Chapter 88
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 88
The sights Rickert witnessed from the boat were difficult to put into words.
Beneath the cool autumn sun, some places had devolved into a living hell of chaos and despair, while others carried on with their peaceful daily routines as if nothing had changed.
Yet, even beneath that veneer of normalcy, a shadow of anxiety undoubtedly loomed. Cities bolted their gates tight and strictly enforced curfews, their guards armed with swords and spears to ward off outsiders.
Most commerce had frozen over, but the demand for adventurers had surged. Weapon merchants made fortunes, the price of iron skyrocketed, and robber barons prowled the roads like wolves, eager to carve out a hefty cut of the spoils.
One didn't need profound insight to understand the shifting times. Even the most ignorant soul instinctively grasped the new reality.
It was every man for himself.
City and village communities banded tightly together. On a smaller scale, clans united; on the smallest scale, one could trust only oneself. The world was fast becoming that kind of place. Ehrenberg was no exception; its citizens drew close, growing increasingly hostile toward outsiders.
The only saving grace was that, on the surface, no major disasters had struck them yet.
"Is Count Reinhold doing alright? Has he said anything?" Rickert asked Volka, who was rolling wooden barrels and lining them up neatly against the wall.
Count Reinhold was the lord of the region encompassing the city of Ehrenberg. Depending on the path he chose, the merchants, craftsmen, and other factions under his rule would have to either fall in line or leave. In short, the extent of the crackdown on the Order of Condemnation rested entirely in his hands.
"The Count doesn't seem to care much. The real problem is headquarters," Volka replied.
"What about them?"
"They're offering a bounty for every member of the Order we root out and capture."
"It's not mandatory, is it? We don't have to do it."
As Rickert pressed with these transparent questions, Volka leaned an elbow against a barrel, resting his chin in his hand as he stared back.
"Ricky, I'm the one responsible for this branch. Our clan alone has ten members now. You don't even know the new recruits, do you? And besides us, there are five other clans under my command. That's nearly fifty people in total. Some of these adventurers have families to feed. With lucrative opportunities like this being so rare, how can I tell them not to take it?"
Things were different now. The days of simply enjoying each other's company, sharing laughs, and watching each other's backs on quests were over. There were too many mouths to feed. He had to take responsibility for them.
"...Sorry. I didn't think about that."
"I won't sell anyone out. And I won't abandon Ice. Even if we take a hit because of it, I'll bear the consequences. But I wanted to make it clear that if I'm forced to choose, my decision is already made."
"I understand."
"Thanks. And congratulations."
"For what?"
"I heard you got engaged to Marie."
"Ah..." Rickert chuckled softly. "It was a bit too tragic to really call it an engagement."
Since the incident had occurred during the finals, it hadn't exactly been a joyous occasion.
Volka practically ripped the lid off the barrel he had just moved, scooped up a cupful of beer with a dirty wooden mug, and gulped it down. Through the wall, the boisterous chatter of adventurers inside the branch building drifted over.
"But are you sure it's the Rubens Guild?"
"Marie said she heard it clearly. Something about Lorentz."
"Then it's war..."
While the world was in an uproar over the Emperor's death and the Order of Condemnation, adventurers had their own matters to settle. An attempt on Rickert's life was not something they could simply let slide—not as a branch head, a clan leader, or a friend.
For those who lived by the blade, settling debts of gratitude and vengeance was more important than life itself. Failing to avenge a grudge meant losing all credibility. In a world where reputation was everything, acting like a coward would only drive away your followers.
"You're busy enough as it is. I should probably handle this another way."
It was indeed a chaotic and busy time. Paradoxically, the more turbulent the world became, the more the adventurers' trade prospered. Yet, that wasn't entirely a good thing. More work meant more bloodshed, which inevitably drove up the mortality rate.
While Rickert had no intention of letting the Rubens Guild off the hook if their paths crossed, actively seeking them out to start a war felt like too much. Ehrenberg was merely a branch, whereas their opponent was an entire guild, not just a single clan. The scale was completely different.
"No. They attacked you, which means the answer has already been decided. The only question is how we do it, not if we do it," Volka said, his voice firm and unwavering.
Clan Viola was already renowned as a legendary militant force throughout the north-central region. Furthermore, Ehrenberg was the largest of all the branches. Perhaps because he had become the leader of such a formidable group, Volka's judgment and decisiveness had grown incredibly sharp. He had always possessed those traits, but now he felt thoroughly grown-up, exuding the distinct aura of an organization's boss.
