Chapter 11
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 11
It was an ordinary-looking tavern. Though worn, its main beams looked solid and firmly in place.
The main hall featured a bar and several tables, with a staircase leading to a loft where one could look down over the railing at the floor below.
The wooden walls were covered in chaotic, messy gashes, as if a beast had marked its territory—a silent testament that this was not a place to be trifled with.
If one thing set it apart from other slum taverns, it was that it wasn't particularly rowdy.
The patrons conversed quietly, played cards, sipped their drinks, threw daggers—not darts—at the walls, or inhaled smoke from burning mugwort.
Slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, in a secluded corner, a few lightly armed figures sat or leaned against the wall.
The one sitting at the table had a rather rough, intimidating look, though a closer inspection revealed he wasn't that old—perhaps eighteen to twenty.
He was scowling deeply, as if looking at something repulsive. His head was half-turned, his eyes reluctantly fixed on the objects resting on the table.
Resting on the table were the severed heads of the Bilton brothers.
"Yeah, that's them. Now get these fucking things out of my sight," the rough-looking man muttered.
At his word, one of the men nearby grabbed the severed heads by their hair—one in each hand—and carried them away.
Looking nauseated, the man spat on the floor, took a swig of strong liquor from a wooden mug, and looked at the pair sitting across from him.
It was Arno and Rickert. One was clearly a greenhorn, and the other was far too young. They were a bizarre pair for a place like this, and the fact that they had brought the Bilton brothers' heads made it even more absurd.
Yet, he didn't pry into their reasons or how they had managed it.
"They were such massive pieces of shit that the bounty is pretty decent for how easy they were to deal with. Thirty silver coins a head. Here, look."
He tossed a document onto the table. It featured sketches of the Bilton brothers, along with their descriptions and criminal records. A quick glance revealed words like assault, women, and human trafficking.
Seals from the imperial court and the local magistrate were stamped at the bottom, stating a bounty of one gold coin per head if captured alive, and thirty silver coins if only the heads were delivered.
He then slapped a small coin pouch onto the table.
"Sixty in total. Count it and sign."
Rickert silently pulled the pouch toward himself, untied the drawstring, and rummaged through the coins a few times with his fingers. Then, he spoke.
"Two are missing."
"What?"
"I said, two are missing."
He counted them all in that split second? He didn't even dump them out, just estimated by feel and got it exactly right?
"Ha… You've got sharp eyes, kid. Two silver coins is our fee. We good?"
"Fine."
Rickert accepted without argument and counted out twenty-nine silver coins from the pouch.
"This is yours, Arno. Arno. Arno!"
"Uh, oh! Yes?!"
Arno, who had been looking around with a thoroughly terrified expression, snapped out of his daze only when Rickert called his name.
"This is yours. Twenty-nine silver coins. It was thirty per head, but they took two as a fee."
"Ah, right…"
Whatever courage he had mustered from killing a few bandits seemed to have completely shriveled up. Arno looked utterly cowed and dazed.
He didn't even think to politely decline, nor did he have the mental capacity to rejoice at receiving the small fortune of twenty-nine silver coins.
It was only natural. Arno felt as though he had walked straight into a tiger's den, and his only desire was to flee the premises immediately.
After the brief commotion outside, he had followed along simply because he was told to, but now he was thoroughly convinced he had made a terrible mistake.
"By the way, is this really the Beringen Adventurers' Guild branch?" Rickert asked the rough-looking man as he signed the document. He simply wrote his name, but his handwriting, inherited from his mother, was as elegant and flowing as a willow branch.
"No. This is the Eisen Brotherhood's headquarters. In other words, a Thieves' Guild," the rough-looking man said nonchalantly as he gathered the paperwork.
At the mention of a Thieves' Guild, Arno's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"Huh?!"
To him, a Thieves' Guild was a criminal syndicate that couldn't even be compared to run-of-the-mill bandits. They were organized, professional, disciplined, secretive, and ruthless when it came to retribution.
Furthermore, though Arno traveled far and wide for work, his home was in Rheinfurt, and he had heard plenty of terrifying rumors about the Eisen Brotherhood. In fact, it was impossible not to know of them. Living in Rheinfurt without knowing the Eisen Brotherhood was practically begging for an early grave.
