Every dawn, Arne ran laps around the citadel courtyard. He did not simply run, either. He wore a sort of leather vest, a piece of training equipment deliberately weighted with stones.

One lap in the vest took roughly ten minutes. He ran five in all, adding more weight after each lap.

The training left him not only gasping for breath but so exhausted that his vision turned yellow. Above all, because he did it without anyone ordering him to, it tempered his will and mental fortitude like steel.

Still, physical training was all well and good, but this looked rather like self-abuse.

What was he working so hard for? To get ahead? To keep from falling behind? Or was he simply running away? If so, from what?

Such questions might well have occurred to him, but a body pushed to its limit left no room for stray thoughts. He simply ran.

Then someone abruptly intruded on Arne's weary mind.

“Do you run like this every dawn?”

Arne, who always ran alone, turned sharply in surprise. It was Valeri. He was running beside him, wearing a training vest just like his own.

“Cough! Ack! Ugh!”

Arne lost his breathing rhythm and broke into a fit of coughing. He barely managed to steady his breathing and kept running, but he could hardly ignore his companion.

Regardless of Arne's discomfiture, Valeri kept pace beside him.

By the time he had grown used to it, an unbidden sense of rivalry had stirred in Arne. He picked up his pace, hoping to shake Valeri off. Valeri kept up without difficulty.

Having pushed himself harder than usual, Arne stopped before completing his five laps.

“Hah, hah, hah, hah...”

Valeri was not entirely un winded himself. As he stood beside him catching his breath, Arne said,

“You... you joined me late. I was already tired.”

What was he trying to say? Presumably that he could have easily left Valeri behind if they had started together.

Valeri smiled as he replied.

“Then let's start together tomorrow.”

“...”

Arne felt decidedly strange.

Doing his best to ignore Valeri, he headed for the barracks training ground. But Valeri continued to follow him.

Distracting as Valeri was, Arne could hardly skip his daily training. He picked up a practice sword with his exhausted body, preparing to begin, when Valeri spoke.

“Want a sparring partner?”

“... Yes, please.”

A match against the prodigy whose name had recently been on everyone's lips. It would have been a lie to say Arne was not secretly looking forward to it. Part of him wanted to win, too.

Valeri picked up an arming-sword-style practice blade. He rolled his wrist and gave it a few simple swishes through the air, apparently testing its weight.

As the two faced off, people from the barracks began gathering here and there to watch with interest. Some, only just awake, watched from the windows.

Valeri stood squarely facing Arne, with one foot slightly ahead of the other. Arne turned his body a little, spreading his feet farther apart and lowering his center of gravity.

There were four years between them, but little difference in their height or build. Valeri was a little smaller.

Valeri moved first. It was an unusual motion, as though he were tipping his weight forward and slowly falling over. Arne almost wondered if he was fooling around.

Focusing intently, Arne darted to the left and thrust. Valeri brought his sword into the path of the attack, blocking it.

CLANG!

Now the real contest began. Arne tried to close in fast. Tired though he was, his speed in a short burst was scarcely different from when he was in peak condition.

He folded the blade back toward his body and tried to strike Valeri with the guard.

At that instant, however, Valeri dropped so abruptly that he seemed to sink into the ground. Then, swift and smooth as a swallow flying low, he swept past Arne with a slash across his waist.

The force of the blow twisted Arne's body, sending pain throbbing through him.

“Ugh!”

Already exhausted, Arne dropped heavily to one knee at the sudden pain. But he sprang straight back to his feet.

“Oh!” and “Wow!” rose from the onlookers.

“Want another round?”

Valeri asked, twirling the sword with his wrist. Arne felt frustrated, yet oddly refreshed as well. It was a wholly unfamiliar feeling.

“... P-please.”

Valeri smiled gently.

Their next bout was scarcely a contest. This time, Arne failed to mount anything resembling an attack. He could not even properly react to Valeri's opening move.

He fell forward in a rather undignified heap. Pushing himself up from the ground, he spoke with renewed determination.

“Again.”

Unfortunately, this round was even less of a contest. A blow to the wrist knocked the sword clean out of his hand.

CLATTER.

They sparred several more times, and with every bout Arne grew more hopeless. His body was exhausted, and now even maintaining his concentration was a struggle.

Valeri's movements, meanwhile, had nothing forced about them. Every one was natural and beautiful, flowing like water.

