Chapter 51
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 51
The red sunset looked as if it were stained with blood, or perhaps set ablaze. Beneath that glow, more than a hundred pairs of eyes watched the duel, each harboring their own thoughts.
Some held hope, some anticipation, some curiosity, and others…
Marie’s eyes fell upon Rickert’s back. The boy stepping into the duel did not tremble. He seemed less brave and more strangely detached, as if he had no lingering attachments to life. It was a peculiar impression.
The enemies climbed the highlands to watch the duel from a closer vantage point. Though scattered, they drew so near it was almost worrying.
Yet the boy did not seem to care in the least. It was as if it made no difference to him whether a hundred rushed him or a thousand.
The red sun hung between Rickert and his opponent, Oberstein. Far in the distance, it was slowly sinking, caught on the ridge of the mountains.
Thus, Rickert and his opponent each had one side of their bodies stained red—left and right, respectively—while their other sides were cast in dark silhouette.
Who would make the first move? In a duel with live blades, that was always the most critical question.
Superior skill did not guarantee a longer fight. In fact, most duels ended in the blink of an eye. Often, the outcome was decided in the very first exchange, and even the victor might walk away gravely wounded. Such was the nature of a sword fight.
Therefore, those who entered a duel with live steel had to commit their entire skill, their entire life, to the tip of their blade. Sometimes, even their death.
The red sun sank lower and lower. The onlookers began to worry that night would fall before anything happened.
As the world slowly lost its light, there came a fleeting moment when the darkness deepened perceptibly.
In that instant, Oberstein lunged forward. His step was light and swift.
But the sword would only swing after the step. It was so for all swordsmanship; otherwise, the strike would lose its power.
Thus, Rickert watched his opponent's eyes while keeping the man’s entire body in view. Before the foot stepping toward him could even touch the ground, he shifted slightly to the right.
Yet in that split second, Rickert felt the distance was off. There was no real killing intent behind the attack.
The moment Oberstein’s foot touched the ground, someone leaped out from behind a boulder on the right. So this was the plan.
Oberstein’s foot planted. Then, two swords sliced through empty air without ever clashing.
Whoosh! Swish!
"Ricky!"
"Wh-what the—!"
The crowd gasped. They had feigned a one-on-one duel only to spring an ambush.
The sudden interloper lunged at Rickert. Rickert spun to face him, but even this charge was a feint. Instead of closing the distance, the assassin circled him rapidly, flicking throwing daggers from both hands in quick succession. Thwip, thwip, thwip!
The daggers were imbued with mana, sharp enough to pierce iron plates. With a technique like this, the man had likely earned quite a reputation in his own territory. What made it truly terrifying, however, was the calculation: the first dagger forced Rickert to dodge, the second cut off his retreat, and the third was the true, lethal strike. It was a meticulously crafted trap.
Indeed, while Rickert evaded the first two, he could not avoid the third.
His upper body twisted and jerked backward. To anyone watching from afar, it looked as though he had been struck dead-on.
"Ricky!" his friends screamed.
The person closest to Rickert was Oberstein, who now closed in rapidly to deliver the finishing blow.
But what was this? Suddenly, the tip of a dagger flashed before Oberstein’s eyes. Rickert had caught the third dagger out of the air and hurled it back at him. Wait, is that even possible? No way.
For a split second, time seemed to slow for Oberstein. But knowing better than anyone that he could not dodge, it only prolonged his experience of mortal terror and despair.
Thud!
The dagger buried itself squarely between Oberstein's brows. The blade sank in completely up to the hilt, piercing his brain. The sheer force of the impact snapped his head back.
The assassin, who had been closing in with his own dagger to finish Rickert off, froze at the unexpected turn of events. To his eyes, Rickert's cloak spun like a top from the violent movement.
The red cloak whipped back, and from behind it, a blade thrust straight toward him.
"Ugh!"
Caught completely off guard, his footing faltered, and he stumbled backward. In a desperate, futile gesture, he thrust his hands out in front of him.
Rickert's sword pierced straight through his palm and kept going, skewering his throat with pinpoint accuracy.
"Gark!"
As if there were no need to confirm the kill, Rickert immediately withdrew his sword and swung it through the air to flick off the blood. Then, with a flick of his hand, he adjusted his slightly disheveled cloak and scanned left and right for any other attackers.
Two corpses lay sprawled on the ground. Despite the sudden ambush, Rickert had slain both skilled fighters and now stood there calmly, without a hint of panic. He didn't even bother to gloat.
Gasps of awe escaped from friend and foe alike. Even a choreographed acrobatic performance couldn't have been this flawless. It was a display of absolute mastery.
"Whoa..."
His friends, who had been rushing to his aid, stopped in their tracks and stared blankly. What just happened?
But there was another problem: Reinhardt, the leader of the Widowmaker Clan.
