Chapter 120

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The moon gazed down on the world through half-lidded eyes, as though reading a tedious book.

It was late spring. Except at midday, the air was cool, and deep into the night it grew chilly.

The enemy had encircled the entrance to Adelivari, blocking it off. The mercenaries on watch huddled by fires to ward off their shivers.

From the encampment came hearty laughter as men mingled with whores, along with the sound of things breaking and voices rambling incoherently.

All those sounds were steeped in resentment—the resentment of a grueling life in the field and dreams of one big score.

Mercenary work was one of the oldest professions in the world. So long as they were paid, mercenaries made no distinction between saving the world and assassinating an innocent person.

Demons and mercenaries had one thing in common: they worked under contracts. What kept mercenaries from being demons was that they did not always abide by those contracts.

Employers and mercenaries were forever suspicious of one another, and in practice, betrayal on either side was common. Once the need had passed, an employer might withhold proper payment for a completed job; conversely, plenty of mercenaries took their advance and ran.

Thus, employers and mercenaries sometimes became mortal enemies. A sacred contract becoming a worthless scrap of paper was an everyday occurrence.

One of the oldest professions in the world. Despised throughout its long history, and feared as well.

Yet a glimpse beneath the surface could make mercenaries seem pitiable, too. They lost comrades they had grown fond of, grew accustomed to abandonment, and endured every sort of vile treatment, yet never made excuses for themselves.

It was not that they were used to being hated; they had no time to care. Though they felt they could die at any moment, they also clung to life more fiercely than anyone.

Even these savage hunting dogs had sorrows of their own. Perhaps they were always in the company of whores because they resembled one another.

A man walked toward them beneath the half-moon, like a reaper come to end their sorrow-laden lives.

The mercenaries shivering by the fire looked up at the stranger. The darkness had concealed his approach, and he was already close.

The young man wore mail and a red cloak. Ruddy firelight dimly illuminated him as he asked,

"Which mercenary company are you with?"

At Ricard's question, one of the mercenaries considered for a moment before answering.

"Hmm. Your Mom's Mercenary Company, maybe?"

Hunched against the cold, the mercenary had launched straight into abuse. Did he think the stranger was picking a pointless fight? The funny thing was that even now, it never occurred to them that they were about to die.

Ricard let out a chuckle.

"Nothing personal."

Golden flames flared as the blade slid from its scabbard. The mercenaries simply stared, wide-eyed, wondering whether this was some trick or magic.

The fully drawn blade split the darkness in an instant. A flash filled their vision, and three or four men warming themselves by the fire collapsed together in sprays of blood.

One fell into the campfire and began to sizzle. Already dead, he could not feel the burning pain said to be the worst of all.

Not out of mourning, but because it was an unpleasant sight, Ricard pushed the corpse out of the flames with his foot.

Another mercenary passing nearby bent forward and craned his neck to see what was happening.

Then he noticed the scattered bodies and recoiled in shock. Perhaps he was returning from a piss; he had no weapon and was not properly armored.

"Hey! You there!"

Ricard turned his blazing eyes on him. Terrified, the man took to his heels, shouting as he ran.

"Intruder! Intruder!"

Ignoring him, Ricard walked toward the nearest unit's banner. He did not run. He walked.

At the cry of an intruder, people rose here and there with bewildered faces: sleepers, lovers, dice players, drunkards, and more.

But none knew how many intruders there were or where they had appeared. Surely it wasn't happening on their side of the camp, they complacently assumed.

Still, unease brought them out of their tents to look around.

One of them had the misfortune to get in the way. Ricard swung his sword, took off the man's head, and kicked him back into his tent.

The mercenary inside nearly fainted as his headless comrade toppled backward. Fuck! What the hell was this?

Everyone milled about in confusion, only making the chaos worse. Where was the intruder? Where?

At least the company's commander, who had been tangled up with whores, finally emerged with his armor on.

"Stop making a fuss! Form up by squads, you rotten bastards!"

Then his eyes met those of the approaching Ricard. His gaze locked onto the burning sword.

Perhaps a mercenary commander truly did possess exceptional instincts, for he promptly flung himself back into his tent. Ricard started after him, only to run into other mercenaries.

"Here he is!"

"The intruder's here!"

Their helmets sat crooked, or they were missing a shoe, but they all had weapons in hand. And unlike the Rubens clan, they were not rash enough to rush into close combat.

