A Returner’s Magic Should Be Special - Chapter 10

Episode 10. Academy Life (3)

Fram was warming up lightly in the Training Ground. His neat, sharply drawn eyebrows, high cheekbones, and long lashes gave him an almost delicate appearance.
The lines of his face were remarkably fine.
He was quite beautiful.
“What is that adorable creature!?”
Romantica let out an excited gasp.
Dezir found himself in complete agreement with her observation.
“Fram does have his cute moments, I’ll admit.”
Romantica shook her head vigorously from side to side.
“Cute moments? No! It’s not just moments—it’s pure cuteness incarnate! How have I not noticed this before?”
Romantica had lost all composure and was babbling incoherently.
“He’s so adorable! Absolutely precious! I want to adopt him. Where does one even get something like that? I’d give my entire fortune for him!”
It was the typical behavior of a girl who couldn’t resist something cute.
Dezir shook his head slowly.
Live blades were not permitted in formal duels. Instead, both sides of the Training Ground held dozens of wooden weapons of various kinds.
The variety was considerable.
Anyone wishing to duel simply selected one weapon from the racks and ascended to the arena.
There were six separate dueling spaces in total, and Fram’s assigned arena was the fourth.
Before ascending, Fram paused at the weapon rack. From left to right, the weapons grew progressively larger and heavier.
After a moment’s consideration, Fram reached toward the right side.
He grasped the hilt and lifted the blade—a Greatsword with a broad, wide edge.
Dezir’s eyes narrowed.
“A Greatsword…?”
There was an edge of concern in his murmur.
Romantica clapped her hands and bounced on her toes.
“The finest swordsman of Beta Class—this is going to be thrilling.”
Fram’s opponent was a swordsman from Alpha Class.
Percival Acegunitz.
He drew from his belt a wooden sword of the broadsword style.
Percival’s expression upon facing Fram was grim and forbidding.
Fram placed his right hand over his chest and bowed respectfully in salute.
“I am Fram.”
“I have no courtesy for filthy Beta scum.”
……
They faced each other across the arena.
The referee standing at center raised his flag, and the duel began.
“Haah!”
Fram moved first.
He charged forward with tremendous speed, wielding the imposing Greatsword.
A strong horizontal slash followed in succession.
Percival raised his blade to meet it.
Clang!
A sharp, dry impact rang out.
Percival succeeded in defending, but could not absorb the full force of the strike.
A brief moment of stiffness.
Fram seized the opening without hesitation, pressing his attack with overwhelming force.
Each stroke was tremendously heavy. Percival parried the blows while also trying to create distance to find an opening for a counterattack.
But Fram granted him no space. He drove Percival all the way to the edge of the arena.
Yet the expression on Dezir’s face as he watched remained dark. Fram’s technique was not what he had anticipated.
Fram didn’t know how to wield a Greatsword properly. His strikes were crude and blunt, lacking all finesse.
In fact, Fram was fundamentally a swordsman of the light blade—his strength lay in speed and precision, not in pure brute force applied this way.
And here Dezir felt a nagging question arise.
‘Why isn’t he using the light blade?’
Dezir’s concern soon became reality.
Crack! Crack-crack!
The duel’s progression was straightforward.
Fram swung his blade frantically while Percival simply parried each strike.
Yet even that alone was steadily draining Fram’s stamina.
Slash!
Percival abruptly surged forward, unleashing a storm of pressure that bore down upon Fram.
In an instant, the momentum shifted entirely.
Fram stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing.
Percival’s attacks were fierce and precise.
There were no openings. Fram’s clumsy greatsword was simply outmatched.
By the time Fram had defended against the onslaught, exhaustion had settled deep into his limbs.
Perhaps that was why—as he raised his blade for yet another defense, his right wrist twisted sharply.
“Argh!”
In combat, a single moment of vulnerability is truly fatal. All the more so when you’re already losing ground.
Percival let out a roar and dashed forward, then drove his wooden sword hard against the side of Fram’s awkwardly held greatsword.
The backlash overwhelmed Fram’s wrist, and his grip shattered.
“Ugh!”
The greatsword tumbled through the air, spun several times, and fell to the ground with an ungraceful clang.
The match was decided.
Fram had lost.
His gaze drifted toward the fallen blade, and after a moment of ragged breathing, he bowed his head.
“I yield.”
Unexpectedly, the bout had ended without fanfare.
Romantica, who had been watching the duel, wore an expression of utter disbelief.
“Wait—isn’t this Fram supposed to be a rather skilled swordsman?”
“……”
“A swordsman who tires out while swinging? That’s a mistake even a novice wouldn’t make.”
“You’re right……”
Romantica rested her chin on her palm.
“He’s endearing enough, but that’s entirely separate from whether he’s actually useful. In his current state, recruiting him would be pointless. Why not look for a different student instead?”
Romantica’s assessment was brutally pragmatic. A half-baked asset is worse than no asset at all. There would be too much to manage.
Had Dezir not known Fram’s future, he would have agreed with her.
Dezir, who had been watching Fram, suddenly shot to his feet.
He turned and shouted at Percival.
“Enough!”
A fight had broken out. Fram lay on his back, and Percival stood over him with fists clenched.
The one dealing blows was Percival alone.
Percival turned his head and saw Dezir approaching him.
“Ha.”
Percival let out a contemptuous laugh.
He gripped the wooden sword and pointed its tip at the fallen Fram as he spoke.
“If you don’t want to end up like him, you’d better leave now.”
Dezir exhaled slowly.
Those who solved everything through violence—such fools always seemed to exist in this world.
Fram pushed himself up from the ground. His coat was torn in places and caked with dirt. He rubbed his swollen cheek with his palm as he spoke.
“So even Alpha Class has its limits. Did it really upset you so much to be pressed back by someone from Beta Class, even for a moment?”
It was precise.
But far too precise. Percival’s eyes went wild as he swung the wooden sword down with fury.
The wooden sword came at Fram’s head with the intention to split it open. The speed was terrifying.
Fram instinctively shut his eyes.
Crack!
The impact echoed through the air, but when Fram felt no pain, he slowly opened his eyes.
Splinters of wood scattered in the air.
Droplets of blood fell slowly.
In his vision, the wooden sword lay split in two, and just beyond it, Dezir’s arm came into view—the arm that had stopped the blade.
Dezir squeezed his fist tighter around the broken weapon.
Percival couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
‘He blocked it?’
True, the swing had come in a moment of rage, but it was a full-power strike—Percival had never imagined it could actually be stopped.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
“W-what are you trying to say?”
When Percival’s eyes met Dezir’s, he felt as though he were being drawn into a black abyss contained in those pupils.
“The match is over. You won. What more is there to say?”
It was an utterly inscrutable gaze. What dwelt within it was neither anger nor fear nor irritation.
Only a steady regard.
It was strange. Something in Dezir’s bearing, subtle yet unmistakable, held Percival in check.
Percival had felt this before—long ago, when a grizzled general who had been his teacher would look at him this way whenever he’d done something wrong.
“Be grateful the Professor isn’t here to see this. If he were watching now……”
“Spare me the sermon.”
Percival spun on his heel and walked away.
He slipped from Dezir’s line of sight almost at a run, as though desperate to escape that place as quickly as possible.

