Chapter 72
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 72
The autumn wind blew cold as two young swordsmen walked westward, crossing mountains and rivers.
Before long, the mountains faded from view, giving way to a wind-swept land crisscrossed by a web of rivers. This was the Kingdom of Nederslant.
As far as the eye could see, windmills creaked and turned amidst sprawling reed beds that grew taller than a man. The poor soil was unfit for farming, so the locals mostly made their living grazing sheep and cattle. While the western coast boasted cities that had flourished since ancient times, the inland region was a difficult place to eke out a living.
The Bahnstein Fief sat in just such a location—barren and choked with thick reeds.
It was high noon, yet the sun shone hazy as if muffled by fog. Though it was midday, the atmosphere was strange, feeling at once like the dim light of dawn and the encroaching gloom of twilight.
Deep within the reeds, at a worn and seemingly abandoned pier, an old boatman sat casting a fishing line. He looked like the last man in the world, quietly awaiting his own death.
The two young swordsmen parted the reeds, their boots crunching on the path as they approached him.
“Hello there,” Rickert called out.
As if to prove he was still alive, the old man tipped his straw hat just enough to glance at Rickert and Ice before turning his gaze back to the river.
“Excuse me, but is this the Bahnstein Fief?” Rickert asked. “We couldn’t find a boundary stone.”
They had navigated their way here by asking locals, but as people became scarce, they had found themselves at a loss.
Without a word, the old man simply raised a hand—wrinkled like gnarled wood—and pointed toward the opposite side of the river.
“We can pay for passage. Could you row us across?”
“A futile effort.”
“Pardon?”
“Every now and then, just when I’m about to forget, heroes come looking,” the old man said. “They claim they’re going to put an end to the Vampire Count. But there’s nothing over there.”
Rickert stared quietly at the old man before letting out a soft chuckle.
“We’re adventurers. We came to meet a client. As for whether we’ll kill the Vampire Count… we don’t know how things will turn out either.”
At that, the old man cast another brief glance at them, reeled in his line, and stood up. He stepped onto a small wooden boat.
“How much is the fare?”
“Just get on. It’s merely something to pass the time.”
Rickert turned to Ice and shrugged. Together, they boarded the small ferry. The old man sat in the stern, creaking the oars back and forth as the boat glided slowly forward.
Then, out in the middle of the river, a bizarre fog began to roll in. It thickened so rapidly it was hard to see an inch ahead. The river wasn’t particularly wide, yet the old man rowed for a long, long time.
Creak, creak, creak…
“This must be magic,” Ice remarked dryly. An ordinary person would have been spooked out of their wits.
Then, in an instant, the fog cleared. The old man was nowhere to be seen, and the boat had reached the far bank.
“Did we just cross the River Styx or something?” Rickert muttered.
Like Ice, he showed little reaction. It was a bizarre phenomenon met by two equally bizarre swordsmen.
Rickert pushed the oar firmly to bring the boat snug against the shore, and the two stepped off onto dry land. It was a crisp autumn midday, the sun bright in the sky.
In the distance stood a hill—a rare sight in Nederslant—topped by a small castle surrounded by a wooden palisade. They headed straight for it.
Before long, they reached the hamlet nestled beneath the castle, which resembled a modest manor. Not a soul was in sight. They found only abandoned vegetable patches, empty stables, and the creaking doors of deserted homes. There were no signs of fire or slaughter from an invading army; it was simply a decayed village where everyone had packed up and left.
After a brief look around, Rickert adjusted the sword on his back and headed for the castle on the hill.
“Let’s go.”
The place was eerie enough to give anyone the creeps, but neither Rickert nor Ice showed any sign of unease. It was hard to tell if they simply lacked fear or possessed supreme confidence.
Ascending the hill, they reached what appeared to be Bahnstein Castle. Parts of the wooden palisade were rotten and collapsed, suggesting this place, too, had been abandoned for a long time. The main gates had completely decayed and lay sprawled on the ground. Only the doors to the inner keep, where the count had likely resided, remained shut.
