The Warrior’s Ballad

What’s so good about hitting people and hurting them? Or, on the flip side, what’s so good about getting your nose broken and your lips busted? Well, there are people who enjoy hitting others, but I’m a bit different.

I’ve got something pent up. Here. In my chest. When I release it, I feel a bit of relief, and every time I sense that my skills are improving, it feels like something empty inside me is being filled. Yeah, fulfillment. Don’t you feel the same?

You might not understand, but fighting with someone, exchanging blows, feels similar to having a deep conversation.

Even without words, you can tell things like, “Ah, this bastard is a piece of trash,” or “Oh, this guy’s decent.”

But you know, fighting means there’s someone to fight against, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll always win. When I lose, it’s frustrating and infuriating, but I’ve trained hard, thinking I’ll win next time.

But no matter how much I tried, there were some people I just couldn’t beat. Were they born with it? What were they born with? No matter how hard I tried, how could they do it so easily?

They say that when you can feel something called mana and start using it, a completely different world unfolds. But, to me, I feel nothing from those guys. It’s just a wall. A wall that gives no answer.

So, you know, I’m thinking of quitting the training.

Volka strangely recalled something he had said in the past. He couldn’t remember to whom he had said it. Was it his ex-girlfriend?

When Volka opened his eyes in the morning, he fell into a deep thought before getting up. And for some reason, he felt a tickling sensation in his chest.

Naturally, the things Ricardt had taught him came to mind. As he recalled each one, all his focus was drawn to them.

He was reminded to pay attention to distance before throwing a punch, to first secure a distance he felt confident in, that kicks were just as important as punches, and so on.

These were really just the basics, but at the Academy, what you learned was mostly about form and the professor’s personal know-how. Beyond that, you had to improve by actually fighting on your own.

But being busy with work, dealing with various incidents, and having to handle them as the leader made it hard to fully concentrate.

Moreover, since each student’s physical development was different, finding a good sparring partner was even more difficult.

Volka reflected on the fights he had lost before Ricardt came along. Now that he looked back, it seemed much clearer why he had lost. His past self seemed really stupid.

After a good night’s sleep, Volka, though not fully recovered, devoted himself to training alone.

He kept thinking about “distance” in his head and tried to internalize the movements associated with it.

And although he couldn’t see it completely, Ricardt’s beautiful and precise strikes became a target for him to aim for.

Ricardt watched Volka practice while hanging from the pull-up bar, occasionally correcting his posture or sharing various tips.

Two days passed, and it was the day of the bare-handed combat class. About 50 students were attending the class, with a male-to-female ratio of about 3:1. Among them was Volka’s ex-girlfriend.

As usual, the less skilled group was separated and taught by the professor, while the rest gathered in groups to spar and refine their techniques.

Some of them were just goofing around with their friends.

But Volka was alone, hitting a dummy, as if he were being left out. Maybe it was because of the incident with Ricardt, but the way the other students looked at Volka was strange.

“Hey, Volka.”

Someone called out. Volka turned around to see a student higher in rank than him, who spent more time in the city than at the dormitory.

“What?”

“I heard you got beat up by a newbie.”

“So what.”

“You’re supposed to be the leader, right? How are you going to take care of the others like that?”

“Since when did you care about the others?”

“I don’t care. I’m only interested in improving my own skills. Unlike you, I’m not talentless.”

“……”

“Aren’t you just playing leader to these kids because you have no talent? But now that even that’s over, what are you going to do? Shine shoes or something?”

The mention of “shining shoes” was met with mocking laughter from here and there.

It was indeed a cruel place, this Adventurer Training Academy. People took pleasure in seeing someone fall, and they didn’t hesitate to mock them. Moreover, they considered it only natural to bully those weaker than themselves.

But then, the professor, who had been watching the students fooling around, spoke up.

“You little brats, I told you to practice, but I see some of you are already playing around. I’ve told you that even if I don’t care about you, playing during class is disrespecting me.”

The students tensed up at the professor’s words. They knew that this could lead to a torture-like training disguised as physical training.

However, the professor smirked and said,

“Well, it’s true that things can get boring. So let’s shake things up a bit. Pankration it is then.”

Upon hearing that, the students’ eyes widened, and they chanted together in unison.

“Pankration! Pankration!”

The professor, hearing their chant, briefly reminisced about his own days at the academy. Then he said,

“Those who feel confident, step forward.”

The student who had been mocking Volka raised his hand and asked,

“Can I choose someone?”

“As long as the chosen one doesn’t refuse,” the professor replied.

The student then turned to Volka and said,

“Are you going to refuse?”

Volka fell into thought for a moment. To others, it looked like he was debating whether to swallow his pride or go ahead and fight.

But that wasn’t the case. Volka wasn’t calculating his chances of winning; he was mentally reviewing everything he had practiced over the past few days.

Once his thoughts were in order, he raised his head and said,

“No. You, come on out.”

He then walked over to the sandpit, and exclamations of “Ooooh” arose from all around. Volka paid no attention to the others and kept repeating to himself. Measure the distance. Measure the distance. Measure the distance…

Fight at the distance I want, avoid the distance I don’t. When I get within my desired distance, the punches will come naturally. So, measure the distance.

Although two days of practice might not seem like much, sometimes small changes can lead to big results.

Volka felt his heart pounding. It wasn’t fear of defeat, nor was it the desire for victory. It was simply the anticipation that something within him had changed.

“Let’s not resort to ugly wrestling. The spectators should enjoy it too, right?”

The student who stood across from Volka in the sandpit said. He was around the same age as Volka, technically an adult by age.

They had entered the academy around the same time and had even hung out together for a short while.

How did their relationship end up like this? Was it an inferiority complex about talent, or was there some unspoken resentment? It was hard to say.