Rickert was currently thirteen years old. Volka was eighteen. A swordsman's prime typically spanned from their late teens to their mid-twenties; after that, they usually retired or died. Surviving into your thirties or forties while continuing to work as an adventurer was an extraordinary feat in itself. Dunkel was one such example, as was the former branch head of Torvail.
Volka's words filled Rickert with a mixture of pride and pressure. It felt as though the loyalty he had shown his friends was being returned in kind. A faint memory of the vow of vengeance they had made in Griffinswald drifted through his mind. Molty and Lara had retired early; he wondered how the rest of them were doing.
Volka took another long swig of his lukewarm beer. "Let's do this. I think it's best to send Ice out of the city for a bit. Let Ice be the one to carry out your revenge, Ricky. Talk to him and set things up."
"I'm going too."
"Isn't your lung in bad shape?"
"They say the person who made the poison will have the exact antidote."
Volka stared at Rickert in silence.
"What?"
"I used to think you were just brave, but looking at you now, it feels more like you don't care if you die."
Volka still couldn't forget the sight of Rickert's back as he marched off to fight alone back in their Academy days, when Molty had been wounded and collapsed during a support mission. At the time, Volka had been so shocked he thought Rickert had lost his mind. But seeing him return after defeating all their enemies had completely shattered Volka's common sense.
Rickert possessed incredible skill, of course, but even so, his complete indifference in the face of cold steel was downright bizarre.
"Is that so?" Rickert didn't usually care how others saw him, but sometimes outsiders could perceive aspects of a person that remained hidden to themselves. Hearing it from a friend, of all people, made him think there might be some truth to it. Still, he didn't dwell on it.
"For Marie's sake, if nothing else, take care of yourself. We aren't knights. We can run away if things get ugly."
"I know."
"Rest as much as you need before you go. If you leave, Marie will follow, and Bori will probably tag along this time too. Honestly, with the four of you—including Ice—destroying a single guild shouldn't be too difficult."
Rickert, Boribori, Ice, and Marie were swordsmen on an entirely different level from ordinary adventurers. Their reputations were already well-established, and Marie's fame in particular had skyrocketed recently. Thanks to the deep impression she had left during the Emperor's assassination incident, people had begun calling her the 'Witch of the Sword.' She was also the first female Swordmaster, making her an idol to many female adventurers.
Volka didn't treat these four with a strict hierarchy or issue one-sided orders; instead, he managed them loosely, unlike the average adventurer. In truth, they were a far more terrifying quartet than the old Ehrenberg Quintet. Perhaps it was precisely because they were so powerful that they could still interact as friends.
"But don't you need permission from headquarters?"
"Why would I need permission for revenge? I'll just notify them."
"...Is that really okay?"
"It's not just because of Ice. If necessary, I'm prepared to sever ties with headquarters entirely."
"Uh... why?"
"It's hard to explain. I guess I've realized that you can't last long if you're always under someone else's thumb."
Volka clearly had his own share of struggles. Though he rarely took to the battlefield anymore, life as an administrator was no easy task. Perhaps it had been more peaceful back when he could just mindlessly accept whatever work was handed to him. The shoulders of a man responsible for so many lives and families looked heavy.
He had his own path to walk. Looking at Volka, Rickert was suddenly reminded of when he was ten years old. Just as he had reached a turning point at ten and parted ways with his brother, it felt as though friends, too, drifted onto separate paths at this age. It didn't mean a bitter falling out. It was simply a natural progression.
In the end, will I be left all alone on this road of life? No, I have Marie. Is it really time to start taking care of myself, like Volka said? I don't know. It's difficult. Life is a complicated thing.
Rickert sat down beside the slumped Volka and said, "Pour me a cup too."
"Huh?"
"When I visited my hometown, my brother taught me how to drink. It didn't taste great, but it was tolerable."
"Really? Let me guess, did you drink wine?"
"How did you know?"
"Nobles always insist on drinking wine, even though it tastes awful. There's an old saying: beer for the north, wine for the south. Let me show you how it's really done."
For the first time in a long while, a spark of boyish mischief returned to Volka's dull eyes. Teaching a friend who knew nothing about alcohol how to drink was always a treat.
"How are things with Delphi? When are you two getting married?"
"Marriage? It's just making a vow in front of a priest. We can do it anytime."
