Chapter 125

How strong could one person become? What could he accomplish, and how much could he bear?

These were questions fate posed only to extraordinary people. People so extraordinary that only a handful had existed throughout human history.

Ricard plunged into the mountain stream. Clouds of blood spread through the clear water and washed away in the current.

He remained submerged, head and all, for quite some time. When he rose again, he was clean.

He splashed water over his face, swept back his hair, and gave his body a cursory scrub with his hands. Sweeping his hair back one last time, he stepped out of the water.

Several Adelorn soldiers watched the naked Ricard impassively, swords at their waists and hands resting on their spears.

His body, forged by life rather than any special training, looked hard and tough. It seemed perfectly suited for combat—not a cultivated physique, but one adapted to the harsh wilderness.

A soldier brought him a large towel, and he took it and dried himself. Then he put on a thin white shirt and trousers, fastened his belt, and pulled on the sort of stockings nobles wore, followed by his boots.

His still-damp hair was swept entirely back, making his smooth brow and sharply defined nose all the more striking.

Sunlight fell on his head, setting his blond hair aglow. At a glance, his eyes seemed blue or green, yet they also looked brown.

The sturdy, grown men—Ricard and the soldiers around him alike—remained silent. The only sounds were a woodpecker hammering somewhere in the distance and the chirping of birds.

Was he lost in thought for a moment, or simply enjoying the sun? He seemed to be gazing somewhere beyond the forest.

A ranger walked over to him and spoke.

"People from a village called Geschpel are asking to see you."

Ricard gave no answer. He lowered his head as though quietly considering something, then set off after the ranger.

A soldier handed him his sword, and he carried it in his left hand as he walked.

The ranger led him to a small clearing, where four or five terrified villagers were kneeling.

They kept looking wide-eyed at the soldiers surrounding them. They knew these armed men could kill them all if they wished.

They flinched at even the soldiers' smallest, most harmless movements. That was how frightened and uneasy they seemed.

When Ricard appeared, they started and bowed so low their faces nearly touched the ground.

He studied these ragged, starving people for a moment before speaking. His voice was grave and clear.

"Raise your heads. Tell me what has happened."

They slowly lifted their heads, watching him warily. One man swallowed several times before speaking.

"M-my lord, the mercenaries, the bandits came and killed people and took our p-property. Our sh-sheep, too, and our cattle, and pigs, and... my wife and daughter..."

His face crumpled as he spoke, tears choking his voice. He seemed unable to force out another word. Ricard simply waited, neither hurrying him nor offering premature comfort.

"I was only out for a little while, just a little while, in the fields, letting the cow graze. When I came back, th-they... my wife's pelvis was shattered, and my daughter was ten, and..."

Horrors almost unbearable to hear spilled from the man's mouth. Nor was he alone. Everyone who had come to see Ricard had a similar story.

Losing their possessions and having their homes destroyed was, at least—at least—less terrible. What they could not bear was what had been done to their families, and to themselves.

Among them was a woman who had barely survived the horrific things done to her. Several knife wounds on her face had yet to heal.

Things had been better when the mercenaries were gathered in a force of five thousand. After Ricard crushed them, they scattered and began committing atrocities wherever they went.

Land guarded by a lord was one thing, but many people in the world had no lord's protection.

There were slash-and-burn farmers, people who had never been entered in any register, and others who were registered but lived in remote places beyond their lord's reach.

There were many such villages here near the border. The mercenaries descended on them, robbing and killing indiscriminately, and doing things worse even than that.

They did these things because they had acquired a taste for cruel, horrific thrills. Adelorn's civil war was in its fourth year. How much plundering must they have done in that time?

Once men went beyond acquiring a taste for pillage and made it their way of life, they rarely returned to who they had been. That was why Ricard had not hired the mercenaries who had served under Grantz.

Partly because they were evil men, yes, but also because soldiers addicted to plunder could not be satisfied with any other reward. With their eyes only on the spoils, they were less effective in battle.

Not all mercenaries were bad people. Some earned enough money and went home. Others met lovers on the battlefield, started families, and settled down there.

Whether it was unfortunate or simply sad, the mercenaries serving Grantz the Invincible were far removed from such people.

To keep his forces together, Grantz had continued allowing them to plunder.

