Chapter 22

The Reborn Swordmaster

Chapter 22

A few days later.

Director Berka came to inspect the training ground and could only stare with his mouth wide open.

Rumble!

Heavy logs groaned beneath the weight of the enormous structure pressing down on them.

The model galley, built from the remains of an entire warehouse, was crude. Nevertheless, its rough construction gave it a certain imposing presence.

Logs had been arranged in a row beneath the hull to serve as rollers.

As a result, even the slightest movement by the fighters standing on the deck caused the model ship to creak and sway unpredictably from side to side.

"D-Don't push!"

"Fuck! You think I can control it?"

The fighters tried their best to remain standing.

Eventually, however, they became entangled with one another, colliding with their companions' weapons and getting struck by them.

Even then, Riyan didn't stop the exercise.

He raised a hand.

"Now."

"...Pull!"

At Riyan's command, the instructors stationed at the front of the model ship reluctantly began pulling on the ropes.

The force traveled through the pulleys attached to the trees, lifting the bow of the model ship high into the air.

"Aaaaagh!"

"My leg! My leg!"

The artificial waves performed their intended function perfectly, throwing the fighters aboard the model ship into one another and sending them tumbling across the deck.

Next came the opposite end.

As the rope attached to the bow was loosened and force was applied to the stern, the ship tilted in the opposite direction.

The fighters began rolling across the deck again.

"Aaaaaagh!"

Their screams rang out like a chorus.

Watching the spectacle, Director Berka began to stammer.

"Th-They're not going to get seriously hurt, are they?"

"There aren't any sharp weapons, so they should be fine. At worst, they'll get bruised or suffer a few minor fractures."

Haral tried to reassure him.

Berka let out a hollow laugh.

"It's not as though I've never thought about training like this before. But taking all the fighters out to sea wasn't practical, so I gave up on the idea."

"Logs and pulleys... Isn't he making the conditions a little too harsh? The Arena is basically a reservoir. The water just sits there. There shouldn't be any waves."

"No. It's the opposite. The Arena is more like the sea than the actual sea."

"Why?"

"You idiot. Do you think those high-and-mighty bastards want to watch boats drifting around on calm water? They're the sort of people who would use magic to create an entire storm!"

"Now that you mention it, that makes sense."

"You're only saying something so stupid because you've never seen it yourself. You're supposed to be the senior instructor, so why do you absolutely refuse to watch siege battles and mock naval battles?"

"Well, I find it difficult to concentrate on them. They're just chaotic brawls, aren't they?"

In truth, Haral simply didn't want to watch countless fighters being slaughtered for practically no reason.

He offered a vague excuse, stroked his chin, and changed the subject.

"Anyway, you're saying this kind of training should be effective?"

"Of course. Besides, he isn't simply throwing them around. Look over there."

At Berka's words, Haral examined the model ship.

While everyone else was being tossed around, four fighters remained standing without any difficulty.

They weren't merely keeping their balance.

They were even encouraging the fighters who had fallen.

Their sense of balance was almost unnaturally good.

Gaze, Bjorn, Varg, and Cutler.

They were either former pirates or men who had been born and raised near the coast.

For them, life had revolved around ships.

Each stood at his assigned position, shouting at the fighters who had fallen and hauling them back to their feet.

Their encouragement was hardly gentle.

"You useless bastards! Even my grandmother could keep her balance better than you!"

"Get up! Get up unless you want to get crushed to death! If you don't get up, I'll kill you myself!"

What was unusual was that each of the four was responsible for a particular group.

Didn't Riyan select five men separately the other day? Where's the last one?

Haral looked around.

This time, he noticed a group of fighters resting in one corner of the training ground, their faces utterly exhausted.

Every one of them was sprawled on the ground.

Standing before them was Yarik, who looked equally exhausted and was breathing heavily.

Berka nodded at the sight.

"Looks like he's divided them into squads. He's made those five squad leaders and is encouraging them to compete against one another by offering suitable rewards."

Berka continued muttering to himself.

"It's a simple but effective method. If you work them like that, their anger won't be directed at the instructors. It'll be directed at the other squads they're competing against. If you're being worked to the bone while someone else gets to sit around comfortably, how could you not get furious?"

After finishing his explanation, Berka suddenly looked at Haral.

"Did you teach him that? There's no way that bastard Riyan would know how to handle the fighters so skillfully on his own."

"Me?"

Haral looked at him as though he'd just said something utterly ridiculous.

Berka snorted.

"That was a stupid question. You're not the sort of man who'd do something like that."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"More importantly, about Riyan. Do you remember the slave merchant we dealt with when we brought him here?"

"No. That bastard was just one of the slaves we bought in bulk to use as monster feed. We didn't bother looking into his background."

"Right. Of course..."

Their conversation briefly stopped.

But after a moment, Berka nodded as though he'd made up his mind about something.

"Our Rodus Training Center has never distinguished itself in a mock naval battle. We've always been nothing more than supporting players. We've never even managed to touch the commander's flag."

"Does that mean...?"

"Let's support him. He defeated Yavrik, didn't he? I had my doubts back then too, but he pulled it off magnificently. Grant whatever requests he makes, within reason. And what was that other thing? Joint training?"

"Yes. I'm planning to contact the Verso Training Center and a few others."

"I suppose I'll have to handle that personally. I'll need to prepare for a trip. Well, well. Winning the mock naval battle... Just thinking about it is making my blood boil."

A faint smile appeared on Berka's lips.

Not bad.

That was Riyan's assessment after conducting the training.

Although their abilities varied, the fighters were living up to their profession. The exercise was progressing without anyone suffering a serious injury.

