There Was... But There Wasn't
There was... but there wasn't.
More than a week had passed since Kyle left the Academy empty.
Except for special occasions, Kyle had come every single day to train. Without him, even the indoor training hall felt a little emptier, a little quieter than usual.
And in that same indoor training hall, one male student was once again pushing himself through an enormous volume of work.
"Hoo... hoo..."
The one gripping dumbbells in both hands and pouring everything into arm training was none other than Ian.
He had once spent most of his time swinging a sword in the outdoor grounds. Lately, however, he had shut himself inside the indoor hall. And though he still fell short of Kyle, he had begun training at an intensity that left everyone else stunned.
I used to think my physical condition was already enough.
He knew how critical the body's condition was when wielding a sword. So before he ever took up the blade, he had poured blood and sweat into forging himself into peak condition. Through sheer effort he had reached the point where he could fight orcs bare-handed, without even a dagger. That should have been sufficient. That should have meant he was ready for the sword. And until now, nothing had gone wrong. He had never lost his grip because of insufficient strength. He had never collapsed before an opponent from lack of stamina. Against any monster or any foe, he had never once judged that mere physical ability—separate from swordsmanship—had been the problem.
Until I collided with Kyle.
Kyle of the John Nassen barony. Meeting him had been pure shock from the very first moment. He would openly trade raw strength with an ogre—something no human should ever simply overpower. He would casually slap aside armed opponents with bare hands and pin them. At first Ian had assumed it was some special technique, that Kyle must possess an exceptional mana cultivation method. He had not paid it much deeper thought.
But it did not take long for Ian to understand. Kyle used no special ability at all. He was simply strong. He had put in several times more effort and training than Ian and had reaped the corresponding fruit. He was stronger than Ian—not merely stronger, but overwhelmingly so, to a degree that made facing him unthinkable.
And in the midst of that realization, Ian understood one more thing.
I was lacking. Far too lacking. The man I was...
Gritting his teeth, Ian heaved the barbell upward and thought exactly that. He had believed he had given his best. He had believed this level was enough. But that had only been by his own standards—the result of never discarding his arrogance. He should have worked harder. He should have gone further. He should have been far more merciless with himself. Only now did he finally grasp that learning and training truly had no end.
He had thought fighting orcs bare-handed was sufficient. He had thought no one else could possibly train their body this savagely. Yet Kyle had grappled an ogre with bare hands and slammed it straight into the ground. People said comparing yourself to others was foolish, but this was a comparison he had to make.
I was overflowing with confidence. No—arrogance is the right word. I forgot that someone better than me could put in harsher effort and become even stronger.
A frog in a well. Yes. That was exactly what he had been. Had he wandered too long as a vagabond? He had lost his sense of reality. The world was full of monsters who deserved to be called the strong—the Imperial 10 Strongest, the unknown ones whose names never spread, and Kyle. Yet Ian had simply looked at his own level and felt relief.
"Hoo, hoo!"
He wanted to become stronger. He had to. That thought took root, and from it followed another conclusion: to receive greater stimulation, he wanted to cross blades with Kyle. So he had requested a spar—and the condition Kyle set left him flustered. At first his pride had been badly wounded. The effort he had already poured in felt dismissed. But it was not long before that pride vanished completely. In its place, a desperate hunger to grow stronger began to fill him. He wanted to earn proper recognition and clash with Kyle for real, just once.
If it were up to me, I'd ditch the Academy entirely and head straight for John Nassen.
Honestly, he felt little lingering attachment to the Imperial Academy. It was a mild regret that he would miss out on studying more refined swordsmanship, but he could endure that. Far more than that, he wanted to run to John Nassen right now and beg them to train him. He wanted to experience for himself how Kyle had become so strong.
Yet there were still things worth learning at the Academy. And though he never showed it, parting from the people he had grown close to here left a small ache. First Tisha, then Leto whom he had somehow grown a little closer to, and the others as well. Had he been lonelier than he realized? Was that why having people at his side now made him reluctant to leave? Whenever he thought of leaving the Academy, the first friends he had ever made kept rising before his eyes.
Thud.