Passing through a courtyard choked with overgrown weeds, Rickert reached the keep and knocked heavily on the doors. Surely it wasn’t completely empty.
A moment later, the doors rattled open on their own. Rickert stepped inside cautiously. He saw frayed carpets, dust-laden furniture, and cobwebs strung in every corner. By all appearances, it was an abandoned castle, yet an out-of-place sound reached their ears.
Grumble. Growl. Gruuumble. Growl.
The sound came intermittently, fading in and out.
Just as Rickert wondered what on earth that noise was, the torches lining the walls burst into flame by themselves.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whooosh.
As if guiding their path, the flickering flames flared in sequence toward the far end of the corridor. Rickert and Ice exchanged a glance and walked on.
At the end of the hall lay a grand room, less a modest dining room and more a vast banquet hall. A hearth crackled with fire, but the space was overwhelmingly sparse, devoid of furniture except for a single, long dining table.
Laid upon it was an array of fresh, lavish delicacies that felt entirely out of place in a ruined castle. Sitting at the head of the table was the old boatman.
His white hair was now neatly combed back, and he was dressed in luxurious black silk attire, giving him a pristine look. He stood and spoke in a refined, composed tone.
“Welcome, adventurers. Please, enjoy the feast.”
Was it a bewitchment? Some kind of magic? Rickert’s razor-sharp instincts told him this was undoubtedly real. He and Ice took their seats near the middle of the table, facing each other in chairs that had been set out for them.
Rickert surveyed the food: a whole roasted suckling pig, fresh from the oven, alongside crisp fruits that were completely out of season. It was baffling to think where he had procured these ingredients and how he had prepared them just in time for their arrival.
“I cannot partake in human food,” the old man said. “So please, don’t stand on ceremony. Eat freely.”
Rickert looked at the impeccably groomed man. “Are you Count Lehman?”
“I am.”
“The Vampire Count?”
“Hahaha, indeed.”
“Is this some kind of trap? Are you after the fresh blood of young men?”
Count Lehman chuckled and shook his head. Then came that strange sound again.
Grumble. Growl.
“My apologies. That would be my stomach. It has been over fifty years since I last drank blood.”
“…”
Rickert blinked, completely bewildered. Nothing about this situation made sense. He was so flabbergasted that he struggled to find words.
“Time is relative,” Lehman said. “What is a lifetime to one person may be as fleeting as a moment to another. I believe we have ample time for conversation, so there is no need to be so startled.”
“Why don’t you drink blood?” Ice asked bluntly.
“Asceticism is not reserved for humans alone. I desire a slow death.”
“Why?” Rickert asked.
“There are two ways to end one’s own life. One is to flee swiftly; the other is to see one’s will through to the end. I do not wish to flee.”
In short, he was starving himself to death.
What kind of absurd situation is this? Rickert wondered if the ancient vampire was trying to bewitch him. High vampires were practically immortal. To starve to death, one would have to fast for at least a century, if not far longer. The sheer endurance required was beyond human comprehension.
“Setting the method aside, why do you wish to die?”
“It started with my father,” Lehman replied. “I found it difficult to understand at first, but now I do. This is our final rebellion against God—turning the curse laid upon us into a blessing.”
The more they asked, the more questions they had. Whether pedantic or philosophical, the vampire’s words possessed a certain depth.
“What curse?” Ice asked.
“Humans often forget, but we were all human once. The first vampire was also human. He was the first murderer, and for that, he was cursed with immortal life.”
“They die just fine when you cut their heads off,” Ice interjected.
“That is not death. That is an accident.”
Rickert’s eyes shifted in thought. Are those different? For humans, death comes when their time is up. But vampires live as long as they drink blood, so I guess it is different. These were questions that were hard to digest, let alone answer. While Lehman seemed to have found his own answer, Rickert remembered why they had come.
“Before I ask about the request, why us? With that fog and this feast, you seem to have quite a few tricks up your sleeve.”
“As I said, it began with my father. He abstained from blood for nearly six hundred years, but my younger sister, Remania, went against his wishes and kidnapped him. She is trying to steal his noble death. Though I retain a few minor tricks, I am greatly weakened. I cannot defeat my sister. That is why I issued the request.”
