Chapter 389: Who Was in Front of the Queen
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 389: Who Was in Front of the Queen
The day, which had always ended before sunset, had finally changed. Ragna, the living proof of that change, turned around.
Behind Ragna, who lowered his sword and caught his breath, the associate knight who had loomed like a grim reaper collapsed with a heavy thud.
Blood gushed from the severed neck. Fresh blood pooled onto the carpet, which was already soaked crimson.
"How?"
Encrid asked. He wasn't paralyzed by terror, but he was certainly surprised. He was genuinely curious, and that was why he asked.
Is he asking how he got here? Krang wondered as he watched. It was incredibly timely assistance.
In truth, it was the result of reaching the end of a repeated, twisted day, but there was no way for Krang to know that.
While Ragna silently flicked the blood off his sword, Encrid clarified the reason for his surprise.
"How did you find the way?"
How could he not be surprised? Ragna had made it here all on his own. He couldn't have followed them secretly, so he must have come straight from the castle gates. Unless the Goddess of Fortune had personally taken his hand and guided him—rather than just giving him a passing kiss—this was something that should have been impossible.
At Encrid's question, Ragna puffed out his chest. It was as if he had come all this way just for this very moment.
"I know a shortcut."
"Luck?" Encrid asked, his question brief. He was asking if luck had guided him.
Ragna replied with equal brevity. "Skill."
He meant he was born with a knack for finding shortcuts.
Krang blinked. What the hell are these bastards doing?
It was an incomprehensible conversation. Truly, a dialogue between madmen.
Well, it wasn't his place to judge. The only thing that mattered was that he was alive. Night had not even fallen yet. Krang realized the matter had been settled before the backup he had prepared could even arrive.
"I nearly pissed myself," Krang said, collapsing onto the floor.
It wasn't the kind of thing a man aspiring to be king of a nation should say, but saying it didn't diminish Krang's dignity. He was simply that kind of man. Why should celebrating one's survival as a human being diminish one's dignity? Even if someone had asked, he would have answered the same way.
Ending his brief exchange with Ragna, Encrid used his left hand to roughly pop his fractured right wrist back into place. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on Ragna. His gaze was now different from when they were trading those joke-like remarks.
Finding the way was one thing. But what about what came after?
Ragna had pushed back and decapitated an opponent Encrid himself couldn't defeat. Encrid had witnessed the entire fight. Anyone who saw Ragna's fight, who saw his sword, would have known.
Though he had not yet ascended to the rank of a knight, Ragna would become one. He possessed that kind of talent. A mere glimpse of that talent had leaked out, revealing its true depth. Matthew's eyes also widened, his breathing turning ragged.
The shock was that profound.
"Thank you," Encrid spoke.
The words expressed gratitude, but his tone carried a different emotion altogether. Krang's ears perked up, and his head snapped around. Normally, Encrid wouldn't show his emotions so easily, but right now, he seemed unable to hold them back.
Krang looked at Encrid and shouted, "Healer! Bring a healer!"
His two guards were severely injured. Tending to them was an urgent matter. Whether out of a strong sense of duty or deep loyalty, an attendant and a maid immediately emerged.
"Y-Yes, Your Highness."
Wherever they had been hiding, they had miraculously escaped death and injury. No, this was only natural. Had the deceased associate knight's plans succeeded, these servants would have been the ones cleaning up Krang's corpse. Unless one was a bloodthirsty, perverted murderer, there was no reason to kill mere attendants and maids.
Even if the dead man had turned traitor, he had still been a member of the knights. Krang knew this, which was why he called for help.
"Bring a healer," Krang ordered from his seated position, and the attendant and maid hurried off. Even so, Krang's gaze never left Encrid.
"You almost died," Ragna said.
He was, of course, referring to Encrid. Had he sensed the underlying emotion in Encrid's thank-you? Was he rebuking him, asking if that was the proper attitude to show the person who had just saved his life? Was he questioning why Encrid harbored such feelings?
It seemed to carry that nuance. Krang had a knack for reading the hidden intentions behind people's words. It was something that could be called insight.
Even so, Encrid's gaze did not waver.
Encrid dreamed of becoming a knight. Yet, even when he had resolved to stop the enemy, he had failed. He hadn't been alone either; even with the help of Matthew, Krang's guard, and another spearman, this was the result.
