Chapter 32
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 32
Left to their own devices, far from the watchful eyes of adults, the students of the Academy were like wildflowers growing in an open field.
While adult supervision wasn’t always beneficial, a complete lack of guidance could lead children astray. Sometimes, it even led them to bring cruel fates upon themselves.
There were dozens of adventurers' guilds in the Empire, and many of them ran their own academies. Though one couldn't know what life was like in all of them, the Beringen Academy, at least, was a place of hope. Here, students had the opportunity to work and earn money, train their bodies, find strength in one another, and carve out a life for themselves after graduation.
Even as desperate struggles and death cast their dark shadows, the children proved to be stronger than anyone might think. Despicable people existed everywhere, of course, but just as wildflowers overcome pests, a positive atmosphere had fortunately come to dominate the Beringen Academy.
And the one at the center of that atmosphere was Rickert.
His presence alone fostered a sense of order, much like a lord whose mere existence keeps bandits at bay. He didn't have to intend it; his influence naturally repelled the wicked and nurtured a healthy environment.
Volka, Molty, Ice, Lara, Delphi, Palen, Jerome, and Melson—the students who had hunted down the deserters alongside Rickert—had now reached an age where they looked quite mature. These nine, including Rickert, were on a completely different level from the other students, and together they guided the spirit of the Academy. Their overwhelming skill and the future they envisioned served as a powerful inspiration, making others think, I want to be like them.
As time passed, graduation drew near for the eight of them. They had, after all, entered the Academy about ten months to a year before Rickert. Graduation typically occurred after two years, but the Academy’s haphazard management meant the timing often varied.
The senior students frequently went out on requests in small groups, interacting with active adventurers and discussing their futures. Should they join an existing clan, or should they form a new one of their own?
After childhood, siblings part ways; after youth, so do friends.
“So, I was thinking… what if we start our own clan?” Volka said. As someone who naturally took the initiative, he spoke without a hint of hesitation.
It was the middle of the night. A bonfire crackled in the open space between the inner keep and the girls' dormitory, where the nine students had gathered. Night insects chirped softly from the grass as stars twinkled silently in the black sky. It was long past their bedtime, but the top nine students enjoyed a certain degree of freedom from the rules.
“Count me out. I have things to do,” Ice said, shaking his head. Jerome and Melson stood by his side, their expressions showing they were in agreement. The three had been inseparable from the start, so it came as no surprise.
“What kind of things? Can you tell us?” Volka asked.
“I must take the final exam.”
“Why?”
“It is my destiny.”
The final exam was a legendary trial. It involved becoming a special-grade adventurer and heading to the distant land of Fernland. According to rumor, anyone who passed would become a Swordmaster. No one knew the exact process, only the outcome. However, passing was considered nearly impossible.
The exam itself was held so rarely that no one knew who administered it, or when and why it occurred. They only knew of its existence. A successful candidate appeared only once every few decades, and in its seventy-year history, not a single graduate of the Beringen Academy had ever passed. Taking the final exam was a fool’s errand.
But if he said it was his destiny, what could they say? The nine friends and comrades respected one another. Still, for some reason, Ice looked somewhat bitter as he spoke.
“Well… nothing we can do about that, then. What about the rest of you?” Volka asked, looking around.
Molty also declined. “I’m going to quit being an adventurer. I like hammering iron. Sorry, guys.”
“Me neither. I’ve decided to live with Molty. Sorry,” Lara added. It was clear the two were planning to get married. As they were already of age, it was a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Um, sorry, but I’ll pass too,” said Palen, who had briefly traveled with Rickert and Ice during the deserter hunt. “I know an older adventurer, and I’ve decided to join his clan.” Though a bit timid, his skills were more than enough to pull his own weight.
“No, it’s fine. Nothing to be sorry about,” Volka said, though his disappointment was plain to see.
Only three remained: Volka, Delphi, and Rickert. The problem was that Rickert still had a long way to go before his own graduation.
Volka looked at Delphi with a nearly pleading expression. It was so obvious that she couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“Alright, alright. I get it, so stop looking at me like that. I know if it isn’t me, there’s no one else to look after you.”
“Delphi…”
“But what about Ricky?” asked Delphi, her short hair tied back.
“Let’s bring Bori in too,” Rickert suggested.
“Huh?”
“Bori said he wanted to be an adventurer. It’d be good to do it together.”
“I don’t mind, but you know it’s dangerous, right?”
“Bori and I still have time before we graduate. We can build up our skills until then. I believe he’ll do well. He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Well, if you say so… Then who’s going to be the clan leader?”
“You do it, Volka. You’re the boss,” Rickert said with an easy smile, showing no desire for the position. He had never harbored the slightest greed for such things. Although Rickert’s individual might and his ability to lead in battle were unmatched even among active adventurers, he wasn’t particularly skilled at day-to-day management.
Management was about managing people. Trust and leadership mattered more than money, and Volka was far better suited for that. He had plenty of connections, too. Besides, when a request came in, Rickert could always take temporary command in combat. Nothing was set in stone; they were the ones making the rules.
“Alright. Then what should we name the clan?” Delphi asked.
At that, Volka and Rickert exchanged glances. Without a word, they understood each other, and smiles spread across both their faces.
“Viola. Clan Viola.”
Viola meant violet. Delphi didn’t know the reason behind the name, but she didn’t object. She merely thought it was a surprisingly feminine choice. After all, clan names were usually things like Fire Axe, Widowmaker, Black Wolves, or Lion’s Roar.
In any case, this marked the birth of Clan Viola. Rickert was eleven, Volka and Delphi were sixteen, and Boribori was thirteen.
