THUD!
Ikael's kick struck Isitor squarely in a vital spot.
"Guh!"
Isitor made a strangled sound as though his breath were leaving him. His eyes rolled back, and he looked as if he might faint at any moment.
"Urgh... Ikael, how dare a lowborn wretch like you...!"
'Ha. All he has is his mouth.'
Even in a situation like this, he was still going on about lowborn wretches. Isitor truly needed to be taught a thorough lesson.
Thud.
Ikael stopped kicking him for a moment and looked down at him.
"You've never been hit properly before, have you?"
"W-What...?"
I have been hit plenty of times.
By none other than you in my previous life.
THUD!
Ikael swallowed those words and kicked Isitor again.
"Aaargh!"
Isitor took the blows defenselessly and rolled about the floor.
The pain was so excruciating that it felt as if this were not his own body.
'Th-This is impossible. How can this lowborn bastard...!'
Isitor was so enraged he thought he might go mad.
But there was nothing he could do except take the beating.
It was unbelievable. How could Ikael, who used to tremble whenever Isitor merely raised his eyes, transform so completely in an instant?
"This is... a dream!"
THUD!
No, the excruciating pain told him that this was not a dream.
Ikael, kicking him with his eyes opened wide and blue like a beast's, was no dream.
Unless he was a living nightmare.
Isitor could not bear his fury. He wrung out every last ounce of strength and stood, as though making one final counterattack.
"Damn it! Ikael, you bastard, just die already!!"
SHING!
At last, Isitor managed to draw his sword. But.
THWACK!
Something struck Isitor hard across the head.
It was the shield from a suit of decorative armor.
"You are terrible at listening. I told you not to draw that sword."
The moment Isitor drew his sword, Ikael no longer felt any need to go easy on him.
That was why he picked up a weapon without hesitation.
Had he not warned Isitor repeatedly not to draw his sword?
"Y-You lowborn wretch...!"
At last, Isitor went limp, sprawled on the floor in complete exhaustion.
His sword had been flung into a corner of the corridor, and drool ran from his mouth.
It was a complete defeat.
Only after Isitor quieted down did the kicking stop as well.
'That should have taught him enough of a lesson.'
Ikael gave him a light prod, then confirmed he did not respond and turned to leave.
But then, something caught his eye.
'That is...'
In the dark corridor, a single sword shone like a fragment of light.
It was the sword Isitor had dropped.
As though entranced, Ikael walked over and picked it up.
SHING—
The fine sword, fully revealed at last, gleamed in the moonlight.
'Cresen, the Recrit Sword.'
It was a custom-forged sword that only children of Recrit could receive.
Curved like a half-moon and called Cresen, the sword radiated an oppressive aura just from being looked at.
It bore the appearance of a fine sword, entirely unsuited to Isitor.
Curved swords like this were common in the desert.
Although Isitor despised the desert more than anyone, he valued efficiency above all in weapons, so he had his sword modeled after those of the desert.
"You bastard... Give that... back!"
Then Isitor, who had been nearly unconscious, opened his eyes.
Recrit Swords were only for Recrit children.
In other words, having one taken away was an enormous humiliation.
The fact that Isitor, who had been practically unconscious, opened his eyes at once showed how much he cherished this sword.
"Ikael... That sword is not something a bastard like you should covet! Do not touch it with your filthy hands!"
Isitor stretched out his hand toward the sword with all his strength.
Watching him, an amusing thought suddenly crossed Ikael's mind.
'This should be entertaining.'
Spin—
Ikael spun the sword once, then pointed it at Isitor.
Perhaps he thought Ikael was going to cut him. The bastard Isitor flinched.
"Watch closely. This sword is mine now."
"You bastard...!"
"Doesn't a fine sword like this suit someone who can at least protect what is his?"
Isitor's face turned bright red at those words.
"If you want it, take it from me."
"Grr..."
Isitor could not say anything in response to Ikael's words.
He knew far too well that he could not take it.
It was an instinctive realization.
He did not know what kind of trick it was, but sickly Ikael had changed overnight as though he had been reborn.
"If you cannot take it, I will tell you one way to get it back."
"What?"
Grin—
Ikael gazed steadily down at Isitor.
"Kneel before me and offer the greeting of a subordinate. Before I cut off one of your knees."
It was Ikael's first greeting.
* * *
The next morning it dawned.
"Young Master Ikael! Are you still asleep?"
The maid spoke to Ikael, who had pulled the covers over himself completely. Her tone was like that used to soothe a child.
"I will not wake you, so sleep peacefully. Recovery comes first."
The maid left with silent footsteps, careful not to wake the sickly young master.
In truth, Ikael was not asleep.
'I cannot miss a spectacle like this.'
Ikael's eyes were fixed on the view beyond the window.
The scenery of the northern snow mountains, at the top of the world, was exceedingly beautiful. But Ikael was not looking at the scenery now.
Outside the window, Isitor was raising hell.
Ikael's eyes were fixed there.
"Young Master Isitor, what on earth is wrong?"
"Aaaah!"
Even when the servants questioned him, Isitor did not respond. He only tore through the snow in the front courtyard.
"Young Master, please calm down!"
"Aaaah!"
After the beating Ikael had given him the night before, the bastard could not contain his rage.
He could not confront Ikael, he could not tell anyone, and he had even lost the sword he cherished like his own life. No wonder he was fit to burst with anger.
'No matter how much snow you tear through, Isitor, you are only hurting yourself.'
This was the summit of the northern snow mountains.
In a place where blizzards raged all year round, he would be lucky not to freeze to death after making such a fuss.
The indoor temperature was regulated with magic, so that was one thing. But out there, it was the depths of winter itself.
