Chapter 24
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 24
"What do we do now?" someone asked.
Night had already fallen, and the deep forest made it all the darker.
Ignoring the question, Rickert strode off alone toward a cabin shimmering in the moonlight.
"R-Ricky," Volka called out, but Rickert paid him no mind.
He opened the cabin door without hesitation. The interior was a wreck, but nothing appeared to have been looted. That meant the attackers had come with a single purpose: to kill.
Picking up a lantern that had rolled across the floor, he lit it and scanned the room. Aside from the clutter, there were no bodies inside. It was livable enough for a night's stay.
Rickert stepped back outside to examine the corpses scattered around the cabin. Their gear had been completely stripped, their limbs twisted or splayed at awkward angles. Twelve bodies in total.
Holding the lantern close, he inspected them, trying to determine the cause and time of death, however rough his estimate might be.
The victims hadn't died from single, clean strikes. They were hacked to pieces. A brutal fight had taken place here.
Flies buzzed around the bodies, but he saw only eggs—no maggots yet. Nor were there signs of birds or beasts having pecked at the eyes or lips. No more than a day or two had passed.
Piecing together a rough timeline, it seemed this massacre had occurred shortly before his own group was ambushed.
Perhaps while slaughtering the adventurers here, the attackers had learned that reinforcements were on their way from the Academy. Knowing the only obvious route, they must have lain in wait.
Rickert reached this tentative conclusion and reasoned that, consequently, the enemy must be thoroughly exhausted as well.
The other students merely watched him with anxious eyes, none daring to approach. Rickert turned to them.
"Whatever happened here, it was over a day or two ago," he said calmly. "No need to be terrified. We're safe enough to stay here for the night."
Is that so? the others thought. Even if he was right, how could he be so nonchalant?
Still, reality slowly began to sink in. They were fucked, plain and simple, but standing around paralyzed wasn't going to fix anything.
"Get Molty on a bed. We'll deal with the bodies outside. Then we'll set a night watch and talk. For now, go inside and check your gear."
Rickert issued the orders in a steady voice, and the students obeyed without complaint.
They gathered the corpses in one place, arranged them neatly, and covered them with cloth. Digging graves was out of the question; in their current state, preserving stamina was preserving life.
After clearing the area as best he could, Rickert stepped back inside. A single lantern on the table cast a dim light through the cabin. The space, being a guild hideout, was large enough to easily accommodate the nine of them.
Settling himself among the students, Rickert drew his sword, meticulously inspecting the edge for any nicks or damage under the faint light. He wiped it down thoroughly with a cloth, then pulled a small bottle of camellia oil from his bag to polish the steel.
As he worked, he felt eyes on him. Looking up, he saw everyone staring intently.
"What? Is there something on my face?"
"...No," Volka admitted. "We were just wondering if you had anything else to say."
"Get some sleep while you can. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. You have to rest whenever you get the chance."
"Are you sure it's safe to stay here, though?" someone asked.
"You saw the bodies outside, right? The maggots haven't set in. Their eyes and lips are intact. That means they've been dead for a day or two at most. Do you really think the ones who slaughtered them are different from the ones who ambushed us? I doubt it. That means our attackers are just as exhausted as we are. They don't have the luxury of maneuvering right now. On top of that, we killed the man who seemed to be in charge, so they'll be disorganized until a replacement arrives. Staying here for one night is safe enough. That said, we can't predict everything, so we'll set a proper watch."
The words flowed from Rickert like water. The students listened, stunned. How did he know all this? His read on the situation was terrifyingly sharp.
Volka blinked. "...Ricky, have you been through something like this before?"
"Let's just say I have."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Rickert sighed inwardly and changed the subject. "Have you all checked your gear? Maintain your weapons while you have the time. If dried blood crusts on the steel, your sword might get stuck in its scabbard when you need it most. Be thorough."
At his words, everyone scrambled to draw their weapons and inspect them. Watching them, Rickert thought that kids were still kids, after all. Still, he had to give them credit for standing their ground during the ambush instead of fleeing. The fact that none of them had completely lost their minds proved they hadn't earned their ranks by fluke.
"So... what do we do now?" Volka asked, examining a sword that wasn't his.
After a moment of thought, Rickert laid out their options. "We have two choices. One: we head straight back to the Academy tomorrow. Two: we stop by the village first. That way, we can figure out what's really going on, decide if we can fight the enemy, and determine whether to continue with our request."
Plans were notorious for falling apart, but having one was essential. It provided a direction. And if it crumbled in the face of combat, you simply adapted and made a new one.
Rickert's logic was sound, leaving them with a clear choice: turn back or press forward.
Volka turned to the group. "Let's vote. Raise your hand if you want to head back."
Excluding the unconscious Molty, three of the eight raised their hands—two girls and one boy.
"Raise your hand if you want to go to the village."
This time, Ice and his two friends raised their hands. It was a three-to-three tie. Neither Rickert nor Volka had voted.
"Ricky, what about you?"
