Chapter 53: All the Horses Had Fled
Strekl and Marhal had no choice but to walk. As they headed in the direction Marin and Bayola had fled, they spotted a metal box lying on the ground.
Inside the box, a few gold coins and jewels remained.
"Even with the typhoon raging and demons appearing, they still had time to grab the treasure, huh."
"This isn't good."
"Right. You need money, Strekl."
"You heard?"
"Was it something you had to hide?"
"Nothing good comes from it getting out."
Strekl had many enemies and rivals. There were those who would slaughter hundreds of commoners without a second thought if it meant bringing him down.
"Why not come to the West? We need people to settle Marin's land, and Karian's place needs at least a minimal crew."
"It's not so urgent that I'd take on debt."
"Debt? We're already getting top-tier talent like you for free. That can be your payment."
"This is something I want to do."
Even without that, he was already receiving more than enough from Marhal. That single sword strike Marhal had shown him earlier. Such secret techniques were usually guarded so fiercely that even showing them to others required utmost caution. Some schools with proprietary techniques went so far as to kill anyone who witnessed them.
Marhal had casually revealed the Hero's technique to Strekl. It was an invaluable experience worth millions—history itself.
"Then let's say this is something I want to do too. Recruiting settlers is the landlord's job, after all. The West is always short on manpower. Women, kids—anyone who can work is welcome."
"...I can't win against you in words. Still, it's impossible. Most are widows who've lost husbands or elders who've lost children. They won't survive the journey to the West."
"Just leave it to me—I can handle that. What do you say?"
"I'll at least bring it up. But what about the ones who fled?"
They'd killed the key mage and knight, but plenty had escaped. Dozens from the Empire side, and some from their own.
If this had been a simple robbery, it wouldn't matter. People fleeing mid-battle was common.
But today wasn't ordinary. Too many had seen things they shouldn't have.
"Doesn't matter."
"You're just going to let them go?"
"What's the point in killing them off? And even if they talk about what they saw here, who would believe them? 'Demons popped out of the imperial carriage, the Demon King descended in the storm, and some guy cleaved both the Demon King and the storm in one stroke.' They'd just call him crazy."
"But some won't take it as a joke."
The imperial noble behind this incident, other nations waiting for an excuse to meddle in the West, and those awaiting the Hero.
"People like that won't listen no matter what."
Back at the cliff, he'd used the paulownia crown openly, with plenty of close witnesses, so he'd silenced them. But the storm had hidden most of this time. The conversation between Marhal and Ellis, Marhal's name, and that final sword strike.
What the escapees saw was just demons, the storm, a giant, and the sky splitting open. All easily dismissed as lies.
The real important bits were concealed. No problem.
The surviving mage seemed to be heading in a favorable direction too, so best to wash their hands of it.
"More than that, I'm worried about you, Strekl."
"Me?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Strekl realized the truth upon rejoining Marin and Bayola.
He really wasn't in any position to worry about others.
"Since when have those two been like that?"
"It's been like that the whole time."
That was Hugo's answer when Strekl asked upon seeing Marin and Bayola facing away from each other.
Marin and Bayola stood back-to-back, not exchanging a single word.
Strekl scratched his head.
Not everyone could get along. Some people just didn't mesh, even without fights.
He never forced his subordinates to befriend each other. Loyalty and camaraderie enough to fulfill duties sufficed.
But these two were different. They were his only two disciples, whom he had to train personally. A rift between them would hinder training.
Hugo, who had retrieved the horses hidden out of sight for the ambush, spoke up.
"Lord Marhal. The horses are ready."
"Doesn't look like we can settle it here, so let's talk on the way."
Bayola was distraught.
Even fleeing the Empire hadn't left her this unsettled.
Too much to think about—her head felt ready to burst.
No, she didn't want to think at all.
If only this were a dream, starting from her father's words. She'd wake in her palace bedroom.
But reality didn't change with denial.
It was miserable.
Demon King Soila Muesilrigo.
Just thinking the name made her head ache and stomach churn. She'd vomited at the mere sound, yet Marhal called it a trap.
Someone in the Empire had framed Soila.
Snapping to, she spurred her horse beside Marhal and asked.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"About Sister Soila."
"You never asked. No reason for me to bring it up first. And wouldn't it be weird for me to suddenly claim I knew an imperial noble?"
"Still..."
Bayola bowed her head.
Marhal had no reason to volunteer the story. Even if he had, she wouldn't have believed him.
"Mm. I get you're upset, but pick the right target for your anger. Does yelling at me change anything? Did I make her the Demon King? We risked our lives to save the world here."
"Sorry..."
"Not your fault, so that's good."
Bayola slowed her horse, then steered toward Marin—only to yank the reins away again.
She'd said something unforgivable.
To someone who'd lost home, family, everything to demons—what did she know?
