Chapter 37
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 37
Rickert, Boribori, and the Nameless were now companions in all but name. No promises had been made, no contracts signed, yet they had joined forces for the time being to pursue their own goals. Or perhaps, without even realizing it, they had simply grown on each other.
The three headed west toward Ehrenberg, but their immediate target was not the Ehrenberg Quintet. A more pressing matter lay nearby, and it was in that direction they traveled.
Though sunset was still some time away, the group made camp early at a spot suitable for the purpose. The site was clearly a frequent stop for travelers, with traces of old campfires and cleared ground.
Rickert swept away cobwebs with his scabbard and scattered the insects with his boot. He was grateful to find a few pieces of firewood scattered around, which he used to light a fire in the pre-existing, makeshift hearth.
Once the fire was lit, Rickert sat and unfolded the wanted poster the Nameless had given him. It featured a drawing of a plump, exceptionally ugly man smiling unpleasantly.
Below the image was a brief summary of the criminal’s characteristics and offenses.
[Haspil – Also known as "He Who Grieves Mothers." Leader of the criminal organization known as the "Assassins' Guild."
Criminal Record: Murder of clergy, rape and murder of numerous women, multiple counts of homicide, plunder of monasteries, torture, human trafficking, and dealing in stolen goods.
Primary Area of Activity: Siegfringer. May be active elsewhere. Possible collusion with other dangerous criminal organizations.
For God and the Empire, a reward of 40 Gold Coins will be paid for the live capture of the above criminal, or 10 Gold Coins for his head.]
"Wow..."
A sigh of amazement escaped Rickert’s lips. The man was so heinous, it was hard to believe such a piece of trash could exist. The Nameless’s personal vendetta aside, Haspil was a menace who needed to be dealt with.
The problem, however, was the difficulty of the task. In some ways, this seemed even more challenging than taking on the Quintet.
Still, Rickert didn't consider it impossible. Difficult and impossible were two entirely different things, and his philosophy was that any man could be killed.
Vague plans began to form in his mind. He already knew several methods for a small force to overcome a large number of enemies, and he was keenly aware of the weaknesses inherent in men like these.
Criminal organizations were inherently unstable. They lacked discipline and structure. They might preach loyalty, but at the first sign of real trouble, they would turn on each other in a heartbeat.
There were two primary ways to dismantle such a group: weaken their cohesion by sowing discord, or instill a fear greater than the fear of their leader.
Rickert decided their first step should be to gather information around the Siegfringer area.
His grand plan was to help the Nameless achieve his revenge, then enlist his aid in dealing with the Ehrenberg Quintet. This wasn't an act of pure goodwill. The ultimate goal was to complete his request so the Academy students wouldn't starve and could survive the winter.
While Rickert was lost in strategic thought, Boribori returned to the campsite, his hands cupped together as if holding something. Had he caught a bug?
Boribori grinned at Rickert and the Nameless. "Guess what I brought."
"Caterpillars for a snack?" Rickert asked dryly.
"Nope. Look closely."
Boribori gently opened his hands. On his palm lay a single, bright red camellia, its petals still moist with melted snow, looking remarkably fresh.
"Ta-da! A flower blooming even in winter!"
Rickert felt a flicker of curiosity before his expression turned indifferent. He could respect Boribori's simple tastes, but it wasn’t for him.
Suddenly, the Nameless snatched the flower, lifted the cloth covering his helmet, and stuffed it into his mouth. A crunching sound followed.
"I-it's not for eating..." Boribori stammered, flustered.
The Nameless paid him no mind, swallowing the flower completely.
It was an absurd moment, but to maintain their strength for the long journey ahead, they had to eat well, whether it was flowers or something more substantial.
They roasted potatoes, corn, and sweet potatoes in the fire, melted snow in a pot to mix with grain powder, and sliced off pieces of ham. It wasn't a feast, but it was a balanced meal.
As they ate, Boribori managed to get food smeared around his mouth. The Nameless reached out and wiped it clean. Huh?
Watching from the side, Rickert felt a wave of bewilderment. What on earth was he seeing? Yet, at the same time, a strange warmth bloomed in his chest. That single, small gesture spoke volumes. It was like bonding with a fierce, silent beast.
Boribori, for his part, wasn't flustered at all. He simply flashed his signature sunny smile.
After a night under the stars, the trio set out for Siegfringer the next morning. Along the way, they stopped in a village and traded some potatoes for the right to sleep in a barn.
At each stop, they asked about Haspil and his Assassins' Guild. But the villagers, most of whom had never ventured far from home, had never heard of them.
