The landscape melted away like a watercolor soaked through with water.
The profusely blooming spring flowers, the flocks of chirping birds, the winding mountain peaks, even the high, vivid-blue sky.
Through the view in which it all melted and ran away, I saw a grim-looking boy.
"Get up, you cowardly bastard! Since you're going to live like a cripple anyway, I'll kill you myself!"
His coarse abuse thundered in my ears.
I clutched my throbbing head and furrowed my brow.
A man born lame, who lost his parents and wandered for his entire life.
A man who walked through a winter of unceasing frost all his life.
It was the whole life of a man who could—and could not—be called 'me.'
That was what had forced its way into my head and taken root there.
Could seventy years of life melt and mix into fifteen without any growing pains?
Thinking that, I tried to make sense of what was happening.
"Are you ignoring me? Planning to run away? Stop rolling your eyes and come at me like a martial artist, bastard!"
But it was difficult to think with that loudmouth going on and on.
I stopped trying to untangle my complicated thoughts and first assessed the situation before me.
Ten years had passed since I had first gone outside as a child, been mocked and ostracized by children my own age, then shut myself away at home.
It had been two months since my parents' pleas and threats had finally driven me to attend a swordsmanship dojo.
And it had been one minute since this bastard picked a fight with me and forced me into a spar.
Those were the memories that surfaced only after the memories of Sword Saint Johan's long life had settled.
Having pieced the situation together with difficulty, I sighed and rose to my feet.
Then I froze.
"Why are you rubbing your knee? I hit you in the head."
"People's knees ache when they get old, or something?"
"What kind of bullshit is that? Are you throwing a full fit just because you don't want to spar?"
Before getting up, I had unconsciously rubbed my left knee.
That was not my habit.
My left leg was shorter than my right, so I limped, but it did not hurt.
Right. That was old Sword Saint Johan's habit.
It was the habit of soothing the left leg whose joints had deteriorated after decades of limping.
I flinched at the unfamiliar habit of an unfamiliar person that had suddenly appeared within me.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the boy who might have been a friend or an enemy interrupted the thoughts that were beginning to deepen again.
"Pretending to be hurt won't do you any good. Today, I'll make sure to fix your rotten mind!"
"Andrea... was it? I'm only asking because I'm a little dizzy right now, but what do you mean by a rotten mind?"
The memories that had mixed into me like paint stirred into water left me confused.
Of course, there was no way Andrea could know my circumstances.
So it was only natural that he shouted furiously, his face fit to burst with rage.
"When I asked you to train with me, you said you were lame, so you couldn't do it anyway! You said I shouldn't bother with someone like you! Did you already forget the bullshit you said just today?"
"Ah, did I? I think I did...."
At Andrea's irritation, I silently nodded.
Wouldn't a cripple with a bad leg who waved a sword around only die more easily?
Wouldn't I have better odds of surviving if I simply got down and begged?
Nothing good would come from becoming friends with a bastard like me.
If you want to get drunk on being a good person who helps a cripple, go find someone else.
I'll live and die like this.
Those were the memories that came back to me because he had reminded me of them. They were the words I had spoken only minutes ago.
Was it because Sword Saint Johan's memories had entered me?
I found myself sympathizing with Andrea.
So much so that I wondered if there was another bastard as pathetic as this one.
I let out a long breath and looked Andrea straight in the eye.
Hoping my sincerity would reach him through his brown eyes, I apologized.
"I'm sorry."
"What?"
Perhaps because of my sudden change in attitude, Andrea blinked and asked. I looked at him warmly.
In the blurred memories of the Sword Saint's childhood, Andrea had been a thug who tormented him for no reason.
But the truth was different.
I was the one who had spent my whole life shut away in my room, mourning nothing but my condition as a cripple.
Andrea was the one who had approached me first and tried to teach me something, anything.
I kept returning that kindness in a twisted way, so he had finally exploded.
Sword Saint Johan had lived through every kind of hardship and experienced the genuine malice of countless people.
After receiving his memories and experience, I had changed in some way, and that was how it seemed to me.
Even now, Andrea was trying somehow to get me back on my feet.
I was grateful for that, and sorry for the clumsy hand he had offered, which I had done nothing but push away.
So I apologized to him in earnest.
Andrea's face became one that said he had no idea how he ought to respond to my apology.
Just as I opened my mouth again, thinking that I could not apologize with words alone,
a sharp voice rang out from the other side.
"Hey, Andrea! Are you bothering Johan again? I told you not to!"
"I'm not bothering him! Anna, you only ever pull this shit on me!"
"If you aren't bothering him, then what's that lump on his forehead? It's already swollen!"
At the familiar voice, I turned and saw a girl with black hair braided into two plaits.
She strode toward Andrea as if she were about to hit him.
This whole mess was a little amusing, but I was grateful for it too.
I had acted as though no one could love me because I limped.
But I had realized the truth: there were many people who cared for me.
Of course, a realization was one thing, and stopping the two of them from fighting was another.
I limped over and stepped between Andrea and Anna.
"Don't stop me, Johan. I'm going to make sure that bastard never bothers you again—"
"He didn't bother me."
"What did you say?"
My wretched attitude toward Anna had been no different.
I always said things like someone like me was useless, or it would have been better if I had never been born.
At my sudden change after I had done nothing but spew miserable self-deprecation, Anna's emerald eyes widened.
"Why are you acting like this all of a sudden? Did this bastard threaten you into saying that?"
"No. I suddenly saw that Andrea had been trying for my sake."
"What nonsense is that? I was only annoyed by the sight of you!"
Unused to praise, Andrea's face turned scarlet.
Anna, who had never expected me to defend him, also looked blank.
Looking between my two friends, I spoke quietly.