I'm insane. Completely lost it.
Marin, who'd been choking her own neck, was crying. Deserved it.
Bayola had trampled a forbidden zone with muddy boots.
No words of apology came.
Shoulders slumped, she rode on.
Night fell.
Hugo prepared camp. Basics were packed on the horses, so it was easy.
Even during dinner, silence reigned.
Marhal, who usually sparked conversation, dozed with half-closed eyes, spooning porridge.
She'd seen the sky-cleaving sword.
Bayola had only heard rumors before. Its wielder was obvious—no one else here had ties to it.
Marhal's physical prowess outstripped ordinary folk but fell short of superhumans. Strong in spots, but not inhuman.
The sky-splitting strike was inhuman.
Unleashing inhuman technique in a non-inhuman body—he couldn't be unscathed.
After dinner, bedtime naturally followed.
Bayola grabbed the large cloth, poles, and shovel from her horse and distanced herself from the group.
An unavoidable human necessity: physiological relief.
She panicked trying to plant the pole. Ground hard as stone.
Even the shovel barely pierced the tip, despite her superhuman strength.
Bayola grew urgent. But the shovel wouldn't sink.
"Haa... knew it."
"Marin?"
"Move."
Marin snatched the shovel, poured water from the pot onto the ground, then jammed it in.
"That's precious drinking water..."
"Precious only to you. Go fetch more if you want. Waking up to wild animals drawn by shit-stink at night is way more hassle."
"That's not it!"
"Shit or piss—stinks the same."
Marin planted the pole and draped the cloth, makeshift toilet done in seconds.
"Uh... sorry."
"Wasn't expecting it. I wasn't great either."
Bayola had slipped up, but so had Marin—strangling a comrade in battle rage.
Marin had been watching for a chance to speak too.
"What's the point in getting mad at a kid who can't even shit properly."
"I can't make a toilet!"
"Same difference. Gonna go or not?"
"...Got it."
Bayola entered the makeshift stall.
"Sigh."
Marin hadn't fully forgiven her. Those words still stabbed like thorns.
If Strekl had said it, she'd have punched him clean. A few hits till he dropped, then vented with curses.
But she couldn't ignore Bayola.
Can't leave that girl alone—she's too damn fragile.
A survivor of the palace's cutthroat intrigues or not. Leaving her alone on the street felt like she'd vanish in a blink—kidnapped.
People vanishing was routine for her, but she didn't want to worry Marhal.
Anyway.
Embracing a thorn she'd have to pull someday, Marin sighed deeply.
The Border buzzed with uncharacteristic chaos upon their return. Runners dashed through streets constantly.
Marhal sifted key info from the noise.
"Looks like changes to the land race rules."
"What more can they tweak? It's already impossible for commoners without backing."
Last race: over a hundred rushed a ruined city; winner was Kaban, high knight under imperial nobility.
"They're squeezing harder. Let's change and find out the nonsense."
Nearing the inn, Marhal stroked his chin. Days unshaven, stubble prickled.
More importantly, noises from the inn.
"Hugo, run short on cash?"
"Paid enough for a month in advance."
Marhal had planned to stay till departure. Hugo prepaid handsomely.
Hugo's face was known here—no merchant would stiff him.
"Sounds like they're taking guests."
"I'll handle it."
Hugo shed his jacket and entered. Wrecking sounds followed.
"Hey, I get the innkeeper's at fault, but this much?"
"Of course. Letting it slide makes me the sucker. Cut ties first, shut 'em down eventually. If they reopened, where'd Karian and Astal go?"
Bayola furrowed her brow.
She knew what Marhal wanted: innkeeper killed or sold them.
She'd have denied before, but now knew the world defied common sense too often.
Head understood; heart didn't.
"...You still don't get the West."
"You'll learn in time. Shall we... visit Lord Azenman? Borrow clothes and a bath too. His mansion should have a proper tub."
Bayola's face brightened at "tub." Long since a real bath.
Marhal's village or Border inns had crude wooden tubs—not like expensive stone ones.
No prior appointment needed—Marhal entered Azenman's mansion straight away.
He could always see Azenman, but gatekeepers usually announced first. Not this time.
As always, Marhal went to the office.
Azenman glared at a paper, face graver than usual.
"You're here."
"Mission failed spectacularly. Your men grabbed treasure and bolted."
"I'll handle my side. Can't fully escape my eyes selling loot. But this."
Azenman handed over the paper.
Marhal approached the desk, took it, and studied long.
"Now restricting participants. Plausible excuse—no more pointless deaths."
"Real intent?"
"No land race for broke loners without backing."
Only individuals meeting specific qualifications may become landlords.
The paper was an official notice from the Union. Simple content: restrictions on land race entrants. Only those with certain qualifications could claim land.