The Little Caravan Leader
Ever since Conien realized he was destined to lead his tribe, he hadn't let up on pushing his body to the limit under the guise of effort. Recognition from his tribesmen and the strength to avoid being dismissed by outsiders—that was all he sought. From a young age, he'd repeated grueling mountain treks alone, taken the lead in hunting down the rare beasts that appeared, and built bonds with friends he could trust at his back.
Compared to his peers, he was excessively diligent, hungering even for knowledge. His father, the tribe chief, insisted they must ally with the Empire. Conien took that to heart, gradually shedding his wild ways to learn the Empire's refinements. That's why, even before the morning dew formed, if he caught wind of merchants passing through Croden Canyon, he'd rush out immediately. Observing their mannerisms, accents, and the trappings of civilization they carried was important, but above all, he craved books that held the world within them. Books were surely the key to realizing his father's ideals.
Back in the days when his growth wasn't yet noticeable. That day, as always, Conien headed to Croden Canyon with a few tribesmen and spotted an incomprehensible figure.
"Little Caravan Leader, could you move this over there too?"
"The water's almost gone. Supplies and gear dictate the journey, so you need to know how to conserve."
A boy about his own age was bustling about in the caravan group even in the deep predawn hours. The boy with faintly glowing white hair even in the shadowed canyon seemed to embody the mystery of moonlight fallen to earth. His striking appearance was one thing, but the title they called him by caught Conien's attention.
Little Caravan Leader. That clearly meant he was the one destined to lead this long line of merchants.
It made no sense. From what the fortune-telling crone had told him, anyone with authority in the Empire only wanted to flaunt it more. Yet the boy called Little Caravan Leader wasn't holed up in a luxurious carriage—he moved with hands as quick and tireless as any laborer.
"Oh, the Little Caravan Leader? Such a fine young man. Still just a kid, but he's offering to help however he can. Says there's much to learn."
Conien got his answer from a caravan member cooling off with a sweat wipe, then gazed steadily at the boy. Sure enough, there was no trace of childish whining or complaints in his eyes. No, he shone the brightest among the group. He hefted loads that would burden most boys his age without hesitation. In spare moments, he questioned the merchants around him, checking trade goods. Dust-covered, catching his breath inside the carriage—he looked just like Conien himself, perched on a mid-mountain tree branch in his memories.
He wanted to tell him, 'You're amazing, different from the others.' Like consoling his own forward-charging self.
Then he realized their eyes had met. Flustered, he looked away—only for the boy to approach first, extending a hand. His eyes held the cool clarity of a serene lake.
"You're the heir to the tribal alliance, right? Nice to meet you. Maness Pictri, of the Pictri Trading Company."
*
Conien watched Maness break from the pack and charge ahead. He'd sensed it during mountain class too—the guy had a sturdy build that could match any knight family scion. The scrawny students had run the track long enough already; accelerating from there wasn't easy.
"Not bad, huh?"
Kyle, running alongside, raised his voice in surprise. The wheel counts were clearly different, but Kyle chased doggedly after him.
"It's weird, though. A trading company kid with that stamina? I heard Pictri's head learned swordsmanship for self-defense, but..."
Kyle's eyes shifted to the pack. Morras was half-dead, gasping for air.
"If he didn't train separately, that's just average for them."
"Guess he put in the work."
Kyle gave a wry smile at Conien's steady response, breathing evenly without a hint of fatigue. What was there to surprise the heir of the northern nomads, embodiment of effort? As the eldest son of a swordsmanship house, with years gripping a blade, even Kyle couldn't match his physical prowess. It was probably just the dry assessment he'd expect.
But contrary to Kyle's guess, Conien felt something different.
That magic back then must be the fruit of effort too.
Recalling Maness's mana bullet from the mountainside, he nodded to himself. He didn't know much about magic, but it wasn't the level a freshman should pull off—especially without proper lessons yet. Just like their first meeting in Croden Canyon, he'd no doubt sweated blood mastering every field since childhood. Conien knew pre-enrollment magic study was taboo, but it wasn't his concern. What mattered was that Maness was someone with clear will to forge his future.
