[7] An Opportunity More Precious Than Life (3)
Since that day, Shirone felt a constant itch at the back of his head. He never knew when Rian might come back for revenge.
But Rian did not appear. Rumor had it he'd been caught by the sword instructor and dragged up into the mountains.
Only after a month could Shirone finally relax. Emotions are volatile; with time even terrible things start to feel less significant. Even if Rian returned, he wouldn't blow up at him like before.
Lightened, Shirone read the founding history of his homeland, the Kingdom of Tormia.
In four months he'd finished eighty-two books. Not a huge number, but considering it had taken him twenty days to get through the first volume, it was remarkable growth.
Lately Shirone's reading speed had grown exponentially; on average it took him only twenty seconds to read a page.
If something was unfamiliar it might take a minute, but for familiar parts he could get through them in ten seconds or less.
It was the natural effect of focusing on a single field. Even the authors wrote from knowledge they'd gained elsewhere, so no single book contained entirely new content.
Once he passed the turning point—around two hundred volumes—he'd be able to finish the remaining six hundred and fifty at a speed incomparable to before.
What Shirone liked most in history books were the accounts of mages. If scholars studied theory, mages were the ones who turned that theory into reality.
So the mage's professions were as varied as the branches of learning. And since scholars who couldn't enter the Spirit Zone couldn't become mages, mages were truly elite.
Vast knowledge and keen senses.
Those two were the indispensable requirements for a mage. Having already mastered the Spirit Zone, Shirone threw himself even more into filling his store of knowledge.
He suppressed his miscellaneous curiosities and studied only history. It was for the boundless efficiency he would gain once the backbone of his knowledge was complete.
What kind of mage would he be when that efficiency finally shone?
Just imagining it made sleep feel like a waste.
After finishing the last page of the founding history, Shirone closed the book with satisfaction—only for the door to be flung open.
"You bastard! I've been enduring hell waiting for today!"
It was Ozent Rian, returned from his own hell, ready to explode. His face was venomous, like the incarnation of a demon.
Shirone clicked his tongue at Rian's persistence. The anger pouring off him felt the same as when Rian had been dragged off to the sword instructor.
The only differences were sunken eyes and a thinner frame, perhaps.
"You! How dare you snitch on where I was hiding?"
"Is that really why you came?"
"Of course it is. Do you know how much I suffered? I climbed that cliff again and again. Every time my arms went numb and I thought I'd die, I held on thinking of revenge!"
Shirone began to feel uneasy. If Rian had been feeding his hatred day after day, then in his eyes Shirone would be worse than a mortal enemy.
"Aren't you going to answer? I asked why you snitched, you coward!"
"I didn't snitch. I merely stated the facts."
"Ha! 'Stated the facts,' huh? Then maybe I'll tell the steward exactly what you did, word for word. That'll ruin your life! Got it?"
Faced with such nonsense, Shirone gave up trying to persuade him. He'd come to painfully understand how different the mindsets of nobles and commoners were. Making things bigger would only be foolish.
"If I'm guilty, I'll accept the punishment. What do you want me to do?"
Rian looked momentarily taken aback. Shirone seemed like a newly arrived steward's assistant—so composed it was unnerving.
"So even the house steward dares to look down on me now, huh? Fine. I'll make you feel what I went through. Come with me."
Shirone was practically dragged along. Rian seemed intent on taking him somewhere secluded to beat him senseless. Memories of the thugs from four years ago tightened his chest.
'Still, better than dying. If I'm to be beaten, let it be beaten; if I'm to be rolled, let it be rolled.'
He couldn't squander the chance his parents had risked their lives to give him. Whenever fear surged, he pictured home—his father and mother dining happily—to steady himself.
Rian led him to a small training hall. True to a family that worshiped the martial path, the mansion had multiple training rings. This one was Rian's private ring, a place where no one would rush to help no matter how loud the cries.
While Rian lit torches, Shirone swallowed and waited. He'd have preferred the beating to start already; the delay made his nerves jangle. Maybe Rian was prolonging it on purpose—anyone raised on sword training would know how to stretch the tension.
"Here—take this."
When the hall lit up, Rian tossed a wooden practice sword. It landed with a crisp sound in Shirone's palm. The grip was thicker than an axe handle—nothing like anything Shirone had held before.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Did you think I'd just beat you senseless? I'm not a coward like you. I'll be the world's greatest swordsman someday. Because I got stronger thanks to you, I'm giving it back. Fair, right?"
Shirone was incredulous. Fighting someone who'd trained since birth was basically asking to be pummeled.
"What was I cowardly about?"
"I hate guys like you. When someone's in trouble you don't even think—just run and snitch. Guys like you deserve a wooden-sword thrashing. Come on, hit me. I'll give you three strikes, accounting for the skill gap, then we'll start for real."
The look in Rian's eyes changed as he pointed the sword at Shirone. Odd as his personality was, that gaze was pure Ozent.
Maybe in response, Shirone found both hands on the wooden sword. Just from the feel, the practice blade seemed hard enough to snap human bone.
In other words, after Rian's three chances, his bones could be broken. A torrent of thoughts flooded Shirone's head. He couldn't work. He couldn't read. His parents would have to look at a crippled son.