Isitor had raised such havoc in the snowfield that his hands and feet were already frozen stiff.
No matter how much the servants coaxed and consoled him, he could not calm his rage.
Then Ikael's and Isitor's eyes met.
Smile—
Ikael smiled softly and waved to make sure Isitor saw.
Lying there with Cresen, the Recrit Sword he had taken from Isitor, beneath his pillow, he was putting on a little show for him.
There was nothing more enjoyable than this.
"Aaaaargh!!"
"Young Master Isitor! Young Master!!"
The more Ikael did that, the more Isitor went mad.
Just as Ikael was thoroughly enjoying himself.
BANG—
Someone entered the room.
The hand that opened the door was far too rough for someone dealing with a young master of Recrit.
"Young Master Ikael, get up. You need to take your medicine."
Even his tone was brusque.
It was Rodan, the tutor.
Ikael turned his head by reflex.
'Strange.'
No one in Bronze Castle would treat a member of the Recrit family this way.
Moreover, Ikael had heard that Rodan was Recrit's swordsmanship tutor. Yet, for some reason, he had entered carrying a pouch of medicine instead of a sword.
There was no end to the strange details.
Ikael spoke to him calmly.
"I do not need medicine. We will begin the swordsmanship lesson at once."
But Rodan snorted.
"No. Young Master, recovering your health comes first. We will skip today's lesson."
Ikael raised an eyebrow.
In my previous life, the Recrit tutors I had seen had never been like this.
Teaching swordsmanship to a young Recrit was an enormous honor, so they never treated it carelessly.
'But this attitude now... Is he saying Ikael is not even worth teaching?'
This was something that needed to be corrected.
Then Rodan said something that thoroughly provoked Ikael.
"Just take your medicine and get plenty of rest. After all, Young Master Ikael is weak."
"...What?"
Ikael's eyes narrowed.
'Weak.'
It was a deeply irritating word.
This did not mean he was concerned for Ikael.
Perhaps it would have been different for a child of an ordinary family, but this was Recrit.
In a place that treated the weak as trash, saying outright that someone was weak made the intent abundantly clear.
Then Rodan's eyes turned to Cresen, the fine sword hidden beneath the pillow.
Snatch—
Rodan boldly grabbed Cresen and shouted.
"Young Master Ikael! What are you doing? Is this not Young Master Isitor's sword? You must not handle it carelessly."
Rodan continued in a lecturing tone.
"I have always told you. A weak person cannot hold a sword. I will return this to Young Master Isitor."
"You."
Ikael's voice was resolute.
"Who said you could touch my sword?"
Tutor Rodan's eyes slowly widened.
'What did he just say?'
* * *
The Recrit Sword.
Around the age of ten, Recrit children received a custom-forged sword.
People called these Recrit Swords.
To acquire one of the fine swords forged by the blacksmith said to live at the top of a volcano, an ordinary person would need to reach the rank of Nine-Star Knight.
The volcano's blacksmith was a man who deeply admired Kairon.
If Kairon requested it, he would forge a sword even if he had to work the bellows over lava itself.
Kairon gifted these fine swords to his children, and the children valued them as dearly as their own lives.
Yet.
"How dare you touch a Recrit Sword?"
Ikael stared Rodan straight in the eye.
"Urk..."
Only then did Rodan clearly see the situation.
He had touched a Recrit Sword without permission.
It was not Ikael who was making a fuss while holding a sword he should not touch. It was Rodan himself.
Touching a Recrit Sword carelessly was tantamount to a declaration of war.
Even before sickly Ikael, it could only be a grave discourtesy.
"I apologize."
Tutor Rodan quickly lowered his head.
This was courtesy toward Recrit before it was courtesy toward Ikael.
Ikael gave a small nod and took back his sword.
"From today onward, we will proceed with swordsmanship lessons."
"But Young Master is weak, so..."
"What?"
"Young Master... You must rest for the time being, so that will not be possible."
Though watching Ikael's reaction, the tutor spoke to the end.
He had not ignored Ikael for only a day or two. There was no way his attitude would suddenly turn around.
"Please take your medicine. Your health must improve before you can train, must it not?"
'He is still insisting.'
Ikael began to grow suspicious.
Someone whose livelihood was at stake could not behave this way.
I knew it well, having once offered myself as a servant for a single meal.
In other words, this bastard appeared to have another purpose.
'For example... he has to make me drink that medicine.'
"Do I have some serious illness? Why are you insisting on the medicine so much?"
"That is... Young Master's vital energy is weak, so even without any particular symptoms, you must take medicine. It is good for your body, so please take it quickly."
"Is that so?"
Ikael called out toward the doorway.
"Brother Isitor, eat this! They say it is good for your health."
The tutor was startled.
"What are you saying?! This is medicine Young Master Ikael must take. If someone else drinks it, something terrible will... Urk."
A slip of the tongue.
There was not even a shadow of Isitor—or anyone else—at the doorway Ikael had been looking toward.
'I have been had.'
The moment Rodan realized it, Ikael gave a broad grin.
"Is anyone out there!"
"Yes, Young Master!"
"Take this man away at once and throw him into the underground dungeon."
"Y-Young Master Ikael!"
Rodan was flustered by the sudden order.
But armed knights had already seized both of his arms.
"Let go of me!"
SHING—
Ikael drew Cresen and pressed the blade to Rodan's neck.
"You would do well to behave. I can cut off your head right now."
Tutor Rodan drew in a quiet breath.
'This is impossible...'
He could not believe it.
Why was sickly Young Master Ikael suddenly acting as though he were a different person?
"Confess obediently. Who is behind you, making you do this?"
Gulp.
At last, Rodan opened his mouth.
"Th-That is..."