Chapter 22 – I Stand in the Wilderness (1)

The idea that narrow-mindedness equates to weakness is a fallacy. Cowardice doesn’t inherently imply frailty. The man facing Cariel was, by worldly standards, anything but weak. To be a teacher at the Imperial Academy, one of the continent’s most prestigious institutions, meant possessing exceptional skill and a network of influence. To secure such a position based purely on merit was to be recognized as one of the continent’s finest.

However, such individuals weren’t commonplace. They weren’t like pebbles scattered along a riverbank. There was a constant need for competent instructors, for those who could support and eventually replace the established masters. In that sense, teaching provided a readily accessible path to social standing and the cultivation of valuable connections.

“I hope you won’t regret this,” the man said, testing the weight of his wooden training sword with a few practice swings.

He held the sword in a mid-level guard, his gaze fixed intently on Cariel, a mixture of tension and anticipation in his eyes. But as he settled into his stance, his breathing evened out, his grip firming on the hilt.

Cariel remained motionless, sword hanging loosely at his side, observing. His gaze was directed at a point two heads taller than himself. The man’s physique was imposing; standing next to him, Cariel would be completely dwarfed. His short, brown hair accentuated his sharp features, adding to his intimidating presence.

His reddish-brown eyes held a fierce intensity, the kind that could easily unsettle anyone who met his gaze for too long. Cariel, remembering his past aversion to eye contact, instinctively averted his eyes. He’d always been strangely apprehensive about meeting someone’s gaze directly. It invariably seemed to attract trouble, as if misfortunes were drawn to him the moment he dared to look someone in the eye.

And yet, here he was.

The man’s training sword was designed for both single and double-handed use. There were distinct swords for each style—shorter hilts for one-handed techniques and longer grips for two-handed maneuvers. Each had its advantages and disadvantages; the choice was left to the wielder. Imperial Swordsmanship was designed with this versatility in mind.

It doesn’t really matter.

Cariel’s own wooden training sword was identical in design, though the difference in their sizes made his feel disproportionately small. While swordsmanship was his supposed forte, in his current state, he doubted it would make much difference whether he wielded a sword, a spear, a halberd, or even a lance.

Still, there were too many unknowns. He couldn’t even bring himself to fully trust his own instincts. Until he’d proven himself, demonstrated his capabilities beyond a shadow of a doubt, he couldn’t rely on anything.

Taking a deep breath, Cariel gripped his sword hilt with both hands, raising the straight blade to his chest. Para. The fundamental starting position. The root of all techniques. The preparatory stance.

Whatever it was called.

Even in the Berke Empire, a land where knights were hailed as warriors of the gods, those who swore sacred oaths so readily broke them. They prayed for divine favor and mercy while withholding it from others. They sought blessings for themselves, despite being taught from childhood that such self-serving prayers were an abomination.

They were taught to pray for others. To dedicate themselves to the service of others. To sacrifice, if necessary, for the well-being of others.

And yet…

“…”

Why, in this empire brimming with knights, in this very hall dedicated to the virtues of chivalry, did they persecute and ostracize those who were weaker, like he once was?

“…”

Perhaps they hadn’t considered him weak at all? If so, their cruelty made even less sense.

No. That contradiction was precisely what made them human, all too human. He understood this already, on an intellectual level.

How foolish they were. How utterly simple.

“And where did you learn that stance?”

Cariel, eyes still closed, maintained his steady breathing as he shifted his left foot back half a step. His hands, arms, and the sword held firmly before him turned naturally to the left. Though the stance appeared fixed, its true nature lay in the positioning of the feet. The upper body was governed by the lower, the foundation upon which all movement was built.

Like a tree firmly rooted in the earth, no matter how fiercely the wind buffeted its branches or how violently the storm bent its trunk, as long as the roots held fast, the tree would neither fall nor break. Even the swaying, the moments of instability, were all part of a single, continuous flow.

A forward tilt of the blade: Fortes. Drawing it back to rest on the shoulder: Grate. There was no need to fixate on any single position. The means were not the end. The process was not the goal.

By turning his back foot slightly inwards, his upper body naturally shifted to the right, seamlessly transitioning back to Fortes, poised for a thrust. Even subtle adjustments—lowering his stance, widening his stride—could drastically alter the purpose and effectiveness of a movement. The same thrust could be a defensive riposte or an aggressive lunge. A feint to create an opening differed entirely from a thrust intended to end the fight. From that position, he could just as easily strike downwards, slash, or cut.

But there was no need. Simply by shifting his stance, offense and defense intertwined effortlessly. The core principle was the foundation, the lower body, the center of balance. Complete mastery and control over these elements. Not through conscious thought, but through instinct. Not relying solely on sight, but through the subtle interplay of senses throughout his entire body. Reacting reflexively, before conscious thought could even form.

