Chapter 50
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 50
You shouldn’t judge a person by their appearance, but some people made it impossible to think of them any other way.
Reinhardt, the leader of the Widowmaker Clan, was a man who looked like a bandit to anyone who laid eyes on him. His speech and behavior were just as thuggish.
"Hey! We could be alive today and dead tomorrow, so just drink up!"
A massive man with a thick, scruffy beard sat sprawled on the floor inside the watchtower, shouting gruffly. He had to be at least two meters tall, and his gut strained against his clothes like a small hill.
Leaning against the wall was a wooden club as tall as a man—a truly imposing sight. Looking at its sheer weight, you had to wonder if it could even be used as a proper weapon.
Even so, dried blood, bits of flesh, and matted hair were caked thickly across its surface.
"Forget the booze! I'm telling you, there are a hundred enemies gathered down there right now!" Volka yelled, his voice laced with frustration.
"We know, you idiot! So what? You want us to abandon this place and run? My orders were to hold this spot. Whether a hundred come or a thousand, I hold it. What the hell do I care!"
With that, Reinhardt gulped down alcohol straight from a large bowl. After downing the massive quantity of liquor in one go, he unleashed a thunderous belch that kicked up a literal gust of wind.
"BUUUUUUUURP! Gurgle. Hic."
"Ugh, gross!"
Delphi grimaced and turned her head away. Rickert, Boribori, Marie, and Volka all did the same.
They frantically fanned the air with their hands, but it was no use. The foul stench that erupted from the depths of his gut was atrocious.
Volka swore under his breath. Or rather, the curse that was supposed to stay in his head slipped out.
"Dammit."
Reinhardt remained completely unbothered, grinning with a mouth wide enough to swallow a man whole. He seemed thoroughly amused by the sight of the youngsters squirming from his belch.
"Hehehe, you cute little brats. If you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you. But unless new orders come down, my brothers and I are dying right here."
Was it responsibility? Loyalty? Even the most noble of knights weren't this stubborn. Faced with obvious defeat, retreating was the sensible choice.
However, the reason for his stubbornness seemed to confirm Delphi's assessment: he was simply an ignorant brute.
Reinhardt didn't think about anything else. Orders came from above, he agreed to carry them out, and so he would. That was all there was to it.
Unlike Volka, Rickert looked at Reinhardt and thought the guild's leadership had picked the right man for the job.
In any army, commanders naturally had different dispositions and personalities—some were suited for assault, others for defense. Of course, some could do both well, but competence aside, such natural inclinations were real.
Among them, the type of commander best suited to defending a stronghold was one possessed of extraordinary stubbornness, unusual malice, or unwavering resolve.
The leadership of the Beringen Guild seemed to have taken these traits into account when they stationed Reinhardt here.
Yet this wasn't a conventional war between mobilized armies. While there were similarities, there were also clear differences.
Just then, Reinhardt’s eyes sparkled as he caught sight of Rickert standing beside Volka.
"Hey, Red Cloak. Is that you? The genius swordsman who killed Mad Dog?"
"That's right," Rickert nodded.
Volka, Delphi, and Marie, who had no idea what he was talking about, turned to Rickert and blinked in shock. Who's Mad Dog? Wait, it couldn't be that guy—one of the Nine Swords of the Empire, could it?
The fact that Rickert and Boribori, along with The Nameless, had wiped out the Ehrenberg Quintet was initially a top-secret affair, so rumors hadn't spread far. However, those in the know—figures at the Clan Master level—were aware of it, even though Volka and Delphi, who were close to Rickert, had remained in the dark.
Although Reinhardt wasn't a Clan Master overseeing multiple clans, he held a comparable stature within the guild and had picked up the rumor in passing.
"He wasn't the kind of guy you could kill with sheer luck. Even with The Nameless helping, it couldn't have been easy. I know that much. I've seen that terrifying, rabid bastard with my own two eyes."
Even muddled by alcohol, Reinhardt clearly recalled the vivid memory.
Steiner, holding a glowing crimson sword with a burning village at his back. His eyes had glinted with a madness befitting a rabid hound, and just the memory of feeling like he would pounce at any second made Reinhardt's knees tremble.