And when his sweat-soaked platinum-blond hair swayed, the spectators forgot all about the match and simply stared, spellbound.

At last, seemingly unable to endure any more, Arne lay spread-eagled on the ground, gasping. He wanted to fall asleep right there.

Valeri stood with his hands behind his back, looking quietly down at him.

“You don't have to be honest even when you fight, do you?”

“... What?”

“Your honesty is admirable. But that doesn't mean you have to fight honestly, too.”

“I... fight honestly?”

“Yes. Even the slightest bait draws you in every time. You need to read your opponent's intentions. Thinking too much slows you down, but it's something you need to master. Eventually, you'll perceive it all instinctively. I thought you might try taking your training in that direction.”

At Valeri's words, Arne felt as though something that had long frustrated him was finally coming loose. But he also had a question.

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Didn't I tell you? I want to be friends.”

“... Why? And I've never met you before. How do you know me?”

“Am I not allowed to?”

Valeri gave a small smile and held out his hand. Arne looked as though he had never met anyone so peculiar, but took it and got to his feet.

Skard's gang had been watching them spar as well. One of them glanced cautiously at their leader and said,

“I reckon you could beat him now, while he's tired...”

Skard thought he had a point.

Having seen Valeri's skill for himself, he could admit that the boy was good, but he did not seem nearly as extraordinary as the rumors suggested.

That, however, was because Valeri had been holding back out of consideration for Arne.

Having weighed his chances, Skard picked up a practice greatsword, strode forward confidently, and called out,

“Hey! Bastard!”

Valeri turned to look at him.

“You think you can wander in and out of the barracks whenever you like? Who gave you permission to come here?”

He was openly picking a fight. Had he simply asked politely for a match, Valeri might have obliged, but he apparently lacked the sense for that.

At least he had an exceptional talent for starting trouble. He did practically make a living out of it.

Valeri regarded Skard without a trace of emotion.

“Your father.”

“What?”

“Your father gave me permission. I saw him begging in the market when I was looking around the city yesterday. That was your father, wasn't it?”

With his exceptionally beautiful face, he was the last person anyone expected to stoop to crude insults about someone's parents. Skard and everyone else were struck speechless.

But Valeri had spent years living in the back alleys before returning to the past. He could be foul-mouthed when the occasion called for it.

This was a kingdom that revered a warrior's courage and spirit. Customs varied wildly from place to place, but that much was shared throughout their world.

Letting an insult pass was unthinkable. It meant giving up being a warrior—and relinquishing a warrior's rights along with it.

“You fucker...!”

Sure enough, Skard charged at Valeri in a towering rage.

He swung his practice greatsword in a wide arc with all his strength. Half a beat ahead of him, Valeri stepped in and launched a kick at his head.

The strength of well-trained thigh muscles combined with astonishing flexibility to deliver a kick of explosive force. It landed squarely on Skard's jaw.

CRACK!

It sounded as though a skull had cracked. Skard's brain certainly rattled. The sword he had been swinging so forcefully veered limply off course, then flew from his grasp.

CLATTER!

The sword hit the ground. Before it landed, Skard's huge body had already collapsed, limbs splayed. The spectators' eyes widened in shock.

Surprisingly, Skard could take enough punishment that he had not lost consciousness entirely.

He tried desperately to stand, but his body would not obey. Even when he clenched his teeth and hauled himself up, he only staggered and fell again.

Valeri walked slowly over and looked down at him coldly.

“You can go beg alongside your old man. I'll make a fucking cripple of you.”

This was not the sort of idle threat common among thugs. Once Valeri said something, he always followed through. His words meant not mere intimidation, but action and fulfillment.

Valeri raised his practice sword and brought it down hard on the fallen Skard. Then again, and again, continuing to beat him viciously.

THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD...!

His large frame offered plenty of places to strike. Skard tried to block the blows however he could, but Valeri picked out the places he could not protect and lashed him there. Little by little, his body curled up like a pill bug.

The spectators were appalled, then afraid. Someone who had looked like an angel had become a devil in an instant. There was something terrifying about that gulf.

It was Arne who stopped him. Catching Valeri's arm, he said,

“Stop. Please stop.”

Valeri turned to him. The calm, unemotional look in his eyes after such a beating was all the more chilling.

“You have to at least leave him half dead, or he'll come at you again. Go easy on people and they'll look down on you and try again. That's human nature.”

“... Even so, he's my comrade.”

