Chapter 9
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: A Good Blade
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Both the Academy and the Intelligence Bureau were in the capital, so Galahad spent most of his time there.
The capital was remarkably clean. The streets were paved with smooth stone, and with a proper sewage system, there was no filth.
People walked about in raven-black suits, and the scent of perfume filled the air.
It wasn’t that they bathed often, but rather thanks to the mages hired by the Imperial family.
The North, by comparison, was dreadful. He had heard it was bad, but seeing it in person, “bad” was an understatement.
The streets were a slush of half-melted snow mixed with livestock waste, and the people, unwashed, were dark and gaunt.
It was enough to make one wonder if the North had been struck by its own separate plague.
“Are the standby soldiers over there?”
The place Gilberton led him to, where the standby soldiers lived, was a step even lower.
Most of the buildings were collapsed, with crudely built wooden shacks in between.
A man with a limp crawled on the ground, and another with a missing hand cackled as he watched him.
“Yes, all the able-bodied men are on the front lines.”
“So only the rejects who can’t go to the front are on standby.”
“Something like that.”
“So this was a scrap heap assignment.”
‘There was a reason the Grand Duke specified a man on standby.’
In other words, he was telling me to find a diamond in the rough myself—at the junkyard.
As Galahad, in his pristine coat, and Gilberton, an armed knight, walked together, eyes followed them.
Men who had cursed him as a damned freeloader scurried into hiding at Gilberton’s glare.
“I seem to be quite famous. I should practice my autograph.”
“Are you pleased to be called a freeloader?”
“Of course. Living comfortably with a capable and beautiful woman is every man’s dream, is it not?”
“It is not mine.”
“What is your dream, then?”
“I…”
Gilberton, about to answer instinctively, clamped his mouth shut.
“Why stop mid-sentence? There are two things that infuriate a man, do you know what they are?”
“What are they?”
“A stupid mage and a smart knight.”
“Never mind the stupid mage, why does a smart knight make you angry?”
“Because if a knight is smart, his sword gets slower. Your sword must be very fast.”
“...?”
Gilberton pointed to one side. A cluster of hovels stood there. Hovels—.
‘No different from orcs.’
He wondered how they could survive in such a cold place in mere hovels.
Gilberton stopped in front of the most dilapidated and flimsy hovel of them all.
A boy sat beneath a thatch of four or five bundled straws.
With his wildly tangled hair and worn-out clothes, he was the spitting image of a beggar, yet his features were quite striking.
Even the grime on his face couldn’t hide the boy’s noble air.
He was a boy who looked like a noble, and his eyes were remarkably clear.
Gilberton pointed at him.
“Damian. He possesses a bizarre sword skill.”
“A bizarre sword skill?”
“It’s not swordsmanship, but he’s ridiculously good at killing demons.”
“He looks like he hasn’t even hit puberty.”
“Is that important?”
“A joke. If he’s young and a good fighter, why isn’t he at the castle?”
“The squads Damian was in were all wiped out by demons. He’s the sole survivor.”
“A survivor from a squad annihilated by demons should be taken better care of. But wait… squad…s?”
“It’s happened about four times. As a result, no other squad wants to take him, so he’s on temporary standby. He’ll probably be assigned as a scout soon.”
Gilberton’s voice trailed off. The sole survivor from four annihilated squads—.
“Any chance it was the boy’s doing?”
“None. A thorough investigation has already been completed.”
Hmm—. Galahad hummed. Being on the front lines, the investigation would have been even more stringent.
The fact that no evidence turned up meant it was highly unlikely the boy was responsible.
“So his skills are decent.”
“Yes, without a doubt.”
Galahad flicked his cigarette and approached the boy. The boy’s body was covered in bruises and scars. Some hadn’t even healed.
‘Is he being bullied? I have no need for the weak…’
Galahad clicked his tongue softly.
The boy was sitting with his mouth wide open, facing the sky.
“Are you eating snow?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I see. Is it any good?”
“It tastes like lemon today.”
Galahad hid his cigarette behind his back. The boy continued to eat the snow.
At this foolish act, Galahad glanced at Gilberton, who simply shrugged.
Galahad clicked his tongue and sat down next to the boy. Only then did the boy look at Galahad.
His eyes were devoid of any emotion. They were familiar eyes.
Similar to that man he’d seen at the Intelligence Bureau. Were they brothers? No, that man was black.
The only difference was that, unlike the man steeped in murderous intent, this boy’s eyes were still clear.
The boy opened his mouth.
“You look strange.”
At the out-of-the-blue assessment, Galahad’s lips curled into a smile.
“Damian, you look strange yourself. You have an air of nobility about you. Were your parents nobles?”
“No, my mother is a prostitute.”
The sudden introduction of his parents left Galahad speechless for the first time.
“That’s impressive. Not just anyone can be a prostitute. It means she has enough charm for men to pay. So, what does your father do?”
“Um, he’s one of four men.”
“Schrödinger’s father, I see.”
“Schrödinger?”
“It means mysterious.”
Damian muttered ‘Schrödinger’ several times. He seemed to like the sound of the word.
