Chapter 387: Everyone Has Their Own Hell
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 387: Everyone Has Their Own Hell
‘For what?’
Andrew stepped out in front of the castle gate, five trainees at his back.
Ahead of them stood a man gripping a sword, followed by a towering figure letting a heavy iron mace dangle at his side.
‘For the kingdom?’
It felt a bit late to be asking, but Andrew suddenly found himself wondering why he was here—and exactly what he was risking his life for. It wasn't as if he had chosen this path solely out of a bloodthirsty desire to fight.
‘Why?’
Was it for the kingdom? No. He could claim that on the surface, but pure loyalty wasn't what lay deep in his heart. Above all, there was the bitter taste left in his mouth from witnessing the state of Naurilia.
‘Is this kingdom worth dying for?’
Maybe in the future, but certainly not yet. He had only sided with Krang because he had no other choice.
Yet, despite that, Andrew stood his ground.
“Hold them back! Do not retreat!”
Squire Ropode’s shout rang out. Before anyone realized it, the Squire had taken command of the gate. The Security Captain—or whatever his title was—was busy loosing arrows from a safe corner, nervously reading the room. From what people said, he hadn't risen to his position through skill, but through sheer political maneuvering.
The Guard Captains were the ones who actually knew how to fight, but they were pinned down atop the castle walls and couldn't break away. In other words, there was no one else to stop the enemies approaching the gate.
Andrew glanced forward, then back, before stepping out. Even as he moved, his internal debate continued. There were some things a man simply couldn't do without reaching a conclusion.
One reason for his presence here was crystal clear.
‘The family.’
Was it enough to just reclaim his noble status? Was it enough to just have a family? Did he just need the name 'Gardner'?
No. The name wasn't what mattered. That kind of thing didn't matter at all.
Andrew adjusted his grip on his sword and took a stance. His upright blade was his will. His dream. His heart.
Who had he learned this from?
‘The Captain.’
He had realized it because he had watched Encrid’s life—his days, his training, and the time they spent together—from the very front row. He hadn't just learned techniques. He hadn't just rolled around in the dirt training his body.
Andrew had learned from him how to dream.
‘What kind of family will we become?’
“What kind of person will I become?” Andrew spoke aloud as his thoughts finally clicked into place.
To raise a proper family under a proper royal house. To desire the right path, not just power. Since he was here for the sake of such a life...
Andrew smiled without realizing it. Though he didn't know it, that smile resembled Encrid’s in a haunting way. It was the smile of those who chase their dreams.
Andrew glanced at the five trainees catching their breath nearby.
“Whew... whew...”
The largest of them breathed the loudest. It wasn't that they lacked combat experience, but this was their first time facing an enemy radiating such raw, vivid bloodlust.
A few soldiers tried to block the path of the approaching swordsman. There was no time to stop them. Just like Andrew, they too must have stood here of their own free will.
Shouting war cries, the soldiers lunged.
The approaching swordsman’s arm blurred. Reflecting the harsh light, his blade slashed and thrust.
Thud. Squelch. Slash.
The blade was so sharp it sliced through whatever it touched and killed wherever it pierced.
“Argh!”
A soldier whose fingers had been severed collapsed to the side, screaming. The swordsman was a master of such caliber that the common soldiers defending the gate couldn't even dream of stopping him.
“Whew.”
Andrew took a deep breath, expanding his chest, and stepped forward. He advanced further into the fray.
“Lord Andrew?”
“Fall back before you die in vain.”
There were two primary opponents. One was the swordsman in front, and the other was the man standing behind him, wielding a visibly heavy iron mace.
Andrew’s eyes scanned the opponent’s face. He spoke as he approached, for dreaming wasn't the only thing he had learned from watching Encrid.
“Hey, beady-eyes. Get over here.”
The provocative words flowed out without hesitation.
The man, who had been about to leap into the midst of the soldiers, turned his head to look at Andrew. Because he only turned his head while his body remained in a lunging posture, the movement made him look like a stiff, broken doll.
Beady-eyes. It was a perfect nickname. That was exactly what his eyes looked like—tiny, round dots, as if someone had poked them in with a needle.
Mocking someone’s appearance was child’s play, but this was a battlefield. If necessary, one could insult not just the opponent’s looks, but their entire lineage.
‘Just as I was taught.’
Andrew steeled his resolve. Give your all at every moment. Encrid did that. Whether it was provoking or fighting, do it with everything you have.
He had said as much. Andrew did exactly that.
“Hey, can you even see what’s in front of you through those slits?”
The insults continued. Andrew’s attire was that of a high noble. He wore armor engraved with the Gardner crest, carried a polished shield and sword, and wore a helmet with a regal visor. It was a foul mouth that did not match his refined appearance.
