Chapter 18
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 18
Boribori filled a wooden cup with water, placed three violets inside, and smiled with pride.
“This way, they’ll stay fresh for about two days.”
“And after two days?”
“Um… they’ll wither, I guess.”
Volka’s face crumpled at the word wither. Without another word, he snatched the cup and flung the water and flowers out the window.
“Ah! Ahhh!”
Boribori cried out, panicking in his surprise.
“Stop doing this sissy shit!” Volka yelled, as if this were something to be furious about.
Rickert took off his bag, set it on the table beside the bed, and sighed inwardly. So they don’t get along.
Boribori’s face crumpled, his eyes welling with tears. He already had a naturally sad look, but now, on the verge of crying, he looked truly pitiable.
Still, he swallowed hard, his lips twitching as he stammered, “Th-there are plenty more in the fields. And when the swallows return next year, they’ll bloom again. And the year after that.”
It was a timid little rebellion.
Volka’s eyes widened at the quiet defiance. Perhaps feeling he’d gone too far, he just snapped his head away.
“Let’s get moving. The sun’s setting.”
Boribori’s fearful eyes darted back and forth, reading the room. He let out a quiet sigh of relief when Volka spoke nonchalantly instead of exploding.
Rickert shook his head, gathered his coin pouch, cloak, and dagger, and headed outside.
Volka wore a single sword at his hip. Boribori had nothing but the threadbare clothes left behind by a deceased Academy student.
As they passed through the main hall, Dunkel, the bartender, raised a hand in a lazy farewell while taking a sip of his drink.
Outside, it was still broad daylight. The journey had taken them less than six hours, so they still had time before sunset.
Rickert spoke up. “If we pass a cloth shop, let’s stop for a moment. I want to buy some clothes. And shoes.”
“Then let’s move fast,” Volka said. “I’ve got a lot to take care of.”
“Alright.”
Volka led his two companions toward an apiary located a short distance outside the city. As they approached, the air filled with the buzzing of bees—a thoroughly annoying sound. Volka grumbled, cursing every time he had to come here. Rickert swatted at the air and dodged around, but Boribori, surprisingly, walked on as if it were nothing. He even let a bee land on his fingertip, smiling as if amused.
Climbing a slope lined with thick vegetation, they found a clearing with several beehives. A few Academy students stood nearby, wearing thick, full-body protective gear. Their suits were half-undone, whether from habit or the heat, despite the swarming bees.
“Volka.”
One of them noticed him and called out a greeting. Still swatting away bees, Volka asked, “Everything go smoothly?”
“Yeah. They didn’t delay this time and paid up right on schedule. Thanks to you, mostly.”
As they spoke, their eyes drifted to Rickert and Boribori. Having witnessed Rickert’s combat skills firsthand, the student seemed somewhat awkward.
“Hello,” Rickert greeted him first.
“Uh? Oh, hey…”
“Seriously, some bastards only listen when you treat them like shit,” Volka spat, launching into a tirade. “Spewing bullshit about having connections at headquarters—it was all a lie. If anyone’s got connections, it’s us! Who the fuck does he think… Ow! Dammit! Fuck!”
Volka, who had been cursing someone not present, had finally been stung by a bee. Ignoring his plight, Rickert asked the student, “How’s the work?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s manageable. It’s spring, so the bees are starting to make honey. We just have to keep a close eye out—watch for hornets, make sure no honey robbing happens, that sort of thing. Nothing too heavy.”
“Hey, give me the money. Ow, shit, it hurts like hell.”
Volka seemed to be exaggerating his pain for a single bee sting. It was a funny sight, considering how he kept getting back up after being beaten black and blue by Rickert.
“Stop chatting and give me the money,” Volka urged.
“Yeah, hold on.”
The students, who had already collected the payment, handed three copper coins to Volka. It seemed to be one copper coin per person—a combination of a finder’s fee and protection money.
Though Rickert didn’t know the full story, it seemed there had been recent trouble with unpaid wages. In an era where honey and beeswax were precious, beekeeping was typically a lord’s monopoly. The problem was the middle managers. When those middlemen skimmed too much from the top, force had to be applied. Settling those matters was Volka’s role.
But in truth, receiving the full agreed-upon wage was impossible. Even if one pressed the middle manager, beating him up was out of the question. At best, one could negotiate how much he took—whether it was half or just ten percent. That was reality. This was because the middle managers were usually retainers or servants of the lord, forced to work for him without a salary. If the lord was considerate, he might set wages high enough to account for their skimming, but there were no hard rules on how much they actually shared with the workers.