“Are you suggesting I should strike first, as a matter of courtesy?”

“Th-that’s… customary.” It was a standard practice, an unspoken rule. So why did it feel so… underwhelming?

The instructor closed the distance, his sword tip angled slightly forward. It wasn’t quite Para or Fortes, but poised to transition into either at a moment’s notice. He advanced, step by steady step, without swinging his sword. Even as he entered Cariel’s range, Cariel simply raised his sword, making no move to attack. This must have been unsettling. It was as if Cariel intended to simply charge him, sword held aloft as an afterthought.

But he didn’t charge. He continued his slow, deliberate advance.

The instructor’s expression twisted in confusion.

“What are you…?” Had he continued speaking, Cariel’s wooden blade would have found its mark—his throat, his chest, his face. But Cariel made no move to strike, only continued walking forward.

“Tch!” The instructor found himself leaning into Cariel’s raised sword as he closed the distance. And at that precise moment, Cariel shifted his stance.

Betita.

The angle of his sword remained unchanged, but the hilt, gripped firmly in both hands, rose sharply. The straight blade, reminiscent of a cross, featured a long crossguard, a defining characteristic of Imperial swords.

“?!” The instructor swung downwards with all his might, but Cariel intercepted the blow with his crossguard. They were now so close that their outstretched arms could easily touch. The reduced distance lessened the force of the blow, minimizing the impact.

“It’s not over yet!” His initial strike thwarted, the instructor quickly recovered, lowering his stance and aiming for Cariel’s midsection.

Fortes. This time, instead of tilting his sword forward, Cariel simply pivoted his back foot, letting his sword naturally intercept the incoming blow. The instructor’s sword, aimed for Cariel’s side, struck his guard instead. By subtly lowering his center of gravity, Cariel effortlessly controlled the height of his defense.

Thwack! The impact reverberated through Cariel’s arms, but his firm stance absorbed the force, channeling it up through his wrists, arms, and shoulders, into his chest and back. It dissipated there, never reaching his lower body.

But simply deflecting wasn’t enough. With a subtle tremor, Cariel neutralized the remaining force and transitioned into his next movement, transforming the residual energy into momentum. He closed the distance further, raising his sword—or rather, flowing into the next stance, Grate—in a single, fluid motion.

“Kh!” The instructor’s sword, still caught between Cariel’s crossguard and blade, was pulled along awkwardly by Cariel’s swift change in position. His wrist twisted at an unnatural angle.

“?!” He tried to react, but Cariel had already transitioned through three more movements.

Clatter! His sword slipped from his grasp. He clutched his wrist, staring at Cariel in stunned disbelief.

“What… what was that? Where did you learn such… such strange techniques?”

“…” His bewildered expression revealed he hadn’t even grasped the fact that he’d been defeated.

“How would I know?” Cariel hadn’t even launched a proper attack, hadn’t swung, hadn’t even feigned a cut.

And yet, this was precisely why Luelde, even in his prime, wielding a holy sword, had been unable to win. Even if the instructor faced these techniques again, even if he adapted and improved his defenses, it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t the solution.

Even Luelde, a genius swordsman blessed with unparalleled talent, only achieved victory at his peak by relying on the power of the holy sword and sacred artifacts. No matter how skillfully one wielded a sword, no matter how adeptly one observed and imitated, these techniques couldn’t be replicated, couldn’t be countered. It wasn’t due to some secret art or hidden technique.

“I learned it… in a dream.” Because this wasn’t normal swordsmanship. It defied conventional understanding. Had his training sword not possessed the elongated crossguard, had it been shorter, blunter, he wouldn’t have been able to manipulate his opponent so effortlessly. He would have had to find another approach.

Though in the end, his movements and stances wouldn’t have been drastically different.

“Get up.”

“What?” Bewilderment warred with unease on the instructor’s face.

“Dropping your sword once doesn’t mean the spar is over, does it?” Cariel glanced at the discarded wooden blade. “Let’s continue.”

“…” This… this was deeply unsettling. He should be feeling humiliated, ashamed, yet a chilling dread crept over him, raising goosebumps on his arms. Cariel still exuded no discernible aura, no killing intent.

That was it. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner?

“Come on.” There was nothing there. It felt as if he stood in a vast, empty wilderness, buffeted by desolate winds. Why did facing this single person evoke such a strange and overwhelming sensation?

He didn’t understand. He was lost, adrift in that desolate expanse. The wooden sword in his hand felt strangely light.

Everything was being swallowed by the silent, oppressive emptiness of the wilderness, slowly but surely crushing his world.

Silently. Inexorably.

…He dropped his sword again and again in the rounds that followed, yet he felt no shame, no fear. He simply… crumbled.

…

……

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