Chapter 53
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 53
The area around the Kaits Highlands bustled with people, as if a late spring festival were underway beneath the warm sunshine.
An inn with a waterwheel powered by the rushing valley stream sat by the roadside, but it was far too small to accommodate the crowd. Many had pitched tents outside, camping in the open.
The reason for this massive gathering was simple: they had all come to watch a fight.
In an era where even the execution of a criminal was treated as public entertainment, no one wanted to miss the rare spectacle of a duel between masters.
Where crowds gathered, merchants sniffing for coin naturally followed. Like a snowball rolling downhill, the crowd grew larger by the day.
Somewhere in this festival-like atmosphere, a whole goat—procured from who knows where—was being skinned and roasted over an open pit. A large crowd had gathered around the spit, listening intently to a man speak.
The aroma of the roasting meat was mouthwatering, but the tale being spun by the loud-mouthed speaker was just as enticing.
"I saw it! I'm telling you, I saw it with my own eyes! It's the honest truth! I was right there that day! When the Red Cloak slaughtered dozens of men all by himself, a demon appeared!"
The storyteller spoke with passionate conviction. He was so persuasive that one might think he should quit being an adventurer and take up storytelling full-time.
Yet, while some hung on his every word, others took it with a grain of salt, snickering to themselves. A demon? What a load of nonsense.
"So, what did this demon look like?" someone asked.
"The Red Cloak isn't even that tall, but his shadow grew as big as—as that mountain over there, I tell you! If that wasn't a demon, then what was it?!"
A shadow could easily stretch and loom depending on the angle and intensity of the light, and a terrified, panicked onlooker could easily misinterpret it. To uneducated folk lacking any scientific understanding, it was bound to look like magic or monsters.
"Never mind that. How did Oberstein die? The Second Sword of the Three Swords Clan. Tell us more about that."
Another man chimed in, clearly uninterested in tall tales about demons.
In truth, the storyteller hadn't seen much because of the darkness that night, so he didn't have any real details to share. However, spurred by a sudden sense of obligation under the crowd's curious gazes, he began to make things up on the fly.
"Well, I thought it was a one-on-one duel at first, but then another guy barged in. And it looked like he threw something, missed, and hit his own ally! So, the Red Cloak just killed them both. Three Swords? More like three shovel handles. Cowardly bastards, the lot of them. I was stunned for a second. I was like, Wait, what? Is that allowed? It was total chaos. And because we were pushed back in all that confusion, our supplies ended up going up in flames. So really, our defeat that day was entirely the fault of those shovel-handle bastards."
The storyteller's account had one major flaw. It wasn't a stray throw that hit an ally; Rickert had caught a throwing dagger mid-air and hurled it straight into Oberstein.
Still, given the distance and the darkness, it was an easy mistake to make. The man wasn't lying maliciously; he was just prone to exaggeration and drawing his own conclusions.
The real issue was that men like him didn't care whether the guild won or lost. It's not like I'm the one losing, they thought. It was a shockingly selfish mindset, but a common one.
The storyteller was merely a low-rank adventurer. He gained nothing if the guild prospered and lost nothing if it fell. He had never possessed the resolve to risk his life in battle. If defeat loomed, he would simply run.
On the other hand, those who actually cared about the guild's fate were the mid-rank adventurers and above. For them, reputation and prestige were their livelihood. If rumors spread that a renowned clan was made up of cowards and incompetent fools, it could ruin them. It wouldn't just hurt their pockets; their pride—which often mattered far more than coin—simply could not tolerate such slander.
"That is impossible."
A voice flatly cut off the storyteller. The speaker wore a heavy cloak, obscuring his features, but a prominent bulge at his hip suggested he carried a sword.
"H-huh? Were you there that day too?"
"No. I simply know. And I warn you: I don't care what nonsense you spew, but you had best watch your mouth when speaking of the clan. That is, if you wish to keep your tongue."
A murderous glare flashed from the shadows beneath his hood. Terrified, the storyteller instantly shut his mouth.
The crowd's eyes naturally turned toward the cloaked man, but he was already turning away, vanishing into the throng of people.
By the time the scent of roasting goat was masked by other odors and faded into the distance, the man had reached the path leading up to the highlands. The way was blocked by a makeshift wooden fence, where a long queue of people had formed.
"The next duel will begin before the sun dips below the ridge! If you want in, buy your tickets now!" a man shouted through a metal cone.
Naturally, entry wasn't free. They had to pay, and the admission fee was climbing higher by the day. Those who couldn't afford it climbed the neighboring peaks to watch from afar. Even now, early birds who had secured spots on the slopes were peering down.
It was an absurd spectacle. It made one wonder if the guild actually intended to fight a war or just put on a show. Then again, charging a fee was a practical way to filter out the useless riffraff like that storyteller and maintain some semblance of crowd control. Making a tidy profit on the side was just a bonus.
The cloaked, hooded man bypassed the long queue and walked straight to the gate. Heads turned, but his imposing aura kept anyone from trying to stop him.
The guard at the gate eyed him and asked, "Are you with a clan?"
"Three Swords. First Sword, Gramschwitz."