The fierce beast burned hotter, legs pounding faster. As the hard-won gap widened again, Kyle grumbled.
"This guy's insane."
Breathing deep to gather strength in his core, then exploding forward, Kyle pursued the beast.
*
"That's enough!"
Barton's booming call ended the run. Exhausted students already slumped on benches, so only three slowed on the field: Maness among them, to his own surprise.
"...No joke."
Unbelievable stamina. His body had maintained balance instinctively throughout the sprint, as if honed by constant training. He knew useful breathing for running, but that was minor—the real deal was deeper.
"Students still on the field, come forward. The rest, keep loosening up."
Answering the professor's call, Maness eyed the other two. Kyle and Conien—disappointing if they'd dropped. But while Kyle caught his breath, Conien showed no fatigue at all. Overkill, maybe?
"All here? Three from this class to the end. Worlds apart from last year's zero."
Barton grinned broadly, satisfaction radiating. Unlike the scheming professors so far, he seemed straightforward.
"Kyle. Held out as expected."
"Glad I met expectations."
"Always training when I visited your estate—who else could? You'll aim for swordsmanship, obviously?"
"Yes. I want to honor my house."
Barton beamed like at his own son.
"Beyond honor—you'll write new history for them. I believe it."
"Thank you."
After Kyle's formal bow, Barton's gaze shifted. Eyes like the wandering sun over the plains met his.
"Conien."
"That's me."
"From the northern continent, right?"
"Yes."
"You're beyond just 'excellent.' Learned any martial arts?"
"No arts—just body training."
Barton's brow furrowed briefly. Not the flow he wanted.
"Planning to learn any?"
"For people, bare hands are fine."
"Hm..."
Barton grunted unwittingly. Too good to pass up. Add his teachings to this monster, and an unprecedented warrior could emerge.
"But against non-beasts, I'll use martial arts—so yes, interested."
"Oh?"
Barton's face lit up. Anti-mage sentiment brewed in guilds and magic circles lately. Impressive that a student recognized it.
"Study breeds interest. Take my elective later, yeah?"
"I'll consider it."
Half-convinced he'd hooked him, Barton eyed the last student. Sturdy build, unexpected.
"Hmm..."
The professor grunted again; the other two glanced sideways too.
"Maness."
"You too, I know well. How could a professor not?"
Familiar reaction—Maness kept his bright smile. You can't spit on a smiling face, right?
"Rumors painted you a scrawny punk. Surprise."
"Shocked myself I could pull this off."
"Jokes too—fun guy."
Barton took it as humor; Maness meant it. Hinted at the mountain, but this stamina? Unforeseen.
"Anyway, you basics for swordsmanship or other arts. Interested?"
Maness thought fast. Kyle chose swords; Conien wasn't negative. Flow said yes—keep professors interested for later use. But no overzealous show; his heart was mage-bound, talent confirmed. Avoid anything interpretable as "always dreamed of knighthood."
"Sword's new to me, so I'll explore with other subjects, think slowly."
Leaves door open. Show potential to pull him anytime. Not Conien-level firm, but enough.
"Smart. Magic looks cool now, but you'll see it's empty."
Anti-magic grudge? Prof feud? Barton clapped Maness's shoulder—nearly toppling him.
"Suits you better anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Mages are mostly weaklings. Plenty professors prejudge you from rumors."
Maness recalled first class tardiness. Hiteri's barbs were sharp—personality, sure, but punk rep influenced.
Metaph and Almond disproved over-sensitivity, though.
"Can't help what I did."
"Chin up. Some see potential—like me."
Emphasizing "like me," Barton nodded to a field corner.
"Warmed up? On to sword class. You three, help move practice wooden swords."
*
"Swordsmanship needs basic stamina and mindset. Seems only three in Class 1 have it."
Seating students on grass, Barton swung a wooden sword playfully, deflating egos. Teach threat with humility first. He didn't realize his words sharpened their stares.
Why's that guy one of the three?
Maness endured the glares silently. Ignored them anyway. Just prof-called with Kyle and Conien—uneasy entanglement brewing.
"Theory and basic practice today. Can't build towers without foundation. So..."
Anxiety always hits true.
"Kyle and Maness, front for demo."