Chapter 22
"An... offer?"
Theron carefully repeated the words.
The face of a confused twelve-year-old.
Beneath the desk, however, his hands rested calmly on his knees.
The Head Instructor's office was large.
But almost completely undecorated.
One map of Hell Island on the wall.
One sword.
Only neatly organized documents on the desk.
The room perfectly matched its owner.
Nothing changed.
The office had looked exactly like this in Theron's previous life.
And its owner handled people exactly the same way.
"..."
Berton did not immediately answer.
He drank some tea.
Organized one document.
Allowed silence to tighten around the other person.
That was always how he worked.
An ordinary young trainee would already have sweat forming on his forehead.
Theron lowered his gaze toward his knees and subtly moved one foot as though nervous.
Details mattered when acting.
Instead of speaking...
Berton slid one document across the table.
An Executioner's report.
"Two nights ago. A duel in the rocky area."
"..."
"Isaac from Section Three."
Berton tapped the paper.
"The instructors say talent like his appears maybe once every ten years."
He continued calmly.
"He released mana..."
Berton's eyes sharpened.
"And still dropped to one knee without being able to properly touch his opponent."
He tapped the document again.
"The opponent was Theron from Section Five."
His lips curved.
"A trainee here for less than half a year whose official record says he's nothing special."
"I was lucky."
"Luck."
Berton smiled slightly.
The smile never reached his eyes.
"The Executioner under me has held a sword for twenty years."
He pointed toward one line in the report.
"Do you know what he wrote?"
Berton slowly read.
"The trainee's swordsmanship is unrelated to this training facility's curriculum, and its level of mastery appears exceptionally high."
Silence filled the office.
"That's an excessive evaluation for someone called 'Idiot Theron.'"
Berton's eyes pierced directly into him.
"Where did you learn it?"
There it was.
Theron took one breath and gave the answer he had already prepared.
"...My father was a mercenary."
"A mercenary."
"I watched him when I was young."
Theron continued.
"After he died, I practiced whatever I could remember."
He lowered his gaze.
"It isn't anything systematic. I just... learned enough to survive."
A believable story.
Exactly the kind of background one could expect from an orphan dragged to Hell Island.
Berton leaned back.
"That's a lie."
"...!"
"A sword copied from a mercenary's shoulder cannot toy with the greatest talent on this island."
Berton's eyes hardened.
"You know that better than anyone."
Theron did not answer.
He neither denied nor admitted it.
He simply lowered his gaze slightly.
Pretending to panic.
In reality...
He was reading the next move.
Making another excuse would be the worst choice.
The more lies piled up, the thinner they became.
Leaving empty space through silence would let Berton's imagination do the work.
A child hiding a mysterious past.
That was probably how Berton saw him now.
The observation was dangerous.
But Berton's next words went in a different direction from what Theron expected.
"But..."
Berton's voice softened.
"I don't care."
"...What?"
"Where it came from doesn't matter."
He leaned forward.
"What matters is that you possess that ability."
Berton's gaze moved over Theron like someone evaluating a weapon.
"If a cheap dagger lies on the ground, people look for its owner."
He smiled.
"But if a legendary sword is lying there... whoever picks it up becomes its owner."
His eyes examined Theron.
"Let's get to the point."
Berton spoke.
"Become my direct trainee."
"...Direct trainee?"
"A Special Trainee."
Berton explained.
"You remain officially in Section Five."
"However, half of your training will fall directly under my authority."
Then he listed the benefits one by one.
"You'll be allowed to use the Advanced Cultivation Room."
"The advanced martial arts library, which ordinary trainees are forbidden from entering."
"Meals, chores, and other meaningless duties will no longer concern you."
"..."
"Fewer than five Special Trainees have existed since this island was created."
Berton continued.
"And every one of them..."
His eyes narrowed.
"Graduated from a position ordinary people need ten years to reach."
It was extraordinary treatment.
For a trainee crawling at the bottom of Hell Island...
This offer looked like a rope lowered from heaven.
But Theron knew better.
That's not a rope.
It's a collar.
Berton never gave something without expecting payment.
Every benefit was an investment.
And once a blade lost its usefulness...
These people broke it without hesitation.
Theron had already experienced exactly that.
Still...
Rejecting the offer would only deepen Berton's suspicions.
The man smiled with interest now.
If Theron rejected him...
A very different face would appear.
Theron lowered his head and remained silent.
The answer had already been decided.
But he needed to look hesitant and nervous.
That would reduce suspicion.
"R-Really... would that be allowed?"
"Of course."
Berton smiled.
"No one on Hell Island stands above me."
Then his voice deepened.
"Take my hand, and I will guarantee your future even after you leave this island."
Theron stood and bowed.
"From now on, I will follow Head Instructor Berton's orders."
At those words...
Berton smiled broadly.
