A World of Color

Messi, who had been drinking in high spirits, slipped away in secret for a breath of cold air.

Of course, it wasn't long before someone caught him.

"Hey, Messi! Where d'you think you're going? You've still gotta take a drink off me!"

"Gaston. Please — I've had more than enough."

Gaston laughed heartily and slung an arm around Messi's shoulders. Then he leaned in close and whispered.

"Don't go wandering off on your own. Looks like there are some guys who have a grudge against you."

Where Gaston secretly pointed, Durek and his crew were gathered. They weren't making it obvious, but their stares were palpable.

"Seems like they don't trust you or the nobles and are looking to slip away. Before they do, they want to land a hit on the nobles — and they look like they want to hurt you doing it."

"What a nuisance."

"Haha, you've got guts, kid. But you need to be careful. The others, maybe not — but Durek's been a mercenary for fifteen years. If he'd just picked up a decent mana cultivation technique, he'd have blown past the Savage Stage and made it to Brave a long time ago."

Savage. Brave.

Both were subdivided ranks within the Sword User stage.

The Savage Stage could be considered a crude, unrefined level — the very beginning of training. Because no proper form had yet been established, even those who practiced the sword found themselves tempering an undeveloped body more than learning actual swordsmanship; it was a stage closer to barbarism than art. Those without talent, or who failed to practice a proper mana cultivation technique, commonly spent their entire lives unable to leave it.

The Brave Stage was the stage of observing the self — the I that one had until then ignored. Training that had been directed outward now turned inward. One began to feel mana, accumulate it in the mana hole, and learn to wield it through one's weapon. A proper mana cultivation technique was essential even to set foot there.

"I can't just sit on this. I'd better teach you some swordsmanship. At this rate, that sword I treasured is going to end up in Durek's hands instead of yours."

Gaston had made a promise that morning.

The thought of dodging trouble and learning the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sword at the same time was appealing enough that Messi followed after him.

They didn't go far. Neither of them wanted to run into the knights standing watch.

"Have you ever held a sword?"

Messi had already said he didn't know how to use one, so this probably meant: have you tried using the sword I gave you?

"Not yet. There are too many eyes around to draw it carelessly."

"You little—! So you do have some sense. That's why I cherished the thing. Carlson! You've found yourself a good master."

He even named the sword...

"Hah... Farewell, Carlson..."

Gaston gazed at the blade with misty, lingering eyes. It was pitiful enough that Messi considered giving it back — but Messi was not in the habit of spitting back out what had once gone in.

"Where did you get it? It's clearly a fine sword."

"Curious? It's a long story... First I'd have to tell you about my mercenary days..."

Something about that had the distinct scent of a man who talked far too much. Messi hurriedly tried to stop him — but Gaston was a step faster.

"I started mercenary work at thirty. If a hundred guys start the job at that age... I'm the only one still alive at my level. How did I make it this far? I put down monsters. I sent packing the clients who tried to stiff me. The bastards who stabbed me in the back like goblins... I killed them all."

Cutting the rambling and summarizing: it had been around his first year as a mercenary. He and his comrades at the time were on their way back from a job when they came across a transport caravan fighting unidentified enemies.

At the time, he was suffering from what might be called first-year mercenary disease. Around a year into the life, you start getting used to the work. You get this feeling like you've found your calling. More than half the guys who started with you are dead, but you're still standing, so you start thinking you're something special — a chosen adventurer exploring this vast world, even.

Anyway, it was the period when you plastered yourself with every flattering adjective in the book and fell headlong into a fantasy.

And when a man like that sees a transport caravan in crisis right in front of him, is he going to be in his right mind?

He drew his sword and charged right in. The comrades behind him got swept along in spite of themselves and were dragged into the fight.

And then they all died.

He wasn't joking. Besides himself, not a single person survived.

"Hah... They were a new mercenary company, but there were some really good guys among them."

Didn't you get them all killed? Messi wanted to ask — but Gaston had given him a fine sword, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Anyway, what was I supposed to do once things had gone that way? I was curious who the bastards that killed my comrades were, and I wanted to know what they'd been trying to steal from that caravan, you know?"

"...I imagine you'd be extremely curious."

With the appropriate murmurs supplied, Gaston grew even more excited and talked on.

"Right? So I rummaged through the caravan's cargo, and wouldn't you know it — there was nothing. Wouldn't that piss you off? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Wouldn't it?"