"Ah. Well, there's an order to the duels. Just watch for now."
The guard opened the gate without asking for a single coin. Mid- to high-rank adventurers of proven skill—especially those with a personal grudge against the Red Cloak—were granted free passage.
Passing through the gate, Gramschwitz walked up the path until the top of the defense tower came into view. The ground around him still bore heavy scorch marks from the recent battle.
Adventurers huddled in their respective cliques, while the wealthy spectators who had paid their way in had already laid out mats in the prime viewing spots. They chatted merrily, accompanied by friends or lovers.
Looking around, Gramschwitz noticed a few other solitary figures like himself. They stood expressionless, radiating a grim, lethal aura that warned others to keep their distance.
The crowd fell into three distinct categories: those who had come merely for the spectacle, those who sought to win fame by slaying the Red Clook, and those who cared nothing for fame and simply wanted the Red Cloak dead.
Their only common ground was that the actual guild war was a secondary concern. Every eye was fixed on the Red Cloak.
The rumor that the Red Cloak had slain one of the Nine Swords of the Empire had already spread far and wide. At first, people had been skeptical. They debated whether the rumor was true, and if so, whether it was a fluke or a gross exaggeration. But as the days passed, the conversation shifted. It was no longer just about him killing one of the Nine Swords; people were beginning to whisper that he deserved to take that vacant seat himself.
Ricky the Red Cloak. His name carried an ever-growing weight. He was hailed as the greatest prodigy in history—a twelve-year-old genius who had slain one of the Nine Swords of the Empire to claim his title.
It sounded utterly preposterous. Yet, he was proving it. Not once, but repeatedly, day after day. Today marked exactly one week since the first clash.
"Hawk Talon Gramschwitz? Is that you?"
A voice spoke from behind. Gramschwitz turned to see a middle-aged man with cropped hair and a brown beard, flanked by three or four companions.
"It is you. I am Wolfgen, Clan Master of the Haigen Guild. Have you come for revenge?"
A Clan Master was a high-ranking official who managed several clans under a Guild Master—the same rank as Lorenzo, whom Rickert had slain.
The Three Swords Clan consisted of only three members, all of them brothers: First Sword Hawk Talon Gramschwitz, Second Sword Hawk Wing Oberstein, and Third Sword Flying Blade Erich. Their signature tactic was a closely guarded secret: the eldest two brothers would draw the enemy's attention, while the youngest finished them off with a throwing dagger from the shadows. It was a flawless, lethal art; no one who faced it had ever lived to tell the tale. Because of this, their technique remained shrouded in mystery, and they were famous for their perfect success rate on every contract they accepted.
But with two of the brothers dead overnight, only the eldest remained. The clan was effectively defunct.
"..."
"If it's revenge you want, join us. You won't stand a chance in a fair duel. The Red Cloak is the real deal. Watch him today, then make your decision."
Wolfgen walked away after leaving those words. Gramschwitz remained silent.
Time ticked by. The sun reached its zenith, then began its slow descent toward the mountain ridge.
A group of people descended from the highlands. Among them, a boy wearing a red cloak caught Gramschwitz's eye. He had golden hair and a remarkably youthful face. He was tall and well-built for his age, though his frame had not yet fully filled out into manhood.
As Rickert stepped forward, the idle chatter of the crowd died down instantly. The main event of the day was about to begin.
He fought once, sometimes twice a day. Today, on the seventh day, was his twelfth duel. Sixteen men had already died by his hand, for Rickert never cared how many opponents faced him at once.
The results spoke for themselves. No matter how young he was, his record proved he was more than worthy of a seat among the Nine Swords of the Empire. What was even more astonishing was that he fought these duels in public. Most swordsmen preferred private duels with only a few witnesses, terrified of exposing their secret techniques or having their styles analyzed and countered.
Was it arrogance, or sheer boldness? I'll see for myself soon enough.
Rickert unclasped his cloak and handed it to a young female swordsman standing nearby. He stepped into the clearing carrying nothing but a single sword. His opponent was a shirtless man armed with a round shield and a broadsword.
Members of the Beringen Guild and the Alliance cleared a wide circle, keeping the spectators at a safe distance.
Under the warm sun, the shirtless man rolled his shoulders, taking deep, deliberate breaths to steady his nerves. Then, he let out a loud battle cry.
"Hoo! Ha! Let's go! Come on!"
It was a desperate attempt to shake off the terror of a life-and-death struggle. Rickert, however, remained entirely unfazed. Showing neither fear nor arrogance, he simply drew his sword with practiced ease.
The man spread his arms wide, brandishing his sword and shield as he bellowed, "I am Rischulen, the 'Heart Carver' of Moorheim! Today, I will strike you down and claim my place among the Nine Swords of the Empire!"
Despite his booming, gravelly voice, his underlying terror was painfully obvious. Rickert tossed his empty scabbard back toward his companions and replied calmly, "Clan Viola. Ricky."
With the introductions complete, the duel began. The crowd held its collective breath. Those who had watched the previous duels had no doubts about the outcome. They were merely curious to see how Rickert would dispatch his opponent this time.
