Chapter 58
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 58
Chapter Title: Ariete (14)
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When Richer entered Ariete's tent, she was sleeping soundly. It was a day without battle, so she had pushed through her work for hours without a thought for what came after—only natural.
She looked a bit cold, but she wasn't properly covered by the blanket. It was her habit to shove it away and sleep exposed.
As he gazed at Ariete for a moment, the scent of a mature woman seeped into Richer's nostrils. Low and lingering, like half-frozen winter mist.
Even without any drugs in his system, lust flooded his mind. The urge to spread the sleeping Ariete's legs and thrust himself inside her welled up thickly in his head.
He started to conjure a simple Shock spell but stopped his hand. Something with more staying power, without any mana flow.
The method was simple. A common dagger, the kind that rolled around everywhere on the battlefield. One just over half a span long was sheathed at Richer's waist—the very dagger he'd used that morning to peel a small fruit and offer it to Ariete.
Richer drew the dagger with his right hand and, without hesitation, stabbed it into the palm of his left. It pierced the back of his hand, sending a fierce wave of pain crashing into his skull.
A zinging—zinging—pain battered his temples mercilessly.
The wound might fester later. Or he might never properly use his left hand again. But living without a working head was far worse than losing the use of his left hand.
A little blood trickled out, but his groin still throbbed. A reflexive response, perhaps. Whenever he fully inhaled Ariete's fleshy scent, what followed was always the same.
Richer clenched his pierced left hand tightly. Pain surged up once more, but not a single groan escaped him. His mind felt clear again.
Richer reached out his right hand toward Ariete.
Time to confirm the truth.
But Richer was too clever by half. He had already run through thoughts that an ordinary person would handle by waking Ariete first and talking it out— all while extending his arm.
Wake Ariete and put the question to her. That would make everything crystal clear.
If Ariete admitted it was her doing, what then? Conversation and apology were far past that point. Fitting punishment had to follow.
If Ariete denied it was her doing, what then? The same. Fitting punishment had to follow. Just with an extra step of interrogation in between.
Yes. The conclusion was the same. Fitting punishment.
The punishment couldn't be left to the Empire, though. The Empire never meted out proper punishment to War Mages.
At best, they'd reassign her to some frontline far from Richer. But even that wouldn't be enough. If Ariete persistently requested it, they might slot her back onto his frontline in a year or two, as if nothing had happened.
The possibility was all too real. The Empire just "used" War Mages like that. Station them far away if problems arose, close by otherwise. End of story. Problems again? Back far away. Simple.
In the end, the punishment fell to Richer. Private retribution, independent of any public authority.
It wouldn't end with a few punches, a beating, or lashes with a whip. The bond tangled between them was far too long, too sturdy, too unyielding.
This wasn't some common criminal he could half-heartedly snap a few chains from with his bare hands and call it forgiven.
Yes, Richer. In the end, you'd have to draw a sharp, sturdy blade and cleave the chains apart. Some things wouldn't unravel unless severed.
Sever the chains, or your own life, or Ariete's neck. Something had to be cut.
Of course, what got cut was Richer's decision to make.
Ariete's chest rose and fell as she slept.
A faint murmur escaped her. "Mm... I love you, I love you."
Even that tiny chant clouded Richer's mind once more.
What if... yeah, what if it was just coincidences piling up, and not Ariete's doing at all? What then?
The moment the thought began, his reason and intellect joined in a savage, mocking laugh.
He had never faced such a cruel sneer before.
Richer! Has your drug-soaked brain rotted away? Did you roll around in ecstasy until you went too far? You think there's any way not to suspect her in this situation? You think Ariete could produce evidence to explain it away?
No. No evidence could surface here. It's all testimony. Trials need evidence? Don't talk nonsense! Trials without evidence exist too!
If Ariete starts crying, "N-no, it's not me. Really, it's not!" you gonna buy it? Say, "Oh, sorry for doubting you"?
Poor excuse for a brain you got there, Richer. Why not just kill yourself while you're at it?
Confusion reigned. Richer clenched his left fist again. The muscles in his forearm trembled faintly.
Yes, still deluded. All because of the aphrodisiac.
Richer drew the dagger and sliced it from the back of his left hand up to midway along his forearm. Not a vital spot, not deep enough to shred muscle badly.
