Chapter 25
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 25
Unlike other places, the forest was a sanctuary of crisp, fresh air. The scents of trees, soil, moss, grass, and countless invisible things mingled to bring a deep sense of peace. The breath exhaled by ancient and young trees alike seemed to cleanse the very depths of one's lungs.
It was a place teeming with life—a living, breathing entity in its own right.
This energy was especially palpable at dawn, washing away the impurities of a clouded mind and soul.
Yet, cutting through this pristine air, a jarring, metallic stench brushed against the nose. It was the smell of blood.
Somewhere along the winding forest path, corpses lay scattered. A group of men paced among the bodies.
A man with a rough beard covering his jaw and chin-length brown hair stared down at the corpses. The sheer number of stab and slash wounds testified to a fierce struggle. And though it was hard to notice at first glance, every single corpse had its eyes closed—as if someone had paid their final respects.
"Clan Master. Over here."
Someone called out to the man from just off the path. His name was Lorentz, the Clan Master of the Rubens Clan.
A Clan Master was responsible for managing multiple clans within the guild. The Adventurers' Guild generally operated under a hierarchy of Guild Master, Advisory Council, Clan Master, Clan Leader, and finally, Adventurer.
While a Clan Master's personal martial prowess was important, the position demanded a high level of administrative expertise. Managing adventurers—a free-spirited and notoriously insubordinate bunch—was no easy task. It required a delicate touch, a subtle balancing act of knowing when to tighten the reins and when to let them loose. Furthermore, commanding operations that deployed multiple clans required a vast, complex array of knowledge and extensive field experience.
At the call, Lorentz trudged over through the underbrush.
Not far away lay a corpse in a bizarre posture. It was kneeling, its upper body bent backward, and most notably, it was missing its head. It was a thoroughly uncomfortable position, but since the man was dead, it hardly mattered.
Still, one could easily deduce how he had met his end. Decapitated while standing, Lorentz reasoned.
The clean cut suggested the head had been severed in a single blow rather than hacked off. Unless the victim had willingly stretched out their neck like a condemned prisoner, taking off a standing man's head in one strike was no easy feat.
Above all, there were no other wounds on the body. It had been a clean, one-shot kill.
The severed head lay nearby. Lorentz nudged it with his boot to check the face, then muttered under his breath.
"Unbelievable…"
Though his expression remained neutral, Lorentz was utterly dumbfounded. The decapitated man was one of the guild's most prized prospects.
There were several stages on the path to becoming a Swordmaster. While classification systems varied from guild to guild, the Rubens Clan divided them into the Petal Stage and the Blooming Stage. In the Petal Stage, striking the blade caused mana to ripple in the shape of flower petals. In the Blooming Stage, swinging the sword left a lingering afterimage of mana along its trajectory. Finally, upon reaching the level of a Swordmaster, the blade itself would radiate pure light.
No one knew the exact method to reach the rank of Swordmaster. It was not something achieved simply by training one's Mana Drive, nor by practicing swordsmanship alone. The one thing every guild agreed upon was that real combat experience was an absolute necessity. They believed that taking a life, or facing a life-or-death duel, triggered a psychological shift that acted as a catalyst.
The decapitated man before him had reached the Petal Stage. He was a rare talent, the kind that emerged from the Rubens Academy only once every few years.
That such a prospect had died here was absurd. As Clan Master, Lorentz would find it difficult to escape the blame.
Reaching the Petal Stage or even becoming a Swordmaster did not make one immortal. They were still creatures of flesh and bone; they could slip and fall to their deaths while climbing a mountain, be pierced by a stray arrow, or succumb to poison. Yet, they rarely died easily—especially not in a sword fight. And yet, here he lay. Why? How? Who could possibly kill a swordsman of the Petal Stage?
"Did they catch on…? Strange… That shouldn't be possible…" Lorentz muttered, pulling his boot away from the severed head.
He couldn't make sense of it. The primary objective of this operation was to eliminate the Beringen Guild's adventurers, which they had already accomplished by raiding their hideout. Along the way, they had learned that academy students were coming as reinforcements. To secure an easy bonus victory, he had ordered his men to lie in wait and ambush them.
It was an optional task, really. But crushing their rival guild was the only way for their own guild to survive and climb the ladder of power. If they had the chance to do it, they took it.
But now, their prized prodigy was dead. Was this a net loss or a gain? Lorentz calculated the profit and loss in his head.
Twelve active adventurers versus one prospect with the potential to become a Swordmaster. Which held more value?
The margin was slim, but no matter how he sliced it, the scales tipped toward a loss. He had to recoup this deficit. But how?
Lorentz stroked his beard, lost in thought. If an academy student managed to kill our prodigy, they must be of a similar caliber. If I kill that kid, the loss is neutralized.