Having merely passed by him during a request, Reinhardt had considered himself immensely fortunate not to have faced Steiner as an enemy.
A Swordmaster was a being who transcended the human realm. Ever since that day, Reinhardt had believed it impossible for a mere human to kill a Swordmaster.
Yet he had died. At the hands of this young genius swordsman. Of course, having a powerful ally like The Nameless had likely made it possible, but it was still an astounding feat. At that age, Reinhardt certainly couldn't have done such a thing.
"To catch a tiger, you need the guts to enter its lair. Regardless of the details, you accomplished something incredible. But remember this: fame is a double-edged sword. It might look like a path to success, but it's really a rope suspended over a cliff. You can fall at any moment. On top of that, there'll be plenty of bastards looking to kill you just to steal that fame for themselves."
Hearing Reinhardt's words, Rickert realized the man wasn't purely ignorant. He simply smiled faintly and replied, "I didn't kill him for success. I just put him down because he was a rabid dog. And I'm already used to bastards coming at me for fame."
Ten years as a shepherd, ten years on the battlefield, ten years as an infamous murderer. In his previous life, he had spent a decade killing fools who challenged him for his reputation. During those years, Rickert had dealt with every kind of person, experienced every trick in the book, and overcome all manner of crises.
"Did you live two lives or something? You've got zero childish charm, kid," Reinhardt said, his expression asking what kind of child talked like that. Rickert merely chuckled at the man's surprisingly insightful remark.
With that, he stepped out of the watchtower. The sunset was just beginning to color the sky.
"Mad Dog… you don't mean that Mad Dog Steiner, one of the Nine Swords of the Empire, do you?" a bewildered Volka asked as he hurried to catch up.
"Ask Bori," Rickert replied casually, his attention already focused on surveying the watchtower's surroundings.
The cylindrical watchtower was built of brick, but its top had collapsed, scattering large stones around the perimeter. Overgrown vegetation covered the piles of rubble, a testament to the ruthlessness of time. In short, the tower had lost its defensive function and was now little more than a temporary shelter.
Around the watchtower, members of the Widowmaker Clan had pitched tents. There were only about fifteen of them. Combined with Rickert's Clan Viola, their total number was around twenty.
Rickert strode toward the south side of the tower to inspect it. Below was a sheer cliff face; it seemed impossible for enemies to approach from this direction.
Below the rocky cliff, a stream flowed from east to west, with a path running alongside it. Following the path west led to a fork branching north and south.
This path was crucial for the enemy. To reach the Siegfringer area in the north-central part of the Empire, they had to pass through here.
Walking a short distance west from the watchtower revealed a rope bridge stretching to the mountain on the opposite side. The ancient ropes still appeared sturdy, but the wooden planks were half-rotted and looked precarious.
In other words, the only places where enemies could launch an attack were the gentle slopes to the north and east. Even then, the path near the watchtower was narrow. While it could be defended, if a large force rushed in and sealed the entrance, those inside would easily starve to death.
Rickert reached a conclusion. The tower itself was useless, but its location was undoubtedly a strategic stronghold. The terrain offered clear sightlines in every direction, and it even had its own escape route.
"What are you going to do?" Marie asked, having been trailing closely behind him.
"Hmm?"
"Like Volka said, staying here doesn't seem like a great idea."
"Why 'Mr. Volka'? Just call him Volka."
"Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"From what I can see, it's worth defending. And even if it weren't, I don't think we should just hand this place over. If we surrender ground every time the enemy swarms in, what will be left? At the very least, we need to inflict some damage. What do you think, Marie?"
"What about calling for reinforcements?"
Rickert shook his head. The guild was likely pouring almost all its manpower into securing its newly acquired territories. That front was probably just as overwhelming as this one, if not more so.
Still, neither Volka's reaction nor Marie's suggestion was wrong. They were perfectly reasonable and grounded in common sense.
"Ricky, aren't you afraid of dying? Is this because you're confident in your skills?"
"Well… I'm not really sure myself. What does it look like to you?"
"It doesn't seem like it's just because you're brave."