"It would."

"Right? The one who seemed like the leader of the attackers — a pretty strong guy — had gone down fighting the caravan captain. They killed each other. So I went looking for his corpse at least, to take it out on him..."

First-year mercenary disease. Terrifying stuff.

"This was at his waist. I guess that bastard really treasured Carlson too. Not a single sign it'd been used."

"So you took it."

"Gotta have something to show for it. And if I use the thing he loved, how much would that twist his guts? Haha!"

Gaston burst into booming laughter like a man swinging between moods, then his expression turned bitter.

"But once I'd actually stared death in the face, you know... my thinking changed. Obsessing over Carlson was meaningless in the end, in the face of death. I guess you could say the greed just... vanished."

Hearing Gaston's explanation, Messi found himself thinking he could use this sword without any burden at all.

"I'll take good care of it."

"Of course you will. Carlson's a good one, so I'm counting on you."

First thing I need to do is drop that name.

"Shall we get started in earnest? Have you actually used a sword before?"

"Once, actually. A long time ago, in front of my master."

After falling into this other world and being found by his master, once Messi had learned enough of the language, his master had tried to teach him the sword.

"You had a master? Then why didn't you learn?"

"He said it wasn't something I could do well."

"Ah..."

Gaston looked at Messi with a touch of pity.

Messi, too, was recalling that time for the first time in a while. The tender days when his master first handed him a sword, and he startled at a cold weapon he had never touched in his life. He had swung it a few times, and his master had shaken his head.

His master had tried to couch it gently so Messi wouldn't be hurt. He was that kind of good man.

"So instead I learned healing arts and a few self-defense techniques."

"He knew swordsmanship and his healing was top-tier too? Your master must have been an incredible man."

Praise for him made Messi happy as well. It wasn't even praise for himself, and still he felt proud.

"Through you, that man saved my life. I'm truly grateful to him. However it happened, I have to repay that kindness, so I'll teach you the sword. Not that I'm much of a swordsman myself."

Gaston demonstrated various movements in front of Messi — downward strikes, slashes, thrusts. Contrary to his claim of not being an excellent swordsman, his form was exemplary and his presence fierce.

Then he asked Messi to follow along.

Can I do this?

Messi began to copy the movements Gaston had shown.

Gaston's eyes went wide with surprise.

"Y-your master really was an incredible man. His eye was dead-on, that's for sure."

So that's what was surprising.

Messi understood.

His master's words had never been wrong. If he had said Messi had no talent for the sword, then that was how it was. Three years wasn't going to change anything.

What's the problem?

Gaston sank into thought.

Why does he use a sword like that? Why is it so awkward? Why can't he copy this? Has there ever been such a comprehensive disaster in this world?

These were the kinds of thoughts only overwhelming geniuses tended to have.

Indeed, it was the same problem that arose when geniuses took on disciples. I just do it, so why can't you?! — and then they got angry.

The problem was that Gaston was not a genius. He had decent talent, of course. Becoming a Bronze Plate Mercenary in his third year was proof of that. But even that was only impressive by ordinary standards.

And yet Messi couldn't follow along even when an ordinary man was teaching an ordinary man. In other words, Messi was not an ordinary person. And not in a good way.

What's the problem?

Meanwhile, Messi was wrestling with the same question — though the meaning was entirely different.

The tone-deaf cannot perceive that they are singing the wrong notes.

Messi, by contrast, was body-blind. He couldn't even perceive that he was using his body wrong. He had no framework for judging what was different between Gaston's sword and his own.

That meant he couldn't correct himself, either — and that was a very big problem.

This is a situation I never saw coming... Didn't this kid say he was a hunter? How has he been hunting all this time?

Only then did Gaston understand the depth of that master's kindness. If Messi fought on the front line, he'd get himself killed for nothing — so the man had designed things so that Messi would work as support from the rear as much as possible.

I should probably just give up, right? If this were something I could teach, that master of his would have taught him already.

He decided to let it go. Suddenly, Gaston felt sorry for Messi.

The process of realizing that your own talent falls short is a deeply painful one. And Messi was about to go through it a second time.

If I hadn't gone and offered to teach him the sword, this kid would have just lived without knowing.

I should apologize first, Gaston thought — and that was when it happened.

"This might be a really strange request, but... could I ask you something?"