Though they had made their plans, they weren't parting ways immediately. Graduation only truly happened in late autumn or winter, when representatives from the guild arrived to take the students away. It was currently summer, leaving them a few months. Those who had taken requests together were now busy preparing for graduation, each in their own way. Once they left, they would step out into the harsh world, pursuing their respective goals—or perhaps with no goals at all.
As a result, a restless energy had filled the Academy since summer began. There were few classes, and many students were either frantically saving money or worrying about where to go and how to make a living.
During this busy season, Boribori was in the backyard of their old dormitory, swinging a practice sword. Rickert, lying on his side in the shade with his head propped on his hand, watched him with a slight frown. It was hard to tell if Boribori was actually training or just playing around.
“What are you doing?”
“Huh? Oh, I was writing letters. Ancient script. This way, I can study and train at the same time. Hehehe.”
“Bori, didn’t you hear that we formed a clan?”
“Yeah. You told me last time.”
Rickert was so dumbfounded he almost started nagging, but he held back. Scolding him wouldn’t change anything.
However, as Boribori swished his sword through the air again, Rickert noticed something. His movements actually looked better than when he practiced conventional swordsmanship. Wait, what is this?
Having mastered the sword, Rickert sensed something peculiar but couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It was a style he had never seen or heard of before.
“Ricky, watch this! I can even do this now!”
Gripping his sword, Boribori began to concentrate. In that instant, Rickert’s heart skipped a beat, though he didn’t know why.
Then, Boribori’s sword moved in a swift flurry. As he wrote ancient script in the air, an afterimage of black mana lingered, momentarily carving actual letters into the empty space.
“Oh!”
Rickert’s eyes widened as an exclamation escaped his lips. Although the letters written in the mana’s afterimage faded almost instantly, it was an astonishing feat.
“What is that?! What did you just do, Bori?!”
Rickert sprang up from where he was lying. Even he, who rarely lost his composure, was so shocked that he grew excited. Boribori was truly the only person who could stir Rickert’s emotions so wildly—driving him crazy with frustration one moment and astonishing him like this the next.
“Hehehe.”
“Hey! Your sword movements were clean, too! Let’s just go with this instead!”
“Really?”
“Yes! This is the answer! Even I’ve never seen anything like this!”
It was a sword style he had never witnessed, not even in his entire previous life.
“Really? Then should we name this swordsmanship?”
“…No, not yet. It’s too early to call it swordsmanship. It’s just a parlor trick for now. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Rickert said with a straight face, firm in drawing the line where necessary.
“Okay…”
“Actually, maybe we should give it a name. Why not?”
“Right, right! What should we call it?”
“Bori-style Swordsmanship, of course. People usually name swordsmanship after themselves. Bori-style Swordsmanship!”
“But my name isn’t very cool.”
“It will be from now on. It’ll sound cool.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Now, shall we spar? I’ve gotten a lot better at sparring, too.”
Having mastered a sword meant solely for killing, Rickert hadn’t known how to hold back in a spar. But through his sessions with Ice, he had finally learned how to face an opponent without injuring them. At first, even Ice had been beaten severely, sometimes suffering hairline fractures. In that sense, Boribori owed a great deal to Ice, both for his Mana Drive and for this.
Rickert stood facing Boribori with a practice sword in hand. His eyes gleamed with their characteristic intensity, and a confident smile played on his lips.
“Come at me with everything you’ve got.”
Boribori swallowed hard, but surprisingly, his body didn’t freeze up with nervousness like Ice’s used to. Knowing that Rickert would never let him get hurt, he swung his sword with complete peace of mind. No afterimages of mana remained this time; that feat required too much mental energy.
Rickert easily dodged Boribori’s sword. He tilted his head slightly or turned his body, constantly evading within arm's reach. When Rickert widened the distance slightly, Boribori tried to force his way forward, only for his steps to tangle, nearly causing him to trip over his own feet. Rickert hadn’t even swung his sword once.
Catching the falling Boribori, Rickert said, “That’s much better. A stroke is a slash, and a dot is a thrust. Even with the same character, the variations are endless depending on how you write it. Just pay more attention to your footwork.”
In an instant, Rickert had grasped the core of this never-before-seen swordsmanship and its infinite potential.
“Okay.”
Boribori nodded vigorously, and the spar resumed.
First, he pictured a character he liked in his mind. Then he drew strokes and placed dots—sometimes fiercely, sometimes gently. No one had taught him, yet he moved with a natural grace. He soon found that holding the sword with one hand was more comfortable than using two, and his stance shifted to match.
Then, like magic, he began to improve by the second. The difference between one strike and the next was like night and day. This was possible because it wasn't rigorous training; it was simply play.
Boribori painted freely on the infinite canvas that was Rickert, and Rickert, like a vast mountain and ocean, accepted it all.
As they continued, Boribori burst into laughter without even realizing it. Rickert, too, laughed out loud.
“Hahahahaha!”
Who was it that said those who achieve enlightenment laugh aloud? The two boys seemed to be doing exactly that.
Rickert felt as if he were walking on air. It was a completely new experience for him. To think that holding a sword could bring such pure joy.
A sword forged only on desperate battlefields. A sword tempered by fire, steel, blood, and death. A sword that had once consumed itself in its own terrible fire…
When that sword met Boribori’s, it felt a sense of liberation. It was like a demonic sword shedding its thick curse to become a holy sword. Rickert felt the knot that had been wound tightly in his heart ever since the incident with the deserters finally unravel.
He didn't know why, but he didn't need to. If one could explain the reason, it wouldn't be enlightenment.
From Rickert, some found a koan to ponder, some felt an insurmountable wall and suffered, while others simply found joy. What caused the difference, no one could say.
For now, the laughter of the two boys, cooler than the summer breeze, echoed for a long time in the backyard of the dormitory that had once resembled a chicken coop.
Arc 7 – Only a Pure Soul. End.