* * *

It was a severe wound.
The flesh had split along the line where the wooden sword had struck, and the area around it had bruised a dark, angry red. At least the bone had been spared. After removing the splinters, applying disinfectant, stopping the bleeding, and wrapping it with bandages, the emergency treatment was complete.
“It must hurt quite a bit?”
The one who’d applied the bandages was Fram.
He’d tied them carefully so they wouldn’t come loose—and in doing so had fashioned them into a bow shape.
Dezir barely managed to suppress a laugh. The man’s hands were surprisingly delicate for someone so unmanly.
“I’m truly sorry.”
Fram looked as though he might burst into tears.
He stared fixedly at Dezir’s right arm, still wrapped in bandages, still seeping blood.
“I’m so sorry. Now that your right arm is injured, life will be so difficult for you.”
“I did this of my own volition, so there’s no need to concern yourself.”
“That’s not true. This wound is because of me. I have to take responsibility somehow, or——”
“I said it’s fine.”
“If you insist on it like that, I suppose I have no choice.”
Yet even as he said this, Fram remained visibly anxious.
“Really, you don’t have to do anything.”
“But……”
Fram sat down beside Dezir, his eyes cast down in dejection.
“Because of me—someone completely unrelated to you—you’ve made Alpha Class your enemy.”
“That’s something I accepted from the moment I decided to help you.”
“……!”
At the end of Dezir’s words, Fram lifted his head sharply, his eyes brimming with surprise and excitement.
“I—I mean, thank you so much. I’ll never forget this.”
“No need for such formality.”
“Oh!”
Then Fram suddenly noticed something.
“Now that I think about it, we’ve been calling each other by that formal pronoun this whole time.”
A light laugh passed between them.
Fram pointed to himself with his finger and spoke.
“I’m Fram Schneizer.”
“I’m Dezir Armang. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Schneizer.”
“Please, call me casually if you can.”
“Hmm, then……Fram?”
Fram shook his head side to side.
“No, no. Just Fram, please. And speak informally with me.”
Dezir replied with a tone of resignation.
“All right then, Fram. How’s this?”
Fram flushed with joy, delighted beyond measure.

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