Chapter 103

Chapter 103: Chapter 103

"I heard about you from Sandy... Has it been eight years?"

Bellator uncorked a flask shaped like a medicine bottle and poured its contents into a wooden cup. When he slid the cup toward Rickart, Rickart noticed that the index finger on his left hand was missing.

Bellator was a veteran who had made his living by the sword for more than ten years. Considering he hadn’t lost his life, perhaps a single finger was a small price to pay.

Rickart raised the cup and took a sip.

It was wine, moderately astringent with a faint floral aroma.

Even Rickart, who knew little about alcohol, could tell it was a fine wine. He could also tell that Bellator had taken it out especially for someone he hadn’t seen in many years.

A breeze from the river swept across his face. When he turned his head, he saw the sunset breaking into fragments across the gentle ripples.

The place was fairly quiet and free of the stench of manure. It wasn’t somewhere just anyone could set up camp, but thanks to Bellator, the group had been able to move to the riverside.

It was just like before.

Bellator had been drinking back then too, and they had also spoken beside a river.

What had changed?

Was it the missing finger on Bellator’s hand?

Or was it that Rickart had grown older and considerably taller?

If anything else was different, it was that they now used an empty wooden crate as a table and shared drinks while sitting on a stump and a large stone.

Rickart hadn’t drunk alcohol back then.

"Is Sandy doing well?"

"Mm. I feel a little sorry for her, but she became my wife."

"What kind of way is that to put it?"

Rickart let out a laugh at the words "sorry for her."

Bellator merely gave a faint, sheepish smile, as dim as the fading day.

"Anyway, Ricky, I remember you were doing quite well for yourself. How did you end up heading to the eastern frontier?"

Rickart’s fame had stopped at "genius swordsman."

Little reliable information had emerged about what happened during the Judgment Church crusade. Few people even knew that Rickart had participated.

Combined with his four-year absence, his past exploits were now remembered only by those who had known of them at the time.

If someone asked about the "Red Cloak," the usual response was something like, "Oh, him? He was remarkably skilled for his age. Is he even still alive?"

"I’m merely curious. People say the last hope can be found there."

"...You haven’t changed at all. What was it you said back then? Something about the war?"

"I wanted to know whether the war had been worth fighting. Whether there had truly been any need to travel all the way to the distant eastern expeditionary territory and shed so much blood."

Just as before, Bellator still couldn’t understand what the boy was talking about.

He could only respect his choice.

At least he was less worried now. Rickart was no less skilled than Bellator, and was probably far stronger.

"So, was that ancient war worth fighting?"

"I don’t know. You could give endless reasons for it—politics, glory, and things like that. I suppose those things matter to some people. But rather than remaining bound to the past, isn’t it more important to decide how we should live now? Bad things can eventually lead to something good, while good things can turn bad."

"You sound like an old man who has already lived through everything."

"Hahaha... By the way, are you a member of the Brotherhood or not? It doesn’t seem like a particularly good organization."

Bellator had once been an adventurer.

He had belonged to the Beringen Guild and had practically lived as a tenant of the Rheinfort Thieves’ Guild while trying to establish a new branch.

He took a swig directly from the bottle and gazed at the river as he had in the past.

"I’m not a member. I’m simply making a living with my sword. If the pay is good, I’ll do whatever work is available. I don’t even belong to a guild anymore, so I’m no longer an adventurer either. Things changed a great deal after the emperor died. These days, this is how you have to live if you don’t own land. Most clans are practically scattering in every direction. The other guilds are the same."

"...Really? Why?"

"Why else? There’s no benefit in belonging to a guild anymore. All they do is order you around and burden you with troublesome work. I’m already struggling to survive, so why should I obey them? There’s no emperor anymore. Without him, a guild is nothing more than a private organization."

The emperor’s death appeared to have had a greater impact than Rickart had expected.

When he thought about it, the emperor had been the source of the legitimacy granted to adventurers. Once those foundations began to shake, perhaps it was only natural that everything built upon them would collapse as well.

But even when organizations disappeared, their members did not.

Countless swordsmen had lost their occupations or voluntarily abandoned them.

