Chapter 170
Chapter 170
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 170
Chapter Title: 171st Episode. [53. Fill the Goblet with Blood (2)]
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Antoine struck a cocky pose.
His face brimmed with unwavering confidence.
The more arrogant Antoine acted, the greater my anxiety grew.
The image of the mercenary captain proudly boasting about a single mediocre verse as if it were a priceless treasure from antiquity kept flashing before my eyes.
"Then let's begin."
Satisfied with his own haughtiness, Antoine drew his sword.
"Cha-hat!"
A resounding shout echoed alongside the sharp ring of his blade.
This was sword light at the upper level of Sword Expert—leaps and bounds beyond what he'd shown when we first met.
But what I wanted to see wasn't some commonplace sword light.
It was the one-of-a-kind battle ode unique to Antoine.
As I waited, his wildly scattered aura sharpened like a blade.
And when that edge reached its peak, the mercenary captain's lips moved.
"I am the redder blade that cleaves the red blade!"
Whoosh!
Antoine's sword turned red.
My face flushed hot.
No doubt my cheeks were as red as his glowing blade.
It felt like even my last shred of hope had crumbled.
But Antoine paid no mind to my inner turmoil.
"Hap! Hap!"
Red trails flashed into existence and vanished before my eyes, over and over.
I stroked my heated face as I watched his flashy display.
Setting aside those wretched lyrics, the battle ode itself packed a decent punch.
Properly channeled, it could slice through an orc warrior's battle spirit with its sharpness and ferocity.
Not too much, not too little—just the power of an extraordinary poem.
Honed to perfection, it would prove quite useful even against the ring knights.
The problem was that his ode sang only of that fleeting instant.
He'd fought in dozens of battles at minimum, slain dozens of orcs at least.
He'd even survived a clash with an orc king's legion.
Yet his ode captured only the split-second triumph over the enemy right in front of him.
It was regrettable.
But I pushed down those feelings.
Everyone has their own vessel.
While some gaze toward the war's end, others fixate solely on their blade's tip.
Antoine was simply the latter.
Dismissing his battle ode as paltry would be falling into arrogance once more.
I widened my eyes and searched for merits.
There were some. Utility in those crude lyrics.
Because the words were simple and sang only of that instant, Antoine wielded his ode without the slightest burden.
That meant he could sustain its power for a long time.
Just like the [Golden Ode] of the man once called the Mercenary King.
It had to be because Antoine shared that same mercenary origin.
"Ah."
A good idea suddenly struck me.
If things went well, I could pass on new odes to this man—who could only compose crude lyrics with his head—and his comrades.
But first, I needed to assess their achievements.
I asked Antoine, who'd finished his demonstration, about his progress with the [Ode of Requiem] I'd taught him as payment for their 20-year contract.
His confident face fell.
"The bit about mountains and ponds of rotting green corpses... I just couldn't get a feel for it."
In Winter Fortress, with its frequent orc battles, I figured they'd assimilate the [Ode of Requiem]'s power to some degree. But the results were lackluster.
Antoine's requiem flames, summoned with a crestfallen expression, were mere sparks too weak to singe a cloak.
The other mercenaries were the same.
Their odes sang only of that instant, like Antoine's, and only a scant few could properly draw out the power of the battle odes I'd taught them.
And even those fizzled out after one burst, draining their stamina dry. In real combat, using [Ode of Requiem] was impractical for them.
I wasn't disappointed.
Simple and crude they might be, but they'd forged their own battle odes. They were worth at least one man's share.
And if they fell short, I could fill the gap.
"You lot, stand by for now."
I positioned Antoine and the mercenary-turned-knights off to one side of the clearing, then called forward another group of men.
Once ring knights, now Mana Heart knights—the kingdom's broken treasured swords.
Their gazes brimmed with hostility.
Unlike Antoine or the other mercenaries, they had no desire for my approval.
They even seemed to resent my orders; despite repeated commands, none stepped forward.
"Hm."
Then Gawayne emerged.
He'd vanished the moment he returned to the kingdom, apparently sticking with his comrades.
"Don't misunderstand. I'm only stepping up because I want to get back and rest sooner."
He drew his sword, volunteering words I hadn't asked for.
Woooong.
The [Ode of Shadows], woven from Dotrin's tidal disaster, flowed from between his teeth.
His blade blackened. A deeper darkness than before.
The resentment and fury within were incomparably heavier than in the past.
No doubt surviving the battle with the great lord had helped.
Clack.
Gawayne sheathed his sword after the demonstration and retreated to his comrades. As if waiting, one of his fellows stepped forward.
He too had gone to Dotrin with Gawayne.
That sparked it.
After Gawayne's trio finished in succession, the others grudgingly followed suit.
"I wrapped the cutting wind around my broken blade's tip. The wind's howl is my sword's cry."
A cutting gale blew.
"My wavering blade now stands true. What can this sword not cleave?"
Sword light extended outward.
"Even shattered iron shards—its edge wounds my foes without fail."
Dozens of fragment-like beams flickered.
I took in each sword's power they demonstrated.
If the Silver Foxes' odes were simple and bold, the knights' battle odes were uniformly abstract and somber.
The Silver Foxes' sustained sharpness over time, prioritizing survival. The knights' struck with overwhelming force per blow, hard to maintain long—born of the divide between those who valued living and those who offered their lives for victory.
After confirming all their odes, I positioned them opposite the Silver Foxes.