“If he dies by our hands, wouldn’t that just be an ‘accident’?”
“Better an accident than having his death stolen from him.”
Rickert locked eyes with Ice across the table, his look conveying a silent message: This isn’t going to be easy.
High vampires were far more complex than he had expected. Rickert had assumed he would be fighting a powerful monster, but Lehman inhabited a realm of understanding that was difficult for humans to grasp. Living for centuries was clearly not just for show.
Ice, however, hesitated. To become a Swordmaster, he had to pass the Final Exam, and that required being a Special-Grade Adventurer. Backing away with the opportunity right before him was no easy choice.
Lehman gazed quietly at Ice. “Do you know the essence of the curse laid upon the first murderer, the first vampire?”
“…”
“It is guilt. A prison without bars, one from which you can never escape. Yet you are placing a similar curse upon yourself. Even if you achieve your goal, your brother will not return. All that will remain is emptiness.”
In an instant, Lehman had seen right through to the core of Ice’s soul—something even Rickert didn’t know. Ice was struck speechless, a stunned expression on his face.
“Salvation might not be as far as you think. It might be right by your side. Is that not so? O murderer among murderers, devil among devils.”
Lehman turned his gaze to Rickert.
Rickert stared back silently before letting out a dry smirk. The vampire had lived far longer than Rickert’s previous life and his blank period combined.
“I don’t know much about salvation,” Rickert said. “I’ve never had much interest in theology.”
“And yet, you have seen it, have you not? A human who was saved.”
He was likely referring to The Nameless.
“I have,” Rickert acknowledged. “But I also learned that it isn’t something just anyone can do. I don’t have the confidence for it.”
“The purer the soul, the deeper the wound. Love is a curse, yet it is also a blessing. You seem afraid that tragedy will repeat itself. But what choice is there? Even if your heart is torn to shreds, you must accept it. Your salvation lies there. That is the blessing granted to humans—acceptance. Surely that must be easier than starving for hundreds of years, wouldn't you say?”
Lehman offered a faint smile, as if making a dry joke. It was truly bizarre. Even if Rickert couldn’t fully grasp everything, he could tell there was reason in the vampire’s words.
As if understanding their lingering skepticism, Lehman quietly placed a small vial on the table. Inside was a tiny amount of yellow oil.
“This is the Holy Oil of Ilya that raised Ilya the Dragonslayer to his feet. The pilgrim who delivered it was none other than Cain, the first vampire. My father received this directly from him, so it is unquestionably genuine.”
“What does it do? Grant immense strength, like in the legends?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. All medicine is poison; all poison is medicine. It is said Cain spoke thus: Ilya’s cheerful heart, unshadowed by a speck of darkness, reminded me of the sunlight I had long forgotten.”
Leaving the vial behind, Lehman rose from his seat.
“Go to Haarlem. My beloved father, Armand, is held captive there by the Rose Acrobatic Troupe. If necessary, kill my sister to grant my father an imperfect death. If my father should succumb to her enticements… I do not think I could bear it.”
Lehman walked out, leaving Rickert and Ice alone in the vast hall.
The food on the table had grown cold. Rickert grabbed a bright red apple and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the crisp, sweet flavor.
“This isn’t going to turn out to be human flesh later, is it?”
Ice, who had been lost in thought, let out a chuckle at Rickert’s comment. Unsheathing his dagger, he carved off a piece of the roast suckling pig and ate it. Even cooled, the flavor was rich and delicious.
Unbothered, the two friends ate and drank their fill of the feast a vampire had prepared. Full and satisfied, they felt sleep wash over them.
Pocketing the Holy Oil of Ilya, they went up to the second floor. While the rest of the castle was in ruins, the bedroom they found was immaculate. The two took a long nap.
When they awoke from their deep slumber, they found themselves standing by the riverbank. The moon hung high in the sky, shrouded in a hazy, rainbow-colored halo.
It felt as though it had all been a dream. Yet the questions Lehman had posed lingered in their hearts, much like that faint lunar halo.