“Ugh, I’m beat. Seriously, that brat makes me do all the heavy lifting.”
Having finished his little game, Sanuki Shoichiro plopped down onto the sofa back at the guild. The table that Sakurai Toru had kicked over had been replaced with a new one, and as always, it was set with drinks and glasses.
“Um, Sword Saint-dono?”
“Huh? What’s with you guys, staring at me like that? You’re making me shrink under your gaze.”
“We’re not glaring. More importantly, who was that boy this morning?”
“Ah, you mean the brat? Who is he, you ask…”
The adventurers who had witnessed the morning’s commotion were now focused on Sanuki, their questions drawing the attention of everyone around. Sanuki poured himself a drink, pondering his relationship with the boy. They were acquaintances, but not friends. It was a relationship where they both benefited, nothing more.
In a word, they were “convenient time-wasters,” but that felt too bland.
If that was the case, there weren’t many words to describe it. None of them quite captured the essence, but Sanuki chose the one that felt most like him.
“He’s my disciple, my disciple.”
“Disciple? You mean Higaki-chan’s junior disciple?”
“Nah, he came first. My first disciple, you could say? It’s a strange connection. I haven’t given him much more than a few pointers, and Ao-ojou has probably spent far more time with me than him.”
“Honestly, I can’t imagine it. The Sword Saint-dono who kept refusing disciples, finally accepting Higaki-chan after her persistence, now has a first disciple?”
“Well, ‘disciple’ isn’t exactly the right word. It’s a strange relationship, that’s all.”
Sanuki chuckled at the bewildered faces of the adventurers, taking a sip of his drink. He had intended to keep it short, but he had ended up talking at length. It seemed he was in a good mood. If that was the case, it might be fun to talk about that brat a bit more.
With that thought, Sanuki poured his glass halfway full, swirling it as he began to speak.
“Have you ever been to an art museum?”
“Huh? Well, a few times.”
“They’re amazing, aren’t they? They use so many colors, pouring all their honed skills into creating something that depicts ‘themselves.’ Each piece has its own flavor, sometimes giving you a sudden realization. I’m not an expert on art, but I think it’s vulgar to disregard that power and value.”
“Uh, okay?”
“And then there’s one piece. A weird one. You might not even call it art… It’s like someone just took a brush and scribbled all over a blank canvas without any technique. What do you think of that?”
“Well, it’s unique, but if it’s just one piece, it might feel out of place with the overall theme of the museum… Is that painting him?”
“Exactly. You’re pretty perceptive.”
Sanuki’s mood improved even more.
People create their own “painting” using a wide range of colors, through various emotions, experiences, and struggles. No two paintings are the same, and each has parts that are admirable and parts that are disappointing. Throughout his life, Sanuki had found a certain beauty in everyone he had met, whether they were good or bad.
“But you know, for some reason, everyone’s theme is the same. It’s not bad, but it’s a bit… honestly, I was getting tired of it.”
That theme was “to live.”
It was a universal theme rooted in people’s core, and especially in a world like this where life and death were so close, it was natural that it would be pushed to the forefront.
It was inevitable, and there was nothing to be done about it.
That was what he thought, until Sakurai Toru appeared.
“Out of everyone I know, that brat is the only one who paints ‘for fun.’ He doesn’t know about techniques or rules, just splashing the colors he wants onto the canvas, flailing his arms and legs as he paints.”
“…”
“I was intrigued by his ever-expanding form, not even knowing what kind of painting he wanted to create. I wanted to see how he would change if I taught him my techniques. And now, I’m excited to see what kind of painting he’ll create.”
“That’s… quite invested of you.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised myself. So, I’m going to give him pointers whenever I feel like it, as long as he keeps enjoying painting. That’s why he’s my first disciple, my first disciple.”
“That makes Higaki-chan sound a bit pitiful.”
“Ao-ojou? Well, she was just being noisy next to me while I was admiring my ‘first’ piece, so I had to deal with her. But it seems like it’s spurring the brat on, so maybe it was a good thing?”
Seeing the Sword Saint speak so nonchalantly, the adventurer felt sympathy for Higaki Ao.
Many people knew how much she had clung to the Sword Saint, how much she admired and yearned for him. Some were even moved by it.
Her efforts had finally paid off, and she had become his disciple, receiving his teachings before leaving for the academy. Yet, the Sword Saint had just said she was “noisy.” The adventurer felt a slight sense of resentment towards him.
But the Sword Saint’s joyful expression as he talked about his first disciple was like a child showing off his favorite toy. His innocent words disarmed them. All that remained was sympathy for Higaki Ao, due to the Sword Saint’s indifference.
“(But well, she’s a strong girl. She’s someone who can walk her own path, so there’s no need to worry.)”
The adventurer, unaware of the dark emotions beneath Higaki’s surface, didn’t worry about her. He, too, lost interest in Higaki Ao and listened to the Sword Saint’s words.
One by one, people joined the conversation, drawn in by the Sword Saint’s uncharacteristically talkative mood. For a while, the lounge was filled with talk about the Sword Saint’s first disciple.