Chapter 5: Tongues of the Hero Party
The Hero had learned a variety of languages superficially, all based on the imperial tongue. The Thief knew only imperial, while the Saint could speak the Holy Empire's language and the Duchy's dialect. Even though the Mage was fluent in several tongues, it was too much for her alone to interpret everyone's words mid-battle while assessing the situation.
The Hero Party's fights were fierce every single day. In the West, the demons' lair, every moment teetered on the edge of life and death. By the end of their journey, everyone could handle at least three languages as a baseline, but shortly after entering the West, communication issues even sparked arguments among allies during combat.
There was one little kid who threw himself between the clashing inhuman monsters, playing a flute to calm them down. A piece of unrecorded history, remembered only by those involved.
Both sides' knights froze at the sight of Marhal.
For active Duchy knights, it was faster to find one without war experience, and imperial bodyguards rose through cutthroat competition fiercer than any battlefield. Yet these men couldn't collect themselves at Marhal's appearance.
It wasn't because the man spoke both Duchy and imperial tongues fluently, nor due to the guts it took to wedge himself between two groups of obvious knights.
That flute.
Wandering ruins swarming with cutthroats eager to eliminate rivals—while playing a flute, no less. Faced with actions beyond reason, like confronting madness itself, their brains flat-out refused to process it.
"You can interpret?" It was Bayola. Trembling in fear moments ago, she now lifted her chin arrogantly, narrowing her eyes as if appraising Marhal.
An emperor who chased booze and women? Fine. An inscrutable one? Acceptable. Even an incompetent emperor could be tolerated by ministers and knights, depending on the situation.
But an emperor afraid of blood? No.
The Muet Empire had clawed its way to imperial throne through conquest. The late emperor was hailed the world's greatest warrior of his era, and that spirit lived on in the current one. An emperor could be useless. But one terrified of blood?
If word reached the emperor's ears, Bayola would lose her succession rights on the spot. Viktorma Muesilrigo II, her father, might strip her imperial status entirely and cast her out.
To hide her hemophobia, she acted with desperate fervor. A lifetime of performance saved her in this crisis.
"I can do real-time interpretation for imperial and Duchy tongues. That's what they mean by 'West's top interpreter'—me."
"Are you a noble? A merchant?"
"Nah. Just one of the countless common folk swarming the West."
"We're nobles. You think gutter-taught slang can convey a noble's language?"
Marhal scratched his head. Common speech differed from noble, true, and knights were the nobility's foot soldiers—so yeah, Duchy knights counted as nobles. Doubting an interpreter's skill...
It stung, but he got it.
If this were a real need for translation, sure.
They didn't need one. They understood each other perfectly but were about to brawl over pride.
Neither wanted to bend, but hacking away at each other amid rivals everywhere would whittle down their strength. Remember: this was prime land race territory, hidden aces lurking all around.
A fit knight could smash through most traps with superhuman prowess, but after fighting a peer? Conversation offered a chance, yet they'd kicked it away, leaving the proposer looking foolish.
Truce first, ID the relic, then quietly off the interpreter later. That's diplomacy, right?
Why couldn't the imperial princess grasp this basic math?
If he couldn't slip in smoothly here, things would get messy. Marhal's lips quivered—a perfect mask of fear, drawing no suspicion.
Meanwhile, Bayola huddled with Rebella.
"What if they refuse?"
"Why? You're always telling me not to mingle with plebs, Rebella."
"It buys us a pause in this pointless pride-fest under the guise of interpretation. No blood needs spilling here. Your Highness, your face! Your face!"
Bayola snapped her gaping mouth shut and stiffened her facial muscles. 'Acting like she belonged' was her forte.
"Wh-what now? Accept him?"
"Backpedaling now would tarnish even a low noble's honor, let alone yours. If you bring it up, the Duchy knights will mock you."
"Then...?"
"They're Duchy knights. Accept graciously if they pretend to relent."
"Got it."
As the duo schemed, the stalled Duchy knights stirred. A man emerged from behind a dozen knights. Beneath his billowing cloak gleamed iron plate—full plate armor. A strategic weapon granting wings to superhuman knights. Even equals parted leagues once one donned it.
"You can really interpret?"
"Perfectly, yes. Know Azenman?"
"Azenman Riantl. Once called the Duchy’s sharpest mind. Barely escaped execution for embezzlement, I heard."
"Lost everything, came West. Served him briefly when he arrived. Picks up languages fast."
"Azenman has an unmistakable physical trait."
"Mole on his nose bridge?"
"He hated that mole. Folks know the name, not the face. You're our interpreter. Objectors, raise hands. None? Relay this: fighting here hurts us both. Save it till we find the item."
Marhal relayed verbatim. No room for tricks—they all understood each other.
Bayola, suppressing glee, nodded sternly.
"Agreed. Ivan, return."
The arguing bodyguard stormed back, face flushed.
"Duchy High Knight Strekl Allenieda."
"Bayola. Surname's irrelevant."