"And as you know, most academy students are illegitimate children. A lot of them bear grudges against their families. Apparently, some have taken advantage of the chaos, banded together with their classmates, stormed their ancestral homes, and slaughtered everyone. Then they claim the estate for themselves."

"Seriously?"

"I know. It sounds absurd to me too. But that’s the age we live in. Most of them die trying, of course, but some manage to slip through the cracks and succeed. Things are so chaotic that many high-ranking nobles apparently settle for receiving an oath of fealty from whoever took over. Sometimes they don’t even know that something happened to one of their vassals."

Just as some people harbored resentment against the ruling class like the Judgment Church had, there were many illegitimate children and second sons with lifelong grievances of their own.

Rickart had enjoyed a relatively privileged upbringing. He bore no grudge against his family and had no desire to rise in social status.

Others were different.

This age of chaos was their opportunity—an opportunity to elevate their station.

And the way to seize it was by killing their own blood relatives.

In essence, they were no different from the Second and Fifth Princes glaring at each other over the imperial throne.

Why can’t I become the lord? I think I could do a better job. I have no right of succession? Then if I kill you, I’ll be the one with the right to inherit.

Desire arose at the sight of opportunity. As society descended into chaos, thoughts people had never dared entertain began to surface naturally.

When they saw someone beside them succeed, greed overwhelmed their reason.

I could do that too!

Of course, others failed and met grisly ends. But once greed blinded someone, failures were difficult to see.

Who was a bandit, and who was a thief?

The world being in chaos meant that such distinctions had become difficult to make.

"What about the academy? Is it all right?"

"The academy is thriving more than ever. A few others seem to have collapsed, but Beringen continues to prosper without end. I hear it now has more students from noble families than illegitimate children. Donations are pouring in from everywhere. It isn’t a chicken coop like it was in our day, either. The students wear strange tailored uniforms, and their general standard is much higher... People probably wouldn’t even treat me as their senior anymore. I’m only twenty-six, but they already consider me someone from the old days. It’ll be the same for you, Ricky."

Rickart was glad the academy was prospering, though its success wasn’t necessarily developing in a direction he personally favored.

He was Beringen Academy’s first graduate, but he had no desire to receive special treatment for it.

Even that distinction existed only because Kaklrih had arbitrarily given him something called a diploma.

Since Kaklrih had awarded a diploma only to Rickart at the time, he hadn’t graduated as part of the academy’s first class.

He had literally been its very first graduate.

Originally, the academy had been little more than a gathering place for abandoned children. Now, however, it was increasingly admitting children from wealthy or moderately influential families.

At the center of that change was Kaklrih, who continued to establish and refine its educational system.

Rickart had spent his time tending sheep, so he didn’t know the details of how the academy currently operated.

"By the way, if you’re heading for the eastern frontier, avoid the eastern road. Even if it means taking a long detour, you’ll be better off going north. I hear the Kingdom of Adelorn is practically hell now. The north should at least be safe, since the Viola Clan has the region firmly under control."

"The Vi—what?"

Rickart, who had been listening while enjoying the fine wine, paused at the familiar name.

Bellator seemed to know only the rumors about Rickart and whatever Sandy had told him. He knew little about Rickart’s personal history.

Unlike Rickart, whose activities had largely been concentrated in the north, Bellator had mainly operated in the central and southern regions. Only Sandy had traveled around occasionally on assignments.

"The Viola Clan. I hear they made the greatest contribution during the campaign against the Church. In a rare gesture, a prince personally granted them land and recognized their autonomy. The age changed because of them. Other adventurers realized that a clan could succeed without belonging to a guild—and, ultimately, that they needed land of their own. Of course, most adventurers like me still wander around looking for whatever work we can find."

"Where are they? The Viola Clan, I mean."

"Britzringen. You can reach it from here in four days. Anyway, the Nine Swords of the Empire are relics of the past. They were merely praised by people who enjoyed a good story. What did those people truly know? The Viola Clan is different. At this point, it’s the strongest clan in the Empire. I hear criminals can’t even breathe freely anywhere in that region. The man they call the Bori Sword is the clan’s guardian. Now that all the Emperor’s Champions are gone, he may be the strongest man in the Empire. I suppose the White Sword might rival him, but he’s so far away that they’ll probably never meet."