Then I turned to the rest.
Northern natives I'd accepted as knights after testing their talents.
Their lyrics eerily resembled Winter Fortress's military songs; some even borrowed verses from war poems outright.
And their karma and resentment matched [Ode of Requiem] perfectly.
Their flames differed only in hue—yellow, red, blue.
All extraordinary battle odes brimming with spirit.
Thus, I inspected the battle odes of nearly five hundred knights.
On the spot, I grouped them into hundreds, forming five knight orders.
I named Gawayne and the Death Knights' group the [Dawn Knight Order].
I split the remaining royal knights into [Daybreak Knight Order] and [Dusk Knight Order].
The elite mercenary knights became the [Silver Fox Knight Order], retaining their old name.
The northern natives formed the [Cutting Gale Knight Order].
I assigned Dusk, Daybreak, and Dawn to the Ilai bastard.
Silver Fox and Cutting Gale went to Arwen.
Though the two leaders sparked mixed reactions, there was no major uproar.
With the five knight orders formed, I summoned the Silver Fox Knight Order separately.
"The initial payment proved useless to you, so I'll offer a new ode as contract fulfillment."
In exchange for their promised 20 years of service, I gave them the [Golden Ode]—the lifelong achievement of that money-mad Mercenary King.
Given their mercenary roots matching his, I figured they'd grasp it easily.
Of course, I knew fully assimilating another's battle ode was nearly impossible.
Even partial mastery was fine. I just wanted it to nourish them.
It wasn't a decision I'd make lightly. With any other ode, I wouldn't have taught so many at once, even in death.
Indiscriminate sharing inevitably dilutes an ode's spirit.
But I didn't hesitate.
For that damned money ghost's ode, I'd teach a thousand knights if needed.
My own petty revenge.
Payback against the man who dared sell me for mere coin.
I still remembered vividly.
Selling me without a second thought for a pouch of gold coins, then turning away.
I knew he was money-obsessed, but not to that extent. The shock and rage lingered even after centuries.
"Damn bastard."
Fresh anger surged as I spat the curse. The Silver Fox knights, delighted with their new ode, startled and turned to me.
"It's not about you. Carry on."
The knights, gauging my mood, scattered hesitantly.
He'd sold me for money, so I'd sold his karma and resentment to mercenaries as contract pay.
No regrets, no pity.
If anything, it felt refreshing.
With the Silver Foxes settled, I turned to Dawn, Dusk, and Daybreak Knight Orders.
I planned to teach them one ode too.
A battle ode pairing with the bloodswordsmen's hearts they'd forged.
A song perfectly suited to those wound-covered knights.
But the time wasn't right yet.
Once they rediscovered the path for their grudges and hatred...
That is,
They'd claim their new ode upon reaching the capital.
* * *
With the knight orders organized, I hurried preparations to leave Winter Fortress.
Even as I readied, the empire's situation shifted by the minute.
Dotrin's king led flying dragon knights in ravaging the empire's east.
The army of a certain ducal house—foolish enough to declare a fire dragon subjugation—had been annihilated.
And several intact territories vanishing under the enraged fire dragon's wrath? That was quite pleasing news.
Montpellier's voice from the crystal orb sounded utterly despondent, as if the world were ending.
His current plight was little different.
One of the territories hit by the fire dragon's tantrum was his own. His household had been massacred alongside the burning castle.
All that remained of Montpellier's base in the empire were his family's merchant guild and a few businesses.
No wonder the once-arrogant man was crestfallen.
Of course, he wasn't just wallowing in despair.
The worse things got, the more eagerly he cooperated with me.
He mobilized his guild's people to report every event in the empire without omission.
Meticulously, down to the last detail.
It was only natural.
With nearly all his foundations lost, Montpellier had just two paths left.
Stay in the kingdom and cling to his hollow envoy title.
Or return to the empire and face his rivals' blades.
He'd chosen the former.
His voice from the crystal orb dripped with desperation.
[That imperial bastard. Damn the emperor to hell.]
So desperate he cursed the emperor to his face—him, who used to fawn "Your Majesty" nonstop.
Leash him like a dog, make him grovel, and he'd truly become one.
"We'll talk when I return."
I made no promises about his future. The harm he'd wrought in the kingdom and the tears of blood it'd caused were too grave.
If he survived paying the price, then I'd consider taking him in.
I let his scream-like plea fade from one ear as I pulled my hand from the crystal orb.
And the next day arrived.
Excluding the hundred knights fallen in the recent war, six hundred knights and the Royal Knight Order's hundred stood arrayed before Winter Fortress's south gate. Fully armed rangers and heavy infantry joined them.
"All preparations are complete."
The Old Knight and masters surrounded me.
"Travel safely."
Vincent, who'd followed me well beyond the south gate, bid a simple farewell.
"See you when I get back."
I replied as if we'd meet tomorrow.
"May fortune favor Your Highness!"
Amid the rangers' salutes at my back, I departed Winter Fortress.
The bitter cold had faded; we'd entered the central regions.
As the capital drew near, my heart began to pound fiercely.
Right after beholding the kingdom's reality for the first time, the conversation with my uncle flashed through my mind.
'Uncle, I've changed my mind. I'll give it a shot.'
To my uncle, eyes wide at my abrupt words, I'd said,
"I'll try my hand at being king."
And so, I'd vowed to revive this fallen kingdom.