Ian set the barbell down, caught his breath, and checked the next page of the guide booklet. The indoor training hall—Kyle's "gym," as he called it—contained exercise guides that Kyle himself had organized. When asked why he made them, the answer was simple: other students kept interrupting his own training sessions with questions about form. So he had written "Just follow this!" and even put real effort into the illustrations. They were surprisingly well drawn. Thanks to that, anyone could at least approximate the methods Kyle recommended—though most people gave up after only a few sets.
There's summer break. I'll use that time to visit John Nassen once.
Studying the booklet and resetting his stance, Ian made the decision. Become stronger. He had to stay faithful to the present for that purpose—but later he would go to the place called John Nassen, Kyle's hometown. He had no idea how they would react, yet it seemed like a place that smiled upon those who worked hard. Kyle himself was extremely sensitive to people who refused to put in effort. So until then, Ian would train hard enough to earn Kyle's recognition. And when he finally reached Kyle's hometown, he would at least hear them say that the boy had suffered for it.
With that thought, Ian let out a shout and drove his body once more.
In this way, there were still cases that followed the original story's flow.
In the original work as well, Ian spent time at the Academy until he slammed into his own limits. The problem had been his pride that no one among his peers surpassed him. When even his previous sword paths began to fail him, Ian tasted despair for the first time. Growing more frantic by the day, unable to become stronger and with no idea how, he happened to hear of a place called John Nassen and sought it out during break. There he shouted to people whose entire world was combat and training that he wanted to grow strong.
Originally they should have been wary of outsiders—people who lived in a world of their own. Yet the setting was that they saw in him their youngest son, their little brother, who had died of illness nine years earlier. The family head, and the family head's son and daughter, accepted Ian and trained him. In only two months Ian returned to the Academy having grown tremendously. And like a proper protagonist, he dominated everyone with overwhelming skill and rose into the ranks of the strong.
That was precisely why the John Nassen family—so utterly mismatched with this world—had been given a background. To elevate the protagonist into a powerhouse in a short time, the place had to be overwhelmingly strong. At the same time, to limit their appearances to a single occasion, the detail that they had no interest in worldly affairs was added. The reason they helped Ian was simply that he was the same age as the dead youngest son.
"Hryaaaaaah!!"
But now everything was different. The original flow had changed a great deal. The greatest difference of all was, of course, that the youngest of John Nassen—who should have died—was still alive. He had entered the Academy, met new people, and at this very moment was roaring bizarre battle cries in the west—
"Wadaaat!!"
—gleefully running wild against the Three Heroes, the strongest warriors of the Western Kingdom Coalition!
"Guhk!"
Mathieu of the Coalition's Three Heroes was forced more than ten full paces backward before he could finally absorb the impact. Kyle, by contrast, still stood in the exact same spot, wearing a broad grin.
This... this can't be real. What... what kind of nonsense is this!
Gasping for rough breaths, Mathieu stared at the youth in front of him. Not once had he seized the initiative. He had been forced onto pure defense the entire time. Every single attack was viciously powerful and insanely fast. The moment he thought he had slipped free, he was already in range again; the moment he thought he had blocked, another strike came from a blind spot. And with strength and speed like that, the attacker should have been burning stamina at a horrific rate—yet somehow it was the defender who was wearing down.
If this continues, defeat is certain. And if that happens...
He was still a man of the Kingdom Coalition. He did not care for the Empire. In the last war he had lost friends, seniors, and far too many others. Thirty years of quiet had not erased the unease he felt toward the Empire. And now he was about to lose to an Imperial—and not just any Imperial, but this absurdly young man.
Grip.
Without realizing it, his hand closed around the vial inside his coat. The bottle he had been ordered to use without hesitation the moment he faced an enemy he could not handle. They had even made him swear never to delay.
Should I use it?
A warrior's pride collided with another pride that simply refused to lose. What should he do? What decision was he supposed to make? Those few seconds of hesitation felt like hours.
"Mathieu-nim."
At that exact moment Kyle stepped right up to him and spoke.
"Don't. No matter how I look at it, that just isn't right."
Mathieu flinched, conflict flickering more strongly across his face. Then he made his decision and slowly withdrew his hand from his coat.
Immediately afterward, Kyle broke into a bright smile.
In Mathieu's hand... there was nothing at all.