He had to kill them. This was no longer about securing a bonus victory. If his side had suffered a devastating blow, the enemy had to bleed just as heavily.
Having reached a conclusion, Lorentz looked to his side. Six or seven young men stood there, looking like guilty children.
"What did he look like again?"
"H-He wore a red cloak and he was short. Looked pretty young, but he wielded a massive sword that didn't fit his size. It was a longsword with leather wrapped around the ricasso."
"If he's that young, he's not an active adventurer?"
"Yes… He definitely seemed to be a student… That's what we were told, too…"
Lorentz was certain of it now. A talent who had reached the Petal Stage—or perhaps even higher—was enrolled in the Beringen Academy. He had to kill that bastard.
With his target locked, Lorentz's next steps fell into place.
"Search the area and block their escape routes. Don't let a single one of them leave alive. If word reaches Beringen, this entire operation is canceled. If that happens, you can kiss your rewards goodbye. I'm fucked, and you're fucked. Do you understand me?"
The operation's goal had always been to deal a devastating, one-sided blow to the Beringen Guild through a surprise attack. If the Beringen Guild caught wind of it and deployed their full force in retaliation, it would devolve into a war of attrition where both sides bled, rendering the entire thing pointless.
However, Lorentz's orders were exactly what Rickert had anticipated. He knew the enemy would focus on blocking the roads to Beringen and wouldn't think to linger around a raided hideout or Griffinswald.
Conversely, Lorentz had failed to anticipate one crucial detail: that a mere academy student would choose to press on with his mission rather than flee.
*
Griffinswald meant "the forest of griffins." However, griffins—creatures bordering on mythical beasts—were so rarely seen that the name felt like a misnomer. Perhaps they had been more common in the past.
For defensive purposes, the village sat atop a steep hill, its surrounding slopes deliberately sheared away. A sturdy wooden palisade encircled the entire perimeter. A single temple dedicated to the gods stood at the center, surrounded by modest log cabins. The population was small, with most residents scraping by through herb gathering, hunting, and foraging.
While the harsh environment could never sustain a large population, it was a decent enough place for a small community to thrive. Much like Stormherz.
Though its origins were shrouded in time, one widely accepted legend about the village endured. It was said that an imperial ranger stationed here had married an elf and settled down, and their descendants had eventually established the village. Though they no longer held any ties to the imperial family, nearly every man in the village was a trained ranger. Consequently, it was wise to tread lightly—unless one fancied an arrow through the forehead before they even knew what hit them.
It was not a village accustomed to visitors, yet nine outsiders now wandered its streets. Though cloaked, the weapons at their hips were plain to see. One of them stood out like a beacon even from afar, draped in a brilliant red cloak with a massive sword slung over his shoulder.
The villagers watched the group with wary curiosity. Young children stared, their eyes shining with wonder.
Atop the watchtower, a sentry quietly observed Rickert's group, a bow held loosely in his hand.
Scanning his surroundings, Rickert's eyes caught on a particular house. In the yard, unfinished crossbows hung to dry like laundry on a clothesline. It seemed to belong to a bowyer—fitting, given that crossbows were a famous local specialty.
An old man was shaving wood with a hand plane, the blade scraping rhythmically. Rickert approached him.
"Excuse me, sir. May I ask you a question?"
"..."
The old man paused his planing, raised his head, and stared at Rickert and his companions. Though confronted by a group of armed strangers, he showed not the slightest hint of fear.
"I'm Ricky, a student from the Beringen Academy. Do you happen to know of the Beringen Adventurers' Guild? There should have been a group of adventurers operating out of a hideout near here."
"...I heard those fools were killed."
"We know. We were just wondering if you might know who did it."
"You want me to get involved in a feud between adventurers? If I tell you, I'd be taking your side. The other faction would hold a grudge against us."
"Ah, that was thoughtless of me. Then, have you heard anything about any deserters?"
The old man stared at the boy, who had so readily conceded the point, before speaking.
"...Wouldn't you have to go to a city for that? Fugitives tend to blend into crowds. They don't hide out in places like this."
"I see. Where is the nearest city from here?"
"Torvail. It's a day's journey to the south. If you leave now, you should clear the forest by sunset."
"Understood. Also… is there any way we could obtain some herbs and food? I'll have the guild reimburse you later."
Having fled in a panic, several students had lost their packs, leaving them with barely enough food to share. They desperately needed to resupply, but they were completely broke. Rickert had spent his last coin before setting out, and the other students had lost what little funds they possessed.
The old man frowned slightly.
"And why on earth should I trust you enough to give you food?"
"Your intuition, elder."
"What?"
"Look into my eyes and judge for yourself whether I'm trustworthy."
