Chapter 34
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 34
In winter, rumors too horrific to speak aloud crawled across the snowfields—tales of mothers driven by hunger to eat their own babies, of people digging up graves to feast on corpses.
There was no need to worry about wild beasts on a winter journey, for winter was the season when humans became beasts themselves.
Across the snow-covered plains, the road was a messy tangle of wheel ruts and footprints. The mud had frozen into sharp, jagged ridges.
On one side of the road, a half-destroyed carriage lay tilted. Corpses were strewn around it. One body, lying some distance away, was missing its head.
The snow had stopped for a moment. In the cold morning sunlight, Rickert and Boribori stood still, staring blankly at the scene of the slaughter. The vast snowfield sparkled in the light, and white puffs of breath escaped their mouths with every exhale.
Since spending a single night outside meant freezing to death, there was no way anyone had survived. Here and there, the snow was pocked with dark pits where blood had melted it.
If there was one saving grace, it was that no flesh had been carved from the corpses. Still, Rickert wasn't sure if he should feel relieved that the attacker hadn't stooped to that level of depravity.
What was puzzling was that if the goal had been food or money, the attacker would have stripped the bodies of their gear. But the corpses were still fully armed. Even as scrap metal, the equipment would have fetched a decent sum.
But there was something even more surprising.
"This is… unexpected," Rickert said, looking around.
"Huh?"
"The attacker. It was just one person. You can tell by the cuts and the footprints."
Rickert traced a deep, sharp gash in the carriage. He had always possessed an incredibly sharp eye, and thanks to the experience of his past life, he was exceptionally skilled at reconstructing a scene to deduce an opponent's strength. It was this very ability that had allowed him to seize the tactical advantage during an unexpected ambush on a previous request.
Here, the scene was so clear that he could practically visualize the entire slaughter. He could almost hear the chaotic din of the battle echoing in his ears—the clash of steel, desperate screams, and agonizing shrieks of terror.
Some had died before they could take more than a few steps. Others had been dragged back while trying to flee. One man’s head had been split clean in half.
The dead had almost no other wounds. They had all been killed with a single blow. And since most of their skulls were split open, the weapon was likely a battleaxe, not a sword.
"Uh… but there are over ten bodies here. And most of them are armed," Boribori said.
"That's what makes it so impressive."
"Then isn't it dangerous around here?"
"Not really. This was like a wild beast's hunt. Now that it has its prey, it won't return."
Rickert’s gaze fell on the headless corpse in the distance. It seemed the attacker hadn't struck for money but had targeted that single head from the very beginning. If money had been the motive, the attacker wouldn't have been alone, nor would they have left so many valuables behind. Perhaps it was a grudge. Of course, there was no way to know for sure.
Rickert inspected the inside of the broken, tilted carriage. Inside lay the corpse of a noblewoman. Her clothes were intact, with no signs of violation. Unlike the others, a dagger was driven deep into her chest. She had died from a single stab to the heart—a difficult feat, as the blade had to find the narrow gap between the ribs.
It was as if the killer had respected her honor, even in death. Or perhaps it held some other special meaning.
Who on earth did this, and why? he wondered, a strange, inexplicable sense of déjà vu washing over him.
In any case, they had a destination to reach and couldn't linger. Rickert and Boribori began rummaging through the corpses and the carriage, managing to salvage a few coins, some hard bread, and a bit of jerky. Was this what passed for good luck?
After wrapping their spoils and stowing them away, they set off again, leaving the gruesome scene behind. Failing to reach their destination before sunset would be a serious problem.
Having departed Beringen in the pitch-black dawn, they could reach a place called Anna's Loss by early evening if they maintained a brisk pace. Fortunately, the snow held off, allowing them to make good time.
Boribori kept up better than expected. Considering he had traveled a vast distance alone to reach the Academy in the first place, the boy possessed a resilient streak beneath his naive exterior. His physical weakness was only relative; as his mastery of the Mana Drive technique progressed, his strength was steadily growing.
