Chapter 94

Chapter 94: Chapter 94

The night deepened, and so did the revelers’ intoxication. The flames danced as they burned, seemingly encouraging their already heightened excitement.

There was vulgar laughter, drunken slurring, and even animal-like panting and moaning from some of the tents.

Standing guard on a night like this stirred up many emotions. The clearest of them was a sense of deprivation.

But knowing how to manage such feelings was what made someone an adult and a professional. The sentries knew they could not simply do whatever they felt like doing.

That did not mean they stood with their eyes wide open, staring into the darkness and watching for approaching enemies.

They merely rolled dice across a small table beside a bonfire at the outskirts of the encampment.

Copper coins lay scattered across the tabletop. Dice clattered and rolled, while another man watched with his weight resting heavily against his spear.

Standing guard was not a battle against the enemy, but against drowsiness and boredom. As long as they stayed awake, they were doing their duty. In that respect, these men were excellent sentries.

"Did you hear about it?"

One man asked as he rolled two dice across the table. His eyes remained fixed on the dice as a few coins changed hands. He did not appear particularly affected by either winning or losing.

"Hear what?"

"Reggie got his nose broken."

"Really? How?"

"Apparently, he got into a fight with Hestein’s men."

"What did the boss say?"

"He told him to take compensation and let it go."

"How much compensation are they offering?"

"Don’t know. Probably a few silver coins."

"That won’t be enough for someone like Reggie."

"Exactly. Doesn’t it make no sense for us to stay camped right beside Hestein’s men?"

"What can we do about it?"

"We repay them first."

By "repay," he meant breaking one of their noses in return.

Whether Hestein was the name of a guild or a clan was unclear, but the sentries apparently did not get along with its members.

In truth, there was hardly an adventurers’ guild or clan that did not have some grudge or debt of vengeance involving another guild or clan. Rickart himself was practically a sworn enemy of the Rubens Guild.

They were all entangled in complicated webs of favors and grudges. Gathering people like that in one place was bound to cause trouble.

"I’m staying out of it."

"What?"

"Don’t call me disloyal. We might seriously get killed. He’s the Emperor’s Champion, remember? He said that if anyone dies in a fight, the entire group responsible will be punished."

"You actually believe that?"

"What if I do? Did you see his eyes? He isn’t ordinary. I think he’s going to make an example of someone soon—no, probably an entire clan. The timing is bad."

"You bastard. Are you scared?"

"Hey."

They nearly started arguing, but fortunately, the moment passed. Then one of the two dice rolled off the small table.

It rolled quite a distance. As they followed it with their eyes, they sensed something genuinely strange.

"What’s that sound? Did you hear it?"

"What sound? Huh?"

Though the noise had died down somewhat as the night grew late, laughter and chatter could still be heard in the distance. Yet from the opposite direction came an alien sound, almost buried beneath the revelry.

The two gamblers and the spectator all stared into the darkness. The strange sound gradually became clearer.

"Uuugh..."

"All right, you bastard. I get it. I won’t do it. Maybe you’re right. This feels like a bad omen."

"Just roll the dice."

It sounded like a sick man groaning. They could also hear slow, shuffling footsteps.

Whatever it was, it was approaching them.

The two gamblers quickly swept up the money on the table and drew their weapons.

"Who’s there?"

The adventurer with the drawn sword called into the darkness in a warning tone.

There was no response.

Then, at the edge of the firelight, a man came staggering toward them.

The sentries immediately frowned. The man who had appeared looked too strange to be an ordinary enemy.

Thick, blackened veins bulged across his neck and face. He looked as though he had been severely poisoned.

Yet he continued approaching.

"Uuugh..."

"Fuck, is that some kind of undead?"

"If you’re human, say something before you get yourself killed."

"Hey, Eram. Give me your spear."

"Yes? Oh, yes."

One of the gamblers took the spear from the junior adventurer, flipped it around, and prodded the approaching man with the butt of the shaft rather than the spearhead.

"Listen, I told you not to come any closer. We’re not good people. We don’t care whether you live or die."

The staggering man stumbled backward whenever he was prodded, yet continued trying to approach.

"Fuck, there’s definitely something wrong with this."

"Meram, go tell the boss. If he’s drunk, split his head open if that’s what it takes to wake him."

"What the hell is wrong with this bastard? Hey!"

The man with the spear repeatedly jabbed the staggering figure. If he lost his temper, he looked ready to turn the weapon around and use the blade.

"Urgh. Ghk. Uuugh..."

Then the man gagged as though he were about to vomit, and a crimson light shone from beneath his skin.

The sentries’ eyes widened in confusion.

Before they could react, the staggering man’s upper body burst apart.

It did not merely rupture. It practically exploded.

Boom!

