Who Are You?

"...Who is that?"

Something cracked.

Is this brat insane?

He would rather not have thought it so crudely. He didn't have the choice. Pride? Fine — that, he could understand. Children of that age measuring themselves against everyone else and puffing themselves up was hardly a rare sight. Valuables? Yes, those too. The younger they were, the more they loved whatever glittered and looked pretty, and once they were old enough to hold a thought in their heads, how uncommon was it, really, to steal a parent's hairpin or robe and play at being grown? All of that, he could accept.

But children already taking slaves? What sense was there in that? The Central Plains had known slavery as well, so he had no mind to condemn the keeping of slaves itself. A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brat that young claiming another person as property, though — that was a different matter. No. Fine. Grant it: one case in a thousand, one in ten thousand, a child takes a slave. A crown prince was young too, and still had maids at his side to attend him. Call it something of that sort, and he could force the thing into a shape he understood.

The trouble was that the one who meant to own a slave and the one who meant to employ someone were both children, and the same sort of child at that. However corrupt the official, however greedy the aristocrat, they did not take for a slave a boy who had not yet come of age. And why was that? Because such a boy was useless, and so they didn't bother. Strength, a head for work, stamina — he fell short in every one of them. The only uses left were attending someone of his own sex, or becoming a plaything for some perverted noble.

And this Sinea was a girl, plain to anyone with eyes. Her hair wasn't even bound up in a man's topknot, her chest rose in a soft curve, and she had powdered her face besides. So it was the latter. Far more likely.

I saw it wrong. I saw it wrong. There. That sits easier.

From ancient times, one did not keep company with lunatics. Cheon Hwi flung the tangle of his thoughts far from him and began to look over the duelists who remained.

Surprisingly decent of them?

Perhaps the first blow had simply landed too hard. Most of what remained looked like something he could actually manage. Did they know he was a beggar? There was, unexpectedly, quite a lot within his reach.

But mithril? An artifact? What are these supposed to be?

If they were easy, he would have liked to take them. He had been through the list all night, though, and less than an hour remained. Dither, and he might miss the transfer exam entirely. Of the lot, this one was the best.

Cecilia.

No price in goods, in mind, or in body — he had only to listen to a speech about religion. And it was listening to a sermon, not pledging himself to the faith. He was not going to lose, but even if he did, he could hear the explanation once and let it wash past him.

I sat through lectures on the Buddhist and Daoist sects — Shaolin, Wudang, Mount Hua, and the rest — more than forty times, you little wretch. Not a single one of them ever persuaded me.

A duel for free. Now that is nice.

He set the one named Cecilia aside in a corner of his mind, and he was still looking through the candidates who remained when a single line caught Cheon Hwi's eye.

None?

I'm not reading it wrong.

The boy named Matthew wanted no price at all. Choose him, and there would be neither a cost nor a wait — only the duel. Convenient. But Cheon Hwi was not innocent enough to take "no price" at its word.

One of two things.

First: he truly, meekly wanted to fight and ask nothing for it. But did that hold together? If he had seen Cheon Hwi with his own eyes, taken the measure of some hidden force or capacity, and applied only afterward, that much might be understandable. This one, though, would have met him as nothing but a picture and a sheaf of documents. Which was to say he did not know Cheon Hwi's real skill. And a student of that famous Academy had put his name down just to snap up a single beggar?

Bullshit.

Then only one hypothesis remained.

For some aim of his own, he's baiting me with the words "no price."

He couldn't name the exact reason. Beating Cheon Hwi might be how the boy meant to stuff his pride full. Fierce fights might be forbidden between fellow students, so he intended to work his anger out on a transfer examinee instead. The reasons could be any number of things. And this reading was far more convincing.

Mm. Ordinarily, the wise thing is not to walk into a deal like this.

But it was an offer far too attractive to refuse. For Cheon Hwi, who had no time, no money, and nothing else besides, even sitting through a religious sermon was a cheap enough price.

How am I supposed to listen to that dreary thing.

Even in his previous life he had been the sort who broke out in hives at the mere mention of religion, and his temper was nowhere near good enough to endure a sermon out of a foreign land — a faith he was hearing of for the first time.

And anyway, if I win, that ends it.

He didn't know what purpose Matthew carried. Still, if the boy was taking no price, then it was fair to assume his aim lay in the duel itself, or in its result. And for that aim to come to anything, the one called Matthew first had to defeat Cheon Hwi. That was the premise underneath it.

Beat me, and he may as well be the Heavenly Demon of the age.

His body had turned young. His internal energy was gone. The muscle had wasted off him. Even so, there was no world in which he lost to some child.

No strength? Then he had only to use his opponent's. Not enough speed? Then he had only to read the movements before they came. A difficult thing — but when the one doing it was Cheon Hwi, difficult became merely doable. All the more so, if the opponent was a child.

"No need to look any further."

Cheon Hwi told the guard at once that his challenger would be Matthew. There was no price, and so the day set aside for the two sides to review terms and sign a contract simply ceased to exist.

