Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Pouring Water into the Pit (2)
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Unlike my younger brother, he had the sharp eyes to see through my true nature.
The boy hurriedly pulled his little sister close and hid her behind him. Then he bowed deeply at the waist.
“Please forgive my sister’s rudeness. She’s still just a child.”
His voice was desperately earnest, trembling with fear.
‘As expected of Abel Kindriel.’
There probably wasn’t a soul in the territory unaware of my notoriety. Even a boy who looked to be in his mid-teens was shaking like this.
‘I wonder if I can win him over.’
I pictured one person in my mind as I slowly approached the siblings.
“…….”
The boy’s body stiffened as he stood protectively in front of his sister. I reached out toward the girl peeking from behind his back.
The moment the boy squeezed his eyes shut,
“You’ve got good eyes.”
I patted the girl’s head gently. Then I walked right past the siblings.
“Gasp!”
I heard the boy gasp behind me.
“Brother, what’s wrong?”
“……No, it’s nothing.”
Their voices faded into the distance.
“Hmm.”
I walked carefully, scanning my surroundings. I paid special attention to those entering or leaving Magna Morten.
‘Roughly seven or eight.’
And that was just in the short time it took to cross the bridge.
“We’ll come again next time.”
“Bye, Uncle Denver…….”
Most were bereaved families, often coming in groups.
“Sniff.”
Or a woman walking alone, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief.
I stared at the back of the sobbing woman as she trudged along.
In the original story, the first person to grasp Requiem was a widow who had lost her husband early and come to Magna Morten.
A woman who had never held a sword in her life massacred several nearby homes in an instant.
‘The widow’s name wasn’t mentioned in the original.’
So I couldn’t pinpoint exactly who first wielded Requiem.
‘And there’s no point in searching for that.’
If that person wasn’t there at that moment, Requiem would draw someone else to grasp it instead.
‘Making this place a restricted zone might be the best option.’
My thoughts concluded just as I reached the end of the bridge.
“This is it.”
The bridge connected to a wide island, the entirety of which was enclosed by a massive dome-shaped building.
Stepping inside, a solemn mausoleum greeted me. The graves were neatly divided by year, with tombstones marking each section for easy reference.
“Whoa.”
I let out a sigh at the vast expanse of graves.
As far as I knew, our territory’s population was around five thousand. Yet there were this many tombstones.
‘This is... too much.’
I’d heard there were many deaths, but not to this extent. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Ovest Territory was built on their graves.
‘Truly... ruthless.’
No wonder Requiem, the sword of death, emerged here.
The birthplace of each of the Four Seasons Swords was closely tied to their nature. Ovest Territory was a perfect match for Requiem.
‘And the others...’
I recalled the remaining Four Seasons Swords from the original story.
One in the south, one in the north. And the last...
‘In the imperial capital.’
I already knew when and where they would appear. But I hadn’t decided what to do about them yet.
‘First things first, secure Requiem.’
With that in mind, I headed toward the center of the sections. At the heart of the domed structure stood a tower towering as high as those in the castle.
Engraved on the tower’s pillar in bold script was a single phrase.
[Transcend death.]
I stood before the inscription and gave a wry smile.
‘Just empty words.’
The dead don’t return. No matter how grand and reverent the structure, their souls had already left this world.
‘It’s just superficial comfort for the living.’
Such solace offered no real solution to those left behind. It was merely an attempt to ease their pain, however slightly.
“Sob, hic.”
“Sniffle.”
The interior of Magna Morten echoed with the mourners’ sobs.
I glanced at families clinging to each other, weeping. I noted the number on the section where they stood.
‘1378.’
Just three years ago. Too short a time to accept they’d never see their loved ones again.
Laughter is contagious. And the same went for tears, with their opposite nature.
Mourners at older sections seemed relatively composed. But even their eyes reddened as they watched the weeping families.
It wasn’t that they didn’t grieve. They’d simply grown accustomed.
They comforted each other in their own ways, swallowing tears or spending time in silence.
But then.
“Gasp!”
“Young Master Abel?”
“Why is he here…….”
Some mourners spotted me as they glanced around.
“Hic.”
Starting with one stifled hiccup,
“Sniff, gulp.”
“Gasp.”
Everyone clamped their mouths shut, muffling their cries. They desperately averted their eyes from me.
“…….”
My mere presence swept away the sorrow filling Magna Morten. An unintended comforting effect.
‘Feels like I’m the grim reaper come to call death itself.’
In truth, considering Abel’s future, it wasn’t entirely off.
I passed the mourners with an expressionless face.
“Phew…….”