After putting the fighters through a grueling half-day of training, Riyan finally nodded.

Their movements were still somewhat clumsy, but their balance had improved considerably compared to the beginning.

Perhaps they really did have an innate talent for controlling their bodies.

Of course, that wasn't particularly surprising.

Only those who possessed some talent for handling their bodies and weapons would have been selected as fighters and survived this long in the first place.

Riyan nodded and waved a hand.

"Everyone, disembark. Take a break. Squad leaders, organize your men and stand by."

The squad leaders brightened at the announcement.

They practically dragged their men off the ship, tossing them aside as soon as they reached the ground.

The fighters, some practically foaming at the mouth, immediately collapsed into the dirt and gasped for breath.

With the hellish training finally over and a break underway, Yarik cautiously approached Riyan.

"Damn it. Why the hell are we doing all this?"

Riyan silently looked at him.

Yarik's expression crumpled.

He clearly didn't have the energy left to engage in another battle of wills.

"All right, all right. Why are we doing this, Captain?"

Once Yarik corrected his manner of address, Riyan slowly nodded and answered.

"Because all of you will be participating in the mock naval battle. This is training to prepare you for it."

Most of the fighters had already suspected as much.

But now that it was becoming a reality, their faces darkened.

They knew that nearly half the fighters who participated in mock naval battles either died or suffered serious injuries.

Haral had also told Riyan that most fighters participating in mock naval battles simply maintained their formations until the outcome became obvious.

Once they knew which side was winning, they would fall to the ground or pretend to fight, prioritizing their own safety.

Of course, anyone who was too obvious about neglecting his duties would face Imperial punishment.

Haral had said that quite a few fighters had received severe beatings for precisely that reason.

"Will this even make a difference? The important roles will go to those impressive bastards anyway."

"If we try too hard to fight and end up getting beaten even worse..."

Hearing the fighters muttering among themselves, Riyan tilted his head.

They might have developed the identity of fighters through years of harsh training, but their attitudes were thoroughly rotten.

Of course, it was only natural.

They were fighters, not soldiers.

Concepts such as discipline, patience, a sense of duty, and camaraderie probably meant very little to men whose sole purpose was to tear their opponents apart.

And that was precisely the problem.

In battle, organized formations and coordinated movements were more important than anything else.

A soldier's equipment and morale were secondary factors that came into play only after those fundamental requirements had been met.

And achieving that organization required the attitudes Riyan had just considered.

They didn't necessarily need to become elite troops willing to embrace death, like the legion he had commanded in his previous life.

But those qualities still had to come first.

Which meant correcting their rotten attitudes was exactly what he needed to do now.

Perhaps the time is right.

He'd spent the past few days sowing seeds.

Now it was time to harvest them.

Having made his decision, Riyan pointed toward one of the exhausted fighters in the distance.

"You."

"...What do you want?"

"What's the objective of a mock naval battle?"

The fighter Riyan had singled out gave a hollow laugh.

"The objective? Aren't we supposed to smash into the enemy, destroy them, and steal their commander's flag? Isn't that why you've been working us like fucking dogs?"

"That's the objective the Empire has established for the mock naval battle."

"..."

The fighters fell silent at the mention of the Empire.

"I asked what your objective is."

When Riyan repeated his question, the fighter's face twisted.

"...What the hell kind of question is that? Obviously, it's to survive!"

"Exactly. To survive. That's what I'm trying to teach you."

"What?"

"I doubt an explanation alone will convince you."

Riyan extended his index finger toward Yarik.

Yarik flinched like a mouse that had been caught moving.

"W-What? Why me again?"

"Get up. The other squad leaders too."

Yarik awkwardly got to his feet, followed by the other squad leaders.

Riyan pointed toward the training weapons piled up in the distance.

"Equip yourselves however you like. We'll conduct a five-on-five exercise aboard the model ship to prepare for close-quarters combat."

"...?"

Leaving the bewildered squad leaders behind, Riyan turned toward the fighters sprawled on the ground.

He selected four newcomers who had struggled particularly badly to adapt during the past few days of training.

Their bodies were covered in bruises, and their faces were pale and gaunt from seasickness.

The four men were visibly startled when Riyan called them out.

The squad leaders who were watching seemed equally surprised.

Their expressions grew fierce.

"You want us to fight those guys on the ship? They can barely stand!"

"At least make the numbers even! You seriously expect us to fight just four of them...?"

The squad leaders were still protesting, their pride clearly wounded, when they suddenly fell silent.

Riyan had walked over to stand beside the four newcomers with a crooked smile.

"Does that make things a little more manageable?"

Fear briefly flashed through the squad leaders' eyes as they remembered the beating they'd received a few days earlier.

"Damn it! How are we supposed to beat you if you're using a sword? Forget it!"

"A sword? Then I simply won't use one."

Riyan picked up a wooden pole lying in a corner.

It was nothing more than an ordinary pole used to support the cloth that provided shade.

"This should be enough."

The squad leaders' eyes began to fill with hostility.

He was bringing an ordinary pole rather than a spear.

And he intended to use it aboard a ship, where space was extremely limited.

Besides, a ship's deck was practically their home territory.

Riyan's birthplace was already known to be Bellance, which only made them more confident.

Yarik in particular had completely recovered from his earlier timid attitude.

He even bared his teeth with a triumphant expression.

This time, for sure.

We'll kill him. Let's smash his skull.

The five men exchanged glances and nodded.

For the first time, men who normally mixed as poorly as oil and water found themselves united by a powerful sense of agreement.