"I did act pathetically, failing to accept kindness as kindness. Right?"
"That...."
Unable to agree outright, Anna trailed off.
I smiled softly at the other friend who had always looked after me.
"It must be confusing that I've suddenly changed, but just think I've come to my senses. And on that note."
Being grateful was one thing, and being angry at having been hit was another.
The seventy-year-old Sword Saint might say that getting hit a little while children played was no great matter.
But I was very angry right now.
That was why I reached out, rubbed my bulging forehead, and provoked Andrea.
"Let's spar, Andrea. You take a hit too."
"Pah! Are you insane? You want to spar with me? Still, that's manly of you. All right! Let's spar!"
He accepted my proposal without hesitation.
He raised the wooden sword in his hand high above his head and glared at me fiercely.
The 'Heaven,' a preparatory stance suited to powerful downward cuts.
It suited Andrea well, since even at fifteen, he stood at least half a head taller than adults.
In response, I held the wooden sword in my hand upright before my eyes.
Sword Saint Johan always did this before a fight.
He would look at his face reflected in the blade and settle his mind.
Of course, what I held now was a wooden sword.
I could not see my face in it at all.
Still, for some reason, I felt my heart settle into quietness.
Having naturally completed the ritual like the Sword Saint, I finally took my stance.
"A Plow Stance? No, it's a little different."
One of the dojo's trainees who had been watching the noisy incident muttered.
The swordsmanship taught at the dojo was the Empire's standard swordsmanship.
It had a variety of stances, but most involved bending the front leg fairly deeply.
They were stances that made it easy to move in a big way first.
In contrast, I set the distance between my legs far narrower than what I had been taught.
Because my left leg was short, moving too broadly made my body sway unsteadily.
The more I moved, the more unstable I was bound to become.
Movements made with an unsteady center lacked both power and precision.
So there was a different stance that suited me, and this was it.
"If I had to give it a name, I suppose it would be the True Sight Stance."
The tip of my sword aimed at the space between my opponent's brows, while my feet prepared for one explosive step.
Rather than move aggressively, I created and guarded a centerline around my sword.
In doing so, I would defend against an attack that entered my range while attacking at the same time.
It was the path a lame man called the Sword Saint had completed over a lifetime, for an extreme, counter-focused duel decided in a single exchange.
It was a sword made only for me.
Of course, Andrea, who knew nothing of that, could only find it absurd.
With a look of disbelief, he sneered at me.
"Did you make up a sword style or something? You've never even held a wooden sword properly."
"If you're curious, come in."
"All right, I'm coming! HAAH!"
At that provocation that was not quite a provocation, he rushed straight at me.
As if he meant to teach an arrogant novice a proper lesson.
I watched him calmly.
His unusually large frame and terribly twisted face were frightening enough.
With his booming battle cry added to the mix, he was frightening.
At least, that was how I had felt only a few minutes earlier.
Not anymore.
His Adam's apple bobbed as he breathed in and out.
His foot took broad steps, and his shoulders twitched as they waited for the moment to move.
I saw those confident movements in time slowed as if it had become eternal.
With the exceptional eyes that God had given me in place of the leg He had taken from me.
With the insight Sword Saint Johan had built over a lifetime of fighting with those eyes.
I read a future that lasted but an instant.
As Andrea's wooden sword came fiercely down on the diagonal, just as I had foreseen,
and as Anna, expecting me to be hit again, urgently stretched out her hand,
I finally began to move.
The rear foot I had always cursed pushed against the ground. It might have been short, but I was grateful that it had grown strong.
In response, my front foot slid precisely one step forward.
At the same time, I sent forth the unfamiliar imperial-style wooden sword, as if thrusting and striking, straight down the center.
That single movement changed everything.
Andrea's descending wooden sword struck the blade of mine and was pushed aside.
Meanwhile, my wooden sword struck him squarely on the head.
"AAH!"
Andrea, considered the second strongest of the trainees—and perhaps the strongest—had lost.
At that shocking fact, the trainees fell silent in surprise, and Anna, Andrea's rival, widened her eyes.
I extended a hand to Andrea, who had sat down clutching his head.
"A frightening face and a booming battle cry are good tactics. But you can't let yourself become absorbed in them."
Swordsmanship that overwhelmed the opponent with momentum was not bad.
There were even sword styles of the highest level that held to such a doctrine.
Much less Andrea, a boy with a uniquely massive build and a grim face.
He had, in truth, chosen the tactic that suited him best.
Then why had he lost?
I explained the reason to the boy, who did no more than look at me with a furrowed brow.
"You thought I would freeze in fear, didn't you?"
"That...."
"My stance and demeanor changed. You should have been careful. Rather than aim for me right away, you should have moved my wooden sword aside first."
Andrea was proud and hot-tempered, but he was not petty.
That meant he was not the sort to throw a fit just because he had lost to someone he had expected to beat.
In fact, even after hearing the bitter advice, he did not have an ugly tantrum, unable to accept it.
Instead, he let out a deep breath and took my hand.
I tried to pull him up, but staggered.
It was not as though this bear of a bastard was only a little heavy.
In the end, he got up by himself, and I pretended to be composed, my face burning with embarrassment.
"We're even now, right? Don't be petty and hold a grudge. Let's get along from now on."
With the smile of a victor, I turned and headed straight out of the dojo.
I heard a voice call after me from behind.
"Hey, where are you going!"
I merely waved one hand and left the dojo without hesitation.
Because I had to see the people I wanted to see most, right now.
I still did not know what had happened to me.
I was even afraid that I was being controlled by the memories of another me, one who was seventy years old.
Still, this was what I wanted to do now.
This was what I had to do.
Guided by the old man's turbulent memories, I limped onward.
Toward the spring he had failed to protect.
Toward youth.