He had lost. It was a defeat.
A normal person might have tasted frustration and despair. Even if they didn't feel despair, looking at Ragna would inevitably spark other thoughts. You wouldn't be human if you didn't feel jealous. Could one even be called human without being swayed by envy?
That was what Krang thought. And looking at Encrid, he thought: That bastard isn't human.
"Once this heals, let's have a match," Encrid said, raising his right wrist.
What was the emotion burning in his blazing eyes? There was no envy. Only ecstasy, joy, and a fierce thirst for battle.
Seeing that, Ragna scolded him. "If you've just escaped death, you should learn to exercise some self-restraint."
It wasn't the kind of remark one would expect from Ragna, but this time, Encrid had definitely gone too far. Encrid acknowledged this and nodded.
"Krang?" Encrid called out to him.
Krang was about to gather his thoughts and move. His mind was already filled with plans for what to do next. Just then, Krang spotted his "preparation." His travels across the continent hadn't been merely for the sake of running away. This was one of the fruits of those travels.
"I am late," said a man with short brown hair as he approached.
Ragna took one look at the man striding down the hallway and knew instantly that he was a formidable opponent.
"Sir Ingis," Krang called out.
Encrid recognized the man's affiliation. It was impossible not to know the allegiance of someone wearing a steel breastplate engraved with two swords and the emblem of the Sun Beast.
"I am Ingis of the Knights," he said.
His voice was young, and so was his face. He looked barely past twenty. In truth, Ingis was twenty-eight, and his youthful appearance was a bit of a complex for him. He was also the most brilliantly talented genius within the Red Cloak Knights.
During his days of fleeing and wandering, Krang had also toured the south. To be precise, he had met the knight defending the region bordering the southern frontier and the Demon Realm.
"Sir Cypress."
He had spoken with the knight, whose unit even had its own name. Afterward, he witnessed the battles of the south. In that place, Krang had nearly lost his head four times. Thanks to that, he had seen the southern struggle and understood the dangers they faced.
"I will not ascend the throne by borrowing the power of knights."
Krang had looked to the future. He envisioned the future of the royal palace. That was why he knew he could not bring in an overwhelming force like knights right now. Did he have to carve away the very flesh of the royal palace just to claim the throne?
"You protect your honor. I will do my job."
He would not do that. He would make a foolish, stubborn choice. And Krang had done just that. Was it thanks to that? He had secured a promise, and now he was seeing Ingis here. This was the preparation that would arrive to provide a solution if he could just hold out for half a day.
"I have come with eight squires," Ingis said.
It was just as he said. The others were currently clearing the area in front of the castle gates, while Ingis had rushed ahead to this spot. His gaze drifted to the associate knight Ragna had killed.
"Sir Filten."
Regret seeped into his voice. Even so, he did not blame Ragna or the others. He merely looked at the dead associate knight with a momentarily somber gaze. Everything was ultimately the man's own choice. He knew all too well that Filten had harbored jealousy toward him. But that didn't mean he had wished for an outcome like this.
Filten had become a traitor and drawn a line between them. Whether right or wrong, it was the path he had chosen. Therefore, it was only right that he bear the consequences himself. Secretly, Ingis was also grateful. If Filten had survived, Ingis would have had to kill him with his own hands.
Ingis soon raised his head and said, "We must go to Her Majesty the Queen."
Master Cypress's orders were twofold. While Krang's safety was important, Ingis had also been told to suppress and neutralize any rebellious threats within the royal palace.
"I was planning to do so anyway," Krang agreed.
Was the blade he had prepared really just a single associate knight from the south? Would he have staked everything on a single person's decision, which could easily change on a whim? Of course that wasn't all. Yet, nothing else had arrived. That meant trouble had erupted elsewhere.
The group moved together. Their destination was the Queen's Great Hall.
* * *
"Are you the tax collector?"
Having arrived at the royal palace, Sachsen had reached his final destination. In other words, this was his goal. What Sachsen had been searching for was the client of the Assassin Union.
At first, he thought it was Viscount Mernes, since the man had profited by employing the Black Sword Bandits. But after uncovering several pieces of evidence and making his move, he realized there was someone else. He had gained a lot of information by slaughtering the entire Assassin Union.