“I’ve come to get you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I hear you’re quite skilled with a blade.”
“Ah, I’m alright.”
“Such confidence. I’ve started a Special Task Force today, and I want you to join.”
“I don’t want to.”
At the clean refusal, Galahad looked at Gilberton. Gilberton shrugged. What an irritating face.
“Why not?”
“If I join, everyone dies. You seem like a good person, so it’d be a shame if you died.”
His voice was remarkably clear and resolute. Galahad narrowed his eyes.
“First off, I’m not an old man, I’m a brother. Gilberton over there is the old man. Come on, call me brother.”
“Brother.”
Gilberton’s face crumpled as Galahad pointed at him and said, ‘old man!’
“Second, I am not a good person. I’m trying to be, but it’s not easy. And third, did you kill your squad members?”
“The demons killed them.”
“Nasty demons.”
“Very nasty demons.”
Contrary to the topic, Damian’s voice was remarkably calm.
“If you take the blame for it, wouldn’t the demons who did the work feel slighted?”
“That’s true, too.”
“We’re on the same page, then.”
“Still, if I join, everyone will die.”
“Don’t worry about that. I have a rather long lifeline.”
Damian looked Galahad up and down.
“You look frail.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
After a moment of thought, the boy nodded.
“Alright. I didn’t have anything else to do anyway.”
“Damian, from this moment on, you are a member of the Special Task Force. This is an order from His Grace, the Grand Duke—. Now, boy, rise.”
“Yes, brother.”
Damian got up swaggering, his sword dragging on the ground.
Gilberton couldn’t comprehend the two of them, who had just had a bizarre conversation and now stood up in unison.
Unfortunately for him, neither of them sought his understanding.
***
Damian looked as if he had been starving, so Galahad took him to a tavern.
“I will bring the rest, then. Try not to cause any trouble. This place is full of worthless mercenaries; even His Grace the Grand Duke has given up on it. If you die here, they won’t even find your body.”
Gilberton warned him several times before disappearing.
‘Won’t even find your body—.’
Galahad rolled the phrase around in his mouth.
“Do you usually cause a lot of trouble?”
“Ordinary people tend to think of a genius’s extraordinary actions as trouble.”
“I see.”
He patted the nodding Damian’s head.
A man who appeared to be the tavern owner spat on the ground. He had a rusty iron club attached to one arm. A Northern version of Captain Hook, it seemed.
“Get the hell out! I thought I told you never to come back! You unlucky little brat!”
“Your reputation seems to be poor, my boy.”
“It seems so.”
“At your age, people will like you just for being polite. Come on, give it a try.”
“Hello.”
“You need to bow your head a bit more.”
“Hel…”
“The fuck, who’s this new piece of shit?”
At the harsh curse, Galahad clicked his tongue. The tavern owner shook his right iron club. A threat?
“My name is Galahad. A pleasure to meet you, my fine one-armed friend.”
“Who’s your friend! You fucker—.”
Galahad casually placed a hand on the man’s club. Just as the man was about to curse again, a spark flew from his mouth.
The man’s mouth hung open as he staggered and leaned against the wall.
“He says we can go in. Come on, let’s go.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, he’s just taking a nap. He’ll have a very nice dream.”
Galahad stepped firmly on the man’s paunchy stomach and entered the tavern.
A cacophony of noise, lukewarm heat, and the stench of foul sweat were the first things to greet them.
“Nice.”
Men, missing an eye or some other part, were chattering loudly. Among them, heavily wrinkled women let out sharp peals of laughter.
The floor was so littered with uncleaned bones and broken glasses there was hardly a place to step. A strange song could be heard from somewhere.
As they entered, the loud noise stopped abruptly. All eyes focused on them.
A few men with bloodshot eyes snorted loudly. Another fiddled with the sword tied to his waist.
“Seems you’re just as disliked as I am.”
“It’s my fault.”
“No, you’re not at fault. I guarantee it.”
Galahad raised his hand high and shouted.
“Greetings, everyone! I am Galahad, Captain of the Special Task Force! If you’re able-bodied and confident in your skills, sign up! Character is not a requirement!”
The already tense atmosphere grew even more charged.
“The manners here are terrible. Not a single person returns a greeting.”
At Galahad’s grumbling, Damian belatedly waved his hand.
Galahad chuckled and headed for a table in the center. It was a fine table, etched all over with knife marks.
“Order whatever you want to eat.”
“Really?”
“I do not lie.”
Damian’s eyes sparkled. He must have been starving.
Galahad raised his hand to order. The one who came over wasn’t a waiter, but a man drinking at the next table.
He slammed his fist on the table. *Thwack!* That must have hurt—. Galahad muttered softly and looked up.
The man smirked at Galahad.
“Fuck, I knew I smelled some foul demon shit—. We got a fucking mage here?”
The heavily bearded man placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Galahad.
‘So it was him.’
The size of his fist matched the bruise near Damian’s ribs. Galahad’s eyes darkened.
“First of all, magic and demons are two very different things. If you said that in the capital, you’d be called an ignorant fool, so be careful.”
“...What, an ignorant fool?”
