Chương 9: Relics (2)

"I am tired of victories that still feel like funerals." – Sir Ganisaar Hagnaar, the Sixth Vazaag of Korsivir Teacher Daisor went quiet for a few moments.

"No," he said at last.

"I wish it were that simple. He's been in a mental health facility since then, even though it's been nearly two decades since the war ended. Watching all your teammates and friends drown around you, and somehow surviving when they did not, leaves a kind of guilt most people never come out of." Daisor paused." He didn't." Nobody knew what to say to that.

Even if that man had somehow survived a battle that had taken thousands of lives, how was anyone who had been there supposed to live with the knowledge that nearly every person on that battlefield had died? Those last expressions of his allies would be etched into his mind forever. Aloric got a shiver even thinking about it. Even the troublemaking Rumiosi twins had gone quiet after hearing about artifact bearers and hadn't made fun of anyone for a while.

That alone was highly unusual, and it showed just how much the revelation had shaken everyone in the class. That led to an even worse question. What if he hadn't learned about artifact bearers today? He might have been killed by such a powerful enemy on a mission before he even realized what was happening.

"Why weren't we told anything about holy relics and those artifact bearers before this?" he asked with a frown.

"Shouldn't that have been included in the curriculum? It sounds important enough to me!" Yibleen nodded in support and looked at the teacher.

"Yeah, you should have warned us about them long ago. Students from clans might have been told about it by their parents, but those like me and Aloric who are from civilian backgrounds don't have anyone to warn us about such threats." Daisor gestured at the class in general.

"Look at your classmates who come from clans. I believe none of them knew about this. Their parents would probably have told them after graduation, but before that, even they avoid mentioning artifact bearers to their children. Otherwise, they might become too frightened to continue in the academy."

"I wouldn't..." Sikkar commented, but his voice didn't have the usual bluster in it.

"Perhaps." The teacher took a visibly deep breath before looking at Aloric.

"As for your earlier question, with how rare and powerful artifact bearers are, most of them are already well known all over the continent, for better or worse. You kids haven't heard about them because any mention of artifact bearers in the academy was prohibited after two such mass carnages occurred during the Second Great War.

The Vazaag's Advisory Council, which most people simply call the city council, feared it would crush morale if students were taught just how powerful enemy artifact bearers could be, especially when Korsivir had no artifact bearer of its own to counter them.

But I don't agree with keeping students completely ignorant of that kind of danger, so I still try to tell my classes enough that they might at least know to escape if they ever encounter one of them, instead of mistaking the enemy for just a slightly more powerful manaweaver."

"Then can't you tell us more? Our lives may depend on it!" The teacher sighed.

"As much as I'd like to, I'd be breaking the rules if I went into any more details than I already have. But you can find more information about them in the annual Bounty Books issued by the city, which you will be allowed to buy after graduation. To be fair, we still don't know much about artifact bearers beyond rumors, since it's very rare for someone to see them and live to tell the tale.

So apart from their basic physical descriptions, all Bounty Book entries on artifact bearers just have the same line written at the bottom— ' Disaster-class manaweaver. No engagement authorized. Abandon mission at first sighting and withdraw immediately.'"" Whoa... Disaster-class?" someone blurted.

"That's..."

"It is scary just hearing about them!"

"So we're allowed to abandon a mission in that case?" Sikkar interrupted with a raised hand. Aloric snorted. Of course, the selfish bastard would be thinking of running away before anyone else did. He was a Rumiosi, no doubt. Teacher Daisor took a deep breath.

"You aren't just allowed to do that—Korsivir's survival protocol for Nourim-ranked manaweavers states that you are actually required to flee at first sight of an artifact bearer. If you ever hear that one of them is coming to a battle, or if there are even rumors that one has been seen in your mission's area of operations, then run. Just get to safety along with your teammates and hope you survive. Because in front of an artifact bearer, the only thing you can do is run for your life." Daisor paused.

"And even then, it likely won't work..." His expression grew more serious.

"There is no official ranking for manaweavers above S-rank, which is already granted exceedingly rarely—if a city or country has a single S-ranker on their side, their enemies think twice before going against them. But unofficially, artifact bearers are said to stand above even that lofty S-rank status. Many call them Disaster-class manaweavers, which is also the term used by the Bounty Books. Soldiers have a simpler name for them— Calamities.

And after what some of them have done, I cannot say the soldiers are wrong. That's why no army wants to face an artifact bearer in open battle—they usually have standing orders to retreat if there are credible reports of an artifact bearer's presence in that area—because even one of them can turn any battlefield into a mass grave in minutes." There were some quiet mutters after that, but the general mood in the class became subdued.

