Chapter 2
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 2
Within a single empire existed five kingdoms, four merchant republics, and hundreds of minor fiefdoms and noble houses.
Among those hundreds of noble houses, House Caldebern traced its roots to the Adelorn Royal Family. The founder of their cadet branch was the heroic knight Caldebert, and the family name itself meant "descendant of Caldebert."
Caldebert had been granted a fief by the Emperor for his distinguished service on the Eastern Campaign Front, and a hundred years had passed since. This also meant that a century had gone by since the appearance of the Empire's very first Swordmaster.
It was said that if you kill a few, you are a murderer; if you kill hundreds, you are a hero; if you kill thousands, you are a conqueror. If you kill beyond that, you become a god.
In an era when a thunderstorm or a devastating flood was deemed the will of the divine, the first Swordmaster was regarded by the common folk as a natural disaster—a divine warning manifest. That was how the age of steel and blood was remembered: as divine judgment, punishment, and condemnation for the guilty, regardless of their station.
And they believed he would one day return. Whether his return would bring salvation or ruin, however, no one could say.
Yet, unlike the ignorant commoners, the rulers—the emperors and kings—viewed that history in a different light. They saw the first Swordmaster not as a harbinger of salvation or doom, but as a strategic weapon.
If only we could grasp that overwhelming power. If only it could be mine…
While some things changed with the times, other values had to be preserved. Heavy cavalry remained formidable on the battlefield, and the duties of a knight were far from over. Nobles were expected to defend their territories and fulfill their military obligations to their liege lords.
To uphold one's honor as a noble meant never fleeing from a fight. It meant refusing to yield to unjust threats and holding courage as the greatest virtue—even at the cost of one's life.
Many still lived by these values. In this era, to be noble was to be a warrior.
Over generations, however, House Caldebern's lands had been fractured. In those days, partible inheritance was customary law. Now, in a time when not even a scrap of land remained to be divided, a branch of House Caldebern made its home in a small manor called Stormherz.
The sweltering summer had passed, and the air was beginning to turn chilly. The harvested fields lay fallow, with massive mounds of dry straw scattered here and there.
Despite this, Lord Abelich still had work to do. The crisp morning air did little to cool the bustle of activity in the manor of House Caldebern. The Lord's attendants scurried about, gathering gear that clearly marked the day's purpose: a hunt. Nets, crossbows, eagerly panting hounds, and heavy boar spears were all being prepared.
Abelich, the Lord of Stormherz, sat atop his majestic brown warhorse—the family's greatest asset—and watched his attendants pack the gear. Then, he realized someone important was missing.
"Where is Ricky? Where has he gone?"
"Probably spacing out in some quiet corner again," the eldest son, Grout, replied indifferently from beside his father, clad in tough leather armor.
"The boar hunt is both a duty and a vital event for our family. Ricky is ten now; he must participate. Find him."
Hunting was no mere leisure activity for nobles. Wild boars ruined crops and dug up graves, making their eradication a necessity. While any able-bodied man could drive off a stray goblin, and wolves were clever enough to flee at the slightest threat, boars were different. Their reckless charge would not stop until they were dead.
Furthermore, in noble families, the age of ten marked the beginning of raising boys and girls differently. Before then, they were simply children. But from ten onward, they were distinguished by their hair and clothing, and boys began to join hunts or train in martial arts. It was an age with a simple creed: a boy is raised by his mother, a man by his father, and a warrior by destiny.
Upon hearing his father's command, the eldest son glanced at the second. His gaze carried a silent order: You go get him.
But the younger brother pointedly ignored him. Irritated, Grout’s eyebrow twitched.
"Hey."
"Father gave the order to you, Brother."
"And I'm ordering you."
"Why should I listen to you?"
"Because I'm the eldest, and you're the second."
Whether one was born first or second was not something that could be changed through effort, nor was it a choice. Yet its rigid shackles were inescapable.