"A request? Sure, go ahead. I haven't got the skill to teach you the sword... so I'll have to make it up to you some other way."

"No, it isn't something else. What you showed me just now — would you do it again while I use Heal?"

Heal? Healing magic? Why?

That really was a strange request.

Gaston found it odd, but what was the harm in doing it once?

The moment he drew his sword and began to swing again, Heal unfolded from Messi.

Heal used on a body with no external injuries merely improved one's condition a little. The Heal reaching Gaston shouldn't have meant much.

So he found out he has no talent for the sword, and now he's thinking of focusing on rear support?

That was exactly what it looked like. The kind of behavior that suited a healer's role in group combat — pouring Heal onto the fighters from the rear in real time.

If it was practice for that, Gaston could help all he wanted. With the mindset that he had to do at least this much to repay his debt, he moved as if in a real fight against an enemy, swinging his sword.

"Whew. I've shown you all sixteen of what you'd call the basic sword paths. But maybe it's because I was doing it while Heal was on me? I'm barely tired at all."

It had only been basic swings, slashes, and thrusts deployed in every direction — but they were large movements, enough to work up a sweat.

And yet his body didn't feel clammy with it.

As Gaston marveled at this, he caught Messi's mutter.

"...So it can be applied this way. Why did I only realize this now?"

It was to himself, but Messi's expression was good.

Even if I couldn't teach him the sword, I guess he had a realization as a healer.

That was how Gaston saw it.

Whatever it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was, as long as Messi was satisfied, that was enough.

Only then did he feel a little of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠weight lift from his heart. He clapped Messi on the shoulder.

"That do it?"

"Yes. That's plenty."

"Good. Everyone has a role they're suited for. You thought it through well. You're the best healer I've ever seen, so you'll go as far as you want as a healer."

Gaston offered this baffling consolation and left. Messi realized belatedly that there had been some misunderstanding, but he decided not to chase after him to correct it.

It was a matter of priorities.

He was far too stunned — stunned to the point of goosebumps — by what he had just discovered for a mere misunderstanding to matter.

On the grass beneath the cold moonlight, Messi sank down.

...Now I understand.

Why his master had said the sword didn't suit him. What was different between Gaston and himself. He had finally grasped the difference.

If I'd realized this application even a little sooner, I could have learned the sword from my master himself.

Trembling with regret, barely able to hold himself together, Messi possessed an ability he had told no one about.

No — he had never even thought of it as an ability to begin with. He had only begun to understand it recently.

It was an ability related to Heal magic.

When Messi used Heal, he was a little different from others.

At first, he had simply thought his Heal was superior to everyone else's.

Then he had been seized by the question: why was it superior? And what he realized was that he went through one extra process.

Not the kind of "understanding" used in trite words of comfort — I understand how you feel.

Understanding in the true sense of the word.

From someone with an external injury, he felt that pain, understood quite literally where the problem in the body was, and imbued his mana with the will to heal it.

That was why Messi's Heal could be superior to other healers'. Understanding completely and then casting Heal could never be the same as merely looking at a wound with your eyes and casting Heal.

The usefulness of that ability had occurred to Messi only a few minutes ago, in a flash.

What if I used this ability on Gaston? Could I understand even his movements?

Messi had come from the modern world, so he had knowledge of people called tone-deaf, or body-blind. Their greatest problem was that they could not perceive the difference between themselves and others.

He had not understood Gaston's movements. He couldn't even distinguish the differences.

If Gaston wasn't wrong.

If his master's words were right.

The one with the problem is me.

And that thought was the correct answer.

Messi rose from where he sat and drew his sword. The fine blade threw back the moonlight in a piercing gleam.

Slowly, Messi's body began to move.

Swinging the sword isn't what matters. I have to focus on moving my body as I intend.

He hadn't meant to, but Messi had grasped it all the same.

How Gaston's muscles moved throughout his entire body — that sensation of writhing and elasticity — Messi smoothly reproduced it in his own flesh.

It was utterly different from how he had used his body until now. A difference so stark it was shocking he hadn't known until this moment.

So this is what it was... This world existed?!

It was a rapturous difference.

It was like the emotion of a colorblind person beholding the true world of color for the first time.

Messi swung his sword without end. Sweat poured like rain and soaked him through, and still he could not stop.

This joy. This newness.

He did not want to lose it again, so he would engrave it until his body could never forget.

And so the night passed.