If even vague sightings of an artifact bearer could cause whole armies to change their plans and retreat, then what could ordinary students in this classroom do against them? Nothing. It was better to pray they never encountered an artifact bearer in their lives. Otherwise, their lives would turn out to be very short indeed. Daisor gave a weak smile.

"Of course, even running away from them is not so easy. Most of us probably wouldn't realize that The Healer or The Floodbringer were artifact bearers even if they were standing right in front of us, unless we already recognized them."

"What do you even mean by that? Why wouldn't people be able to recognize an artifact bearer if one stood right in front of them?" Arla asked.

"They would still have some kind of relic on them, even if theirs is a holy relic, right? And those relics' descriptions would already be well known. In fact, I think the academy should tell us the appearance of all the known holy relics, so we can recognize those calamities immediately and run for our lives!" Teacher Daisor shook his head.

"It doesn't work like that for artifact bearers. Don't ask me for a source, but there are credible rumors that they don't hold their relics the way ordinary relic users do." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He explained further, "A normal relic is still something physical. A ring, a necklace, a sword, a shield. But some say holy relics are absorbed into the bearer's body itself.

If their face is not already known, an artifact bearer could pass through a crowd like anyone else, and you would never realize what they are unless they start using their power." He paused, looking over the class.

"Of course, no one I know has gone close enough to one of them to confirm or deny that with certainty. And without an artifact bearer of our own in Korsivir, we still know very little about artifacts or their bearers. So most of what is said about them remains wild rumor—except for the well-proven fact that they are no less than walking calamities, and that if they wish, they can even crush an army as if it were a bug." Daisor forced a smile on his face.

"I do hope you never have to meet one of them. As a very proud teacher of the students in this class, I want all of you to grow into strong and capable manaweavers, so you can protect our home Korsivir, as well as the Kingdom of Varrenia from our enemies. But for that, you need to stay alive first. And for that, you need to stay the hell away from artifact bearers." The whole class, Aloric included, was stunned to hear the teacher use a swear word in class for probably the first time.

It only went to show just how serious that warning was meant to be. After a while, when the silence had stretched long enough, Teacher Daisor forced a smile.

"Let's end this topic now." The class still remained quiet. After hearing about artifact bearers, calamities, and entire armies being drowned in deserts, it was hard to return to the usual whispers and restlessness of Classroom One. Even Sikkar and Sulia had stopped giggling, which was probably the clearest proof that the whole class had been shaken. Teacher Daisor looked around the room once more before clapping his hands lightly.

"It's nearly time for the classroom bell to ring, so let's move to the academy training ground and start the sparring matches you all wanted so much." Just as he finished speaking, the academy bell rang out loudly, dismissing them for the day. Aloric shook his head in wonder. He still had no idea how their teacher always knew the exact moment class was about to end.

There was a clock on the wall behind him, but it hadn't worked for years because of the shortage of mana cores needed to power it, the same reason the clock at home had stopped working. Teacher Daisor smiled, as if the bell had rung just to prove him right.

"Great timing. Come on, then. Let's go for the last sparring session you'll have as academy students." That finally broke the strange heaviness in the room. Sikkar's face lit up at once, as if the mention of sparring had wiped away every thought of artifact bearers from his mind. He leaned closer to Sulia and whispered something, grinning in that familiar way that usually meant someone else was about to suffer from his idea of humor.

Velron Rudox, on the other hand, simply pressed one fist into his other palm with a sharp crack of his knuckles. He was glaring toward the front wall of the classroom, as if even the stone itself had done something to offend him. But that was just Velron. Whether he was looking at a classmate, a teacher, or an empty wall, he always seemed like he was waiting for someone to give him an excuse to fight.

He was still the undefeated sparring champion of their class, and he took every chance to prove it far more seriously than anyone else. The short redhead Arla Farritz stood up first, her eyes immediately going to her arch rival Nemirie Qanza, whom she had never been able to outscore in the written tests. Nemirie didn't seem to notice, though. Or maybe she did and simply didn't care.

The quiet Qanza girl was still looking down at the scroll spread open on her desk, as if the promise of the academy's last sparring session was far less interesting than whatever she had been reading. Arla huffed before she turned to pick up her backpack. Aloric almost smiled despite himself. Some things, at least, didn't change. The two brainiac girls' rivalry had mostly been one-sided, but it had never died off either.