WHIZZ!

An arrow pierced the darkness and skimmed past Ricard's face. Now he moved swiftly, darting to the banner beside the commander's tent and wrenching it free first.

The mercenaries shouted at the sight.

"That bastard!"

"It's the prince! The prince is here!"

"You son of a bitch! Put that banner down!"

The mercenaries had been keeping their distance and holding Ricard in check, but the sight of him pulling up their banner drove them mad.

Unable to restrain themselves, they charged him in a pack. Holding his sword in one hand, Ricard lowered his stance and swept it in a wide arc to the side.

A golden streak flashed as spear shafts and human torsos were severed. Men fell in heaps, either dead or with their weapons cut apart.

The mercenaries just gathering around froze at the astounding sight. What was this?

As his attackers fell, Ricard raced through the enemy ranks.

The startled mercenaries snapped out of their daze.

"You fucking bastard! Put that banner down!"

Someone brought a bucket of filth and flung its contents at Ricard. He had not expected an attack like that and twisted aside in alarm.

He barely avoided it, but the stench assailed his nose. Grimacing, he fell to the ground.

Seizing the opening, men with spears and billhooks thrust at the fallen Ricard all at once. As one might expect of mercenaries, their coordination was excellent.

There was no need for special swordsmanship. Few things were as dangerous as a coordinated attack delivered in unison.

But Ricard was no ordinary man either. An average Sword Master might have been caught helpless, but he sprang to his feet and leaped high into the air from where he stood.

Between the darkness and the sudden height of his leap, many of the mercenaries thought Ricard had simply vanished. Instead of the distinctive sensation of piercing a person, their hands felt only the bare ground beneath their weapons.

Only a few sharp-eyed men looked up. Ricard was already descending, cloak and banner streaming.

A flash!

It truly seemed as though lightning had fallen without warning, splitting the night. Ricard cleaved a mercenary vertically in two and passed between the halves.

As the mercenaries recoiled for a moment in shock, his golden, burning sword traced the night like a dancing star.

THWACK! CLANG! WHOOSH! SWISH!

Blood already pooled across the ground, and chunks of flesh fell with wet splats. Only then did the mercenaries hurrying toward him begin to suspect that this was a bad idea.

To their eyes, Ricard looked like a legendary hero bearing a holy sword. Sword Masters were so rare that they failed to recognize one even when he stood before them.

But Ricard abruptly changed direction and charged back into the enemy camp. By now, the mercenaries were losing their bearings even within their own encampment.

"What? What happened? Where's the banner? Who is it? Who's the intruder?"

The commander who had taken refuge in his tent at the sight of Ricard questioned his men. But explaining everything would have taken too long.

Instead of an explanation, the banner came hurtling toward him from afar. As the commander turned his head, the spearhead at its tip pierced his face.

THUNK!

His head snapped back and he fell flat on his back. Closing the distance in an instant, Ricard pulled the banner spear free, struck its butt hard against the ground, and shouted. In one hand he held a burning sword; in the other, the banner.

"Come and take it!"

The commander's blood ran down from the spearhead, soaking the banner.

Ricard held his enemies in check with his fierce stare. Then he shouted again.

"If you haven't the courage to take it, stand aside!"

With that, he strode boldly out of the devastated enemy camp. He had rampaged through it as he pleased, and now he was simply walking out.

Bewildered, frightened, and unable to make sense of what had happened, the mercenaries could only stare wide-eyed. They stood rooted to the spot and watched him go.

Leaving the camp behind, Ricard climbed the steps leading to Adelivari. Partway up, he looked back. One part of the camp was in uproar, like ripples spreading from a pebble tossed into a lake.

Mercenaries from the other units were unsettled. Something seemed to be happening over there, but they did not know exactly what. Many woke from sleep and scurried about, frightened before they even knew why.

He continued up the steps and returned to Adelivari, where the waiting citizens had lit bonfires. They blinked at him.

Drenched in blood from head to toe and holding the enemy's banner, Ricard hardly looked human.

"Hang this banner on the wall. Open the gates at any time to anyone who wishes to reclaim it. But tell them they must defeat me in combat before they can take it."

Ricard treated the enemy banner as a trophy. Ordinarily, conquerors raised their own flags over a captured castle or city, but this was more of an exhibition.

The people took the banner from him. Its shaft was sticky with enemy blood. Once planted on the wall, the wing-shaped banner fluttered beneath the moonlight.