Clad in dark brown and red cloaks, the two boys trudged across the snowfield along the southwestern road.
As the sun began to set, a blizzard started to howl once more. Fortunately, they managed to reach a large building situated by the roadside. It was a two-story structure with an attached stable, thin wisps of white smoke drifting from its chimney. Carved deeply into the wall was a large, crude inscription that looked like graffiti: Anna's Loss.
With his sword slung over one shoulder, Rickert pushed open the door and stepped into the tavern. A wave of warm air washed over him, carrying a foul stench with it.
The tavern was packed with patrons who looked unsavory by any standard. It was as if every criminal in the northeast had gathered in this single room. Men with milky, cataract-blinded eyes, mouths with only a few yellow teeth, wild and unkempt beards, missing fingers, and grime-caked faces covered in scars were the norm here. It was as if they were all competing to see who could best embody humanity’s dregs in their own grotesque way.
The patrons turned to look as Rickert and Boribori entered. Not all of them, of course—some were already dead drunk, sprawled haphazardly across the filthy floor.
"Shut the door. It's freezing," someone grunted.
The man’s foul breath seemed to carry all the way across the room. Rickert grimaced but did as he was told, shutting the door and stepping fully into the wretched establishment. The patrons found it odd to see such young boys in a place like this, but since the newcomers were armed and trouble was forbidden here, they paid them little mind.
This tavern was managed by the Arisen Brotherhood, a thieves' guild, and served as a sort of neutral zone. Causing trouble here meant making an enemy of the guild. Even the roughest criminals knew better than to bite the hand that fed them; if they wanted to start a fight, they took it outside.
Rickert walked up to the bar. The bartender was far too busy drinking to bother with customers, swigging straight from a bottle while flirting with a cheap prostitute.
Rickert placed a golden cloak pin on the bar.
"Dunkel sent me."
The bartender, who had been ignoring him, froze and stared down at the pin. It was too finely crafted to be a forgery. Only then did he meet Rickert's eye. He glanced between the pin and Rickert's face a few times, then snapped irritably at the prostitute, who was still babbling away.
"Hey, shut your mouth and get lost."
"Tch! Asshole."
The prostitute pouted but shuffled away. The bartender turned back to Rickert.
"What's this about?"
"It's about the Ehrenberg Quintet—"
"Shut the fuck up."
The bartender cut him off before he could finish. Setting his bottle down, he shook his head violently and slapped his own cheeks twice. He took a few deep, ragged breaths to steady himself.
"So, where's the guy who's actually handling the job?" he asked, clearly taking Rickert for a mere messenger.
"I'm handling the job."
"…What? Don't fuck with me. Do I look like a joke to you?"
"You do look like a total scrub," Rickert shot back.
Since the man insisted on being rude, Rickert returned the favor. The bartender bristled, but the calm, unbothered look in Rickert's eyes gave him pause. Suddenly, a realization struck him.
"Is it you? Ricky the Severer?"
"That's right."
The bartender scrutinized Rickert's appearance once more. Blond hair that stopped above his ears, hazel eyes, a winter gambeson, a red cloak, and a single longsword slung over his shoulder. The boy's small, adolescent frame did little to convince him.
"…Even so, what the hell is Dunkel thinking? Look, I've heard you're some kind of prodigy with a sword. But not for this job. Go home."
Rickert blinked. He hadn't expected this. He had assumed Dunkel's approval meant the job was his, but apparently not. Had Dunkel sent him here knowing this would happen? Had he never intended to give him the job in the first place? There was no way to know without going back to demand answers, but he had walked all day to get here.
Wondering what to do, he glanced at Boribori, who only shrugged. It wasn't like he had a solution.
"I was told skilled adventurers couldn't do it because their faces are too well-known, and that a student would be better suited."
"I understand the logic, but it's not happening. It's dark out, so just get a room for the night and—"
The bartender never finished his sentence. The tavern door was violently kicked open.
Crash!