'What can I do? What can I possibly do?'
Shirone hardened his resolve. He had no choice but to try to strike. To give up because the odds were low would be as foolish as throwing away his future.
"Yaaaah!"
He swung the sword overhead and charged. The momentum was raw, but Rian snorted. His posture and center of gravity were all wrong; it was clear he'd never really held a sword before.
As Rian parried, he shouted, "One!"
Clack! The bright sound echoed through the hall, but to Shirone it sounded like a lion's paw closing on his throat. He forced his fear into a breath and tried a horizontal cut.
"Two!"
Rian's bold voice made Shirone's anger boil. Did he enjoy playing with such an incompetent? He bit his lip and poured everything into his final chance.
As the wooden sword sliced the air, a smile crept up at the corner of Rian's mouth. Vertical cut, horizontal cut, vertical cut—simple patterns so crude they betrayed a beginner.
Rian set up a horizontal block, stepped forward, and shouted, "Now, the last one! From here on it's—"
Krrack!
At that moment, the center of the practice sword in Rian's hand exploded. It didn't just break; it snapped cleanly. At the same time, the center of Shirone's sword shattered as well.
Small shards sprayed across Rian's shocked face. He staggered back, stunned. Examining the broken blades, he saw the grain on the cross-sections had flared up—the impact had nowhere to go and had ricocheted inward.
'This is… a weapon-shattering technique—geom-sal?'
A weapon-destroying type of geom-sal.
Just as every school of swordsmanship has at least one cutting form, every school also has one or more weapon-destroying forms. In the Ozent family they called it geom-sal, a secret taught only in person.
It wore a grand name not simply because it was powerful.
In human duels, as force increases, so do the ways to absorb that force. To succeed at geom-sal required an instantaneous concentration of impact—a motion and mental state that aimed not at the opponent but solely at the blade itself.
For Rian it was a shock. He'd held a sword since birth, yet he'd never succeeded in geom-sal against a person.
Worse, he realized he might be the only one in the family who hadn't learned it.
"Who the hell are you? Where did you learn swordsmanship?"
Shirone let the broken handle drop. To be honest, it had been a gamble.
He'd felt the sensation on the first strike, timed it on the second, and attempted it on the third.
Thunder Strike—the move he'd practiced countless times over four years.
"I've never learned swordsmanship."
"Shut up! You filthy coward to the bone! Then how did you succeed at geom-sal? If you're mocking me, I'll kill you right now!"
"This is called Thunder Strike."
"Thunder Strike?"
"My father is a hunter. Living in the mountains, I've been chopping wood since I was small. I wasn't big, so I had to use technique to fell trees, and I naturally picked this up. Among woodcutters, we call it Thunder Strike."
Rian's thoughts scrambled. A mountain dweller? He chopped wood? What nonsense was this? I've held a blade for sixteen years; splitting a few logs wouldn't give you geom-sal. Not a single one of my peers has succeeded at geom-sal. The only one who did was—
Rian pictured a face.
'Ozent Rai.'
Rai was two years older than Rian, the Ozent family's second son—and hailed as the greatest sword prodigy in their history.
Rian clenched his fists until they ached. It felt like Rai's apparition was sneering at him.
Rai had succeeded at geom-sal at twelve. It had been a family celebration; their father held a weeklong feast.
Rian remembered that day vividly. And today, in the end, even the child of a mountain hunter had caught up to him.
"I won't accept this!"
Rian shouted, banishing the phantom of Rai. He had truly tried—once he'd swung the sword a thousand times, ten thousand times.
Then why could that kid do it and I couldn't?
"Young master, if I've been discourteous—"
"Shut up! Nothing's over yet! No one's been declared the loser! I am Ozent Rian!"
Rian turned and walked to the edge of the hall. There he drew one of the nobles' ornate longswords and returned.
When Shirone saw the real blade, his skin went cold. As Rian drew the sword it slid free with a wet pop.
The blade drank in the torchlight and glittered like flowing lava. After checking the edge, Rian sheathed it again and tossed the sword to Shirone.
Shirone stepped forward and took it with both hands. When he looked at Rian as if to ask why, Rian pointed with a finger and said,
"Neither of us has a weapon now, so the outcome can't be decided. If you've already learned geom-sal, you deserve proper treatment. One month from now—here—we'll fight with real blades."
Shirone's heart sank. He'd been trying to survive with small schemes, and now the situation was getting worse. A real blade felt entirely different from wood. And Rian wouldn't be giving three chances anymore.
He could die. For the first time, Shirone felt the fear of death. Images of his grieving parents surfaced. It was bitter to think his youth might end without fulfilling his dreams.
"Young master, please reconsider! I've never learned swordsmanship!"
"That's why I'm giving you time. You say you learned geom-sal chopping wood? I don't much believe it, but even if you're that special, you can try to make it happen in a month."
Rian didn't see his demand as unreasonable. If it had been Rai, it would be possible. He saw Rai's phantom in Shirone: lacking resolve. If it's with real blades and life on the line, maybe the difference wouldn't be so great.
"Don't think about running. Beyond personal feelings, I can't forgive a bastard like you."
Rian's last words drove into Shirone like a nail.