Vilter, the second son, was fourteen and would reach adulthood next year. As was typical for boys his age, he had grown increasingly rebellious. The three brothers had once been close, but it was hard to say when or why their relationship had soured.
"I'm leaving this godforsaken house on my own two feet," Vilter muttered, loud enough for his father and brother to hear, before stalking away.
His stoic father ignored him as if he hadn't heard a thing. His brother frowned, while the rest of the attendants merely chuckled, finding the display amusing.
Vilter searched the watchtower, the barn, and every nook and cranny of the manor, but he couldn't find his youngest brother. He even asked his sister-in-law, whom he preferred to avoid, but she didn't know either.
"Could he be in the crypt? He might still be missing Mother," said his sister-in-law, who was embroidering the hem of a cloak alongside a young maid.
The Lord's wife had passed away from a fever two years ago.
"If he's not there, he probably followed her to the grave."
"Don't say such things. He's only ten. You should take good care of him, Brother-in-law. I'll help, too. By the way, are you sure I don't need to go outside?"
"Father told you to stay somewhere warm. But that's not out of concern for you, sister-in-law—it's for the baby in your womb."
Some truths were unpleasant to hear, even if they were correct. Vilter's tone was always like this—crooked and thorny. Yet his sister-in-law, who was not much older than him, simply laughed it off.
That was exactly what Vilter hated. Everyone treated him like a child.
Or perhaps the root of his irritation was the unconscious knowledge that his home was being taken from him. This house, this family, would eventually belong to his eldest brother. There was no place for a second son.
Vilter left the room that had once been his mother's but was now his sister-in-law's. As she had suggested, he headed for the crypt.
The moment he started down the stairs, a distinct, chilly draft brushed the back of his neck. When he reached the bottom, he was met with pitch-black darkness.
Yet, far in the distance, a faint glow flickered like a fragile candle lit in the underworld.
Beneath a torch mounted on the wall stood his youngest brother. He was staring at something, looking as though he stood on the very boundary between the living and the dead.
"Ricky!"
Vilter's shout echoed through the crypt. At the sound, his younger brother, whose cheeks still carried the softness of early childhood, turned around.
This was Rickert, the third son of House Caldebern. Blonde hair, hazel eyes. Ricky was his nickname.
Vilter approached him. His brother's eyes, staring blankly up at him, seemed to shift between green, blue, and brown depending on the light. Now, reflecting the torchlight, they held a reddish-blue hue.
"What are you doing down here? Don't you know we're hunting today?"
"I just... wanted to come down. Today is the anniversary of Mother's death."
In front of Rickert was a stone sarcophagus, its lid carved with the likeness of the deceased. It was their mother's tomb.
"You remember that? You're ten now. Shouldn't you learn to accept it with composure? And shouldn't you start worrying about your future?"
Ten was no longer a child's age. It was when one began formal knightly training or was expected to pull their own weight. For commoners, it was even harsher.
At his brother's scolding, Rickert lowered his eyes and fell silent. Vilter felt a sudden pang of guilt, and his heart softened.
Rickert spoke. "Growing up in Mother's embrace made me feel like I already had everything. So, I'm not particularly worried about the future."
Vilter couldn't understand what on earth his brother was talking about.
"...I seriously can't tell if you're an old soul or just simple-minded. Everyone's waiting. Let's go."
Vilter ruffled his brother's hair roughly and took his hand.
"Okay."
Led by his brother, Rickert left the crypt as if stepping out of the realm of the dead. As they climbed the stairs, the deep ultramarine light of the early morning enveloped them.
When they stepped into the courtyard, the men, fully prepared, were waiting.
"What took so long to find one kid?" Grout, the eldest brother, sneered.
"Then you should have gone yourself."
"Why, you little… I've been letting you slide, but…"
Lately, the first and second sons would bicker the moment they laid eyes on each other. Abelich quickly put a stop to it.
"Enough. Ricky, stay close to Billy. Since this is your first hunt, just watch from a distance. Butch, look after both of them."
