Chapter 3
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 3
To be reincarnated was to carry faded memories of a distant past, a feeling that lingered from the moment he awoke to consciousness as a child.
As he was granted a new life and forged new experiences, those past memories gradually receded. The thick stench of iron and the acrid smell of burning gave way to sweeter, more fragrant things.
A mother smiling as she watched his silly antics; laughing and running through the woods with his brothers; the crisp, fresh feeling of new shoes; promises kept with friends; special treats on special occasions.
And the moment his ever-stoic father drew him into a tight, surprised embrace.
Bit by bit, like scattered starlight, these moments gathered to fill the void within him. Day after day, he found himself waking up and looking forward to what the morning might bring.
How could he possibly describe such feelings? The right words wouldn't come. He simply felt a deep sense of debt—a debt for childhood memories that no amount of money or effort could ever buy.
Was it merely a coincidence that his nickname was Ricky? Rickert had always detested the concept of fate, but even he had to admit this wasn't entirely bad.
“How is your body feeling now?” Abelich asked, wiping grease from his hands with a towel.
At his question, Grout, Grout's wife, and Vilter—all seated at the dining table—turned to look at Rickert. A month had passed since that day, and the bandages were finally off his hands, which had suffered torn muscles from gripping the spear shaft so fiercely.
Rickert, who was in the middle of chewing, covered his mouth and answered, “I'm fine. It feels the same as before. Please don't worry.”
“……”
Silence fell as they watched him answer so casually.
When people witnessed something shocking, they first struggled to accept it. Then, inevitably, they searched for a plausible reason to rationalize what they saw.
The explanation they had landed on was pure, miraculous luck—an alignment of unbelievable strokes of fortune. How else could a ten-year-old child have taken down such a massive wild boar in a single blow?
Still, the fact that he had stood his ground against a charging boar rather than freezing or fleeing proved he possessed an extraordinary temperament.
The way they looked at Rickert had changed. He was keenly aware of the subtle shift in their treatment of him.
“Would you like to learn swordsmanship?”
“……I'm not really sure,” Rickert replied, sounding uncertain.
He hadn’t backed down from a charging boar, yet he was afraid to hold a sword? He was still just a child, after all, his family thought.
However, Rickert's reluctance didn't stem from fear. He simply felt averse to taking up the sword again—a weapon he had handled to the point of utter weariness in his past life.
“I really don't get you,” Vilter chimed in. “When I started learning swordsmanship at your age, I was thrilled.”
As was typical for young boys, the prospect of learning to use a sword was exciting because it seemed cool. Of course, that interest would quickly fade once they realized they lacked talent and were left with nothing but tedious repetition. Still, one ought to be happy when first starting. Vilter certainly thought his youngest brother was a bit odd.
Grout looked at Rickert, who appeared somewhat subdued, and spoke in an admonishing tone. “A man does what needs to be done, even when he doesn't feel like it. Swordsmanship, especially, is something you must never neglect. You can't just opt out because you don't want to.”
Learning the sword was not merely martial training; it was a fundamental requirement for a nobleman. Even if one did not achieve great mastery, mastering the basics was mandatory.
Yet Rickert gave no response to his eldest brother, who was eight years his senior. A brief silence ensued.
“Answer me.”
“……Fine,” Rickert answered reluctantly.
While Vilter had been snapping at their eldest brother lately—perhaps hitting adolescence—the truth was that Grout was intentionally keeping his distance from his younger brothers.
When had it started? Probably after his marriage, when his formal training as the heir began in earnest. Rickert, too, was acutely aware of this shift.
When he was younger, simply running through the fields with his big brother would send him into bursts of laughter. Grout used to help him up when he fell, brushing the dirt off his clothes and carrying him home piggyback as the sun set.
But now was the age to bid farewell to such things. Neither sorrow nor happiness lasts forever, Rickert realized.
*
After finishing the meal, Rickert stepped out of the manor. He wore a thick gambeson his brothers had worn at his age, along with heavy, mitten-like gloves, and held a blunted practice sword.
Since there was no formal training ground, his first lesson took place in the courtyard, naturally drawing the gazes of stablehands and houndmasters. His father and Vilter watched from a short distance away while Grout stood before him, rotating his practice sword by the wrist.
“Proper form yields proper power,” Grout began. “It might feel awkward at first, but through relentless practice, you must be able to do it as naturally as breathing, no matter the situation. Ultimately, a sword should feel like an extension of your own limbs. Simple to say, but not easy to do.”
