Chapter 90
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 90
The frenzied autumn passed, giving way to winter. Though it was not a year of famine, starved corpses lay scattered along the roadsides.
Among them, the frozen body of an infant was particularly heartbreaking. What sin had this child committed? Could even a god answer that?
Yet, those suffering from the chronic numbness of the era merely looked upon the sight with indifference.
Outlaws. Having slaughtered the lords of the lands they once called home, they had lost their way. Their directionless rage had ultimately driven them into a dead end.
There was no grand class struggle, no ideological crusade. They had simply been swept up in the heat of the moment, committing atrocities only to find themselves completely clueless about what to do next.
But what was done could not be undone. The peasants who had murdered nobles fled into the mountains, banding together to become bandits.
Like mold spreading across the world, these outlaws cropped up everywhere.
In the smaller fiefs, gathering an army yielded barely ten men. In truth, rather than a proper military force, it was merely a handful of grown men clad in ill-fitting combat gear.
Although a heavily armed knight was said to be a match for a hundred men, there were many knightly families whose members had taken up hoes instead of swords since their grandfathers' generation.
Some shut themselves inside their castles to save their own skins, while others were dragged out into the open by outlaws, their entire families slaughtered and their villages burned to ash.
Who would punish them? Or, before that, whose fault was it to begin with?
Regrettably, debating such things was pointless. When a robber thrust a blade in your face, law and justice lost their power with astonishing ease.
Winter passed. Around the time the swallows returned, deep purple violets bloomed across the fields.
Even so, the situation did not improve.
Though the weather was cool in the early spring, the sunlight felt exceptionally harsh.
A man wearing a round-brimmed helmet already had his hair soaked with sweat. Panting in the heat, he grimaced, the expression deepening the heavy wrinkles on his face.
Clad in a padded gambeson and leaning on a hooked spear known as a billhook, he looked up from the foot of the mountain.
From a crudely constructed mountain fortress, bandits stared right back down at them.
"Those bastards..."
The man seemed to detest the bandits so much that he didn't just curse; he spat the words out as if chewing them raw.
"Did everyone make it down?"
"Where's the captain?"
"No one's hurt, right?"
Voices checking in on one another drifted around the helmeted man. They were his companions.
There were seven of them in total, and while the overall quality of their equipment was similar, it was a complete hodgepodge. Some wore helmets, some didn't, and others wore tight-fitting leather or cloth hoods called coifs. Their weapons varied wildly, ranging from spears and swords to axes.
This was because they were not soldiers, but adventurers.
However, they had a serious problem: there were fifty bandits. Subduing fifty bandits with only seven men? Was this some kind of joke?
Of course, if they fought on flat ground, it was entirely possible to slaughter fifty poorly equipped thugs. The problem was that the bandits refused to come down from their fortress.
With so few men, the adventurers couldn't surround the mountain, allowing the bandits to openly roam and scavenge under the cover of night.
What made the subjugation so difficult wasn't the combat itself, but the sheer exhaustion. Eating, relieving themselves, sleeping, and keeping watch on the road drained them both mentally and physically.
It was even worse when there was no clear solution in sight. All they did was charge up the mountain once a day, only to be driven right back down by a barrage of stones hurled from above.
One shouldn't underestimate thrown stones; a rock slung from a proper sling could easily crush a skull and kill a man in a single blow.
The men didn't know why they had to keep repeating this futile exercise, but according to the clan leader, they had to do at least this much just to keep the enemy intimidated.
"Hey, is the crossbow still not fixed?"
The clan leader asked, plucking an arrow from the dirt and tossing it away. Its tip was smeared with feces. That was the bandits' crude version of a poison arrow. If it lodged in flesh, the resulting infection would rot a man from the inside out.
Fortunately, the bows used by the bandits were so weak that they couldn't pierce armor to reach the flesh.
But the stench was unavoidable, so the clan leader habitually grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and scrubbed it off his armor.
"Captain, I think we have to take this to a bowyer. The gear won't lock in place," said the only crossbowman in the clan.
Fuck. Breaking after only five shots. On top of that, it hadn't hit a single person. Was the crossbowman utterly incompetent, or was the weapon just a piece of junk?
"Can't you just pull it back with raw strength?"
"I told you, it won't lock!"
"No, I mean hold it back with your hands and then let go."
"Does that make any sense at all?"
"Ah, damn it. Guys, let's just eat first."
At the clan leader's command, a few men dragged their tired bodies over to a large cauldron. They filled it with water, threw in whatever meager ingredients they had on hand, and set it to boil.
Once the mysterious, nameless stew began to bubble vigorously, the adventurers ladled it into wooden bowls of questionable cleanliness.
Then, putting down their weapons and taking off their helmets, they sprawled out on the ground, slurping the broth or eating chunks with their bare hands. Naturally, no one had bothered to wash up.
Spices were out of the question; they merely seasoned the meal with wild herbs or the small pinches of salt they carried individually.
The one saving grace for these exhausted men was that it was early spring, allowing them to cool off quickly. When a brisk breeze blew through the camp and dried their sweat, it felt like pure bliss.
"Captain, how long do we have to keep doing this?"