Worst of all was when there were multiple layers of middle managers. If the lord delegated work to a retainer, who then delegated it to another servant, barely a pittance remained for those doing the actual labor. Fortunately, such cases were rare in Beringen, making conditions slightly better here.
“Hey! I’m leaving! Let me know if anything comes up!”
As soon as Volka received the money, he turned and fled down the hill as if escaping, flailing his arms the entire way. Caught off guard, Rickert and Boribori hurriedly followed, waving over their shoulders as they left.
“Nice meeting you! See you next time!”
The student who had been chatting with them and the two sitting guard by the beehives gave awkward waves in return.
Volka ran frantically until they were well clear of the bees’ territory before stopping, wheezing. “Huff, huff… You gotta clear out the shitty business first. That’s the rule.”
“Where to next?”
“The smithy. It’s close to the Northern District, so stay sharp. Not that you need to be terrified. The Norsemen are fucking brilliant with iron. Next time you get some cash, Ricky, buy a sword from there.”
Volka patted the sword at his hip as he spoke. Though it lacked any ornate decoration, its craftsmanship looked solid. Of course, you could only know its true worth once it was drawn.
Rickert and Boribori followed Volka to the riverbank. It was a windy place, where a smithy stood next to a vigorously spinning waterwheel.
Clang! Cl-clang! Clang! Cl-clang…!
The rhythmic ringing of hammered iron echoed through the air. The breeze carried a familiar scent to Rickert’s nose: the smell of fire and iron. Yet, instead of blood and death, this scent was laced with sweat and creation.
Unlike at the apiary, Volka didn’t enter confidently, instead hovering around the perimeter. Soon, a man carrying a ladle of molten iron spotted them and walked over.
It was a student named Molty, the most prematurely aged boy in the Academy. He was far taller than Volka, with a frame that could stand beside a Norseman’s. Perhaps he was of Norse blood himself. Judging solely by his appearance, it was impossible to believe he was in his teens. With a receding hairline that exposed a broad forehead, he looked well into his forties.
His face was flushed red from the heat of the forge and smudged with soot. Wiping sweat from his brow with a filthy rag, he approached Volka and handed over some money without a word. For some reason, it wasn’t one copper coin, but three.
“Sorry. I’m short on funds myself.”
“No, it’s fine. We’ll be off. Keep up the good work.”
“Yeah.”
Just as they were about to leave after that simple exchange, Rickert spoke up. Boribori stood hidden behind him, peeking out with only his eyes showing.
“How’s the work?”
Molty gazed down at Rickert silently before speaking in a deep, booming voice. “You earn as much as you sweat. It’s honest work. I’m content with that.”
“I’m curious, though—how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Liar.”
Molty just let out a quiet chuckle before turning back to his work.
“Hey, Ricky. Stop chattering and let’s go.”
Despite claiming there was no need to be scared, Volka was clearly bothered by the Norsemen and eager to leave. The smiths had bushy beards that seemed to frizz in the heat, and they paid the boys no attention whatsoever.
Water trickled down the tip of a sword pulled fresh from quenching—a masterpiece born of flame, forged by strength and sweat.
“Let’s go, Ricky. I’m scared, too,” Boribori whispered, tugging at the hem of Rickert’s cloak. Volka had already moved some distance away.
Rickert wanted to watch a little longer but had no choice but to turn and leave.
Volka dragged them all over the city: to a tannery, a slaughterhouse, simple haulage sites, and so on. There was even a brothel among them. At each location, he collected referral fees or protection money. With each stop, however, Volka’s face grew darker as he counted the coins.
By now, the sun was sinking, casting a sunset glow across the city. Workers were returning from their jobs to their shelters.
Fortunately, they managed to stop at a cloth shop before it closed. There, Rickert bought a set of clothes and shoes and presented them to Boribori.
Boribori had assumed Rickert was buying them for himself. When they were handed to him, his eyes widened in shock. He could only stammer, unable to even say thank you.
Rickert spoke as if he understood. “It’s fine. We agreed not to say thank you, remember?”
“Th-then what do I say? Should I say sorry?”
“Haha, isn’t that a bit weird? Just wear them well. That’ll make me happy enough.”