Everyone, including Rickert, whipped their heads around. A massive man stood in the doorway, the howling blizzard spilling into the room.
Whoosh…!
The man wore a Norse-style nasal helmet with a black cloth attached, completely concealing the lower half of his face. Over his scale armor, he wore a thick, apron-like tunic. He had tough leather gloves, a leather harness crossing his chest and waist, a coil of rope at his left hip, and a one-handed battleaxe at his right. In his hand, he carried a heavy, blood-soaked bundle.
The sleeves of his scale armor ended at his elbows, exposing forearms as thick as logs and covered in scars. He wheezed heavily, like a man struggling for breath, as his gaze swept across the tavern. Through the eye slits of his helmet, his blue eyes gleamed like a wild beast's.
"Shut the door. It's freezing," someone yelled again.
The newcomer ignored him, stepping heavily into the tavern. In his hand was a badly crumpled piece of paper. He seemed to compare it to someone in the room, then tossed it aside. It was a wanted poster.
Suddenly, a rough-looking patron trembled with fear and let out a panicked shout. That was the spark.
"…Fuck!"
Whoosh! Crunch!
In a flash, the giant drew his axe and swung, splitting the man's skull. The victim convulsed once and collapsed.
Panic erupted. Patrons scrambled to their feet, trampling the drunks on the floor. More than a few tripped and went sprawling. Tables and chairs overturned, sending dice, coins, and cups clattering everywhere. The tavern descended into absolute chaos.
"You son of a bitch!"
There were plenty of self-proclaimed tough guys in the tavern. They drew their weapons and lunged. But the man fought like a literal beast.
Whoosh! Thud! Clang! Crack!
He ignored minor slashes, letting his armor absorb them. He shattered faces with fists like iron blocks, and his heavy axe split skulls with unerring precision. He kicked, trampled, and drove his knees into his opponents with brutal efficiency. Bones shattered. Chunks of torn flesh hit the floor with wet splats.
The slaughter was over in seconds. The floor was slick with blood, and mangled corpses lay strewn in every direction. The giant stood in the center of the carnage, his shoulders heaving as he wheezed.
"Ugh…"
Whoosh! Thud!
He brought his axe down on the neck of a groaning survivor. Grabbing the severed head by its hair, he walked heavily toward Rickert. Each step left a wet, red footprint, and blood dripped steadily from the severed neck.
The prostitute stood frozen near Rickert, trembling so violently she couldn't even scream. A puddle of urine pooled at her feet. As the giant drew near, the bartender collapsed to the floor, shaking with terror. Causing a scene in this tavern meant making an enemy of the thieves' guild, but this giant clearly didn't give a damn.
Rickert simply watched him. The giant spared Rickert a brief glance before dismissing him entirely. Up close, his heavy, wheezing breath was deafening. He grabbed a bottle of liquor from the bar and poured it over the cuts on his forearms, then tossed the empty bottle aside.
Smash!
The giant stuffed the head into his empty bundle and walked out of the tavern. The surviving patrons huddled in the corners, watching him leave in terrified silence.
"N-Nameless… Nameless X…" the bartender whimpered from the floor.
Nameless X was a legendary bounty hunter and one of the Nine Swords of the Empire. What was a man like him doing here?
"It must be freezing out there…" Boribori muttered to himself.
Rickert was certain this was the man who had slaughtered the people at the carriage. The giant reminded him strangely of his past self, an inexplicable pull drawing his attention.
"Let's follow him."
"Huh?"
"Let's follow him. I doubt the bartender will give us any information now."
"But it's freezing outside."
"We don't have a choice."
"Alright, let's go."
"Grab a lantern on your way out."
"Okay."
Boribori swiped one of the lanterns hanging in the tavern. The two boys walked toward the entrance, where the blizzard still howled through the open doorway. They made sure to shut the door behind them.
Thud.
Silence returned to the tavern, but the room was already a ruin. No one dared to make a sound. The only noise in the heavy silence was the slow, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood falling from the edge of a table.