Hearing about the Viola Clan and Boribori as though they were strangers in someone else’s story left Rickart with a peculiar feeling.

Many things had changed while he had been absent.

His first thought was simply that they must have worked hard.

They certainly had impressive endurance.

Did those people never get tired?

"It isn’t an academy, but apparently they accept disciples almost as if it were one. The Bori Sword’s pupils are said to be remarkably skilled despite their youth. Like you were, Ricky."

"Haha. I’m not that young anymore. I’m married now."

Eighteen was still the prime of youth.

However, Rickart had started cutting down formidable enemies at such an unbelievably young age that, compared with those days, he was now too old to be praised merely for his youth.

"Ah, that was your wife back there, wasn’t it? She’s incredibly beautiful."

"Sandy is beautiful too."

"Give it three months."

"It hasn’t been that way for me."

"You poor bastard. She’s trained you well, and at such a young age too."

"That isn’t what I meant."

Rickart laughed and shook his head.

He hadn’t met many married men, but every one he encountered spouted the same sort of nonsense.

Bellator was no exception.

"How is Sandy? Does she still do this kind of work?"

"She’s nursing the children right now. Once they’re a little older... Well, you know how it is. You can’t leave the sword untouched for too long. She may not be able to work as a swordswoman anymore. Even if she tries, regaining her instincts won’t be easy. Something could happen to her in the process. Personally, I’d rather she didn’t."

Rickart hadn’t held a sword for four years, but his abilities didn’t appear to have rusted.

Technical advancement had long since become meaningless to him.

He had reached a level where swinging his sword according to his heart immediately created a new form of swordsmanship.

"Then you’ll have to work especially hard, Mr. Bellator."

"That’s right..."

"Why don’t you join a clan? The Viola Clan isn’t the only one in the world. You used to lead a clan yourself."

"That’s where it gets complicated. I’m too old and tired to start again from the bottom, but I’m not skilled enough for a clan to recognize my experience and give me special treatment. In the end, everything depends on connections. You join through someone you know. From a clan’s perspective, why would they trust someone like me enough to take me in?"

"Is that so? You need someone you know to introduce you?"

"That’s how the entire world works, Ricky."

Bellator was right.

There were no objective standards by which to measure someone’s character or abilities, so joining an organization required a personal recommendation.

It was the same when introducing someone to a lord. It was the same with guilds, armies, and practically every other organization.

The world was a harsh place. At minimum, a person needed the credibility of being trusted by someone whom the organization already trusted.

"Then let’s do this. Come with us to Britzringen. I’ll introduce you to the Viola Clan. I’m from that clan myself. You might even say I’m one of its founding members."

"...Seriously?"

"Of course. We chose the violet as our clan’s emblem to represent eternal friendship. You don’t belong in a place like this, Mr. Bellator. That much I know."

"I’d certainly be happy to go... Wait. If you’re a founding member, why were you tending sheep?"

"I simply wanted to rest. Anyway, I don’t know whether it’ll work out. But speaking to them will at least give you an opportunity, won’t it? Come with us."

Bellator had no reason to refuse.

In such troubled times, obtaining stable employment was almost like a dream.

Rickart had spoken lightly, but opportunities often arrived on wings as light as those of a little bluebird.

"I’ll bring some more wine first."

Bellator rose and headed off somewhere.

As a lover of alcohol, he apparently intended to bring out all the fine wines he had collected over the years.

The sunset faded, and before long, stars began blossoming across the sky.

After replenishing their traveling supplies in Wertheim, Rickart and his companions headed north with Bellator, their newest member.

Rickart replaced his shabby clothes with a gambeson and a proper pair of boots, once again dressing like a swordsman. At a smithy, he also replaced his sword’s worn hilt and guard.

He slid the blade into a plain scabbard completely devoid of ornamentation and hung it from his waist.

He now looked much as he had in the old days.

No—he had grown taller and broader since then, giving him an even more commanding and dignified appearance.

Yet despite his youth, perhaps because the habit was so deeply ingrained, he continued to walk with a staff.

With Rickart, Marie , and Bellator accompanying them, the migrants bound for the eastern frontier felt as though they were enjoying an extravagance far beyond their means.