Rickert glanced at Arno, wondering what the big deal was, then turned back to the man across the table.
"Aren't you an adventurer?"
"I am. But hey, a job is just a label, isn't it? Even the Norsemen do both raiding and trading."
"Then what about the branch? The Beringen Adventurers' Guild."
"This guy, that guy, him, and me—we're all registered adventurers with the Beringen Guild. The rest of our crew is out on jobs. As for why we're here… let's just say we're crashing here for now. Though 'for now' has turned into quite a while. Whether it's for information or coin, if you want to make it as an adventurer, it's best to stay on good terms with the Thieves' Guild."
Rickert wasn't sure if squatting in a Thieves' Guild headquarters really qualified as a "branch," but it seemed even Arno hadn't known about this arrangement. The whole operation felt incredibly disorganized.
Rickert couldn't quite wrap his head around why an adventurers' guild would be so closely entangled with thieves.
"Why is that?"
"Why else? You need information to get anything done."
"Is that how it is?"
"That's exactly how it is. Now, let me ask you a question. How did you kill them? The Bilton brothers, I mean."
"I just hid and ambushed them."
"Is it really that simple? No matter how I look at it, I don't think I could have pulled that off when I was your age."
"Everyone is different."
"Sure, but you seem very different. Anyway, do you have other business with me?"
"I'm looking for a guide to take me to Beringen Academy."
"Why go to that Chicken Coop?"
"Chicken Coop?"
"It's a chicken coop. What else is there to say? What business do you have there?"
Rather than explaining, Rickert pulled his admission letter from his bag and showed it to them. This time, it wasn't just the rough-looking man who was taken aback; his companions nearby gasped as well.
"Whoa! What the hell is this?! Do those bastards actually issue things like this now?!"
"What is it? Damn, why does it look so official?"
"Wait, are you a noble?"
Seeing the seal wishing martial fortune to House Caldebern, the man looked up, thoroughly surprised.
"Yes. Why?"
"Something's not right here."
"What do you mean?"
"That's not a place for kids like you."
"What do you mean? Explain it to me."
"More than half the kids there are bastards. The rest are commoners. There won't be a single proper noble like you."
This was quite surprising. Or perhaps unexpected was the better word. Rickert had unconsciously assumed it was a place where children of similar standing to his own gathered.
But a bastard was just a bastard. Neither noble nor commoner, they were outcasts born of unblessed unions, destined for a harsh life. Nobles openly despised them, and commoners sneered behind their backs. Bastards received respect from no one.
Of course, some were eventually legitimized by the head of their house, and others managed to carve out a life for themselves, but such cases were exceedingly rare.
But did any of that matter? Perhaps due to the environment he had grown up in, Rickert cared little for social status. In his past life, he had killed everyone equally, regardless of birth.
"That doesn't matter to me. I chose to become an adventurer of my own free will."
"Huh? Why?"
"Because I want to know if the war was worth fighting."
"What does that mean?"
"The Eastern Campaign Front. A war was fought there a hundred years ago. So many people suffered and died agonizing deaths. Isn't it natural to wonder if it was actually worth it?"
The man looked as if he had just swallowed a bug, utterly baffled. What is this kid talking about? And why on earth does he care about that?
"If you join a Knightly Order, you can at least win honor. If you become a mercenary officer, you can make good coin. Why the hell would you choose to be an adventurer?"
"Then I'll just be an adventurer and claim both. Honor and coin."
The man stared at Rickert, his face twisted in disbelief. This kid is out of his mind.
"Ahaha! Exactly. Why not just take both? Still, I never expected to meet a junior in a place like this. Let's move. It's far too gloomy in here."
The voice came from one of the figures leaning against the wall. Hidden beneath a deep hood, it was unmistakably a woman's voice. The rough-looking man blinked a few times, then nodded.
"Yeah, let's get out of here. I've been in the dark so long I'm starting to grow mold. Follow us, young master junior. Hust, keep an eye on things."
"Got it."
The rough-looking man stood up. Gesturing for Rickert to follow, he headed deeper into the building.
Rickert naturally turned to follow but paused to look back at Arno, who was standing there, hesitating.