"Understood, my Lord," Butch replied.
Having given his brief instructions, Abelich spurred his horse and galloped out of the courtyard alone. The extravagant feather pinned to his hunting hat fluttered wildly in the wind. The clatter of hooves quickly faded into the distance.
The rest of the party followed on foot. Though Lord Abelich soon vanished over the crest of a hill, it didn't matter; they all knew the meeting point.
The hunting party consisted of about a dozen able-bodied men from the village and a few who were essentially retainers. They were "essentially" retainers because they weren't paid a salary but were instead granted tax exemptions. They were, in essence, yeoman farmers. One family's ties to the Caldeberns went back to Abelich's great-grandfather, while others had been connected since his grandfather's generation.
Because it was a poor fief, they relied on loyalty rather than coin. It was a community of families bound together around the lord's house—a microcosm of the feudal society with the Emperor at its apex. In times of war, the lord served as the knight and officer, the retainers as non-commissioned officers, and the rest as soldiers. They were the smallest unit of combat.
Hunting was also a form of combat training. One did not catch game simply by rushing in blindly. It required organized movement, which meant they had to practice working in unison. The process of tracking, driving, and delivering the killing blow took place across vast areas where they often couldn't see one another. They had to rely on the direction of sounds and the trust that "so-and-so would act this way." This was not learned in a day or two; it was passed down through generations, from father to son, and from son to grandson. It was both combat training and a practical lesson.
This was Rickert's first time participating in such a lesson. Yet, the boy showed none of the typical excitement or fear. He was as nonchalant as ever.
While the men carrying gear walked ahead, Rickert and Vilter followed behind Butch. It was the agricultural off-season. The air was chilly, the grass in the fields had turned yellow and dry, and the trees were painted in vibrant shades of autumn foliage.
"You've seen a wild boar before, right, Ricky?" Butch asked. As the son of one of the "retainers," he had grown up alongside the lord's sons and was a close friend. Several boar spears rested on his shoulder, their long, broad blades nearly the size of a human face. Anything less would fail to pierce a boar's tough hide.
"Hmm, have I?"
"Didn't you see one about two years ago? Weren't you there?"
"He was by Mother's side because she was sick," Vilter corrected Butch's hazy memory.
"Ah, right. No need to be nervous, Ricky. We'll just set up camp and stay for a bit. Could be three days, could be two weeks. You'll probably only see the boar after it's dead. It's not dangerous."
Rickert merely offered a faint smile at the reassurance.
"The one I saw back then was perfectly docile. I don't know why adults try to scare us for no reason," Vilter grumbled in his usual complaining tone, sweeping the grass with a stick.
"It is dangerous," Butch said. "Even beasts value their lives. Once they start thrashing, it gets really dangerous."
"Have you ever seen a boar go wild, Butch?" Vilter asked.
"No, I haven't. But Brother Rian's father was gored to death by one. It happened when I was little, so you guys wouldn't know."
"Well, people die of all sorts of things. I'll end up like that someday too."
Whether it was their mother or Rian's father, death was always close at hand in this world—from disease, accidents, war, or starvation. Stormherz was at least relatively well-off when it came to food. It wasn't abundant, but it was enough for the residents to scrape by.
"By the way, have you been practicing your swordsmanship, Billy?" Butch asked Vilter.
"No. I don't want to go to battle. I'm not the eldest son anyway. Why should I bother?"
"Still, shouldn't you practice on your own? It's not like just anyone can learn swordsmanship. Even if it's just for self-defense… Alright, alright, I'll stop nagging. But do you have a plan? Once the young master becomes the lord…"
"What about when Brother becomes lord? Are you saying I'll get kicked out?"
"Well, they don't divide inheritance equally these days. Why not swallow your pride and ask for some support now?"
"I don't want to beg my brother for anything."
"...You really are something."