“Are both of you ready?” the professor asked.

Volka nodded, while his opponent rotated his arm, grabbing the opposite shoulder.

“Good. Everything is allowed except for biting and kicking the groin. The match ends if someone dies or surrenders. Pankration, start!”

At the shout of “start,” Volka took his stance. It was slightly different from before—he, a right-hander, placed his left hand forward, pulled his right hand back, and slightly advanced his left foot.

Most importantly, he kept his upper body upright and moved lightly on his feet. He extended his left hand forward, as if measuring the distance and at the same time keeping his opponent in check.

At a certain moment, his opponent ducked his upper body and rushed in first. Volka threw out his left hand with force, quickly retracted it, and then struck with his right fist. Huh? Wait a second.

Volka extended his arm and slightly tilted his head back, increasing the distance. But aside from everything else, his opponent’s attack looked incredibly slow. Is he testing me?

“Haha, have you become a coward, Volka? Let’s heat things up a bit.”

The opponent said, jumping lightly in place as if loosening up. Then, once again, he got into position and charged in boldly.

This time too, Volka could see his opponent’s attack clearly. If he just extended his hand, the guy would walk right into it. Is this really okay?

After facing Ricardt’s lightning-fast attacks that came from blind spots, his opponent’s strikes seemed like child’s play. Before any teaching, the difference in level between the opponent in front of him and Ricardt was stark.

The opponent continued to press forward, eventually driving Volka to the edge of the sandpit. With each rough step they took, sand flew into the air, and the spectators watching became increasingly engrossed in the fight.

They all expected that someone’s nose would break or their lips would split. Blood would drip onto the sandpit, and they all assumed it would be Volka’s.

But then, in an instant, as the opponent swung his fist with full force, his head suddenly snapped back, and he collapsed onto the ground with a thud. Volka had dodged to the side and struck his opponent in the face.

Thwack!

The hit didn’t land perfectly on the chin but connected with the cheekbone, causing the opponent to support himself with his hand just outside the sandpit. Had the punch landed squarely on the chin, he would’ve face-planted into the ground instead of catching himself with his hand.

Even so, the blow made his vision spin, and he couldn’t gather his senses for a moment. With a shocked expression, he clumsily staggered to his feet.

Everyone’s eyes widened at the unexpected outcome. The students who held no particular ill will toward either Volka or his opponent found this surprising turn of events fascinating.

After taking a hit, it seemed like his confidence completely vanished; Volka’s opponent wore a bewildered expression and hesitated, stepping back.

But soon, realizing that over fifty people were watching, he felt a mix of shame and the unwillingness to admit defeat, driving him to launch a reckless attack.

Volka widened the distance again, then, using the back foot technique Ricardt had taught him, he suddenly closed the gap and threw a punch.

Thwack!

It must have landed properly because not only did the opponent’s lip split, but broken teeth scattered onto the sand pit. And he just face-planted on the ground. He was knocked out cold.

“Oh? What’s this? You’ve got some skills, huh?”

The professor commented nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that a student had just been knocked unconscious. After all, he was merely a high-ranking adventurer affiliated with the guild, not exactly someone with the temperament of a true professor.

“Two strikes, clean and precise. With this level of striking technique, you could use it in real combat. Now, you have to decide, right? This is Pankration.”

The reason bare-handed combat was crucial because, in real-life scenarios, weapons often broke or slipped from one’s grasp quickly. That’s why wrestling techniques were especially important, but striking techniques were just as vital.

Moreover, these skills were useful for self-defense, and most importantly, being able to fight well even without a weapon boosted one’s confidence. It meant you had a final means of defense in any situation.

In any case, the match wasn’t over until someone died or surrendered. Simply knocking someone out didn’t end the fight.

Volka’s opponent eventually soon consciousness, but seemed unable to control his body properly as he writhed on the ground. Volka firmly placed his foot on the opponent’s chest, looked down at him, and asked,

“What are you going to do?”

“…I-I surrender.”

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

Applause erupted from all around.

“Wow, he’s quite good, isn’t he?”

“Volka’s not bad, huh? You might lose to him too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But then, what about that new guy?”

Students who had been staying in the city and only heard rumors each threw in a comment. Volka’s overwhelming victory naturally shifted their attention to Ricardt.

Having just witnessed Volka’s considerable skill firsthand, they couldn’t help but be curious about Ricardt, who had apparently knocked Volka down on the very first day.

On the other hand, those who were friends with the student who had been Volka’s opponent were still in shock.

It would be understandable if there were only a one or two-rank difference in their standing, but Volka was ranked 20th, and their friend was ranked 15th. That was a difference of five ranks.

It was absurd, unbelievable, and difficult to accept. Given that the match ended in just two blows, they couldn’t even chalk it up to luck.

Meanwhile, Volka himself was a bit bewildered. He couldn’t quite determine whether he had gotten stronger or if his opponent had gotten weaker.

But he certainly felt good. The sense of improvement that he had lost somewhere along the way seemed to reignite like a flame. His heart pounded with excitement.

As he was leaving the courtyard after class, children who had been keeping their distance, knowingly or unknowingly, approached him acting friendly. Even his ex-girlfriend, who had dumped him, came over.

“Looks like you’ve started training again?”

At her tone, deliberately trying to sound casual, Volka couldn’t help but smile. It was because, at that moment, he was so preoccupied with something else that his ex-girlfriend felt completely insignificant to him. He felt not even a shred of lingering attachment.

So, without getting angry or resentful, he simply said,

“Hey, don’t bother to me. I’m busy.”

Her face turned bright red, but Volka left her standing there and headed to the dormitory. After that, he took Ricardt and Boribori and went to the city.

Meanwhile, the higher-ranking students who had come to the Academy dorms for classes kept a close eye on the boy in the red cloak from a distance.