"Ricky said he's coming, so let's hold out a bit longer."
"I know he's an incredible swordsman, but will his arrival really change anything? It's not like those bastards are going to come down and duel him."
"I don't know. He'll have a way."
"What if he comes and there is no way?"
"Then it just turns into a battle of who gets tired first."
"Damn it..."
"Hey, there's no giving up. Our reputation is our lifeblood. Besides, do you really want to lose to scum like them?"
Still, being the clan leader, he seemed to have his head on straighter compared to the average adventurers who did nothing but grumble.
He didn't fail to understand his companions' frustrations. Deep down, he was just as annoyed, even if he didn't show it on the outside. Nevertheless, sometimes coaxing, sometimes browbeating, and dragging them forward somehow was what it meant to be a leader.
But in a siege, sometimes that was exactly what the enemy aimed for: grating on the opponent's emotions until they broke.
"Hey! You down there!"
Someone shouted from atop the not-so-distant mountain fortress. The adventurers, who had been gulping down their food, turned their heads to look up.
"How about we toss you one gold coin per head and you just pack up and leave?!"
In such sluggish stalemates, negotiations were common. But the adventurers of the Beringen Guild's Ehrenberg Branch were different. They had their pride—or rather, their self-respect.
One of them leaped to his feet and roared back.
"Fuck off, you bastard!"
"Hey! How much money do you guys even make?! Why don't you just join us instead?!"
"Is he insane?"
"Last winter, we made gold coins, gold coins—how many was it? We made a ton!"
"Then we can just kill you and take it all!"
"You motherfuckers! You don't listen, do you?! Your mothers, your wives...!"
Perhaps realizing that things weren't going as planned, the bandit resorted to hurling unspeakable insults.
"Hey, you son of a bitch! I've memorized your face!"
"So what if you did?! Come on up! Come up here and try something!"
"Ah, fuck!"
The adventurer gnashed his teeth, but there was nothing he could do. Just then, a calm voice spoke up from beside them.
"What are you guys doing?"
Turning around, they saw a young man with blonde hair and a red cloak standing there blankly. A sword hung at his waist, and gleaming steel plate armor could be glimpsed beneath his cloak.
It was a breastplate obtained as war booty when the Rubens Guild surrendered. A kind of ancient relic, it was thin, incredibly light, and boasted absurd defensive power.
Furthermore, its material was Truesilver. It wasn't just a slight alloy, but armor forged entirely of Truesilver, something that could not be crafted by the human technology of the current era.
Making steel that thin yet strong required highly developed metallurgy, and there were only a handful of blacksmiths in the entire Empire who possessed the skill to work Truesilver. Most knights wore heavy mail armor, and the same went for high-ranking nobles. Thus, the breastplate Rickert currently wore was no different from a mysterious ancient magical artifact.
People called it 'Ruben's Last Pride' with a slightly mocking tone toward the Rubens Guild. Ruben was the founder of the Rubens Guild, and the armor was originally something he had unearthed in ancient ruins.
However, Rickert found the brilliant shininess embarrassing, so he wore a surcoat over it to cover it up. The surcoat was elegantly embroidered with purple violets.
The red cloak, the steel plate armor, and the violets were the visual symbols that defined Rickert.
Yet, it was bitterly ironic that the very bastards who had ruined his lungs had provided him with something that could perfectly protect his torso.
"Ricky?"
"When did you get here?"
"Just now."
"Uh... as you can see, this is the situation," the clan leader said.
The other adventurers, interrupted mid-meal, stared blankly up at Rickert from where they sat in the dirt.
"Do you have a way?"
"Hold on."
Rickert quietly looked up at the mountain fortress. After observing the crude structure for a moment, he borrowed a heater shield from one of the adventurers. Adjusting the leather straps to secure it tightly to his forearm, he spoke.
"I think I can break a gate of that size. Once I break it, everyone charge up together. You have to move fast."
"Break it? That? Without a battering ram?"
No matter how crudely constructed the gate was, it wasn't so flimsy that it could be breached by a single man's raw strength. Normally, several people would have to band together and ram it with a sharpened log, but with their current numbers, that was impossible.
"As soon as we finish up here, gather in Ehrenberg. An official document came down from the Imperial Guild Bureau. Under the name of the Count Palatine of Kelbron."
Kelbron was the fief of Hellauman, the Emperor's Champion. Generally, high-ranking lords were referred to by their titles rather than their given names.
"What kind of document?"
"Get the details from Volka, but it seems to be about the subjugation of the Order of Condemnation."
"How much are they paying?"
"I don't know. Finish your meal and get ready."
With that, Rickert headed up the mountain toward the fortress alone. The bandits, who had been hurling insults, stared down in confusion for a moment before beginning to taunt him.
"What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do?!"
"Red cloak? No way, are you Ricky? But what are you gonna do about it?!"
Like a pack of wild monkeys, they began throwing stones. Rickert didn't even flinch. Keeping his back straight, he calmly looked up, dodging the projectiles with minimal, precise movements.
He kept a steady pace up the incline. Because of his damaged lungs, he couldn't run.