Relieved sighs scattered behind me. The families hurriedly wiped their tears and began slipping out of Magna Morten one by one.
As I wandered the now-deserted space,
“Hm?”
I spotted a girl. Her reddish-brown hair was braided, and she wore simple white clothes.
“Haah…….”
She squatted before a tombstone, uncorking a bottle of liquor.
Eighteen, perhaps. A flush stood out on her still-youthful cheeks.
I quickly revised my impression.
‘Not a flush—intoxication.’
Her neck was turning red, confirming it.
She tilted the bottle—nearly as big as her face—to her lips without pause. The potent smell wafting over suggested it was no ordinary brew.
‘No way that’s Fire Brandy?’
I easily identified the liquor.
Nicknamed dragon’s breath.
‘Not something a girl her size should drink alone.’
It was the drink seasoned mercenaries downed after their first kill to forget the memory. Rumored to turn you into a beast after one glass, letting you forget yourself completely.
Gulp, gulp.
The sound of liquor sliding down her throat echoed repeatedly.
She hadn’t turned into a beast, but she didn’t seem in full control either. She just kept swigging Fire Brandy like she was possessed, one gulp after another.
The girl gripped the bottle in one hand and wiped her mouth with the other.
“Haa…….”
A wistful sigh escaped like a whisper. Someone weak to alcohol might get drunk just inhaling it.
‘Did the caretakers let her smuggle that in?’
No other luggage around suggested she’d hidden it on her person.
“Look at her... starting again.”
“It’s almost the anniversary.”
“I thought she’d calmed down, but the illness is back.”
Nearby mourners whispered among themselves. It seemed this wasn’t the first time the girl had made a scene like this at a tombstone.
“Should someone stop her...?”
“Leave her be. She won’t listen to anyone then.”
“Didn’t you hear about old Nils getting his head cracked trying to take her bottle?”
Apparently, she had a temperament that made her lash out blindly when drunk.
Curiosity piqued, but so did a premonition of hassle if I got involved.
“…….”
Pretending to pass by, I examined the tombstone ahead.
[1345-1380. 4. 5. Lucas, husband of Alessia, father of Melina. He rests here.]
Below was a brief eulogy for his death.
[I shall never forget his dedication in protecting the territory. Diego Kindriel.]
I froze in place.
Alessia’s husband, Melina’s father.
‘No way!’
I stared intently at the girl’s face, red as a tomato about to burst.
Crying here meant family. Considering Lucas’s age from the stone and the girl’s apparent age...
‘This girl is Alessia’s daughter, Melina?’
Alessia Scuzen.
The blacksmith born once every few centuries with the ‘Guardian’s Hand.’ In the original, she crafted legendary armor for the protagonist, Cain.
And I planned to claim that armor for myself. To block Requiem’s malice and whispers.
‘I was already planning to visit.’
Of course, I knew where Alessia lived. I’d memorized every detail about the territory long ago.
If this girl really was her daughter, there might be something to leverage.
‘But... was she like this in the original?’
Melina there was lively and spirited. The type to drag a wandering Cain straight to her mother’s forge.
‘Hair color matches, at least.’
Appearance alone wasn’t conclusive. Especially with her chugging liquor nonstop, hard to even talk to.
So I stood quietly beside her, waiting. How long had I observed her raucous drinking?
Thud.
She slammed the bottle down hard. It made a loud noise but didn’t shatter, thanks to its sturdy build.
“Gasp.”
But I focused on the sound escaping through her gritted teeth.
Tears streamed from her closed eyes. The rivulets down her still face looked utterly heartbreaking.
“Sniff.”
In that moment, she wept more pitifully and sorrowfully than anyone else here.
Then,
“Ugh…….”
Her body suddenly pitched forward. Just before her head hit the stone,
“Careful.”
My hand shot out reflexively. Her forehead landed softly in my palm.
“Hic.”
She seemed unaware whether it was stone, wall, or a hand against her brow. She just shed silent tears.
My once-dry palm grew slick with moisture.
“Tch.”
I slowly pushed my palm away, steadying her body upright.
“Here.”
I offered the handkerchief I carried.
“…….”
Her hazy gaze lingered on it, then lifted to me.
Her eyes were like a gray sky heavy with storm clouds, soaked in melancholy.
“……?”
A look asking why I’d give it to her. She was too drunk to recognize me.
‘Anyone past childhood would know who I am.’
In a flat tone, I said curtly,
“Use it.”
Ripples of surprise spread in her eyes. She bowed her head and took the handkerchief I offered.
“Thank... you.”
Her voice still thick with grief flowed out.