With that, Grout swung his practice sword forcefully through the air. A sharp whoosh! sliced through the quiet. His body remained perfectly poised, a display of impressive discipline.
Rickert simply stood there, resting the sword on his shoulder with both hands, his expression blank.
“Stand with your feet spread like this. Your left foot is the anchor. Keep your center of gravity slightly forward. Left foot—yes, like that. From here, when moving forward, take a wide step with your right foot. When moving sideways, like this. Footwork is crucial. If your feet are a mess, you can't generate any real force.”
Grout taught his youngest brother from the absolute basics, yet he wasn't half-hearted. He put genuine care into instructing him properly.
Rickert did everything his brother asked. For him, however, with the memories of his past life intact, adhering to such elementary fundamentals felt more like a restraint on his true ability.
But it didn't matter. What Grout said wasn't wrong.
“Don't just swing; think of it as pushing through the strike. Like this. Doing it this way allows you to attack and defend simultaneously. In real combat, you pull back and slice with full force. There are many variations, but let's stick to this for today. Just try what I showed you.”
Rickert followed his brother's instructions. Spreading his legs front to back, he bent his knees slightly, shifted his center of gravity forward, took a wide step with his rear foot, and thrust his sword forward.
Once, twice, three times, four…
As the blade whistled through the air, the onlookers began to sense something was amiss. Even though this was undeniably his first swordsmanship lesson, he showed none of the clumsy awkwardness typical of a beginner. Normally, a novice would stumble under the momentum of their own swing.
It wasn't just his stance. A strict discipline was embedded in his movements. He hadn't merely mimicked his brother's actions; he had grasped the very essence of the form and made it entirely his own.
He was unequivocally extraordinary. Unbelievably so. At this rate, he wasn't just talented—he was a genius.
Perhaps because of this, Abelich felt a swell of complex emotions as he watched his youngest son. He was immensely proud, yet simultaneously uneasy.
Excessive talent was not an unmixed blessing—especially if it posed a threat to the future he envisioned.
“Grout. Spar with him,” Abelich called out.
Grout looked back at his father. He interpreted the command as an order to teach the boy a harsh lesson.
Hearing his father, Rickert stopped swinging his sword at the air. His body was still that of an ordinary child, and he was slightly out of breath.
Grout looked at his younger brother, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Rickert met that gaze before quietly lowering his head.
Steeling himself, Grout spoke. “You remember what I just taught you? Try it on me. Don't worry about hurting me.”
Yet Rickert didn't answer. He simply stood still, head bowed.
After a brief silence, he spoke.
“……No.”
“What?”
“I said no. I don't want to.”
It was a first. The gentle, submissive Rickert was talking back.
Grout glanced at his father, who was watching them intently. Turning back to Rickert, Grout spoke again. “Are you talking back to me like Billy now?”
“It's not that……”
Grout poked Rickert's chest with the blunted practice sword. Rickert stumbled backward, step by step.
“Then what's with this attitude? I told you to swing the sword as I taught you. Do it now.”
“……No.”
“Why you—!”
Grout struck his younger brother's upper arm hard. Even through the thick gambeson, the blow was bound to hurt.
“Ow!”
Rickert squeezed his eyes shut, hunching his shoulders as he trembled.
“I'll tell you one more time. Swing the sword.”
“No.”
“You really look down on me, don't you?”
Grout struck his other arm. A dull thwack! echoed, and he didn't stop at one. He struck repeatedly—the thighs, the shoulders, all over.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack…
Yet Rickert merely gripped his sword tightly with both hands, curling into himself and enduring the blows. His eyes were shut, his face twisted in pain.
Whatever the onlookers felt, their faces remained impassive. They knew that among nobles—or rather, precisely because they were nobles—discipline could be exceptionally harsh. Defying an order from an elder of the house, especially the family head, was unthinkable.
“I'm giving you one last chance. Swing the sword. Disobey me again, and I'll strike your head.”
Even if it was a practice sword, it was made of metal. A blow to the head could cause severe injury.
“No. I won't,” Rickert said firmly.
At his words, Grout's hand trembled on his sword. Having made the threat, he was now bound to follow through, yet he couldn't bring himself to do something so cruel. He looked back at his father, pleading for leniency. Beside Abelich, Vilter was fidgeting anxiously.
Desperately, Abelich gave a single nod. It was permission to strike the head. No—it was a command.