As they neared Siegfringer, however, their inquiries began to provoke a different reaction. One peasant, upon hearing the name, went pale and fled without a word, even when Rickert offered him precious food for the winter.
That was all the confirmation Rickert needed. They were close.
He stopped asking questions directly. He had already learned their primary area of activity: a city called Lunenberg, within the Siegfringer region. The local Thieves' Guild served as Haspil's lackeys, and the bandits on nearby Mount Lunen were his subordinates. It seemed Haspil and his men operated in the city under the Thieves' Guild's protection, retreating to the mountain whenever things got too hot.
Collectively, the Thieves' Guild and the bandits were known as the "Assassins' Guild." As the name suggested, their main business was contract killing. Their methods, however, were crude and unprofessional. More often than not, they would accept a request only to blackmail the client for more money and valuables without ever carrying out the hit.
They had a grandiose name, but in reality, they were just a gang of thugs.
How do they even stay in business operating like that? Rickert wondered.
"Let's be honest," a merchant packing his wagon told him later. "The Adventurers' Guild only handles shady requests for the rich and powerful. But anyone can wish someone dead, right? What about the village wife who hates her cheating husband enough to kill him? Who grants her wish? When you hate someone that much, you aren't thinking straight. That’s why people keep bringing them bags of money, despite their reputation. It never stops. For them to go out of business, the world would have to become a better place. But life is hard, and the people we love and trust will always find a way to stab us in the back. That's why they'll never go bankrupt."
Rickert handed the merchant a Silver Coin for the information. The man, surprised by the generous payment, offered one last tip.
"Haspil is a hopeless gambling addict. If you go to a tavern called 'Mother's Sorrow,' you can't miss him. Unless he's hiding out on the mountain, that is."
"Thank you. Good luck on your journey."
Rickert bought a large cloak from the merchant before heading toward Lunenberg with his companions. The cloak was big enough to completely conceal the Nameless. It wasn't new—it had belonged to a large man in the merchant's party and carried a faint odor—but after a good dusting, the Nameless put it on without complaint.
Upon reaching Lunenberg, Rickert didn't enter the city immediately. He scouted the outskirts, noting a mountain to the south, separated from the city by a river. Once he found a concealed spot, he gathered his companions.
"Here's the plan," he said. "First, we get a room in the city. Bori and I will go to the gambling den disguised as customers. Mister, you'll stand by as our bodyguard. We'll scout the layout and how they operate, then head back to our room to finalize our strategy. We'll meet back here on the day of the attack. How does that sound?"
Boribori, a complete novice in such operations with only a little sword training, nodded readily.
The Nameless, however, remained silent, his posture suggesting disapproval.
Rickert knew why. Recalling his fighting style, it was easy to deduce the reason for his hesitation.
"I know things might get out of hand," Rickert said. "You might lose your temper and kill him on the spot. That's fine. Bori and I will handle the aftermath. You just focus on carving us an escape route."
Only then did the Nameless nod.
Though their styles differed, Rickert and the Nameless were both experts in this line of work. How well they would coordinate remained to be seen, but Rickert understood their individual strengths. He had already assigned their roles: with the Nameless excelling at breaking through enemy lines and himself at counterattacks, he had divided their tiny force into a vanguard and a rearguard.
With a rough plan in place, they entered Lunenberg and rented a room at an inn near the city gate.
As night fell, they made their way to the tavern called "Mother's Sorrow." Surprisingly, it wasn't tucked away in a dark alley but located in a bustling district. A flash of a pouch full of Silver Coins was all it took for the doorman to let them pass without any questions about their age, status, or identity. In a gambling den, a sucker was king.
The interior was as bright as day, illuminated by hundreds of candles. The thick, cloying scent of wax was almost dizzying, but the patrons, their eyes gleaming with avarice, seemed oblivious.
Nobles, wealthy merchants, and desperate men who had scraped together their last pennies sat hunched over tables, while the house provided expensive liquor and prostitutes. The gamblers stared intently at the dealers, erupting in roars that could shake the rafters or groans so deep it felt like the floor might collapse. Lost in a haze of desperate hope, no one paid Rickert’s group any mind.
Boribori’s eyes widened, taking in this strange new world. Rickert, however, calmly scanned the room, noting the positions of the security guards, potential entry points for reinforcements, and the safest escape routes.
Once he had a feel for the layout, they took seats at a long table. Four other men were already there, playing a simple game of odds or evens with two dice.