"Those cowardly, motherfucking bastards!"
Furious that they had dared to launch a cowardly ambush during a sacred duel, he began marching down, dragging his massive club along the ground. The ground didn't actually shake, but he was such a giant of a man that his heavy, thudding steps made it feel as though it did.
"Hey, you worthless pieces of shit! You call yourselves men?! Aren't you ashamed?! Huh?! What are you looking at, you motherfuckers!"
The sun had already set, leaving the surroundings dim, but his booming voice commanded absolute attention. And with their leader charging, his men swarmed down after him.
Rickert was momentarily taken aback. Wait, this isn't right. Who's going to guard the defense tower?
Just then, several men rushed toward him. They harbored the foolish delusion that killing him would secure them a vacant seat among the Nine Swords of the Empire. But because each of them held the same ambition, they were rivals rather than allies.
"Out of the way! Move!"
"I'm first!"
Rickert quickly scanned his surroundings once more, then charged straight at them. Veering diagonally toward the flank, he swung his sword in the dim twilight.
Whoosh!
The sound of tearing air rang out as Rickert's sword crossed with his opponent's weapon. The enemy's strike cleaved empty air, while Rickert sliced clean through the tendons of the man's armpit. The arm, barely attached, dangled uselessly.
"Aaargh!"
From that point on, the enemies threw themselves into the fray in a desperate, chaotic frenzy, tangling with one another.
Reinhardt, stomping down the highlands, swung his massive club and pulverized an enemy.
"You shameless bastards!"
Crunch!
It was an attack of sheer, crushing weight that obliterated weapons and armor alike. After killing his first target, he swung his club left and right with a heavy whoosh. To the untrained eye, it looked like wild, reckless swinging, but the sheer power behind it kept the enemies from daring to draw near.
As the enemies faltered and retreated, Reinhardt's men swarmed them.
"You motherfuckers!"
"Piss off if you don't want to make your wives widows!"
"Long live the Widowmaker Clan!"
The Beringen Guild's forces were far outnumbered, but with the situation turning into a complete clusterfuck in the gathering darkness, it was impossible to tell who was who.
The hundred-odd enemies fractured into three groups: those throwing themselves at Rickert, those fleeing from the onslaught of the Widowmaker Clan, and those merely watching from a safe distance. The most absurd sight among them was the scavengers looting the corpses of their own allies. Perhaps they didn't care who won or lost the guild war, intent only on making a quick coin.
With everyone acting on their own whims, it was utter chaos. It felt less like a battle and more like a massive brawl between armed thugs.
Yet, amidst the confusion, some of the shrewder enemies attempted to seize the defense tower. Even in the near-total darkness, Rickert caught their movements with perfect precision. The enemies rushing him were too busy tangling with one another to mount a proper attack, so they were of little concern. However, the crowd surging up toward the defense tower posed a genuine threat.
"I'm fine! Guard the defense tower!"
To be honest, Rickert didn't even know where his friends were. The sun had fully set, and darkness was swallowing the area rapidly.
Amidst the chaos, Rickert quickly assessed the battlefield. It was too late to stop Reinhardt and restore order, and too late to run back and defend the tower himself.
So, he plunged into the enemy ranks. With the darkness blurring everything around him, he swung his sword indiscriminately. Arms were severed, flanks slashed open, and heads sent flying. The enemies couldn't tell friend from foe, let alone who was cutting them down.
"Fuck!"
"Aaaaaargh!"
"Who is that?! Get out of the way!"
Seizing the opportunity, Rickert tore through the enemy lines and dashed down the highlands.
Meanwhile, Boribori had clearly heard Rickert's voice despite the din. To protect the defense tower, he planted himself firmly, blocking the narrow path leading up to it.
Boribori's weakness lay in his footwork; because his swordsmanship was fundamentally based on writing characters, his steps lacked agility, forcing him to be passive. However, when it came to holding his ground, he was absolutely terrifying.
Sure enough, he swung his sword with blinding speed at the enemies rushing him. Imbued with mana, his blade left pitch-black afterimages that carved through the air, darker than the night itself. Then came the wet, rhythmic sounds of a butcher hacking and slicing meat. Swish, thud, hack.
Heads and limbs rained down in front of him.
Boribori retreated step by step, calmly swinging his sword. The enemies, unaware of the dismembered corpses piling at their feet, tripped over them and tumbled in heaps.
"Boribori! It's Boribori the Dismemberer!" someone screamed.
He resented why everyone gave him such a gruesome moniker, but nicknames were never up to the bearer. They were always bestowed by others.
But there was a problem. While he could handle enemies charging head-on, those keeping their distance to hurl iron weights and nets were a different story. These men were formidable figures in their respective territories, and their proficiency with various weapons was far from amateur.
An iron weight struck the fingers of Boribori's sword hand.
Crack!
"Ugh!"