Her breath-ease disdain soured the Duchy knights' faces. Strekl gestured them calm.
"We suffer if we can't handle it ourselves. Hold. Respond!"
"Understood!"
"Understood!"
Interpreter's right here, folks. At least pretend to request him.
Were they dim? Marhal stood abandoned like luggage between the fluently conversing groups.
Thankfully, Strekl hadn't utterly forgotten Marhal.
"Interpreter, relay: Confirm the relic you're after is underground here?"
"Got it."
Marhal passed it on. Bayola affirmed through gritted teeth, lamenting she should've broken a few bones from that info-selling official at least.
"Yes. East gate, follow wall north—statue there. The one you're sitting on."
"Same item, then. Hm..."
He'd guessed at first sight, but they had identical intel. Same source, down to details.
Strekl thought the same: should've killed that official.
But offing a refugee from a demon-fallen nation? His rivals would foam at the mouth.
"No clue what's inside. Bachea Empire secret legacy? Traps wouldn't surprise. Fighting here and losing strength is lose-lose. Agree?"
"Yes."
Strekl rose. He'd sat on a shattered statue. He swung his sheathed sword at its base.
Thud.
The earth shook. Stone pedestal crumbled, ground beneath collapsing. A hidden passage revealed beneath—cracked, but stone.
His swing had pulverized stone and earth below.
"Interpreter, relay: Won't wait."
Strekl leaped in, Duchy knights following.
Bayola beckoned Rebella, voice stiff and low.
"High knights all like that?"
"No. High Knight Strekl... Not in my memory. Likely a war hero."
"Shouldn't war heroes be memorable?"
Muet Empire worshipped strength. Culture praised mighty warriors, friend or foe. The Hero, no imperial, got honorary duke; comrades offered titles.
To Bayola, the Duchy's ignorance baffled. Shower a hero with wealth and fame—yet forgotten?
"Send others first; then I'll explain."
Bayola's sharp gaze commanded her knights into the pit.
"You not going down, pleb?"
"Not a superhuman. Jump like that, I'd snap my legs."
Marhal hiked up his shirt.
She'd schemed lifetimes to hide her phobia, but a man stripping before her? Unprepped improv.
Bayola shrieked, hands to eyes.
"Kyaa! Pervert! Rebella, pervert over there!"
Rebella drew reflexively, then dropped her blade spotting the leather strap across Marhal's chest.
"Not a pervert. Look closer."
Bayola peeked—flesh mound inches away—shrieking, flopping back.
"It is! You tricked me! Traitor, Rebella!"
"Not abs. Above."
As they panicked, Marhal unwound the torso strap. No armor for him—he knew even light gear became deadweight after a month-plus trek. He favored durable alternatives; this leather qualified.
"Not naked! He's stripped! Rebeeeellaaa!"
Bayola whimpered, clutching Rebella's collar.
"Scream or peep—one."
"Hmph...!"
Bayola clamped mouth, hands shielding eyes—fingers splayed, blue eyes peeking.
Marhal ignored, finishing. Unwound, it made a long cord. He tied a wooden stake crudely to one end, drove it near the hole, dangled the cord down.
"Heading down."
Grabbing it, Marhal vanished. Bayola exhaled held breath.
Fuu.
Hot as a steam bath. She fanned her face.
Seeing her girlish scream? That interpreter had to die.
Rebella pressed on amid such thoughts.
"Alone now—continuing. Glory to heroes: obvious. But not always. Duchy made too many."
"Why?"
Heat lingered, but Bayola strained to listen—lest that scene replay.
"Recognize them as war heroes, Duchy must reward fittingly. No rewards for merit? No knight works. Everyone, really."
"Deny heroes to skip rewards? Idiots?"
"Long-term, yes. But empty coffers? Can't even if wanted. Duchy's state now."
"Demon war?"
"Right. Frontline against demons. Should've divvied demon lands, treasures... but."
"Demons evaporated."
"Yes. Hero felled Demon King; half the world ownerless. Rest, Your Highness knows."
East's nations bickered ownership; Union formed five years back.
"Duchy won war, got zilch. Just debts, empty vaults. No time or slack for heroes."
Heroes discarded, power actively erasing them. West pioneer era dawned.
"High knight slumming mercenary gigs in wastes? Inevitable, maybe."
Daylight filtering down kept the pit from total dark. Knights from both sides had pressed ahead.
Marhal lingered, eavesdropping Bayola and Rebella.
"Duchy cornering even high knights? Empire and Holy Empire's doing—not 'inevitable.'"
Politics, grasping every scrap of power. Without their meddling, Duchy could've claimed vast lands, eyed second empire. Veterans rewarded handsomely.
Strekl's hit list: Duchy second, Empire and Holy Empire first.
"Not my circus."
Marhal eyed underground architecture by sunlight. His expression turned odd.
"This... an evacuation tunnel?"
Bachea Empire built emergency passages in key cities; influenced locales copied. Marhal had profited from them before.
This underground matched Bachea escape tunnel style near-perfectly.