His comrade, after all that bullying. It might seem foolish, but it also spoke to Arne's generosity of spirit.

An upright, steadfast character. That was why he had been one of the few generals Valeri trusted before returning to the past. Valeri had always entrusted him with castles and bases whose loss could prove fatal.

But perhaps that was also why they had been unable to stay together to the end.

This time was different. Valeri simply tossed the practice sword to the ground.

“If that's what you want, all right.”

“Th-thank you.”

Arne helped Skard to his feet. Skard's face seemed to reflect resentment, fear, humiliation, and a tangle of other emotions. His lackeys hurried over and took him away.

Things had become rather uncomfortable. Still, Arne had worked up a sweat training since dawn, so he headed to the well behind the barracks to wash. Once again, Valeri followed.

There was nothing elaborate about washing. They simply stripped, drew water with the bucket, and poured it over themselves from head to toe.

Both trained regularly, and their muscles were well defined, like those of ancient statues.

As they drenched their bodies, hot from exercise, with water cold enough to make their heads spin, white steam curled up over their heads and shoulders. They took turns drawing water and washing, even helping wash each other's backs.

“By the way, didn't they say they were recruiting for the Einherier?” Valeri asked.

“I don't know much about it, but I heard a rune mage won't arrive until autumn at the earliest. It could even be next year. Are you interested?”

“I'm not sure. You?”

“I know I can look up at the stars, but I can't have them. So I don't dream quite that wildly. It might be different for you, Wid.”

Arne simply did not seem particularly interested in the Einherier.

As they were nearly finished washing, Valeri swept his hair back and glanced around. Something strange in the distance caught his eye.

Torvik Citadel had one exceptionally tall watchtower, built to command a view far into the distance.

Perhaps it dated back to antiquity. It appeared to have originally been made of stone, but partway up it had collapsed, and the upper portion had been rebuilt in wood.

High on that watchtower, something resembling a birdcage hung from a thick iron chain. It was no birdcage, of course. Built to imprison a person, the iron cage had spikes pointing inward, leaving its occupant nowhere to lean.

Someone was inside. Even from that distance, Valeri could tell he was looking their way.

Suddenly, Arne caught Valeri's arm and pulled him away.

“Don't look.”

Valeri's eyes widened at the abrupt gesture. Arne released his hand and continued.

“That's young master Knut. The third young lord. He's being punished for Adjutant Ketil's murder. He's got a vicious streak. Stare at him for no reason and there's no telling how he'll get back at you later.”

Knut was notorious within the ducal household. As a child, he had once slit open a servant's belly, claiming he was trying to catch whoever had stolen a watermelon.

“Really? Then we're already enemies, aren't we? I'm practically the reason his assassination plot was exposed.”

“... That's why you need to be all the more careful.”

“Well, I don't much feel like it. Why did he kill him?”

“I don't know for certain. No, actually, everyone knows. Adjutant Ketil was practically the one running things. Above all, he held the purse strings, which made life difficult for the young lords in all sorts of ways. Say one of them ran up a tab at a tavern in the city. If Adjutant Ketil refused to pay it, that would be quite a loss of face for him. The third young lord didn't go to places like taverns, of course, but there were plenty of conflicts like that between Ketil and the young lords. Interfering in their affairs, stopping them from doing things, that sort of thing.”

“... In short, he was the designated villain.”

“What?”

Even from those fragments, a fairly complex picture had taken shape in Valeri's mind.

Some of a ruler's duties inevitably displeased those beneath him. Some rulers therefore avoided them; others forced them through with tyranny.

Duke Sven had cleverly put Ketilmund forward as the villain, making him absorb the resentment that would otherwise have fallen on the duke himself.

Then the third son had killed that convenient target. Naturally, the duke was angry. Not just anyone could fill such a role. Choosing someone new was bound to be quite a headache.

“By the way, you're finally talking to me like a friend, Arne.”

“... I-I was just explaining, since you didn't seem to know anything.”

“What does explaining have to do with dropping the formalities?”

“I-it does.”

Arne gathered his clothes and abruptly left for the barracks. At last, Valeri was alone.

Valeri put on only his trousers and left, carrying the rest of his clothes in his hand.

As he headed for the annex bare-chested, maids passing by—and even some farther away—caught sight of him and began squealing.

Paying them no mind, Valeri suddenly glanced back.

Far away, high above the ground, the third son, Knut, was still staring from inside his iron cage. Staring directly at Valeri.