"Thanks for everything, Arno."
With that, Rickert turned and followed the rough-looking man, leaving Arno behind. It seemed almost cold, though whether it was intentional was hard to tell.
Arno could only blink in disbelief. We're parting just like this?
The Thieves' Guild headquarters was surprisingly vast. It connected to an underground passage where sewage flowed down the center, flanked on both sides by walkways wide enough for foot traffic.
The tunnels branched off in a dizzying, maze-like network. Though clearly ancient, the masonry remained incredibly sturdy. When was this built? Could humans really have made this?
Following the rough-looking man and his two companions out of the tunnels, they emerged onto a sunlit riverbank. It was a bustling dockyard where smuggling vessels sailed to and fro.
Though it was called "smuggling," there was absolutely no sense of secrecy or caution in the air.
A cool river breeze swept past, carrying away the city's foul stench and clearing the heavy air from their lungs.
"Ah, I can finally breathe."
Reaching an area cluttered with wooden crates, the woman sat down comfortably. As she pulled back her hood, the sunlight revealed a surprisingly pretty face. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, a style that suited her well thanks to her elegant features.
She gazed out at the sparkling river for a moment before turning to Rickert.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Sandy. This ugly mug here is Bletter, and this is Boden."
The rough-looking man was Bletter, and the quiet one who hadn't spoken a word was Boden.
Their names sounded incredibly simple, but that was the hallmark of bastards. They were often named after common things like leaves, dirt, or sand.
In contrast, noble names like Rickert, Abelich, or Vilter carried grand meanings like strong warrior, glorious wrath, or guardian. The very origins of their names belonged to different worlds.
"So, you need someone to guide you to the academy?"
"Yes."
"Want to go with this big sister?"
"Sure."
Rickert agreed without hesitation. Sandy kept a warm smile on her lips, clearly finding him endearing.
"Hey, shouldn't you at least warn him about the Chicken Coop first? Or explain what life is going to be like there?" Bletter said, prying open a crate to pull out a bottle of liquor.
"Isn't Boden better at explaining things? You're our information guy, after all."
"...Do you really need an information specialist to explain a Chicken Coop?"
"But why do you call it a Chicken Coop?" Just as they were about to bicker, Rickert cut in with his question.
Boden answered him.
"The beds are crammed right next to each other. Bunk beds. The only open space is a narrow aisle barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. And a hundred and twenty people live packed in there together. For two years."
Just the memory of it seemed to disgust Sandy and Bletter; both grimaced and shook their heads in revulsion.
Boden continued in a flat, even tone.
"It's not too late, young master. Turn back. I don't know what kind of stories you've heard that made you want to go there, but it is not a romantic place. Not in the slightest."
He wasn't trying to scare or test the boy; it was genuine advice born of harsh experience. Yet, Rickert's response caught them off guard.
"If there's a roof to keep out the rain, and it's not the cold, bare ground, isn't that luxury enough?"
"What?"
"Life is pain anyway, isn't it?"
It was a sentiment far too grim to come from a child. Yet, while the words themselves sounded deeply cynical, there was no trace of resignation or despair on his face.
Those unfamiliar with Rickert were often taken aback by this side of him, and Boden was no exception.
"...Just what kind of life have you lived, kid?"
Unlike Boden, Bletter took a long swig of his drink, exhaled a warm breath, and readily agreed.
"Pah! He's not wrong."
"Hearing that from a young master junior feels strange. No wonder I felt drawn to you," Sandy spoke with a soft smile. As bastards, they had experienced more sorrow and heartbreak than most.
"By the way, I heard on my way here that most of the academy's students end up crippled or dead. Is that true?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Why? What kind of academy operates like that? If it's sponsored by the Imperial Family, shouldn't it be highly prestigious? Or do they do dishonorable things there?"
"Honor? Haha, you really do use some old-fashioned words. You certainly are a noble. But that's exactly the problem—the Imperial Family's funding. That's why everyone fights so bloodily. If other guilds disappear, there's more for us to take." Sandy threw her head back and laughed at the word "honor" before explaining.
"I don't quite understand."