His right index and middle fingers shattered simultaneously. Gritting his teeth, Boribori squeezed his remaining fingers and held on with his other hand, barely managing to keep his grip on the sword. But he couldn't fight at full strength like this.
"Bori!"
It was Marie's voice. Blocked by the crowd of enemies, she was nowhere in sight, likely fighting on the other side.
"I'm fine!" he shouted back.
He was far from fine, but he had to let his allies know he was still breathing so they wouldn't panic. Besides, it wasn't a fatal wound; if he gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, he could hold out.
Clang! Clash! Ring!
The sounds of clashing steel echoed from near and far, punctuated by the occasional death scream. His breath grew ragged. In the dark night, flashes of light flickered here and there like fireflies. Those flashes were the traces of combatants who could manipulate mana to a high degree. Though not quite Swordmasters, they were capable of channeling mana into their weapons.
The tide of battle seemed to be turning around these individuals, and Marie was among them.
Striking the exposed rears of the enemies attempting to scale the defense tower, they forced the hostile forces to split left and right. Lacking a pre-planned strategy and possessing little true resolve, the enemies realized the battle was lost and scattered in all directions, fleeing down the highlands.
Dismembered corpses piled knee-deep in the narrow path. Marie finally managed to regroup with Boribori.
"Are you alright?"
"M-my fingers are a bit... Where's Ricky?"
"I don't know..."
"He'll be fine," Boribori spoke with absolute certainty. Marie wondered how he could be so sure, but they had more pressing matters at hand.
"Let's get you patched up first."
"Yeah."
The two began walking toward the defense tower. Just then, a massive blaze erupted far below the highlands. Both of them instinctively whipped their heads toward the light.
It was Rickert who had set the fire.
Amidst the chaotic melee, he had made what he deemed the best tactical move. Since it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe anyway, Rickert had slipped into the enemy camp and set fire to their supplies. He ambushed and killed the enemies who had stayed behind in their makeshift camp, thinking they were safe, and then used nearby campfires and torches to ignite everything in sight.
The flames spread in an instant, illuminating the Kaits Highlands in place of the sun. The eerie, reddish glow reached halfway up the slopes, exposing the chaotic mess previously shrouded in darkness.
The sudden blaze dealt a severe psychological blow to the enemies fighting on the highlands. Regardless of their superior numbers, the sudden realization that they had no camp to return to struck them with dread. Furthermore, the vast majority of the corpses strewn about were clearly their own allies. Had it remained dark, they might have stayed ignorant, but seeing the carnage in the firelight filled them with sudden terror. Are we losing?
And then, there was Rickert, climbing back up the highlands with his sword in hand. He wasn't running; he was walking up slowly.
Astonishingly, instead of retreating stealthily into the shadows after his ambush, he was boldly marching straight toward them in plain view of the remaining enemies.
His red cloak fluttered, making his silhouette appear even larger. The shadow cast at his feet stretched like a giant, dancing wildly in the firelight.
Rickert panted heavily. He calculated with mechanical precision how many more enemies he could slay with his remaining stamina. Dozens of tactical scenarios flashed through his mind.
That one is clumsy. That one has some skill. That one is nearly exhausted. If I veer to the right, I can exploit the flank. Such thoughts spun rapidly in his head like clockwork. Even without conscious effort, the enemies' weapons and their condition registered instantly in his mind.
Rickert looked at the enemies with eyes devoid of fear, courage, or madness—eyes consumed only by cold, calculating thought.
To those standing frozen, staring at him, Rickert no longer looked human. They could feel an inexplicable aura radiating from him. This bastard isn't human.
Then, one man broke and ran. Triggered by his flight, the rest turned and fled without a second thought.
Rickert, who had been halfway up the slope, stopped as the enemies fled. He stood in place, looking around as if surveying the aftermath. Corpses lay scattered around him, illuminated by the roaring flames below.
To those watching from afar, the scene was terrifyingly theatrical. His massive shadow danced as if in celebration.
The dead who had fallen, the living who had fled, and the one man standing tall. The contrast was stark.
Reinhardt watched Rickert from a distance. Though he too was practically bathed in enemy blood, Rickert's figure reminded him of the first time he had seen Steiner.
There are things in this world that are not human. A human cannot kill a monster. Only another monster can kill a monster, Reinhardt thought. In the end, the boy in the red cloak was no human either.
Yet to Rickert, the surrounding scenery was familiar. No, it was a deeply familiar sight that he had merely forgotten for a brief moment.
Fire and steel, blood and death. He saw it all, smelled it all. The past and the present overlapped.
Perhaps from exhaustion, his ears rang. Other sounds faded, leaving only the loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart and the sound of his own breath. It felt as though a hand had suddenly reached out from the abyss, grabbing his ankle and dragging him down. Into deep water, or perhaps, back into the past.