Fragments of bone shot out like shrapnel and embedded themselves in the adventurer holding the spear. Pieces of flesh and organs flew far through the air, while a horrendously foul-smelling gas spread in every direction.

Then, after a brief delay, explosions erupted simultaneously throughout the encampment.

Boom! Ba-boom! Boom!

The adventurer watching from behind flinched in shock. Grimacing at the stench, he covered his nose and approached to help his companion.

At that moment, a flash pierced the darkness.

Shing!

The adventurer trying to rescue his companion was decapitated in a single stroke.

His killer emerged at the edge of the bonfire’s light. The figure wore a mask shaped like a pointed bird’s beak, and a black cloak covered his entire body.

Meanwhile, the novice adventurer named Eram was searching for his clan master.

The masked Sword Master entered the encampment.

Chaos erupted in an instant.

People screamed and desperately called out to one another.

"Aaagh!"

"Where’s the enemy?"

Rickart, who had been sleeping beside Marie , snapped his eyes open. Instinctively sensing that something terrible had happened, he threw on some clothes, grabbed his sword, and rushed outside.

Marie hurried out after him, and the two witnessed the camp in complete chaos. Flames were rising in the distance.

"A night raid."

Rickart quickly assessed the situation, ran back into the tent, and emerged carrying his armor.

Marie thought he was hurriedly going to put it on, but instead, he hung it from a long pole.

"Come over here. Guard me for a moment."

"Hector! Hector!"

"Grab your weapons first! Don’t run!"

Rickart hung his armor from the pole and ran toward Volka’s tent, shouting as he went.

"Ricky is here! Ricky is here!"

The adventurers from the Ernberg branch, who had been floundering in confusion, turned toward him.

Rickart’s armor gleamed as it reflected the firelight and could be seen clearly even from a distance. His surcoat, embroidered with violets, fluttered in the air.

Unlike the other adventurers, those from Ernberg swiftly assembled around Rickart.

Judging from their condition, none of them had managed to put on their equipment properly. One man was even missing a shoe. They were a complete mess, but every one of them was holding a weapon.

There was no time to conduct a head count in a situation like this.

Surprisingly, though the allied forces were flustered, they did not simply flee.

Ordinary soldiers in a conventional army might have broken and run, but these adventurers were divided into clans and accustomed to acting with their usual companions.

Using his monstrous strength, Rickart drove the pole deep into the ground. Then he looked at Volka, whose eyes had widened in surprise.

"We win as long as we hold this position. You know what I mean, right?"

Volka could only nod frantically.

Anyone would become confused when caught by surprise. At times like this, they could not remain scattered in complete disorder. They needed to gather tightly in one place.

Rickart swept his gaze across the surroundings. Dozens of startled and bewildered eyes were fixed on him.

He was inwardly surprised to find that nearly everyone had assembled.

In an instant, he counted all their people while simultaneously assessing the course of the battle.

Even amid the chaos, Rickart’s eyes gleamed as he determined the direction from which the enemy had launched its attack, the enemy’s approximate numbers, the condition of his allies, and even the opportunity for a counterattack.

The enemy did not seem to be as numerous as expected. It was simply a case of fear feeding upon itself, like someone frightened by a snake becoming startled at the sight of a pot lid.

The adventurers might have lacked experience in large-scale warfare, but they had plenty of experience in smaller battles.

They could not assemble as quickly as Rickart’s people had, but each clan was gathering around its clan master and responding to the chaos in its own way.

Then one enemy caught Rickart’s eye.

It was a Sword Master wearing a mask that jutted out like a bird’s beak.

The surrounding tents repeatedly obscured and revealed him, but as Rickart watched, he realized that the man did not seem particularly skilled at fighting.

He had trained diligently enough to become a Sword Master, but he appeared to lack any operational objective. He was not trying to seize the command center or wipe out the enemy. He seemed to have no goal of that sort.

There were far too few attackers to annihilate the entire camp, and since he was not a mounted knight, he could not rapidly break through to the commanders.

He was merely obsessed with killing whichever enemy happened to be standing before him.

Because of that, he was actually killing fewer people. He seemed just as disoriented as everyone else, thrashing around without direction.

Just as someone accustomed to eating meat knew how best to eat it, someone experienced in setting fires knew how to do it properly.

This was hopelessly amateurish.

That was not how one started a fire.

Had they simply assumed that sending in a few Sword Masters would guarantee victory?

They might appear terrifying to everyone else, but in Rickart’s eyes, they were thoroughly unimpressive.

"The rest of you stay here. Volka is in command. Put out the nearby fires. Water won’t be easy to obtain, so just prevent the flames from spreading. Marie , Ice, Bori—follow me."

Without properly donning his armor and carrying only a single arming sword, Rickart set out with his friends to kill the enemy.

The masked Sword Master had been furiously pursuing people, occasionally managing to kill one, only to lose another among the tents and slash apart an innocent canvas wall instead.