Rischulen advanced with his shield raised high, moving as cautiously as if he were hunting a deadly beast. He shuffled forward, keeping his feet planted close to the dirt so he could react to any sudden movement.
Rickert stood perfectly still, his sword dangling loosely at his side. Yet Rischulen kept flinching at imaginary threats, jumping back to widen the gap before shuffling forward again. He repeated this absurd dance five times.
"Haa... Haa... Haa..."
Though they hadn't exchanged a single blow, Rischulen was already drenched in sweat, his breath ragged from sheer anxiety.
Just as Rickert tilted his head in apparent boredom, Rischulen lunged. Seizing what he thought was a momentary lapse in attention, he charged fiercely behind his shield.
But Rickert simply stepped aside. To his credit, Rischulen reacted with surprising fluidity despite his nerves; he swung his sword while bashing his shield toward Rickert's new position.
Whoosh! Swish!
Rickert merely leaned back slightly, letting the blade slice through empty air. Rischulen scrambled backward, raising his shield once more.
But in the next instant, a sudden, violent impact struck Rischulen's head, and his world went black. Rickert had kicked him square in the face. Rischulen's own shield had blocked his vision, and Rickert had exploited that blind spot to deliver a devastating high kick.
With a sickening crack, Rischulen collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his face slamming into the dirt. Knocked out cold by a single blow, he lay limp and motionless.
Rickert looked down at the unconscious man for a brief moment, then turned and walked away without having swung his sword even once. He headed back up toward the defense tower, flanked by the Beringen Guild members.
As the duel concluded in such an anticlimactic fashion, the paying spectators erupted in outrage.
"That's it?!"
"Put up a real opponent, for God's sake!"
"You charged us three silver coins for this garbage?!"
"At least execute the loser! Cut his head off or hang him!"
The alliance adventurers ignored the jeers and began herding the crowd out.
"Hey, keep moving, pal."
"Come on, this is a rip-off!"
"Alright, folks! Show's over! Out! Move it!"
The adventurers herded the civilians down the mountain like sheep. The disgruntled spectators grumbled all the way down, complaining about being scammed and mocking the incompetence of the Haigen Guild.
Rischulen eventually groaned and regained consciousness, but he couldn't stand on his own. His companions had to drag him away.
As Gramschwitz watched the scene unfold, Wolfgen approached him once more.
"Well? What do you think?"
"...It is too early to judge, but he has no tells. No habits, no rigid forms. There is no trace of him having learned from a master. Frankly, it is hard to believe. To reach such a level at his age..."
It was an incredibly sharp observation. Despite watching what amounted to a pathetic, one-sided farce, Gramschwitz had pierced straight to the core of the boy's skill.
"Indeed..." Wolfgen nodded grimly. "The capable ones who stepped up to duel him were all killed three days ago. Now, only fools like that are left. The rest of the real experts don't care about honorable duels. What is your choice? If you want a duel, I can arrange it for tomorrow."
In other words, the only true masters left on the mountain were those who wanted Rickert dead for revenge, not glory. And they were willing to use any means necessary. Whether to restore their tarnished honor, settle a personal blood feud, or turn the tide of the war, their disparate motives had finally converged into a single goal.
Gramschwitz pondered for a moment, then asked, his tone carrying a hint of compliance, "What is your plan?"
"Follow me."
Gramschwitz followed Wolfgen, the Clan Master of the Haigen Guild, into a secluded corner.
*
From high above, Rickert watched them walk away. The defense tower served as an excellent vantage point, offering an unobstructed view of the entire area. Though the crowd was a swirling sea of faces, Rickert's uncanny perception easily distinguished the harmless rabble from those who radiated a dangerous, discordant aura.
He knew it too. The masters worth fighting in an honorable duel had all been slain three days ago. The dangerous ones who remained were plotting something in the shadows.
He would have to think to figure out exactly what they were planning, but one thing was certain: the real threats—men prepared to die for their cause—were about to make their move. Rickert knew instinctively that he would have to crush them if he wanted to hold this defense tower to the end.
He also knew that men driven by a desperate resolve were far more dangerous than those who merely possessed high swordsmanship. To face such men, skill and technique were not enough. He needed a matching resolve of his own.
But what did Rickert hold in his heart now? He no longer harbored the burning resentment, the rage against the world, or the suffocating self-loathing of his previous life.
Loyalty to the guild? He had none, just like everyone else here. Instead, it was Volka's words that lingered in a quiet corner of his mind.
'I'm going to clear some wild land and build a manor of our own. I want to live there with Delphi. Until we grow old and die.'
Yes. Me too, someday.
Though vague, Rickert had a simple dream of his own. He pictured the smiling faces of his friends as they grew old together. For that future, he was willing to risk his life.
Grudges and dreams. They intersected here on the Kaits Highlands, even if the clash was nothing more than a cheap spectacle to the onlookers.
Who was right, and who was wrong? Who was justified, and who was the villain? There was no need to ponder such questions.
In this world, everyone had their reasons. And when a swordsman died, there was no room for excuses.
There was no need for sentimentality. Even if he were to fall in battle, he would harbor no resentment, nor any regrets. That was Rickert's resolve.