Once again, all eyes fell on him. In a crisis like this, he commanded their near-absolute trust. In any army, the soldiers on the ground know best whether a leader is worth following. And right now, these students desperately wanted Rickert to take the lead.
"Tracking down deserters isn't something that happens overnight, which means our request has a generous deadline," Rickert began. "There are nine of us. That's not a small force. Aside from Molty, no one is seriously injured. As long as we aren't caught off guard like we were today—if we take the initiative and strike first—we're more than capable of wiping them out. Give Molty two days of rest, and he'll be mobile again. By the third day, he can fight. So, to sum it up: don't lose your nerve. You all fought damn well today."
As they listened, the fog of fear in their minds began to clear. They had only been terrified because the panic had overwhelmed them. Laid out logically like this, they realized their situation wasn't so hopeless after all.
"Heading back is actually more dangerous," Rickert continued. "It's the first thing the enemy would expect. They won't start a sword fight in the middle of a village, so let's head there at daybreak. If we run into them, all the better—we can finally identify our enemy. And once we know who they are, we make them pay. No matter how long it takes."
"Make them pay?"
"For our fallen classmates."
"Ah..."
"I know we aren't close," Rickert said. "Expecting us to trust each other with our lives is asking too much. I won't ask for that. But let's make a vow: if any of us dies at the hands of the enemy, the rest will avenge them without fail."
The word vengeance sent a strange ripple through the students. It carried a raw, fierce weight. It wasn't purely positive, nor was it entirely negative. Vengeance possessed a strange magic that could bind people with forced trust, offering a bizarre sort of comfort.
Furthermore, vengeance was both a noble's privilege and their duty. Should a noble house suffer an insult or unjust harm, they were bound to exact retribution, no matter how many years it took or what methods were required. It was how they secured and maintained their elite status, and it was one reason feudal society struggled to achieve lasting peace—hardly a noble family existed that wasn't entangled in a web of blood feuds. This same mechanism was used not just by nobility, but by criminal syndicates to enforce unity.
In short, Rickert was proposing this oath because he knew these nine students needed to bind together if they were to survive. What was the point of traveling together if they acted like strangers fending for themselves?
"I'll go first."
Rickert picked up a wooden bowl from the floor. Drawing his dagger, he slashed his palm and squeezed a trickle of blood into the container.
Even without words, the students understood the weight of his gesture. Though somewhat pagan and barbaric, such rituals were rooted in ancient traditions.
Rickert handed the dagger to Volka, who decisively sliced his own palm and added his blood to the bowl. He cut a bit too deep, Rickert noted.
One by one, using the same blade, each student added their blood. When it was Ice's turn, he hesitated, holding the dagger and bowl in silence for a moment before slicing his palm without a word. With all eight having offered their blood, a sizable pool collected in the vessel.
Rickert dipped his fingers into the crimson liquid, dabbed his forehead and the space over his heart, then drew a sharp line across his throat.
"Huh? Weren't we supposed to drink it?" Volka asked.
"Why would anyone drink raw blood? Isn't this how they do it in the North?" Rickert countered.
"Wait, Ricky, are you from the North? Didn't you say you were from the South?"
"In my hometown, we draw a cross on our faces."
The regional differences left them all looking at each other in slight confusion. Regardless, they followed Rickert's lead, dabbing blood on their foreheads and hearts, then drawing a line across their necks.
"From this moment until our request is complete," Rickert declared, his voice resonating in the dim cabin, "if even one among us suffers an unjust death, is sacrificed, or falls to an enemy's blade, each of us swears to slay the killer without fail. Whosoever breaks this oath shall incur divine retribution and be cast into hell upon death."
It might have seemed childish on the surface, but standing in the shadows of the cabin, the real blood they had drawn infused the ritual with a solemn, heavy weight. As Rickert spoke the oath on their behalf, a true bond finally formed among them. It was fragile, perhaps, but it ran as deep and red as blood.
The night deepened. Though no one slept soundly, fitful rest was far better than staying awake in sheer dread.
By morning, Molty had regained consciousness and was well enough to walk with support.
"What happened to you guys?" he asked, looking bewildered at the bandages wrapped around everyone's hands.
"We swore an oath," Rickert replied. "An oath of vengeance. Even if we can't save each other, we promised to avenge whoever falls. And starting now, we make them pay for our dead classmates—no matter who they are."
Molty looked around at his peers. Nothing seemed different about them, yet an intangible, grave resolve hung in the air.
"Then count me in," Molty said. Despite having collapsed from blood loss just the day before, he sliced his own palm without hesitation to join the oath.
With all nine having sealed the vow, the reinforcements from Beringen Academy set out toward Griffinswald. They did not run. Come what may, they had resolved to fight to the bitter end.
In the crisp dawn light, Rickert walked at the very front. The older students fell into step behind the youngest among them.
A violet was pinned to his chest, a red cloak was wrapped around his shoulders, and a longsword was slung across his back. That boy was their leader.
He moved like the alpha of a pack of wild dogs.