“Ricky…”
Boribori’s voice choked. The kindness was overwhelming, and he couldn’t hold back his tears.
“Waaaaaah!”
“Hey! Are you crazy?!”
Rickert panicked as Boribori burst into tears right in the middle of the street. Trying to calm him down was useless; Boribori only bawled harder, as if his heart was breaking.
“Uwwwaaaah!”
“This isn’t working. Let’s get back to the lodge, fast.”
Rickert forcefully dragged Boribori toward the Guild Bureau. All the while, Boribori clutched the new clothes and shoes to his chest like a precious treasure. They were going to be a wrinkled mess.
By the time they reached the Guild Bureau, Boribori’s crying had subsided. But Volka, who had been grim and silent the entire way back, hesitated before speaking to Rickert.
“U-um, hey. Ricky.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Back at the cloth shop… it looked like you had quite a bit of cash.”
“I got lucky and earned a bit on my way to the Academy.”
“So, uh… I was wondering if you could lend me some.”
“How much?”
“Five… silver coins…”
Five silver coins was no small sum. To an ordinary person—and especially to young boys—it was a fortune.
“Can you tell me what it’s for?”
Embarrassed, Volka couldn’t meet Rickert’s eyes. He scratched the bridge of his nose and muttered in a voice barely louder than a mosquito’s hum, “I’m short on tribute money…”
Tribute money? What is he talking about?
“Do you need it right now?”
“Yeah. Today’s the deadline. I have my own work to do tomorrow.”
Rickert pulled out his coin pouch and produced five silver coins. Handing them over, he asked, “Mind if I come along?”
“Huh? Uh…”
“Do we need to go now?”
“Yeah…”
“Let’s go.”
Without even knowing where they were going, Rickert set off. Boribori blinked his tear-stained eyes, wiped his face, and quietly followed.
As the sun vanished below the horizon, dusk began to settle over the land.
Rickert’s party arrived at a quiet field dotted with sparse farmhouses. A campfire crackled, surrounded by people huddled in small groups, talking amongst themselves.
There were three groups in total, about twenty people altogether—all of them Academy students. The ratio of boys and girls was roughly equal, with some couples sitting close together.
A bit further away sat the Ice Gang—the top five ranked students—silent and motionless. They were an enigma.
The other students chattered away, some giggling, others speaking with serious expressions.
Then Volka stepped forward. His boots crunched on the grass, and the chatter instantly died. He approached each group and handed over money. Hardly a word was exchanged.
Having paid everyone, Volka turned back. Rickert and Boribori, who had been watching silently from a distance, fell in behind him.
“Why do you have to give them money?” Rickert asked.
“Just because. Isn’t that how the world works? It’s no different here.”
Just as peasants farmed to pay taxes to their lords, the Academy operated on a structure where lower-ranked students had to pool their money and offer tribute to the higher-ranked ones. Although Volka had defeated the 15th-ranked student earlier that day, reducing the number of superiors he directly owed, the required payment didn’t decrease.
“In the past, they just beat us up and took our money,” Volka explained, his voice low. “Even when kids couldn’t find work, the beatings for not paying only got worse. Plenty threw themselves off cliffs. But I thought… if we had jobs, if we pooled our money… maybe it’d be a little better…”
Volka hadn’t been finding jobs and offering protection purely for his own benefit. On the contrary, taking care of others meant neglecting himself, forcing him to pay the tribute out of his own pocket when they came up short.
“Sorry. I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
Volka lowered his head in shame. For someone with his pride, begging Rickert for help was clearly humiliating.
But suddenly, Rickert stopped in his tracks. He spun around and marched right back toward the campfire. Confused, Volka and Boribori hurried after him.
When they arrived back at the fireside, the three groups of students were still gathered. They all stared at Rickert’s unexpected return.
Standing before them, Rickert spoke.
“Hey. You lot. Give that money back.”
Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the campfire. Sparks rose from the flames and vanished into the night air.
Then, someone snorted. “Is that you? The rookie who beat up Volka?”
“I said, give the money back.”
“Look here, kid. We don’t mess around with childish Pankration matches.”
One of the students spoke, his hand slowly moving to the sword at his waist. Rickert paid it no mind, his glare fixed on the boy.
The flickering flames danced in Rickert’s hazel eyes, but they were nowhere near as hot as the quiet rage burning behind them.
He spoke softly, but his voice carried clearly to everyone there.
“You’re going to die.”