"Hey! Your girlfriend tasted great! I had her yesterday! She was loving it!"
"You little punk, just because you can swing a sword, do you think you're untouchable?!"
Despite hearing such vile insults, Rickert didn't get angry. He knew that on the battlefield, all kinds of filth were thrown around. If he reacted to every single provocation, the stress would make it impossible to fight.
However, he made absolutely sure to memorize their faces.
Most of the bandits threw stones by hand. Some missed entirely, while others were quite accurate and fierce. A few were even launched with slings.
Rickert dodged what he could and blocked what he had to with his shield.
Clang! Claaang! Clang!
Since he smoothly evaded or deflected everything, his ascent never slowed. Finally reaching the gate of the fortress, while the bandits stared down from the palisades above, Rickert channeled Ilya's power and kicked the heavy wooden gate with all his might.
Bam!
"Hey, you dumbass! Do you think that'll do anything?!"
Bam!
"Hey, bring the spears!"
Since the fortress walls weren't as high as proper castle walls, the bandits could reach him if they thrust downward with long spears.
However, before they could even bring the weapons forward, an unsettling sound echoed out.
Bam! Crack!
It was undeniably the sound of thick wood splintering. The gate didn't shatter in a single blow, but the heavy wooden bar locking it from the inside had cracked.
For a split second, the bandits felt a sudden surge of doubt, but they quickly rationalized it: No way, that can't be.
But Rickert fluidly drew his sword and sliced through the thick ropes binding the outer wooden beams together in a single stroke. After cutting a few key supports, he delivered a final, devastating kick to the weakened structure.
Bam! Crash!
One half of the shattered gate swung wildly open, hanging by a single thread of rope. The other half, its latch completely obliterated, was simply pushed wide open.
Rickert turned back and shouted down to the adventurers.
"Now! Come up!"
However, the adventurers watching from below were just as shell-shocked as the bandits, doing nothing but blinking their wide eyes in disbelief.
Fortunately, the clan leader snapped out of his daze first. He hurriedly grabbed his gear and began sprinting up the mountain.
"Let's go!"
Rickert caught his slightly ragged breath and slowly stepped into the fortress courtyard. Looking at the bandits still clinging to the palisade in shock, he locked eyes with one of them.
"What was that about my girlfriend?"
"I heard she's... a beauty... I was just talking..."
Rickert let out a hollow, cold laugh. He wasn't about to let them off just because they were stammering excuses now. Bringing up Marie was one thing, but he also knew exactly what these bandits had done over the past autumn and winter.
They were bastards who had laid waste to entire villages, slaughtering even innocent children simply because they had noble blood. And they didn't just kill; they committed unspeakable acts without a second's hesitation.
So, they had to die. It was his job, anyway.
Rickert beckoned to the man who had insulted him. Realizing there was nowhere to run, the bandit stepped forward, surprisingly meek.
"Ha, haha, how could a guy like me ever... my lord..."
Just as the bandit opened his mouth to make another pathetic excuse, the sword in Rickert's right hand flashed horizontally from left to right.
The bandit flinched, and a second later, his cleanly severed head slowly slid off his neck and tumbled to the ground.
Only then did the remaining bandits' hair stand on end in sheer terror, but by that time, the adventurers had arrived, thoroughly enraged and out for blood.
A massacre ensued.
As the eight of them, including Rickert, stabbed and slashed their way through the courtyard, they killed about thirty men. The rest broke and fled into the wilderness, leaving the fortress a total bloodbath.
Since slaughtering people so one-sidedly was physically exhausting, once the situation was fully settled, the adventurers took off their helmets and wiped their sweat- and blood-stained faces. Then, they collapsed onto the dirt, panting heavily.
After catching their breath, they thoroughly searched the fortress. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were no prisoners to deal with—only rotting food and a few valuables like stolen silverware.
Selling the silver would fetch a decent sum, but once split among the seven of them, it wouldn't amount to much.
The clan leader turned around to ask Rickert how they should divide the loot, but the swordsman was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did Ricky go?"
"He left a moment ago."
The clan leader blinked, then climbed up onto the fortress palisade to look down the mountain path. Rickert, who had already made it all the way to the bottom, was walking away at a leisurely pace. His red cloak fluttered slightly with every gust of wind.
Seeing that calm, cool figure retreating into the distance, the clan leader felt an inexplicable shiver run down his spine.
Perhaps the deep source of pride he and his companions felt stemmed entirely from the fact that they belonged to the exact same branch as Rickert.
When someone acted so differently from the rest of the world, and looked so damn cool doing it, those around him couldn't help but want to emulate it.
Rickert did not loudly cry out for justice. But he possessed a firm baseline of common sense. Even when the entire world went mad, that common sense remained entirely unshaken.
And above all else, he was strong. When they fought beside him, they never once felt like they would lose. No matter how grim things got, they could harbor the quiet hope that if they just held out, they would make it through somehow.
Whether Rickert intended it or not, his fellow adventurers felt that way. And they believed in him. Because, just like today, that hope always became reality.
Soon after, the Ehrenberg Branch recorded the highest participation rate in the entire campaign to subjugate the Order of Condemnation.