Only a week had passed. To Cheon Hwi, it felt as if an eternity had gone by.

Even three years shut away in closed-door training never felt this long.

But that grinding wait was over. He had already confirmed it: win this one duel, and he would pass with no further procedure and be free to attend the Academy. Win ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this one match, and he would see his disciples at once.

At last. I'll see them.

He was holding fast to that hope when a bright, cheerful voice rang out in every direction.

"Elysia Academy — the one and only academy that can proudly call itself the greatest in the world! Befitting that stature, this academy has produced countless talents, and taken in just as many!"

"Waaaaah!"

Listen to him lay it on.

"However! Could even this academy be slowly losing its strength? The day has come when beggars sit our transfer exam!"

"This bastard?"

That one, he was not going to leave be. He fixed the speaker with a glare and made himself the promise, and the man, as if to laugh in his face for it, only raised his voice higher.

"But! A round of applause for Elysia Academy, gracious enough ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to offer even a beggar a chance — and for Matthew Grain, an incoming student of our school, who kindly consents to face that beggar!"

Applause broke and scattered across the grounds.

A thoroughly one-sided speech, and one that ground the examinee underfoot. Words like those, spoken at a public duel, would ordinarily give no small offense. But the gulf between an Academy entrant and a beggar was wide enough that the crowd took them for nothing more than spice — talk meant to heat the blood. Where there was power, rudeness stopped being rudeness, and even flimsy proof became strong proof. Unreasonable, and obvious. Cheon Hwi knew it, and so he only listened, and said nothing. When this duel was finished, every last person who had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠laughed at him would go quiet.

"You wouldn't know it, but I've been looking forward to this duel."

"..."

"Kicking a mutt who doesn't know his place never gets old, no matter how many times you do it. Worth the trouble, baiting you with 'no price.'"

The one running his mouth right in front of him would shut it as well, once this duel was done.

"No need for a long speech, I trust? We'll begin the duel at once!"

Cheon Hwi's thoughts ended, and the bell rang with them — the signal flare of the fight.

"Remember it. My name is Duke Grain. The man who's going to kill you..."

In that instant Cheon Hwi's figure was gone, and all that came for Matthew was a deep darkness.

Darkness, all at once? Had the man thrown something at him and run?

"Third-rate..."

Matthew decided Cheon Hwi was afraid to fight him, and had flung cloth or sand and fled.

Thunder broke. That was not the truth. The darkness spread thick before his eyes was Cheon Hwi's fist, and Matthew, without ever grasping what had come for him, made a tremendous sound with his skull.

"Nothing to you at all, and still you carry on. Live a little more carefully from now on."

The voice was mild and soft. What it said was cruel. Matthew was the one who ought to have heard it. What he did instead was drive his head deep into the earth, with a sound no human body is meant to make.

Cheon Hwi looked at him and drawled.

"So. Who was third-rate?"

The spectators had just heard a sound none of them had met with once in their lives, and it left them reeling. This was not magic. A person's fist had met a face and made a noise like that? How could such a thing be possible?

"What? That? He's putting on a show, right?"

"Matthew! Quit the weird acting and get up!"

"That transfer examinee put Matthew down without casting a single spell?"

"No — worse. Matthew lost without getting one spell off?"

They could not admit the feeling of the line between sense and nonsense giving way, and so they began to dismiss the sight as an act. In truth, Matthew was a rather outstanding entrant. His habit of luring transfer students in with "no price" and then breaking them had lowered the measure of his character a little, but in skill alone he ranked among the top even inside the Academy. And that Matthew had lost to a beggar no one had ever heard of, and no one had ever seen?

It was a thing none of them could accept. The winner, all the same, had already been decided.

"I won, didn't I?"

"Uh... well... that is..."

The man who, only moments ago, had been tearing Cheon Hwi down at the top of his lungs could not get the next word out. Only the headmaster understood what had happened, and began to settle it.

"You pass. We'll need to measure you for a uniform and assign a dormitory shortly, so follow that person."

"All right."

A brief exchange after the duel, and Cheon Hwi followed the headmaster's guide. He was shown to a dormitory and measured for a uniform. By the headmaster's word, the uniform would be issued within a week. With that notice in hand, Cheon Hwi decided to look around the Academy.

The inside isn't so different from an academy, I'll give it that.

The structure itself was not greatly unlike the academies of the Central Plains. The things filling it, though, were objects he had never once seen there. He was walking the layout, caught by how strange and new it all was, when he met a student.

Hyeon.

One of the beloved disciples he had missed so long, and yearned for so deeply. Cheon Hwi could not hide how glad he was. A disciple would know him even though his body had grown young again, and would be glad of him. Of that, he was certain.

"Hyeon! It's me. The Heaven-Breaking Sword Saint!"

"Uh... who are you?"

"What... did you say?"

But Cheon Hwi's disciple did not recognize him.