For the swordsman serving Viscount Mernes, this was the first time in his life he had ever been so crudely insulted. He was a sword raised by a noble house, accustomed to being treated with the respect due to a master. He raised his blade, trembling.
“I won't let you die easily,” he spat, his voice thick with rage.
“Hey, I asked if you can even see.”
The response was entirely flat, ignoring the threat.
Seething, the Viscount’s swordsman strode forward and swung. It was a heavy, powerful strike delivered in tandem with his stride.
Andrew raised his shield. The moment the blade threatened to bite into the steel with a sharp clack, he deflected it to the side to throw off the point of impact, then thrust his own sword forward.
The opponent retreated and shouted, “Brick!”
At the swordsman’s cry, the man with the mace came thudding forward. He looked like someone who had stolen and drunk a giant’s blood.
“Was your mother a giant?”
Once unleashed, Andrew’s tongue stabbed at the opponent’s sore spots without hesitation. Perhaps his talent in this area was even more exceptional than his swordsmanship.
“You son of a bitch!” the mace-wielder roared, veins bulging on his forehead.
“Or was it your father?”
This time, it wasn't Andrew. One of the trainees chimed in from the side—a freckled female trainee. As she put into practice the "lessons" she had overheard, the mace-wielding man’s eyes darted toward her in a fury.
“We’ll handle this one,” the five trainees spoke in unison.
Andrew nodded. After all, hadn't he and these five survived that hellish bastard Rem and overcome that demonic bastard Encrid to stand here? No matter who came at them now, they would be a better opponent than those two.
“Die, blind man!” Andrew threw out one final provocation.
“You fucking bastard!”
Drawing out his opponent’s agitation, Andrew thrust his sword into the man’s pauldron. The combination of leather and iron protecting the shoulder tore away, and a spray of blood erupted.
“I will cut out your tongue first!” the swordsman screamed.
Yet, the man was still consumed by rage. Ignoring his wound, he spat his fury. Andrew simply nodded and replied:
“Where are you looking when you speak? Look me in the eye when you talk to someone. Oh, were you looking at my eyes? My apologies. I couldn't see your eyeballs, so I didn't realize you were trying.”
Even after drawing a dragon, it was only considered complete once the eyes were painted. Andrew did just that. He dotted the eyes with his words, completely drying up his opponent’s sanity.
Having lost all reason, the swordsman lunged once more.
*
Squire Ropode observed the battlefield, his brow furrowed.
‘Something is strange.’
The enemy numbers were large. They were threatening. Furthermore, what about the ten men standing at the front? Every single one of them exuded a terrifying aura. Three or four of them seemed to be a cut above him.
And yet, there was still room to catch one’s breath.
‘Is this all?’
No enemy reinforcements were in sight. Although everything, starting with the mangonels, was threatening...
‘And we did destroy those, but...’
Ropode pondered. He had seen the man named Encrid, and he wanted to walk his own path. Then, what was the reason he was walking this path? To amass wealth and raise his status?
What he was doing right now was ignoring—no, defying—the orders of his superiors. Even if things ended well, he would face suspension at the very least. If anything went wrong, he would end up in a dungeon.
Yet, he was here.
‘I belong to the Order.’
Squire Ropode wanted to fulfill his duty. There was a phrase he kept hidden deep in his heart: ‘For the glory of the Royal Family and the Kingdom.’
He had grown up watching the backs of his seniors, and he wanted to protect his honor.
Then, what was Ropode’s own hell?
‘The fall of the Royal Family.’
His continuous thoughts connected his actions, will, and heart, aligning with the current situation to yield an answer. Suddenly, cold sweat ran down his back.
Then, what did the enemy want? What did the mastermind behind this truly want?
His mind spun faster than ever before. His ears, which used to listen to others without forming his own opinions, turned inward and listened to his own questions.
He could see the enemy’s strength. Of course, without Ragna and Dunchabel, it would have been a struggle. They were that much of a threat. But he also thought, 'Is that all?'
‘If we hold the gate, we can endure.’
Even if the path was arduous, it was possible. Then, what was the conclusion?
The person who had sent him to Encrid was not the Sheriff. It was the moment his face flashed in his mind. What if he had sided with the enemy?
“The royal palace is in danger!” Ropode slammed his fist against the castle wall and shouted.
Below, Yon heard it. He adjusted his one-horned helmet. Yon, a warrior from the East, loved fighting. To be precise, he enjoyed using all kinds of tricks to bring down and kill his opponents.
If the desire of Frok Meelun of the Border Guard was the pleasure of defeating someone slightly less skilled than himself... Yon enjoyed watching opponents superior to him struggle and die. For that sake, he wouldn't hesitate to take hostages. He would do anything to catch his opponent off guard.
