Chapter 110

Driven out of the sweet dream of paradise they had tasted so briefly, they were back in a world of cold, hunger, uncomfortable beds, and swarming robbers.

Roy's stolid father said nothing, while his mother and sister simply wrapped him in their care. Not one word of reproach.

Watching Hartmann's family, Ricard thought of his own. Of unconditional support, consideration, and love.

Once, he had thought that he already had everything. Roy seemed to have it all too, but reality was not so kind.

Guilt weighed heavily on the boy's heart. His family was suffering because of what he had done.

'Would everything have been all right if I'd just said I didn't do it? That I'd done nothing wrong, and it was Les? I'd be safe, but what would happen to him?'

Perhaps it had less to do with friendship or anything of the sort than with his aversion to telling on someone. He did not want to be an informer. Friend or not, he did not want to sell someone else out just to save himself.

Even so, he could not know whether his choice had been right. Neither the father he respected nor the mother he loved knew the answer.

That was why children needed a teacher. Someone to shape and nurture them in ways even their parents and families could not.

Children needed someone who could fashion a jewel, a star that would one day shine brilliantly.

Unfortunately, the problem was that Ricard had very little talent for teaching anyone.

It was a cool spring day. Dangerous as the world was, most of the time it was merely dull—until brutal violence descended without warning.

Boredom, followed by horrors too terrible to bear: that was everyday life in this age.

Fortunately, this was one of the quiet moments.

Standing in knee-high grass, Ricard cast a sour look at Roy, as though he had bitten into a bug. Roy was diligently swinging a stick, but his movements were painfully clumsy.

Ricard had corrected his stance several times without much improvement. At last, he could hold his tongue no longer.

"Hey. You've got arms and legs, and so do I. Why can't you do it?"

Roy stopped swinging his stick. He quietly considered his master's rebuke before answering.

"Um... because you've done it lots of times and you're used to it, Master, but I'm only just starting?"

The unexpected reply left Ricard dumbfounded for a moment, but he soon recovered.

"I could do it from the start. No one even taught me."

"I see."

"I-I see?"

"If I practice hard, won't I be able to cut someone's head off with a wooden stick someday, like you?"

"Do you think just anyone can do that? You'll have to live to a hundred to get as good as me."

It was hard to tell whether he was trying to teach the boy or plunge him into despair, but fortunately, Roy was not discouraged.

It was not that Roy lacked talent. He was not exceptionally gifted either, though. He was exactly where one would expect a boy his age to be.

But Ricard found that ordinary level of ability frustrating. He could not understand the very idea of needing to repeat a movement over and over to master it, let alone for days or even months.

There were other things that really mattered. These were things the boy ought to pick up in no time. That was all he could think.

What was more, he had never experienced the difficulties or stumbling blocks that ordinary people encountered. Unable to understand them at all, he could only badger the boy about why he could not do it.

"Watch closely. You have to shift your center of gravity and put your weight into it. Just swinging your arms won't cut through flesh and bone. Focus on planting your feet. Your arms only guide the sword. But don't relax them too much either. Oh, this is frustrating."

Trying to put into words movements that came naturally to him without a thought made Ricard feel as though he had indigestion.

"Please give me a little time. I'll practice hard and try to get used to it as quickly as I can."

"... You really do have a way with words. If you're so good at talking, why didn't you make a better case for yourself back then?"

Of all the people Ricard had taught, however briefly, none had ever answered him back this much. Still, the boy was not being rude, so he did not dislike it.

"I'm not very good at lying. But it was hard to tell the truth, too. Still, I do wonder whether I could have handled it more wisely."

Roy lowered his head and spoke dejectedly, as though recalling what had happened. Seeing him so downcast troubled Ricard too.

"... You little rascal."

Ricard stroked Roy's head. The boy was about the same age he had been when he left home. Roy was nine now and would turn ten on his approaching birthday.

With his blond hair and the sturdy build he had inherited from his father, he resembled Ricard in many ways. Someone might easily mistake him for a much younger brother, or a son Ricard had fathered early.

Ricard did not tell his pupil that he should have done this or that. He did not know the answer himself.

He would merely protect the boy, hoping that he would think it through for himself and grow through that struggle.

Roy's nature was strong and beautiful, and Ricard trusted that he would turn out well. In truth, that alone was why he had taken him as a pupil, so it was all right if he was not much good with a sword.

"Riki! Roy!"

It was Marie's voice. They turned to find her calling from the shade of a tree. It was time to eat.

"All right, well, let's take our time. Though I'm worried we'll die of old age at this rate."

Ricard took Roy with him and walked over to the tree.

When Ricard sat down beside Marie, Roy, taking his duties as a pupil seriously, brought him this and that before eating himself. Everyone watched with smiles, touched to see such a little boy being so thoughtful.