“I’m saying you could be called that. Are you, by any chance, ignorant?”
The man unconsciously shook his head.
“So I’m just warning you to be careful not to be misunderstood.”
The man’s face twisted. A yellow fluid oozed from his empty eye socket.
Sensing something in Galahad’s relaxed demeanor, he shifted his gaze to Damian.
‘Why do the people here look down on mages?’
Galahad was genuinely curious.
Just then, the man, after a moment’s hesitation, turned his attention to Damian. It seemed his real business was with the boy.
“If you have money to come to a tavern, you should be bringing it to me, you goddamn bastard.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“No money, but you come to a tavern? Bullshit—. I knew you were hiding money! You son of a bitch.”
“Is Damian in your debt?”
Galahad asked, raising his right hand. The man ground his teeth.
“This ain’t your business.”
“He’s my squad member now, so it is my business.”
“So you’re gonna pay for him?”
“We’re not that close yet.”
“Fuck! Then shut your mouth! Before I rearrange that face of yours!”
“Whoa—. Calm down. Who knows? Maybe I’ll pay it for him.”
“So are you going to pay or not?”
“Hmm, let’s hear the story first.”
The man’s face contorted even further. His jaundiced eye darted about. Just then, the men behind him stood up and approached.
The man’s shoulders squared again. A simpleton.
“The squad member this bastard killed was my friend. A very close—.”
“Ah, I see. So you lent him money?”
“Why would I lend money to a squad-eating bastard like him?”
“Then why are you telling him to bring you money?”
“Because that bastard killed my squad member!”
“Did you kill a squad member?”
“No. I don’t like to steal other people’s credit.”
“That’s right. Stealing is bad.”
“What the hell are you doing, you fucking piece of shit—.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Galahad took a silver coin from his inner pocket and placed it on the table. The man’s mouth shut. The men exchanged swift glances.
The tavern went so quiet you couldn’t hear a breath. *Click.* The sound of a door being locked. A den of thieves, Galahad thought, clicking his tongue softly.
“Was the dead squad member your family?”
“He was a comrade, as good as family.”
The man answered, signaling to the side with his eyes. A sharp sound, as if someone was drawing something, was heard.
“So not family. Then why are you the one collecting the money?”
“Because he was a very close comrade—.”
“Hmm, no matter how strange the Empire’s laws are, there’s no law that passes inheritance to a comrade.”
“Law, my ass, you fucker—.”
A torrent of curses erupted. A palpable heat filled the air. Even a middle-aged woman stood with a kitchen knife in her hand.
‘What an uncultured place.’
Galahad clicked his tongue softly and looked at Damian.
“Come to think of it, you are at fault for your squad member’s death.”
“You just said I wasn’t.”
“Your squad member died because you were weak. If you had been strong, would he have died?”
“That’s true, too.”
Galahad stared at Damian. Damian’s focus sharpened.
Just then, a commotion erupted from behind. The sound of swords being drawn, excited breaths—. It was the song of men who didn’t know their place.
“Everyone makes mistakes. What’s important is not to make the same mistake twice.”
“I see.”
Damian nodded his head.
“Now, I am in danger. Save me, Damian.”
Galahad let out a small scream. At the bizarre act, the men who were drawing their swords paused awkwardly.
“Yes! Brother!”
Damian replied cheerfully and drew his sword.
Damian’s sword was in poor condition. It was rusted in places, and uncleaned bloodstains were splattered here and there. It was a wretched blade that looked like it could give you tetanus with a single scratch.
A silver line was drawn in the air. The line was incredibly clean.
A man whose arm had been severed fell to the ground, screaming. The gushing red blood soaked Damian. Damian’s mouth fell open, just like when he was eating snow—.
“Aah!”
Damian let out an excited gasp.
‘A butcher.’
Damian rolled forward.
His way of holding the sword was highly unusual. He held it in a reverse grip, as if he had never held a sword in his life. His movements, too, were closer to a street brawler than a swordsman.
It was crude and chaotic. But strangely, it was sharper than any knight Galahad had ever seen.
The boy’s talent wasn’t swordsmanship, but murder.
“Kill him—! Kill him! You unlucky bastard!”
“Die!”
The tavern instantly descended into chaos. Damian moved smoothly through the haphazard storm of attacks.
His movements were closer to acrobatics than swordsmanship.
‘His sword skills are bizarre, indeed.’
By the time his cigarette was half-smoked—.
The only one left standing in the tavern was Damian. Galahad remained seated.
“Welcome to the Special Task Force.”
Damian nodded at Galahad’s congratulations. The excitement that had been on Damian’s face quickly faded.
‘A natural-born killer.’
He’d found a good blade.
Galahad flicked the finished cigarette butt to the floor.
Just then, the door burst open violently. The aforementioned Captain Hook stormed in, cursing.
“You treacherous mage bastard! Fuck! How dare you take advantage of me when my guard was—?!”
Captain Hook, who had been shouting so bravely, trailed off as he took in the blood-soaked tavern. Terror bloomed on his face.
After a moment of hesitation, Captain Hook glanced around and tried to slip out again when—.
“I’d like to order.”
Galahad raised his right hand.