The stone wall running through the sparsely wooded plain held memories of an age long past. Fallow land sank into dark shadows. Stars were still scattered throughout the sky as the rosy dawn broke.
The autumn wind was cold. Each gust felt like being pricked by needles. At the point that his body started to flush from exertion, Sid Faron ceased swinging his wooden sword and used his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow instead.
The weather was painfully cold, but beneath his skin Sid’s blood flowed hot in his veins. To think that this thin layer of flesh was the only thing separating him from the rest of the world... Life certainly was peculiar.
Off in the distance, the scenery was majestic. The path through the cypress forest that had taken all of the previous day to traverse was behind him. They had long left behind the remnants of the ruined kingdom of Krios, famed for its aqueducts.
They expected to finally reach their destination, Vulcan, today. Sid had heard that the city of the blacksmith god lay at the foot of the fanged mountain range visible in the distance.
“I’m alive...” For some reason, the view prompted him to say that.
“You’ve been hard at work,” said a voice behind Sid. An unmistakable voice—a resonant voice that sounded as if it was echoing inside a cave.
“Master!”
“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Dill scratched his temple, the usual smile on his cheeks. He untied the string that he wore in his rusty hair to hold it back while he slept, whereupon it fanned out behind him in the cold air like wings.
“I’d rather you call me papa than Master. How about it, Sid? Wouldn’t you like a handsome, tough guy like me for a papa?”
“Ah, I’d rather not.”
Dill’s jests were accompanied by a wink. It seemed that he had some experience in comedy as well.
“What I really want is for you to train with me again. Soon I hope to be strong like you, Master!”
“As long as you’re calling me Master, Sid, I wish you’d show some interest in theater,” muttered Dill, but he still lent a guiding hand to the boy, who was practicing his fighting stance with his wooden sword.
“Pay close attention to your fundamental form. Fighting stances were developed through experience, passed from one warrior to the next and refined over time. The mechanically ideal posture will lend force to each strike. Never rely just on brute strength. We are not almighty heroes...”
Dill seemed happy as he watched over Sid, who was taking his practice swings so seriously that it was almost comical.
A month had passed since Dill had saved Sid Faron, whose parents had been killed by Reincarnators, and who had agreed to accompany Dill on his journey.
With only a little farther to go until they reached Vulcan, the boy’s attitude had gradually started to soften, gaining a sense of familiarity.
“Your hair’s getting long. Don’t you want to cut it?”
Sid shook his head and repeatedly swept his fringe out of his eyes. The boy’s hair had grown a fair bit since they had met.
“You’re one to talk.”
“You’re copying me, though, right?”
“Don’t be a creep—that’s not it at all.” In contrast to his words, Sid’s voice was soft, even tinged with shyness.
“You’ll never look wild like me. Long hair suits you too well. You’ll just end up looking like a girl.”
“Creep.” Sid stopped swinging his sword. He held both hands over his mouth and laughed.
“I don’t really need a reason; I just felt like growing it out. You’re too self-conscious, Master.”
Sid’s impertinent eyes turned toward Dill, as if to provoke him. He had only started to display this attitude recently. Most likely this was his natural state, the way he would have behaved when he lived with his parents. He was acting spoiled. This was proof of Sid’s trust in Dill, even though the boy might not have been aware of it himself.
For Dill, this was heartwarming, but at the same time his old wounds ached.
“Hey, Master, can we try again today? I’m all warmed up.”
“Oh, really?” Urged on by Sid swinging his wooden sword, Dill also took his sword in hand. This wasn’t a wooden training sword, but he’d secured his real sword in its sheath with a knot of string. It was perfectly safe.
“All right, here I come! Today’s the day I’ll finally land a hit on you, Master!”
Sid squared his shoulders, and with an apparent change in personality charged headlong toward Dill. The man readied his heavy bronze sword languidly with one hand, blocking Sid’s wooden sword. Dill’s own sword barely moved, handling Sid with footwork alone.
“Right, that’s good. That just now—that was great. You have a fair bit of talent, don’t you? Yes, right there is good. You’ve watched me closely... Ah, so close! You were on the right track. Right, one more time. Try copying my movements. Don’t fret, I’m sure you’ll get it next time.”
Dill’s instruction was damning Sid with praise. As Dill continued to flatter Sid, Sid continued to challenge him. If their training had not been interrupted, it would have gone on for an hour.
And then suddenly, Sid’s head swayed while he still held his wooden sword, then lolled to one side.
Ever since the day when he had been partially injected with the blue blood of a Reincarnator, from time to time Sid was overcome by bouts of anemia.
“Watch out! Don’t worry—I’ve got you.” Dill swiftly put an arm around Sid to support him. The pair of blue eyes that had opened wide in shock slowly regained their focus, coming to rest on Dill’s face.