Gathered beneath the tree for a meal, they truly felt like a family. Bremen was the grandfather, Hartmann and Ricard were brothers, each with a wife—something like that.

In the shade, the sound of branches swaying in the wind tickled their ears.

Roy gazed at his mother, who served everyone else before scraping together what was left for herself. There had been plenty to eat back there. And his mother had looked so dazzlingly beautiful.

"Mom..."

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry..."

At her son's apology, Elia gave the gentlest of smiles.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. Being together as a family is what makes us happiest, but I forgot that for a little while. I didn't even know what you'd been going through."

His family knew that Roy was innocent. They had also learned, belatedly, about the bullying he had endured for those five days.

"... I'm full. You have this, Mom."

Roy stopped eating his plain porridge and held it out to her. Elia took only a little before saying,

"I'm full now too. You finish it."

They kept urging each other to eat the little porridge that remained. Then Bremen interjected.

"I haven't long left to live, and I've no appetite. Have mine."

He set down his bowl, got up, and wandered off. It was a heartwarming sight, but there was something heartbreaking about it too.

Suddenly, the meal fell quiet. Only the wind brushing the grass could be heard.

Then Marie, chewing hard bread softened with water in her mouth, looked at Ricard.

"You're not nearly as harsh a teacher as I expected."

"What, do you think I enjoy tormenting people?"

"Don't you? From what I hear, Volka took quite a beating while you taught him, and Bori got scolded plenty. You taught Ice and me through sparring that was downright brutal. And who was it recently? Kaspar? Anyway, I heard they nearly died."

"You're my friends, not my pupils. Kaspar and Yulia are Bori's pupils. Roy is mine."

"Oh... I didn't know you could make distinctions like that."

"What's this? Why are you suddenly picking a fight?"

"I'm not. I'm just saying I'm proud of you."

Marie smiled brightly, plainly enjoying teasing him. At the same time, she knew that her husband was frustrated.

"Still, you've raised three Sword Masters, Riki. I'd call that a success. Roy will do well too."

"You and the others achieved that yourselves. It wasn't anything I did."

"Oh... Are we being modest now?"

"Argh! Seriously! What's gotten into you today?"

When Ricard flared up, Marie burst out laughing and nudged him with her shoulder.

"Let me try teaching him this afternoon. If he's my husband's pupil, that makes him mine too."

"Is that how it works?"

"Husband and wife are one, after all."

Ricard was not sure about that, but after the meal, Marie took Roy aside to teach him.

Doubting it would make much difference, Ricard watched listlessly from a distance. Yet after a little while, Roy was doing far better than he had under Ricard's instruction. Huh?

Marie's swordsmanship was founded on that of House Kelbron, a method refined over many years, systematic and solid from the basics onward.

Moreover, she had trained harder and more relentlessly than anyone since childhood, so she understood the stages of progress well. She had immediately gauged Roy's aptitude, talent, and current ability, then tailored her instruction to suit him.

Watching this, Ricard found something within him struggling to accept it. This couldn't be happening!

"How about I teach him in the mornings, and you work with him in the afternoons?"

Marie made the suggestion when they were about to set off again, after she had spent a little time teaching Roy.

"..."

"What? Are you sulking because I seem to be better at it?"

"No?"

"You are, though."

"I'm not. I'm the better teacher, so it doesn't bother me at all."

Having lived alone with him apart from the world for four years, Marie understood what went on inside Ricard better than anyone. She also knew how to handle him.

"Your instruction is bound to be more helpful once he reaches a certain level, so I'll give him a grounding in the basics. Then you won't have to feel frustrated, and Roy will be better able to absorb what you teach him. Doesn't that sound good?"

Now that he heard it, that seemed reasonable. Ricard felt some of his pettiness ease.

"If you insist..."

Marie could not hold back her laughter. She knew her husband's one weakness: he wanted to teach someone well, but his eagerness always outstripped his ability, leaving him endlessly frustrated.

She had recognized it back when he was writing his swordsmanship manual. She was the one who had helped him with it, after all.

And what she had said was not entirely untrue. Only someone at the very pinnacle of mastery could begin to understand what Ricard was talking about.

In any event, it was good news for Roy. Having one of the world's few Sword Masters teach him the basics, and someone who surpassed even a Sword Master guide his path, was a luxury that even a king would struggle to enjoy.

And since they were teaching him anyway, they included his sister Becca in the lessons. Judging by talent alone, she seemed the more promising of the two.

With both siblings learning, they could spar together and improve quickly, though that did not mean there was any dramatic, noticeable transformation.

The party simply continued its quiet journey toward the eastern frontier. By now, it was hard to know even why they were going there. Salvation? A new home? Because Hartmann was guilty of killing a priest? There was no telling.

Walking through life was like facing an endless series of questions. At some point, one found an answer, and that answer posed another question.