Then he noticed Rickart’s group approaching.

Apparently delighted by the opportunity, he charged straight toward them.

Marie drew her sword and confronted him.

The two Sword Masters collided, radiating different colors of light.

Claaaaang!

A tremendous metallic crash unlike anything they had ever heard tore through their eardrums.

At the same moment, Boribori and Ice drew their swords like lightning and attacked together.

The enemy had apparently not known that Marie was a Sword Master. He hurriedly broke away, flustered.

Boribori and Ice might not yet have been Sword Masters, but neither was an opponent to be taken lightly.

Their two swords flashed, and one of the enemy’s arms went flying.

Whether through the power of his faith or sheer fanaticism, even after losing an arm, he twisted his body and somehow avoided a fatal blow. He then thrust his sword toward Marie , determined to kill her.

But there was a dull impact.

His head snapped sideways, and he died instantly.

Rickart had struck him with a high kick from his blind spot.

It was a kick imbued with the monstrous strength of the legendary hero Illiya. Few could survive taking such a blow to the head.

Crack!

The shattered mask flew off and tumbled across the ground. The enemy collapsed, his head bent sideways at an angle greater than ninety degrees.

Marie stabbed him through the neck to make certain he was dead.

Rickart looked around again.

The adventurers had not fled as he had expected and were defending the camp in their own ways. Frankly, he was rather impressed.

They’re useful after all.

The area around the campfire was still a complete mess, but as time passed, the chaos gradually subsided.

Rickart spotted another Sword Master and immediately ran toward him.

Someone else reached the enemy first.

It was Hellauman.

The adventurers had responded well, but it appeared that Hellauman had played the greatest role in bringing the chaos under control. He was not a particularly capable military commander, but when it came to the sword, he was said to be the strongest man in the entire Empire.

He appeared to have already killed several enemies. A little blood had spattered across his face and clothing.

He wore a broad smile, looking as though he were genuinely enjoying himself.

Hellauman regarded the masked enemy and spoke.

"We once used something called the final trial to create many people like you. We have since discontinued it. Do you know why?"

"Because you’re useless. A dog that bites its master has no value. Every last one of you eventually breaks."

Hellauman appeared unusually exhilarated.

He did not seem entirely sane either, but Rickart understood him in a strange way.

He was delighted to have finally encountered an opponent who might offer him some challenge.

"You became a Sword Master by cutting away your pity and compassion... But I was born without either of those things. That is why I still find life entertaining, while you’re bored to death. That is the difference between you and me. The only disappointing part is that cutting you down won’t be very satisfying."

Mana gathered around Hellauman’s sword.

It shone blue, but its density was entirely different from that of an ordinary Sword Master. Wisps of something resembling blue smoke rose from the blade.

By comparison, the holy knight’s sword looked like a firefly beneath the moon.

Duels between Sword Masters were rare, and adventurers had gathered around them before anyone realized it. They watched in breathless silence.

Hellauman walked toward his opponent.

The outcome already seemed decided based on their sheer presence alone. Even between Sword Masters, the difference in level was obvious.

The enemy suddenly screamed and charged at Hellauman.

"I swear before God! I fought until the very end!"

He was fast, but far too straightforward.

His swordsmanship also resembled Ice’s in some way.

Hellauman boldly placed his body directly before the enemy’s blade.

In an exceedingly brief instant, he narrowly evaded the sword with the softness of a passing breeze.

Then, using only his wrist, he spun his sword in a circle and slashed powerfully through his opponent’s waist.

The blade, honed to an extreme sharpness, severed the man at the waist with almost absurd ease.

The holy knight’s upper body flew a short distance forward under its own momentum, while his lower body collapsed facedown onto the ground.

Blood pattered down between the two halves of his body, and long coils of intestine spilled out in disarray.

Before the enemy had even finished falling, Hellauman had already returned his sword to its scabbard.

Not even a trace of blood remained on the blade.

His neatly combed-back hair had not fallen out of place by so much as a strand. Even so, he swept one hand over the side of his head.

Having witnessed the power and skill of someone who had transcended humanity, the adventurers were so dumbstruck that they could not even cheer.

He truly was superhuman.

A terrifying superhuman.

The Emperor was dead and the throne remained vacant, yet the Champion was still as formidable as ever.

Hellauman enjoyed himself for only a brief moment before an intense sense of emptiness abruptly overcame him.

He glanced toward Rickart and Marie , then left the adventurers with a single command before returning to his tent.

"Clean it up."

Marie ’s hand trembled faintly.

She had believed that she had finally escaped Hellauman’s grasp, but witnessing such overwhelming power filled her with anxiety and despair.

If that man decided to turn her into his puppet again, would she be able to resist?

Rickart took her hand.

They had repelled the night raid, yet he could no longer tell who their true enemy was.

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