But the pain intensified.
His mind didn't clear further, though. Only natural—it was already clear enough for judgment. Fleeting blood trickled down his left fist, splattering the ground with countless small, dark circles.
Richer realized it. His hesitation now wasn't from the drug.
It was because it was Ariete. Because his heart was too soft. And guilt piled on top, thick and unyielding guilt.
The "madman" Richer, who wept and begged forgiveness even after killing enemy soldiers. The one with that fragile, tender heart.
The girl lying before him was the tender child who used money earned selling her body to feed orphans.
And Ariete, once called the street saint, had become the "mad bitch." It might look self-inflicted, but it absolutely wasn't. He was the one who had shoved that little girl deep into hell and let go of her hand.
A tender man and a tender little girl met, and in the blood-soaked battlefield, they twisted into something grotesque and repulsive.
Ariete kept murmuring in her sleep, oblivious to Richer's thoughts.
Whatever dream she was having, her sleep-talk was simple. "I love you, I love you." Nothing else ever came out. Not just today—always had been, always would be.
This child, whose past wants, present desires, and future hopes all boiled down to Richer's love.
As Richer stood silently watching her, a majestic thunderbolt struck his mind.
His childhood visit to the brilliant sun god's temple with Hilario.
He recalled the woodwind instrument there. Thick and massive, a woodwind whose name he didn't know. Its tone resounded long, slow, and solemn in his head.
No melody, no accompaniment, no singing choir—yet the echo shoved his back fiercely.
Yes. The time for choice had come. The essential question was one: Could I kill Ariete myself?
With the issue sorted and sharpened, a flood of even more thoughts crashed over him. Confusion returned.
Voices echoed.
Richer. Could you cut that child's throat yourself?
The person who shattered you. The one who ruined you. The wench who killed your wife.
Your first and last disciple. Daughter gained late, much-younger sister, a bit of lover, even more a bit of wife.
The victim you hurled into hell yourself. The convict writhing in agony, twisting away. Yet still howling for just one stroke of your hand, your pet dog.
From start to finish—barring her birth— a statue of pale pink flesh sculpted entirely from you and the battlefield's blood.
Your creation. One who moved as you taught, danced as you spoke.
Wretched soul. Can you stand free of that child's actions? Step back one pace from all her deeds and judge her?
Richer shook his muddled head and took another step forward.
I know. It's my sin.
Even if I kill this child and die with her, I must pay the price. All the more because I made her.
Sins aren't for us to offset at will. Only the gods can judge, divide, and forgive sins.
If there are two sinners, they can pay each other's price—but never forgive one another.
And as Richer's right hand neared her shoulder, a vision engulfed his sight.
A small red-haired girl, curled up clutching a threadbare blanket beside a garbage dump, sleeping soundly.
The little one who, despite her suffering, had wanted to embrace everyone with her kind heart.
Confusion. A voice laced with harsh mockery rang in his head.
Do you really think that child and you—both of you—are sinners? Truly? Could you think that while wearing an iron mask?
Didn't you arbitrarily pin your blood debt on that little girl and twist her with all your might, you human butcher?
You twisted her with everything you had. Calling the one you personally twisted a sinner—isn't that a thought even the wretches at hell's bottom wouldn't conceive?
Yes, villain. Go pay your wife's blood debt. Your unborn child in her belly will rejoice too.
Before it twists even more grotesquely under its warped father and mother, its kind father mercifully ends its life. The child will sing and dance for joy.
Go! Raise that dagger high and plunge it down! Be the father sharing love with a single dagger to your child who never even drew breath!
Richer's mind went white. Before he knew it, his right arm pulled back, his feet stumbling away.
Confusion.
The brown-haired kid from the garbage dump couldn't drive a blade into the neck of the red girl from that distant dump.
Like a patient who knew something was wrong but feared confirming it at a hospital, Richer trembled and muttered to himself.
He was so cornered mentally that he reopened a question he'd already resolved clearly.
Yes. Yes. I'm just backing off because it's not certain. Someday. On the day everything becomes clear, I'll judge you.
But he knew it himself. Whether the sin was clear mattered little.
The amount of sin, its weight—none of it mattered. What mattered was whose sin it belonged to.
Richer left just a small note in his own tent and departed.