It was a dark, insidious desire.
“Do you know someone in the royal palace?” Yon asked, his face grave.
On the outside, he looked like a warrior who would only fight a fair and honorable battle, but his interior was the exact opposite. Yon spoke as he touched the broad scar on his cheek. The scar ran from his cheekbone to his jaw.
“This is the scar I got when my wife died.”
It was a lie. But what did it matter? As long as he could twist his opponent’s mind even a little, he would say anything.
“It wasn't even half a day. It was only the time it takes for a candle this small to burn down.” Yon spread his thumb and index finger. The gap between them was shorter than half a knuckle. “Yes, it wasn't an instant, but I was only this much too late. I ask again. Do you know someone in the royal palace? If so, I will let you go. Go.”
Yon recognized it at a glance. The man standing before him was at least an Associate Knight. He had no idea where such a fighter had popped up from. Since he had been told the main force of the Order wouldn't appear at the gate, this guy wasn't with the Order.
Yon gestured as he spoke, and in response, a mercenary beside him lowered a shield that covered half his body. It hit the ground with a heavy thud. He was a comrade with whom Yon had worked for years. Behind that shield was a net woven from monster scales and sinew.
The moment the man in front of them turned around, they would throw the net.
‘Yes, turn around.’
Yon acted the part of a warrior who knew honor.
But Ragna didn't listen to a single word the opponent said.
“What about the royal palace?” Ragna asked Ropode on the wall.
Ropode, unable to explain everything in detail, simply repeated the same words. “We must go back to defend the royal palace!”
Danger? Threat?
Everyone has their own hell.
Ragna finally found the reason why he had lacked motivation. Whether the people here lived or died had nothing to do with him. That was why. It was like walking without a destination. Since there was no destination, there was no need to look back at the path he had walked, nor any need to find the direction of where he should go.
‘Because I have no lingering attachments.’
That was why he lacked motivation. There was no reason for him to be here. It felt like wearing clothes that didn't fit. It was like being forced to eat food he didn't even want to touch.
He had only just realized this. The thought occurred to him because the threat to the royal palace immediately translated to danger for Encrid.
Ragna found the place where he was needed. What if Encrid died because of this?
‘Back to how it was before?’
It would be a life completely devoid of motivation. He didn't want to go back. Now he knew how to move forward, and he could see the path ahead. Therefore, he did not want the tool necessary for that to die. In other words, the Captain could not die yet.
But he wouldn't disobey his orders either. Encrid’s order was to defend the gate. Then he would defend it—and then he would go.
‘A shortcut.’
Ragna thought of a fast way to connect what he had to do now with his next destination.
As he stood there with a vacant gaze, a mercenary on the opposite side of Yon, targeting Ragna’s back, drew his bowstring. He was a man who enjoyed close-range shooting with a shortbow. He also used poisoned arrows. He loosed the string.
Twang!
An arrow pierced Ragna’s back. No—it didn't.
It pierced an afterimage.
Ragna ducked low and lunged forward. The arrow passed through the space where his chest had been a millisecond prior and embedded itself in the ground.
Ragna drew his sword, which he had briefly sheathed.
Shring.
At the sound of the drawing blade, Yon realized something had gone horribly wrong and swung his glaive downward.
It was futile.
Earlier, because Ragna lacked motivation, he hadn't shown even half of his true skill. Now, it was different.
‘To the royal palace.’
A traveler who has found a destination always walks with strength in their steps. Ragna’s sword was no different.
*
‘What is this?’
The Ferryman could observe, but he could not interfere. In other words, the Ferryman could see repeating events. In a way, it was like seeing a portion of the future.
Because of this, he felt no pleasure in watching. Knowing what would happen was equivalent to being deprived of the opportunity to feel joy. Thus, it had been an incredibly long time since he had experienced an unpredictable moment like this.
At first, he was bewildered. But gradually, a part of an emotion he had forgotten long ago, in the distant past, began to awaken.
The joy of beholding the unknown.
“Ha.”
In the mindscape, the Ferryman aboard the boat drifting down the river relished the ecstasy he had once felt.
Unpredictable. The future was invisible. Was this truly such a delightful thing?
Today was changing. From the repeating "today" that he had envisioned and witnessed, it was shifting in a completely unexpected direction. Since the Ferryman was merely an observer, he did just that.
He had his guesses as to what had caused this change, but he didn't bother to think any deeper. He simply enjoyed the present moment.
Because he was in the mindscape, he laughed in his mind, and because he wanted to ride the wave of this immense ecstasy, he laughed aloud as well.
It was that much of a pleasure.