This was the result. He had learned the identity of the Black Sword's leader and who the client was. He hadn't figured it all out on his own, though. It was a result brought about by external pressure. To be precise, it was thanks to the schemes of that fellow Krang.
What Krang had done was physically force the nobles to take sides. Therefore...
'I can't say the Captain didn't help either.'
It was because the Black Sword had been thoroughly thrashed that their true colors had been exposed. Otherwise, the assassin guilds wouldn't have been pressured to form a union, nor would they have placed the request. No, they wouldn't have even stepped forward themselves in the first place.
"Did they fail?"
A question was returned with a question. A man with his back to a wide window stood straight. He was of considerable build. Sachsen nodded at his question.
"Not even close."
"Why?"
"A difference in skill."
"How kind of you to explain."
"I have something I want to ask as well. Will you answer me honestly?"
"Sure."
A man who had started as a merchant, bought a noble title, and become a tax collector—an official who collected taxes for the royal family. A man rumored to have sold his soul to a demon to achieve this.
"Is it the Black Lily?"
The burly tax collector twisted the corner of his mouth. He laughed, but his face was far too distorted to be called a smile.
"Fuck, I knew we should have killed every last one of them and burned it all to the ground back then."
At his words, the image of his burning manor flashed in Sachsen's mind. I've found the right place.
Sachsen raised his sword and spoke. "The legitimate heir of the Bensino family has returned."
While speaking, the tax collector had not once removed his hands from beneath the table. Now, he withdrew them from under the thick, sturdy, and highly expensive rosewood table. In his hands, he held two crossbows.
They were modified crossbows, already loaded with bolts, ready to fire the moment the triggers were pulled.
"Can you dodge this in such a narrow room?"
"I stand before you in the name of a man who lost his family, and a son who lost his parents."
"Cut the bullshit and come at me."
It was incredibly pathetic for a final trump card prepared by someone who had manipulated the Black Sword to orchestrate all sorts of schemes, but Sachsen did not mock his opponent. He merely made a single request.
"I have one request. Do not beg for forgiveness."
He was entirely sincere.
"Bullshit!"
The tax collector fired the bolt in his left hand. With a sharp twang of the bowstring, a blackened bolt flew through the darkness cast by the setting sun. The tip of the bolt was coated with the poison known as Ten Breaths; a mere scratch would mean the end.
Sachsen did not hide in the shadows to catch his opponent off guard. Since this was a moment to act purely on his desires, he wanted to show his face clearly to his enemy until the very end. He swung his sword and deflected the bolt. This level of skill was barely worth calling a trick.
With a sharp clack, the bolt snapped and bounced off the wall and floor. Meanwhile, the second bolt flew. It was a staggered attack. Sachsen pulled back his sword and struck down the second bolt as well.
With a sharp crack, a fragment of the broken bolt grazed his cheek. He hadn't wanted to dodge. So he hadn't. A scratch formed on his cheek. A stinging pain flared up. It was the poison.
"I got you!" the tax collector shouted.
His tone was light, completely unfitting for his massive build. Sachsen found it distasteful. He hadn't expected the target of his vengeance to be some grand figure. But what was this? He was nothing but a pathetic, wretched human being.
'Aren't you just elevating their status in your own mind? Aren't you thinking that the bastards who burned down your family must have had some grand reason for it?'
His master's words came back to him. His master was right. That was how Sachsen had viewed them. He had believed that great men must have done it for some grand reason. An altar to a demon, the resurrection of an evil god... shouldn't it at least be something of that scale? Or perhaps a great noble pulling the strings of the nation?
He thought it had to be. He had built up his opponent in his mind. Otherwise, there would be no reason to go to such extremes. But there was a reason. Humans could kill others out of the pettiest greed.
It was a mistake. It was fine. He could correct it. Hadn't Encrid shown him? What should one do when they have strayed onto the wrong path?
'You just have to come back.'
You just had to start over. And if it happened again? What if mistakes kept piling up? That was fine too. You just had to repeat it. Start over. Keep doing it until it worked. Encrid had taken up the sword and harbored the dream of becoming a knight. Was that dream wild and unrealistic? Was it laughable? Was it something to be mocked?