Ricard returned to the secondary palace and removed his equipment with Roy's help. Battle had left him so hot that steam rose from his body, though the weather was not particularly cold.

As Ricard stared at the floor, reining in his bloodlust, he seemed unfamiliar to Roy. His eyes were like...

"Master..."

Setting the heavy mail aside for the moment, Roy called to him softly. An uneasy fear crept over him: could this be someone else? Ricard turned to the boy and smiled faintly.

"Madness is the other side of courage. No one in the world is without fear. Deciding for myself how far to let that madness go is terribly difficult, but I must manage it. It's like walking a tightrope."

"But you went out into danger for the people's sake, didn't you?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because I can win. Quite easily. I can see it."

"... Will I be able to see it someday, too?"

"Of course."

Ricard gently rubbed Roy's shoulder with a hand still dirty from battle, then went to the baths to wash.

Meanwhile, Roy cleaned the blood and flesh from Ricard's armor. He carefully wiped and oiled every link of mail to keep it from rusting.

Maintaining and repairing combat equipment took a great deal of work. That was why a knight needed a squire, and Roy took all those duties upon himself for Ricard.

In the baths, Marie poured water over him and scrubbed his back. The hot spring water seemed to wash away even the thick layers of fatigue clinging to his body.

She inspected him for any wounds. Her fingertips trembled, and Ricard took her hand.

Brave as she was, it seemed his reckless solo venture had left her sick with worry, though she had not shown it.

"Do you have to do it alone?"

"I made a promise. To the people."

"I think the three of us could do it together."

"Once it turns into a melee, it's easier alone."

"How many more times do you have to do it?"

"Until I've lit a fire in their hearts, I suppose."

Ricard was not acting recklessly merely to flaunt his strength. He meant exactly what he said: to breathe courage into the people's hearts and instill fear in the enemy.

His intention was to shape the battle itself in his favor.

"But, you know, say we win. What happens then?"

"What do you mean?"

"The king."

"Well..."

Ricard trailed off. With his wet hair hanging loose, he bowed his head and considered the question before speaking.

"I used to think about my own salvation. But as time passed, I found I was bringing it about myself. Now, perhaps I'm giving others a chance to be saved. I don't think that final salvation matters to me anymore."

"... Is that so? Well, whatever happens, we'll always be together."

"That's right. But if I do become king, that would make you queen, Marie."

"Hmm. I wonder."

"Why?"

"There's no rule saying I can't become empress, is there?"

Ricard turned to Marie and smiled. It was a funny joke. Their lips met naturally.

The night deepened, and the next day dawned. The enemy remained unsettled. Word seemed to have spread, for the crowd of fifty thousand was whispering song lyrics that sounded like a prophecy.

"When stars sparkle on the lake, our prince will come. When our prince comes, this misery will end."

Before darkness fell, another banner hung from the wall. Another followed the next day. Their number grew by one each day, until five banners fluttered in the wind.

The enemy tried laying traps and arranging overlapping fields of fire, but Ricard slipped away like a weasel and somehow stole a unit's banner every time. At last, they gave up.

Taking the situation seriously, the enemy withdrew a considerable distance and made camp, apparently intending to prepare properly for battle. They were nearly a day's walk away.

The city had a clear view of everything below, while they could not see into it. It seemed they intended to address that problem first. Grantz was indeed no ordinary foe.

With the enemy withdrawn far away, Adelivari's citizens felt they could breathe again. They began bringing out the wealth and food they had hidden.

Men and women, old and young alike supported the fight, each doing whatever they could.

Some supplied labor to build a watchtower on the peak; others made arrows, spun thread at spinning wheels, or sewed torn cloth. Even the children ran errands for the soldiers.

Hope lived in everything their hands did: hope that they could, at last, stop that destructive Demon King. As those hopes gathered one by one, they naturally became one.

It was like a flame. Shapeless and ever-changing, yet driven by a single purpose: to burn oneself in its fire.

Kindling hope in people's hearts and shouldering its burden. In that respect, Ricard deserved to be called a hero. From adventurer to shepherd, and now to hero.

Beyond all those skills honed to their limits, beyond even prophecy, what mattered in the end was a depth of heart and breadth of intellect.

And so he could now pursue his quest with a joyful heart: to advance boldly and carry the flame of hope to others.

Part 24 – Hero Quest. End.