Rickert didn't answer, merely offering a soft smile. To be honest, he didn't quite know the answer himself. Looking back on his actions, he had thrown himself into danger with a self-disregard that bordered on recklessness. But he, too, felt it wasn't simply out of courage.
Rickert started walking again, heading to the eastern high ground to observe the enemy forces below. From up here, a hundred men didn't look like that many, but it was undoubtedly a substantial force.
However, in Rickert's eyes, the enemy force looked sloppy—nothing more than a large crowd. They hadn't dug trenches or driven stakes to build a proper encampment. It appeared to be nothing more than scattered clan groups acting independently, their numbers happening to swell to a hundred.
Above all, they lacked a dedicated supply unit. There was no system or organization for procuring provisions. Relying solely on whatever each person had brought, their food supplies were bound to run out quickly.
Their complacent mindset was glaringly obvious: If we just gather enough people, things will work out somehow. They resembled a band of beggars living in tents. Of course, their actual attire wasn't quite that destitute.
Perhaps they didn't even have a commander. Otherwise, they wouldn't be sitting down there idling away their time. They would have at least spread out to encircle the area.
Of course, even if they had a commander, it would be useless if no one listened to orders. Adventurers were individuals with strong personalities, making them difficult to manage like regular soldiers. Their individual combat ability was formidable but inconsistent, making it difficult to wield collective strength.
As the sunset deepened, several groups detached themselves from the noisy crowd of enemies and began walking up toward the watchtower.
Judging by the weapons they carried, they seemed intent on fighting. But if so, why were they coming separately instead of attacking all at once?
The answer came soon enough.
A man with a longsword strapped to his waist walked halfway up the slope alone and shouted toward them.
"Hey! Red Cloak! Red Cloak Ricky! Come on out! Let's settle this with a duel!"
This was the fundamental difference between their situation and a conventional war. Personal ambition—the desire for fame—took precedence over collective goals.
Rickert stared down at the man, then gripped his sword and started down the slope.
"R-Ricky."
"Ricky!"
Marie called out in flustered surprise, and Volka, who had been chatting with Boribori, shouted in shock. It was a duel Rickert had no reason to accept.
Yet Rickert didn't look back, stepping steadily down the gentle slope carpeted with short grass. Protruding rocks gleamed crimson under the setting sun.
Holding his sword in his left hand, Rickert walked down nonchalantly and halted a short distance from his opponent, positioning himself on slightly higher ground.
"I am Oberstein, Second Sword of the Three Swords Clan."
It was a clan he'd never heard of. It might be famous elsewhere, but to Rickert, it was a first.
The man, whose jaw was hidden by a full beard, gazed intently at Rickert before speaking again.
"You're even younger than I thought, Red Cloak. Nothing personal."
Without another word, Oberstein drew his sword. He aimed the tip of his blade at Rickert from a stable stance. Judging by his eyes, there was no room for complacency.
Honestly, in most of Rickert's past fights, he had finished his opponents in a single strike by taking advantage of their overconfidence—the Bilton Brothers who had walked up defenselessly, or formidable fighters who had underestimated his youth and charged recklessly. Exploiting those brief moments of carelessness was, in a sense, how Rickert had triumphed time and again.
But now, his reputation had spread far and wide, and no one dropped their guard. They no longer looked down on him for being young.
Regardless of his skill, he knew his battles were only going to get harder.
Yet even if he had won past fights by exploiting carelessness, that was hardly all Rickert possessed. Nor was it something he relied on exclusively.
Scattered across the high ground, members of the Beringen Guild looked down from above, while the enemy forces looked up from below. Not only Rickert's friends, but even Reinhardt set aside his drink and came out to watch. Every eye was fixed on Rickert and his opponent.
Every famous warrior in the world was destined to prove their skills matched their reputation.
Moreover, for one walking the path to become the strongest—or even for one who had already achieved it, or looked beyond it—it was the eternal destiny of a swordsman to prove oneself until death.
Rickert didn't introduce himself. Without a word, he drew his sword. He had no interest in proving anything, but either way, proof was never made with words.
His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, and his blade drank in the dusk, stained crimson by the setting sun.