Turning back to his younger brother, Grout whispered, his voice low enough that others couldn't hear, “Just swing it once. I'm begging you. I don't want to do this either.”
“That's why I can't.”
“What do you mean?”
“……”
Grout couldn't comprehend why his brother was acting this way. This was the first time he had ever beaten him, and it was the first time Rickert had ever rebelled.
The reason Rickert refused to swing his sword was that the swordsmanship he knew was not for friendly sparring. It was a blade tempered in the blood of horrific battlefields. Knowing that only pure lethality lay at the tip of his sword, he could not bring himself to point it at his brother.
Though their relationship had grown distant, he couldn't cut down their shared memories and his brother's affection. Doing so would be far worse than any physical injury. Furthermore, he didn't know how to fake it—how to swing clumsily and lose on purpose. His only choice was to do nothing at all.
But to the onlookers, it merely appeared as though Rickert was rebelling out of sheer stubbornness. He's usually such a gentle, obedient child—did he learn this bad behavior from Billy?
Rickert's defiance left Grout visibly flustered. No matter how trivial the matter, once their father gave an order, it had to be carried out.
Why must he act like this on his very first lesson? Should I hold back? Or pretend to aim for his head but hit his shoulder instead? Will Father notice?
Myriad thoughts swirled in Grout's mind. Ultimately, he decided that striking his head was out of the question. Gripping his sword, he brought it down hard against the nape of Rickert's shoulder. From the side or behind, it looked convincingly like a blow to the head.
Crack!
“Ugh!”
Thud.
Having taken the beatings standing up until now, Rickert finally collapsed. He tried to push himself up, but his body refused to obey.
Grout's eyes wavered violently as he looked down at his fallen brother. At a complete loss, he glanced frantically between his father and Rickert. Grout was still far from a mature adult himself.
Abelich strode forward. Looking down coldly at the fallen Rickert, he said indifferently, “Get up. Swing the sword.”
At his father's stern command, the collapsed Rickert merely shivered like a bird caught in the rain. Then, he opened his tightly shut eyes. Looking up at his father, Rickert gritted his teeth.
“No. Never. Not even if I die.”
They were not empty words. His distinct hazel eyes blazed with an intense fury. The gaze was so piercing that Abelich felt a momentary chill prickle the back of his neck. A shudder ran down his spine, raising goosebumps on his skin.
A long silence stretched between them. Ashamed before his father and remorseful toward his brother, Grout hung his head, his sword held limply at his side.
Rickert lowered his head once more as tears fell from his eyes, blooming into dark spots on the dry ground.
Abelich felt an indescribable emotion swell within him. Yet he showed no trace of it, speaking in his usual stoic tone.
“……That is enough for today.”
Hearing this, Vilter rushed forward to help Rickert up, supporting him as he led him back to his room. Rickert was aching and bruised all over, making it a struggle just to lie down.
“Are you an idiot…?” Vilter scolded him out of pity.
Rickert just lay on the bed in silence, an inscrutable smile on his face.
A short while later, a knock sounded at the door, and someone entered. It was his sister-in-law. Pregnant as she was, she had personally brought ointment and bandages. She must have witnessed everything from a window. As Vilter tactfully exited the room, she spoke.
“Let me apply some medicine for you.”
Rickert endured the pain and pushed himself up. He pulled off his upper garment and lowered his trousers. Dark purple bruises had already formed on both arms and his outer thighs, while his shoulder blade was a mottled mess of red and blue, nearly black.
Shocked by the sight, his sister-in-law's hands trembled as she applied the salve. She had come to tell him that Grout hadn't acted out of malice, that he’d had no choice, and to ask him not to resent his brother—but the words caught in her throat.
Yet in her trembling touch, Rickert could clearly sense her complex, apologetic feelings.
“It's alright. I'm quite used to pain. In fact, it's more like an old friend.”
“……Pardon?”
“I consider myself blessed with more happiness than I deserve—even if, as someone once said, it might just be a mirage. If anything, I worry that my eldest brother feels terrible. He pretends otherwise, but he’s still fragile. So please tell him for me: I understand everything, my heart isn't broken, and I still love him.”
At Rickert's words, her hand froze. Her eyes widened, her expression one of sheer disbelief as she tried to process what she had just heard. There was a limit to being mature for one's age, but she could never have imagined that Rickert would say such a thing or possess such profound depth.
As his sister-in-law stood dazed, simply blinking in astonishment, Rickert endured his aching body and offered her a bright, gentle smile.