Hiring even one skilled swordsman as a guard was enormously expensive.

If they had possessed that kind of money, they would never have needed to abandon their homes in the first place.

The road north from Wertheim gradually descended into lowlands, making the journey easier than usual.

Perhaps because of that, everyone’s expressions brightened, and they began to converse more freely.

Marie seemed caught up in the good mood and kept playing mischievous tricks. Bellator continually teased the young couple about them.

Even Bremen, the perpetually worried guide, temporarily set aside his anxieties.

Everyone took turns holding Dalia’s baby, one person after another, as though each were bestowing a blessing upon the child.

Her name was Riche, if Rickart remembered correctly.

How wonderful it would have been if they could travel like this all the way to the eastern frontier.

But such a hope was nothing more than a dream.

The road stretched across a green field. Beside it stood an enormous and ancient oak tree.

Instead of acorns, however, people hung from its branches in clusters.

It was what people called a hanging tree, something travelers occasionally encountered while wandering the world.

Everyone’s laughter abruptly stopped.

No one spoke any longer.

Bremen looked around warily.

While Bellator and Marie protected the group, Rickart went ahead alone to examine the tree—or more precisely, the state of decomposition of the corpses.

Crows and insects had already pecked and eaten away the soft eyes and lips.

Maggots dropped onto the ground and matured into flies that buzzed through the air.

Rickart walked through the grass around the tree, examining the other corpses.

An ordinary person might not have noticed, but Rickart could tell that each body had reached a different stage of decay.

That meant they had died at different times.

People were being hanged here regularly.

Yet from this gruesome scene alone, there was no way to determine whether wicked men had committed these acts or whether the bodies were the result of lawful punishment.

All Rickart knew was that the stench piercing his nose was even fouler than the livestock manure he had smelled not long ago.

Still, he didn’t grimace.

Whether the dead had committed crimes in life or not, it was as though he were paying them his final respects.

White clouds drifted across the blue sky.

The cool, open fields would have been a pleasant place to graze cattle or sheep.

When Rickart turned his head, he saw what appeared to be a village in the distance.

There were no signs that it had burned, but he couldn’t see anyone there either.

Just then, a youthful voice spoke from behind him.

"Are you travelers? Heading for the eastern frontier?"

Rickart turned and saw a boy and a girl standing there.

They appeared to be around fourteen or fifteen. Since fifteen was considered adulthood, perhaps calling them a boy and a girl was no longer entirely appropriate.

The girl had tied her reddish-brown hair tightly behind her head.

Something about the boy resembled Rickart during the period when his fame had been at its height.

Both wore swords at their waists, and swallows were embroidered across their chests.

With the wind blowing across the fields, Rickart answered,

"The eastern frontier."

"Then you’d be better off turning back. Either that or take the eastern road."

"I heard the east was hell."

"This place is hell too."

"Then where are we supposed to go?"

"I don’t know. Isn’t that for you people to decide? You came from Wertheim, didn’t you? You could stay there for a few months before setting out again."

The boy remained silent throughout the exchange. Only the girl spoke with Rickart.

"What if we keep going?"

"I wouldn’t recommend it. You and the people behind you will die."

"Perhaps not if you have enough courage. You’re carrying swords, after all."

The boy spoke for the first time.

Rickart chuckled at the word "courage."

No matter how numerous or powerful his opponents had been, Rickart had never avoided a fight.

Nor had he ever lost one.

"What sort of courage do the two of you possess that allows you to wander around a place you call hell?"

"It isn’t courage. Our master ordered us to do this. Our master said that every good person we save gives us one more reason why we deserve to wield our swords."

"Admirable. Who is your master?"

"You wouldn’t believe us even if we told you. No one ever does."

"Is that so?"

Rickart turned away as though to say that they didn’t need to tell him if they didn’t want to.

He looked once more toward the distant village, then back toward his companions.

Bellator, Marie , and the others were all watching Rickart and the two young swordsmen.

"The Bori Sword—Bori. He’s our master."

"Hard to believe, isn’t it?"

The boy and girl spoke in turn.

Rickart turned back toward them.

Then he said,

"I don’t know. You’d probably have a hard time believing me if I told you I was the one who taught Bori."

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