Some settled along the way and found peace, while others kept walking.

And amid it all, a flower called trust bloomed. Slowly, but surely. People who had initially been wary and distant now protected one another.

"What will you do once we reach the eastern frontier, Bremen?"

Ricard asked as they climbed toward a mountain pass. The southeastern Empire had an unusual abundance of low mountain ranges and basins.

"Go back to the Crossroads and keep working as a guide, I suppose."

"Why? Aren't you going to settle there?"

"Well, I think I've become addicted to the look in people's eyes when they're clinging to their last hope. Seeing it keeps me going too."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"My family's all dead. The people I knew, too. There's nothing particularly dramatic about it. Illness, old age... they left one by one. Sitting in that house all alone made me want to die. Then I saw people setting off for the eastern frontier and started guiding them on impulse. I was a mercenary in my day, so I know a little of the terrain."

Ricard remained silent. He had nothing to say, having never experienced such a thing.

"Do you find that foolish?"

"No. I was just thinking you're like a butterfly."

"A butterfly? Me?"

"A butterfly drawn to a flower called last hope. One that will die without its nectar."

"... I see. Perhaps you're right. You sound like a poet."

Being called a poet brought a faint smile to Ricard's face.

"What do you think of this journey? Will we make it all the way?"

"Haha, I don't know either. But they're a fine family, the Hartmanns. And you're a fine master."

"And you're a fine guide."

"No, I'm not. Once that nectar called hope is gone, I'll run away. I'm a butterfly, aren't I?"

"That's all right too."

Bremen, with his striking white mustache, looked at Ricard and smiled, his face steeped in the years he had lived. It was a smile like a wildflower one rarely had the chance to see.

Ricard climbed the slope strewn with sharp stones. Looking back, he saw Hartmann following quietly under a heavy load. Each member of his family carried a burden too, large or small.

They bore those heavy loads for the sake of a hope as indistinct as a mirage.

Come to think of it, hope was simply something one carried in one's hand. Something one kept hold of even when the destination was not what one had imagined, even in disappointment.

What happened when one let it go? Ricard knew that better than anyone. One became a devil, a monster. He had done so. So had the church.

What lay beyond dreams: life and hope. Ricard wanted to protect those who had them. There was no more fire and steel.

Was that really true?

As they neared the crest of the pass, he spotted people up ahead. Travelers, or bandits?

Ricard raised a hand to halt the party and went up alone. The men wore swords at their waists and were lightly equipped, but their neat appearance and healthy complexions suggested they were no run-of-the-mill bandits.

They showed no particular wariness as Ricard approached from below, nor did they draw their weapons to threaten him.

Once he was close enough, Ricard spoke.

"I'd like to pass through."

"Go ahead."

"You don't want a toll?"

He asked because bandits and robbers invariably extorted money under the pretext of a toll. The three swordsmen chuckled.

"We're not bandits. We're merely looking for someone. It's fine. Go on through. Ah, before you do, have you seen a swordsman riding a donkey?"

Ricard shook his head.

"I haven't."

"He's on the short side, with a tawny bowl cut. But anyone caught by that black sword of his meets a grisly end. They call him the Black Sword. Do you know him?"

"..."

Ricard had never expected to hear news of Bori here, and for a moment he was at a loss for words.

But the change in his expression gave the three swordsmen an inkling that he knew the man.

"You do know him, don't you? Bori, the Black Sword."

"Why are you looking for him?"

"Because he stole our clan's secret manual and fled. We will recover it and make him answer for the theft. No matter how strong he is, whatever it takes. So tell us nicely. Let's not make things difficult for each other."

One of them drew his sword as he spoke.

They could not be certain whether Ricard truly knew Bori, but they thought cutting off a few fingers would soon settle that.

Meanwhile, the three swordsmen were also eyeing the gold bracelet on Ricard's wrist. They claimed not to be bandits, but the sight of something fine could stir a man's greed.

He had just left the clan headquarters with a party banished over a theft, and now here was another theft. Bori had supposedly gone to find a codex. Had he actually gone to steal another clan's secret manual? That rascal.

Thinking what a peculiar turn of events this was, Ricard drew his sword too.

"I don't know what clan you're from, but take a good look at your opponent before you draw."

"Hmph. It's only because you don't know our clan that you dare draw a sword in front of us."

"What clan is that?"

"Rubens..."

Rubens had once been an adventurers' guild, but like Viola, it had now become firmly established as a clan.

It was the clan that had ambushed and poisoned Ricard during the Imperial Swordsmanship Tournament, only to face near destruction at his hands. They had survived by surrendering and offering up their treasures.

What a coincidence, to meet them again here after all this time. To be honest, Ricard was even a little pleased. He gave a derisive laugh and said,

"You're as pointlessly persistent as ever. But unlike last time, there's no one to stop me now. Fools."