Teacher Daisor walked out of the classroom first, and Sikkar and Sulia hurried after him, already giggling again—probably laughing about some joke they had just made at someone's expense. The troublemaking Rumiosi twins had a talent for recovering their mood faster than anyone else in the class. Velron was the next one out, his steps steady and eager, like someone walking toward a meal he had been promised. Or toward someone he intended to turn into one.

The rest of the class began gathering their backpacks as well. Most students had a wooden practice sword inside them, though Velron never carried any sword at all—his clan was famous for their hand-to-hand fighting style, after all. Ralovit Vayot—from the famous weapon specialist clan—however, had two steel swords strapped behind him, hidden partly by the long trench coat he always wore, as if academy rules were only suggestions meant for other people.

The purple-haired boy stood up with a muttered curse, though Aloric wasn't sure what he was cursing this time—the teacher, the training ground, the academy, sparring itself, or just existence in general. Arla joined him near the aisle, still looking annoyed because Nemirie hadn't even bothered to return her glare. Yibleen came with them too, though she looked far less excited about the upcoming sparring.

She was from a civilian background and had never been particularly good at close combat, despite doing well in most of the written and theory tests. The thought of being asked to fight in front of the whole class probably didn't appeal to her very much. Hovaru Yaboli followed behind them, large and heavy as always, his usual pack of snacks in his hand.

He wasn't particularly fast, and he didn't have Velron's precision or Ralovit's skill with a sword, but his sheer size made him hard to move and even harder to knock down. More than one student had learned that trying to push Hovaru back was like trying to argue with a wall that had eaten too much. Aloric picked up his things and joined them. Despite being clanless, he was usually treated normally by this group.

Not always perfectly, and not in the way clan kids treated each other, but well enough that he could call them friends without feeling like he was lying to himself. Arla and Ralovit were clan kids, while Hovaru was from the Yaboli clan. Yibleen, like him, wasn't from a manaweaver clan, though she usually performed well enough in the academy that no one doubted she would pass the upcoming exams. Aloric was the uncertain one. That thought came back to him as they stepped out into the corridor.

Their floor contained only the final-year classrooms, and the corridor was already filled with students from other classes. Some looked excited, laughing and talking loudly now that the last class was finally over. Others were quieter, their faces tense as if the graduation exams two days from now were already looming over their heads. Aloric understood that feeling all too well.

Their group followed Teacher Daisor down the corridor toward the stairwell, where the noise of other students echoed between the brick walls. It was nearly a certainty that after graduation, the clan kids would go on to join elite squads led by Siurim instructors. They would have proper teams, proper guidance, and people who could help them grow stronger in the field. Would these same people he called friends still recognize Aloric after that? Or would they just look at him with pity if he failed to graduate?

Aloric's stomach twisted at the thought. No! He was being far too negative. His scores were average, but average did not mean a failing grade. He would likely pass if he didn't make any terrible mistakes in the exam. The problem was what came after. The most likely career path for someone who got a low rank was the Nourim reserve force. No assigned squad. No real instructor. No Siurim or even a Tarim guiding him, correcting him, and pushing him forward.

He would become just a name on a list, waiting to be called when extra bodies were needed for risky border patrols, guard duty, or low-level missions, with hardly any chances for promotion to Tarim. A dead end. Aloric really, really did not want that. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. Teacher Daisor had already mentioned that all academy tests and sparring sessions carried some weight in their final scores.

They would only add a small amount to the upcoming graduation exams, but they might still be enough to matter. If Aloric did well today—if he could show something, anything, during this last sparring session—maybe it would help push his score higher. Maybe it would make someone notice him for once. He didn't need to beat Velron. He wasn't reckless enough to dream that far. But he had to prove he wasn't just another average clanless kid waiting to be forgotten.

They went down the stairs with the rest of the final-year students and exited through the back of the academy. The training ground spread out ahead of them, wide and open, with packed dirt underfoot and circular sparring rings drawn in chalk across the ground. Numerous wooden posts and painted targets stood along one side, their surfaces scarred by years of strikes and badly aimed practice swings. A few weapon racks sat nearby, stacked with practice weapons, though most students brought their own gear.

A series of straw mannequins on the last side marked the bounds of the training field. The sight of the field made Aloric's nervousness sharpen into something else. Not confidence. Not yet. But resolve. If the world outside Korsivir was filled with monsters who walked on two feet, then he couldn't afford to remain helpless. If clan kids had their rich families, their tutors, their techniques, and their futures already waiting for them, then he would just have to fight harder for his own.

Today, he had to show what he was made of!