"Do you still love her?"
"Love? What love! Hey, we're together out of loyalty now, pure loyalty!"
"Delphi would be heartbroken if she heard that."
"You really don't know anything outside of swinging a sword, do you? Today's the day. Your big brother is going to give you a proper lesson on alcohol and women." Volka spoke with exasperation, while Rickert merely grinned.
One cup, then two. The sour-smelling beer slid down their throats. As the alcohol took hold, trivial stories flowed effortlessly. They burst into loud laughter over the simplest things. That was the beauty of having a friend—even the most meaningless conversations could fill one's heart.
While ignoring reality was never wise, sometimes it was necessary to look away and clear one's head. That was the true flavor of alcohol. Sharing a cup with a friend made it taste twice as good.
*
The further a lord's domain was from the Imperial Capital Nibelungen, the more lukewarm their reaction to the Emperor's death tended to be. Simply put, their attitude was: What does the Emperor's death have to do with me?
Yet, they could not escape the aftermath. Like an earthquake radiating from its epicenter, peasant uprisings erupted in various places, fueled by the chaos. Peasant rebellions were nothing new; they had occurred on both small and large scales since ancient times. What made this wave different, however, was the distinct impression that some organized force was orchestrating them.
Consequently, while venturing outside inhabited areas had always been dangerous, it was far more perilous now. Bandits didn't walk around with the word 'bandit' written on their foreheads, nor were they born that way. It was an era where anyone could become a bandit if the opportunity arose and the timing was right. Knights, soldiers, veterans, mercenaries, adventurers, merchants, and even simple peasants and woodcutters were no exception. When encountering someone on the road, one could never afford to look weak. Even bandits only targeted those who looked easy to rob.
Under these circumstances, the powerless and weak gathered around the lords' castles or the adventurers' guilds. Most were the elderly, women, and children who had lost their breadwinners, believing these places to be relatively safe.
The Rubens Guild was busy turning a profit off these desperate souls. They charged them for space, forced the women into prostitution, dragged the elderly into hard labor to steal their daily wages, and even sold off the children. In a cynical sense, they were merely turning a profit by exploiting those deemed useless, but with the Emperor dead, they had thrown off all restraint.
Although adventurers had once prided themselves on not committing illegal acts, they now acted entirely as they pleased, with no one left to hold them accountable. In truth, the Rubens Guild had been pushed aside by the Beringen Guild and had suffered several defeats at Rickert's hands, leaving them desperate to recoup their losses. This desperation made them even more ruthless, merciless, and crazed. Strangely enough, even those who had once been decent could become addicted to cruelty once they started practicing it.
Southwest of the city of Beringen, west of Griffinswald, and north of the city of Rheinfurt, lay a small town famous for its striking reed fields. It was named Zelle, a place with little trade to speak of, surviving mostly by buying and selling surplus crops from nearby farming villages.
Now, however, crowds of refugees had gathered around the town, erecting clusters of shacks and tents. Only about one in ten was an adult male; the rest were entirely women, the elderly, and children.
Country women tried their best to apply makeup to their faces, calling out to passersby from outside their tents. But with so few men around, business was dismal. Eventually, they stopped calling out altogether, sitting slumped with despondent expressions. It was a tragedy where, even after resorting to selling their bodies as a last resort, there was no one left to buy.
Then, amidst the melancholy autumn leaves, four outsiders appeared. Three were tall, while one was short. All of them wore long cloaks with hoods pulled low, concealing their faces, but their builds suggested they were male. Among the four, the one wearing a red cloak stood out the most.
"Uh... excuse me, handsome? Or should I say, milords? Why don't you take a look over here?"
"O-Over here! I'll show you a r-really good time! I mean it..."
"Please, just look this way for a moment. My child is starving. Please."
Since they weren't professional prostitutes, their solicitations were clumsy, and some sounded more like begging than selling. However, the four outsiders paid no attention to the women, merely raising their heads slightly to scan their surroundings. Their gaze bypassed the women and locked onto five or six adventurers lingering near the makeshift red-light district.
Those adventurers, too, were closely watching the newcomers, ready to rob them if the opportunity arose. Despite the obvious danger, the four walked straight toward them without hesitation.
Sensing something was amiss, the Rubens adventurers rested their hands on the hilts of their swords and held up their palms. "Hey, hold it right there. Don't come any closer."
