he apologize? He didn't know what to say.
Even so, out of a sense of apology, he wanted to give the man his answer. In truth, it wasn't much of an answer—just a memory.
"Um, well… wouldn't it be both?"
"Hmm?"
"When he first stepped into the training hall, wouldn't he have seen it all? How the fight would flow, what variables would arise, how he would kill them… So, in truth, he probably wasn't thinking anything at all. It just turned out that way, which is why it looked like that to you."
Rickert answered, drawing upon his memories of that day as best he could.
At those words, Hellauman's body suddenly stiffened, and he began to tremble as if he had been struck by lightning.