Dumbfounded, the old man's scowl softened into a dry chuckle. He stared at Rickert for a long moment before shouting toward the cabin.
"Lester! Lester!"
"Yes, Grandfather!"
After a brief scuffle of footsteps inside, a sturdy young man emerged. The old man gave him his orders.
"That salted venison from the deer we caught last winter—there are still a few chunks left, aren't there? Give it all to these folks. Throw in a few bundles of herbs, too."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Without a word of complaint, the young man did as he was told. He disappeared back into the cabin and emerged shortly after with the salted meat and several bundles of medicinal herbs.
Rickert accepted the supplies, handed them to the other students, and turned back to the old man.
"I won't forget this kindness."
"It's not a favor if I'm expecting payment. Now, I have work to do. If you've got what you came for, move along."
Rickert gave the old man a respectful bow and turned away. Leading his group, he exited the village and headed south.
"Weren't you being a bit too humble? He's just some old man in a backwater village," Volka asked.
"In unfamiliar territory, securing the help of the locals is your best bet. But if you can't get them on your side, the absolute last thing you want to do is make them your enemies. Locals can be far more terrifying than any foe. Someone once said, 'If it secures the cooperation of the locals, I would gladly kneel before a commoner.' The man who said that was royalty."
It was a quote from Caldebert—Rickert's sole best friend in his past life, and now, his ancestor. Caldebert the Linebreaker.
Caldebert had originally hailed from the Adelorn Royal Family. After distinguishing himself on the Eastern Campaign Front, he had established a branch family—the very lineage Rickert belonged to today.
"Liar."
"It's true. Once you've struggled between life and death on a battlefield, your perspective changes. Those who don't adapt usually end up dead."
"...And how exactly do you know that?"
"Let's just say I heard it from my father."
Volka frowned slightly, his expression clearly signaling his skepticism.
"Besides, those villagers didn't even look that tough."
"Either way, we got food and a destination, so let's move. Once we reach Torvail, we might find a guild branch."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
Volka nodded in agreement. And so, instead of returning to their academy, the nine students set off toward a new city.
*
Meanwhile, Lorentz, having failed to locate Rickert's group despite scouring the forest and blocking the roads, returned to the raided hideout. True to the proverb that the darkest place is under the candlestick, he discovered traces of the students right there. Lorentz was once again dumbfounded. To him, it seemed these foolish students had completely lost their minds to return to the scene of the crime.
Deducing that the Beringen Academy students must have stopped by the village, Lorentz marched into the settlement with a force of about thirty adventurers and trainees. It had been a full day since Rickert's departure.
There, Lorentz spotted the same old man Rickert had spoken with.
"Hey, old man."
Lorentz called out, resting his hand heavily on the hilt of his sword. The old man, who was meticulously planing wood just as he had the day before, looked up.
"A bunch of unfamiliar brats passed through here, didn't they? I already know they did, so don't play dumb. Where did they go?"
"...I have no intention of interfering in a feud between adventurers. If I tell you, I'd be taking your side. The other faction would hold a grudge against us."
The old man gave Lorentz the exact same response he had given Rickert. But this time, the reaction was entirely different.
Lorentz narrowed his eyes, glaring down at the old man.
"You people are really starting to piss me off… Old man, do you not realize the situation you're in? I have thirty heavily armed men with me. Burning this worthless backwater village to the ground and slaughtering every last one of you would be child's play. Do you understand what I'm saying? Where did those bastards go? Do you want me to gut your grandson right in front of your eyes first? Huh?"
The old man stared back, his gaze hardening as he looked up at Lorentz.
"…Torvail. They left yesterday."
"If you're lying, I'll come back and slaughter every living soul here. Let's go."
Lorentz rallied his men and immediately left the village, marching toward Torvail.
The old man watched Lorentz's departing figure for a moment, then turned toward the cabin and shouted.
"Lester! Lester!"
"Yes, Grandfather!"
The young man rushed out just as he had the day before. But this time, the old man's command was entirely different.
"Gather the boys. Follow those bastards and kill every last one of them."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Lester answered as casually as if he had been asked to run a simple errand.
He went through the village, rallying the men. Every single one of them was a ranger, armed with bows and crossbows.
There was a saying that a single skilled ranger could halt the advance of an entire army. While it sounded like an exaggeration, it held a grain of truth. Navigating a forest was already a logistical nightmare for any military force; if they were subjected to hidden traps and sniped from afar, the soldiers would quickly lose heart and collapse in panic.
Perhaps the very reason this forest remained peaceful, largely free of wild beasts and monsters, was entirely due to the rangers of Griffinswald.
In this domain, they were the apex predators.
Now, they quietly pursued Lorentz and his men, their quivers heavy with arrows.