Before each round, the dealer, a man with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic chant, would trap the dice between his fingers, show the empty bowl, then begin the game.
"Odd! Or! Even!" he’d call out, tossing the dice into the bowl and slamming it upside down on the table. A sharp shake, then silence. The rattling was crisp and clean.
"Live! Or! Die!"
At his shout, the men placed their bets. There wasn't a single Copper Coin on the table—only silver. The stakes were high. The clatter of dice and the clinking of coins created a strangely alluring symphony.
Rickert watched for several rounds without playing. One, two, three, four…
By the fifth round, the dealer spoke up. "You playing or not? If you're not playing, you have to pay for the seat."
"I'll play now."
The dealer silently rolled the dice again. Rickert stared intently at the overturned bowl, then pushed all his money—a hefty 20 Silver Coins—onto "even."
Everyone, including the dealer, looked startled. A brief silence fell over their table amidst the din of the hall. The dealer slowly lifted the bowl. The dice showed an even number.
"Gasp!"
"Whoa!"
"Incredible!"
The gamblers at the table stared, their eyes wide. This was the thrill they lived for, even if they weren't the ones who had won. Just witnessing it made their hearts pound.
With a grim, stiff expression, the dealer pulled money from a pouch beneath the table, combined it with the losers' bets, and paid out to the winners. In an instant, Rickert's stack had ballooned to 42 Silver Coins.
"R-Ricky! We're rich! What do we do?" an excited Boribori cried, grabbing Rickert’s shoulders and shaking him.
"Calm down. Get a grip."
The real game was just beginning. Rickert started winning every single bet.
The truth was, Rickert wasn't guessing. He was listening to the sound of the dice to determine their values, while simultaneously watching the dealer’s eyes for the slightest hint of a cheat. It was a feat only made possible by his superhuman senses and insight. He couldn't lose.
The other players, oblivious to his methods, simply started mirroring his bets, throwing all their money down wherever he did. In no time, the dealer was cleaned out.
"Wahahahaha!"
Dopamine-fueled laughter erupted. One man grabbed Rickert’s head and started kissing it, forcing the Nameless to step forward and push him away.
A mountain of Silver Coins now stood before Rickert, so high he couldn't see over it without standing. The commotion had drawn the attention of everyone in the gambling den, and a crowd began to gather.
Just then, a man approached the dealer, tapped his arm, and said, "Step aside."
Rickert looked up. On the other side of the table stood the man from the wanted poster: Haspil. He grinned, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. Rickert marveled at how perfectly the drawing had captured him.
"Having fun, kid?" Haspil asked, his voice deceptively genial.
"It's getting boring," Rickert replied. "Too easy."
"True. Gambling is only fun when you might lose. But betting money is so cliché, don't you think? How about we bet something else?"
"Like what?"
"Life and death. Isn't that the true spirit of odds or evens? If you capture me and take me to the Adventurers' Guild, you'll make a fortune."
The poster had said 40 Gold Coins for his capture. That was 800 Silver Coins.
"Roll," Rickert said without a moment's hesitation.
Haspil cleared the table, motioning for the other gamblers to back away. It was now a one-on-one showdown. The entire den gathered to watch, the once-raucous hall falling into a dead silence.
Haspil tossed the dice into the bowl and flipped it onto the table. Unlike the previous dealer, he didn't shake it. He just moved it once.
Clack.
A smirk touched Rickert's lips. He'd expected a trick, but this was far too clumsy.
"Since when were there three dice?" Rickert asked coolly.
"Hmm?"
"Depending on what I call, you'll make one of them disappear. You win either way. What do they call that trick again?"
"Are you accusing me of cheating?"
Of all the sins in the world, the greatest sin in a gambling den was cheating. It was the one crime that warranted punishment regardless of status.
"Let's have a look, shall we?"
Rickert’s hand blurred. In a flash, he drew a dagger from his coat and slammed it down, pinning the back of Haspil’s hand to the table.
Crack!
The dagger pierced flesh, shattered the wooden bowl, and bit deep into the table beneath. The onlookers gasped in shock. Three blood-stained dice rolled free.
Haspil gasped, a scream building in his throat. But before it could escape, the Nameless, who had been standing silently behind Rickert, sprang forward like a tiger. He vaulted onto the table and lunged at Haspil, a gleaming axe already raised high.
Chaos.
It was the perfect battlefield for the Nameless. Rickert had known this, and at the first opportunity, he had set the stage.
Without a word, without even a glance, they had moved in perfect sync—like partners in a high-stakes gamble.