The figure in the red cloak leading the group stopped a short distance away.
"Who are you? What's your business?"
"Don't you know who we are? We're the Rubens Guild. We've got a hundred swordsmen backing us up. You'd better not try anything funny."
At that, the silent figure in the red cloak pulled back his hood. Golden hair shimmered under the autumn sun. It was Rickert.
He calmly scanned his surroundings with an indifferent gaze, then spoke to the Rubens Guild adventurers.
"My lungs aren't in great shape because of you lot, so I can't speak for long. I'm only going to let one of you live, so you decide. Who lives, and who dies?"
There was no answer, only a bizarre silence that settled over the area. The only sound was the rustling of the nearby reed field in the wind.
Reeds, growing taller than a man, never grew alone. They clustered in vast numbers along riverbanks and wetlands. Their white, feathery tips bent gently, as if bowing their heads. When the wind swept through, they simply swayed in its direction. Though they possessed no steadfast loyalty, they maintained their characteristic tranquility even amidst harsh storms, exuding a sense of quiet nobility. At times, they seemed to represent the human heart, resembling those who, accustomed to misery, lived powerlessly, swept this way and that. Such was the life of those who had settled beside the reed fields. They were helpless in the face of ruthless violence, yet they lived on.
Yet, there were those who did not belong among them, nor among the reeds. It was as if a beast hidden in the reed field had finally revealed itself.
"So, who's doing it?" Boribori asked.
"Since it's the first time, we need to make an impact. You do it, Bori."
"...I get the part about making an impact, but why me?"
"Marie, block that side. Ice, take the other."
Rickert ignored Boribori's protest, issuing orders openly in front of their opponents.
Though they were outnumbered by the six adventurers, the four split up to surround them, ensuring no one could escape.
The Rubens adventurers guarding the makeshift red-light district felt a mixture of absurdity and growing unease. Some scowled to appear as threatening as possible, others hardened their faces to hide their fear, while some simply found Rickert's group incredibly arrogant. Each of the six felt a different emotion.
"What is the meaning of this? What do you think you're doing?"
"Who do you think you're dealing with? You dare mess with our guild?!"
"I tried to be nice, but you're asking for it!"
Like barking dogs driven by fear, the adventurers raised their voices. Yet, none of them dared step within sword's reach.
Boribori drew his sword with a pout. The Ghost Sword, with its matte finish, did not reflect the sunlight, appearing almost blurry to the eye.
"You'd better hold onto your limbs tight. If you're lucky enough to block even one strike, only your head will fly off."
It was a terrifying, incomprehensible warning. Yet, Boribori was entirely sincere; he wasn't mocking them. Though no one would believe him, he genuinely had no desire to butcher people.
Boribori stepped forward and swung his sword with one hand. Though he was not a Swordmaster, his immense innate mana drew sharp, vivid black lines through the air.
Whoosh! Slash! Whoosh!
In an instant, characters were carved into the air, and everything in their path was severed. Limbs, heads, and torsos rained down. A massive pool of blood spread across the ground.
The hair on the remaining adventurers' necks stood on end. A few collapsed to the ground. It was such a brutal and shocking sight that even the women watching anxiously from nearby gasped, their throats tightening as they let out choked whimpers.
Boribori lightly stepped back to avoid the splashing blood, then carved another large character toward the frozen adventurers.
The Ghost Sword swept left and right, then diagonally, tracing several strokes before finishing with a dot.
The hacked-apart bodies fell in a heap.
“Wow...”
Marie, a Swordmaster herself, could not help admiring it. She knew Boribori’s swordsmanship well, but it was strange and terrifying every time she saw it.
One man survived, sitting on the ground and wetting himself. It was no mistake: Boribori had deliberately spared him on Rickert’s instructions.
Boribori drew over the hem of his cloak, wiped his blade, and sheathed it. Only then did Rickert, who had been watching quietly from behind, walk up to the survivor.
“I understand you’re shaken, but I want you to remember exactly what I say. Go and tell your guild master that Ricky is here. You have three choices. The guild master can die on everyone’s behalf, the entire guild can suffer devastating losses, or you can hand over the antidote. Go.”
Having delivered those one-sided terms, Rickert emptied the collection box and scattered its contents into the street. The coins rang out cheerfully, but no one dared pick them up.
Rickert left with his friends. Unlike when they had arrived, no one called out to solicit their business.
As before, only the wind brushing through the reeds could be heard.