Not at all. By repeating, moving forward, and never giving up, one builds their own tower and walks their own path. That was how you did it. That was all there was to it.
Sachsen decided not to be disappointed by how pathetic his opponent was.
"Ten Breaths?" Instead, he calmly identified the poison.
"...Was it really the Dagger of Geor?" the tax collector muttered.
A look of flustered anxiety crossed his face. At the same time, he stealthily grabbed another object and threw it to the floor.
Bang!
Smoke billowed up. It was a smoke bomb. Sachsen felt a vibration that dulled his hearing, and the smoke completely obscured his vision. But it didn't matter. He had pierced through tricks like this hundreds of times.
He sensed through his sixth sense, presence, and the vibrations in the air. Relying solely on his senses, he located his opponent. The bastard was trying to escape through the window. Sachsen strode forward, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and threw him backward. The man swung his hand, wielding a hook-like weapon.
Sachsen caught the man's hand with his left, threw him, and drew his stiletto with his right. After blocking and parrying the attack, he took a few steps toward the man he had thrown.
The man didn't scream or groan. From within the smoke, he blurted out the words he thought would save him. Of course, they were words meant only for his own benefit. To Sachsen, they were utterly meaningless.
"If you spare me, I'll give you wealth beyond your wildest dreams! I can give you treasure! I know where the Black Sword's secret vault is!"
"I know the secret vault of the continent's greatest assassin guild."
The mere secret vault of the Black Sword? Understanding the implication of Sachsen's words, the tax collector broke into a cold sweat.
Sachsen opened the door. Several corpses strewn outside greeted him. They were his own handiwork—those who had tried to block his path on his way here. There were bodyguards and assassins alike. They must have been the forces the leader of the Black Sword had prepared for his own protection.
It wasn't that there were no survivors. He had no reason to harm the attendants or maids who had huddled in the corners without attacking.
Sachsen waited for the smoke to clear before turning his head. He saw a curved dagger in the tax collector's hand. To be precise, he saw the man holding it in a reverse grip, hiding it beneath his thigh. Sachsen raised his longsword and stabbed him in the thigh, easily neutralizing his intentions.
Squelch.
The tip of the longsword plunged into the thigh.
"Aaargh!" a scream rang out.
Sachsen twisted the blade. He pulled it out and repeatedly stabbed the man's other arms and legs. After severing the tendons in the tax collector's limbs, he snatched the weapon away, tossed it aside, and bound the wounds with a wide cloth to stop the bleeding.
"You crazy bastard!" the tax collector spat, his voice laced with venom.
"I hear that often, but it never grows endearing," Sachsen replied flatly.
He listlessly pulled out his stiletto and a whetstone to sharpen the blade. Along with it, he laid out a dagger with a serrated edge. Beside it, he neatly arranged awls, pincers, and other implements. They were tools of torture.
"What do you want? The Black Lily? Do you want me to tell you who the rest are? Or what? What is it you want to know? What is it, you bastard?!"
Sachsen blinked a few times and replied, "Nothing."
"...What?"
"I told you, do not ask for forgiveness. I’m saving your tongue for last."
Sachsen did not think his revenge was beautiful, nor did he believe it was justified.
'So what? It's none of my business.'
Encrid's words came to mind.
'I don't want to stab a friend in the back just because it's necessary. I want to look around me, not just forward. Did they say everyone lives by ripping others off? There are people who don't.'
In any case, it didn't matter. He would simply do as his heart desired.
"If anyone asks, tell them Sachsen of the Bensino family sent you. I'll send all your friends to join you soon. One of them should already be there."
"Aaaaaargh!"
The tax collector's screams echoed through the manor.
"It wasn't me! I'm telling you, it wasn't meeee!"
The tax collector screamed his innocence until the very end, but Sachsen did not listen.
* * *
"Should I say it has been a while?"
The Queen's Great Hall was also in shambles. A commotion had taken place here as well. The Queen sat upon her throne, flanked by a mage on one side and Frok Luagarne on the other. Below them, several nobles had taken their places.
To Encrid's right stood the Marquis of Okto, along with an unfamiliar old man who bore a striking resemblance to Marcus. On the opposite side stood the very man who had just spoken.
It was Count Molsen.