"Look, the Imperial Family's funding is a fixed amount. But because there are multiple guilds, it gets split up. If other guilds disappear, our share of the pie grows. I hear the ones backed by the royal family are even more cutthroat because their territory is smaller. It's best not to mess with them. They're always pissed off."
Even Rickert, who was rarely shaken, found this absurd. Killing each other over coin? Well, I suppose going to war is no different.
"After being worked to the bone in the Chicken Coop for two years, if you survive, you get thrown into active duty for another three. You get ranked as high, mid, or low-grade, and after that, you either take the final exam or sign a contract to become an adventurer like us. As for what we actually do… I'll let our smart guy explain," Sandy gestured to Boden, who spoke with an indifferent shrug.
"Hunting down criminals, exterminating beasts and monsters, transporting cargo, escorting merchant caravans, doing whatever our superiors order, handling requests… both official and unofficial. Unofficial usually means assassination."
"So you just do whatever comes your way."
"Exactly."
"Do you ever go to the Eastern Campaign Front? To Fernland?"
"I believe that's where the final exam takes place. But that's a place for the special-grade adventurers—the ones above high-grade. Monsters with insane skill and guts. As you can see, we're not special-grade, so we don't know much about it. But if you pass that final exam, they say you become the Emperor's Champion."
A "champion" referred to a proxy warrior. It was an ancient tradition: when a noble's honor was on the line but they were too old or lacked the skill to fight, they would send a champion to duel in their stead.
Usually, a close relative or friend would step up, and representing someone of high status was considered a supreme honor. Countless epic poems had been written about such deeds—the so-called ballads of the champions.
In reality, of course, kings and emperors had no need to engage in personal duels. Thus, while "Emperor's Champion" remained a prestigious title, in practice, it referred to a troubleshooter operating directly under the Emperor's command—distinct from the imperial guards who merely protected the sovereign's person.
"By the way, what did you say your name was?" Sandy asked, smoothing her already neat hair.
"Rickert."
"Oof, that sounds so formal. Don't you have a nickname?"
Rickert was a name that screamed nobility to anyone who heard it.
"Ricky."
"Whoa, bold choice."
"Why? Isn't it a common nickname?"
"Sure, but it's the same name as the immortal Ricky."
Rickert felt a bitter pang inside. Just when he thought he could forget, his past life always found a way to catch up to him.
"A coincidence, indeed. But surely he wasn't actually immortal."
"No one could kill him, and no one ever saw him die. Some people even worship him as a god—the Order of Condemnation, I think they're called? He's special to us, too. After all, all that suffering we endured in the Chicken Coop was just to become a fraction of what he was."
"...What do you mean, 'become what he was'?"
"He's the legendary Swordmaster. A man who could project light from his blade to cleave solid rock, possessing superhuman strength and stamina that made him a one-man army. So many children die just trying to emulate a fraction of his legend."
What was she talking about? Rickert was utterly dumbfounded. He felt the heavy shadow of his past life looming over him once more. Or was it the shadow of his current self? A shadow that, no matter how fast or far he ran, he could never shake off.
"It wasn't all for nothing, though," Bletter spoke up as Rickert struggled to process the shock. "The whole Swordmaster thing sounds like a fairy tale, but at least for me, that time was worth it."
"I didn't know you were such a masochist."
"No, think about it. We went through so much together. I consider us family. If it weren't for that Chicken Coop, would we have ever met? Would we be sitting here together like this? I don't think so. If I hadn't become an adventurer and just lived my life as a bastard… what would I have become?"
As a tipsy Bletter spoke his drunken truth, his friends fell silent. They simply turned their heads to watch the river flow, steady and relentless as time itself.
"Yeah. We've been through a lot…" Boden murmured to himself. His words carried the weight of countless memories, trials, and shared history—a depth of experience Rickert could not yet fully comprehend.
Yet, these people did not revere Rickert for his noble blood, nor did they look down on him for his youth. They simply saw him for who he was.
Though they were open-minded as individuals, their lives were lived in the shadows. They didn't chase coin like mercenaries, nor did they obsess over honor like knights, and they didn't dwell entirely in the dark like the Thieves' Guild.
They were simply people who trusted and relied on one another, clinging to a small sliver of hope as they carved out a living.
Such was Rickert's first impression of adventurers.