In the past, dividing land and wealth equally among children had been the rule, but no longer. To prevent a family's power from diluting, the culture of primogeniture—leaving everything to the eldest son—was taking root. Consequently, life became bleak for those not born the legitimate eldest. Noble families often sent their younger sons to monasteries or knightly orders at an early age.
This was because, in a noble family, brothers could be the greatest allies or the worst rivals. If the succession was unstable, retainers and vassals would waver. Factional splits over power had to be avoided at all costs. Still, with enough effort, some managed to rise to prominence as bishops or abbots. Joining a knightly order was honorable but dangerous and grueling. It meant disciplined communal living, exhausting training, and battle—and above all, no special treatment for being a noble.
In short, if you weren't born the eldest, you had to find your own way. After all, Caldebert, the founder of House Caldebern, had carved out his own success.
At fourteen, Vilter had stayed with his family for a long time. But now that his brother had a wife and would soon have a child, it was time for him to find his own path.
What if it's a girl? Would I be able to stay home a bit longer? Or what if the baby dies at birth?
Useless speculation. He was of age, and his departure was inevitable.
Vilter couldn't help but feel conflicted. He had to steel himself to face the world alone. Amidst it all, there was someone in a similar position: his younger brother, Rickert.
Perhaps because he was still too young to understand, Rickert looked as nonchalant as ever when Vilter glanced at him. He was his sweet, gentle, slightly eccentric, and sometimes overly mature little brother. He walked while staring at the ground, then looked up at the clear blue sky, then gazed into the distance… He seemed to have no thoughts at all. Though it pained him, Vilter wondered if he should give him a harsh reality check.
As Rickert walked, gazing into the distance, he raised his hand and pointed.
"Isn't that a boar?"
Butch and Vilter turned their heads. Far off, near the edge of the forest, a wild boar was charging.
"Oh? You're right."
Lord Abelich was pursuing it on horseback. But something was wrong. The boar veered in a gentle arc and began charging straight toward them.
At first, because of the distance, the three of them just stared blankly. But the moment they realized it was heading their way, the hair on Butch and Vilter's necks stood on end, and their minds went blank.
Suddenly, the situation turned critical. The hounds, unleashed by their handlers, began barking frantically.
Woof! Woof!
"Butch! Butch! Protect the young masters!"
Butch's father, who had been walking ahead, screamed as he rushed back. Protect them? How? With what?
"Uh, uh…"
The boar grew closer. They hadn't realized it from afar, but its size was monstrous. Its shoulders were taller than Rickert. And it was incredibly fast.
The startled men threw their spears, but they sliced uselessly through empty air.
"Butch! Butch!"
His father's voice sounded muffled to Butch's ears. He was frozen in place. Vilter was no different.
Just then, someone snatched a spear from Butch's shoulder and shoved him hard. Butch tumbled sideways into the dry grass. Rickert came into view.
The young boy, his cheeks still soft with baby fat, held the spear in a reverse grip. He rested the shaft against his shoulder and aimed the tip directly at the charging boar. He spread his legs wide, one in front of the other, shifting his center of gravity forward as if about to fall.
Before anyone could even utter a word, the house-sized boar slammed into the child.
Thump-thump-thump! Thump-thump-thump!
Slam!
Rickert was thrown far back, rolling repeatedly through the grass. Standing right beside where it happened, Butch and Vilter could only watch with dazed expressions, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.
"Ricky! Ricky!"
Lord Abelich galloped frantically toward his fallen son.
Dismounting in haste, he checked on him. To his utter astonishment, the boy had not lost consciousness. He lay on his back in the yellowed grass, staring up at the sky. His palms were torn and bleeding.
His heart hammering, Abelich instinctively pulled Rickert into a tight embrace.
"M-My Lord. My Lord."
Someone called out from behind. Abelich turned his head.
There, his eyes fell upon the dead boar's carcass, a spear piercing its forehead with clean, impossible precision. What…?
No one spoke. Only the whistling of the wind and the barking of the hounds echoed across the field.