There were different kinds of pillage. One was a form of scorched-earth warfare: swift slaughter and destruction, taking everything. The other was a kind of festival, a chance to let loose.

Asking which was less terrible and which was worse was meaningless. Nor was it easy to draw a strict line between them.

Ricard knew all these dreadful tragedies only too well. He understood them deep in his bones, better than anyone—the darkest side of humanity.

Now, he was merely lifting his head within that profound darkness and looking toward the light.

He listened quietly to everything the villagers had to say, then asked,

"What is it you want from me?"

The man answered for them all. His lips worked as though he were swallowing his tears before he spoke.

"Justice..."

It was the answer Ricard had expected. These were not the first people to seek him out.

Those the mercenaries had pillaged wanted neither money nor food. Every last one of them wanted revenge. Justice.

"Very well. I give you my word. I will find those responsible and have them torn apart. I hope that will bring some measure of peace to you and your dead."

Then he gave the ranger his orders.

"Tell Lester to track the mercenaries. Establish their numbers first. If there are too many, don't pick them off. Come back and tell Harbert. Then wipe them out with a diversionary attack. Take a few alive, drag them before these people, and tear them limb from limb."

"Yes."

The ranger answered gruffly and disappeared into the forest again.

Ricard glanced once at the people steeped in grief, pain, hatred, and despair, then turned and walked away without another word.

Behind him, their cries of "Thank you, thank you, my lord" settled on his shoulders like sorrowful petals.

Sunlight threaded its way through tangled branches, falling in straight shafts through the forest. Ricard passed through those beams to a woodland path, where a horse stood tethered.

The soldiers waiting with the horse turned toward him. There he properly equipped himself for travel, donning a tunic, gambeson, and cloak.

Some food and medicine were packed on the saddle, with a blanket tied behind it. He buckled on his sword and mounted.

He turned to the soldiers.

"Tell Marie I'll be back soon."

"Understood."

With that, he spurred his horse and rode away.

His destination was Beringen, the capital of the Margraviate of Beringen. He was going to the academy there to meet its headmaster, Karlich.

Ricard considered his recent victory incomplete. His original goal had been to kill them all.

He believed this horrific chaos had come about because he had failed to do so.

And so he needed more money, more food, and more troops. The strength to bring this war to a definitive end.

Beyond the forest lay familiar plains. In the distance he could see a lake and a village, where a red flag fluttered, plainly visible even from afar.

Ricard had not raised that flag. The villagers had.

Like a charm to ward off evil spirits, it served as a message to wicked mercenaries and bandits—a warning that anyone who did evil here would face justice at the hands of the Red Prince.

After spending about a day riding hard along the road, with breaks to rest, Ricard reached the fork leading to Torweil and Beringen in the early evening.

He had been to both. One was home to the academy; the other lay on the way to the eastern frontier.

This was also the road he and his friends had taken back to the academy after completing the deserter commission long ago.

Memories rose unbidden, but he had no time to indulge them. The far western sky was already turning the violet of gentian flowers.

He headed for the abandoned house where he and his friends had stayed seven or eight years earlier. Their faces seemed to hover before his eyes as he approached.

His thoughts naturally turned to the deserter who had brought his own life to such a wretched end. Unlike the shock he had felt then, now he felt only calm.

Had he grown, or had he grown numb? He could not tell.

At the abandoned house, he tied the reins beneath the eaves and unfastened his blanket. He drew a bucket of water from the well, checked its smell and took a small taste, then gave the horse plenty to drink.

He took a carrot from the saddle and fed it to the animal, then let it graze while he stroked its mane and neck for a long time.

"You've worked hard."

After comforting the horse for its long day's labor, he took his food and blanket inside.

No one was there. Only pitch darkness, cobwebs established in the corners, deep silence, and old memories gathering dust.

He lit a fire and softened his hard travel rations—preserved with honey, salt, and various other things—in water before eating. Then he sat against the wall, pulled the blanket over himself, and closed his eyes.

A long-forgotten friend called loneliness came to visit. It asked him: My friend, are you happy now?

Ricard merely smiled quietly and returned the question: What do you think? No answer came.

His consciousness blurred for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, morning sunlight greeted him. The fire had long since gone black and cold, and the skin around his mouth was chilly, but he was fine.

Chewing on jerky, he went outside. He watered the horse again, fed it a carrot, rolled up the blanket, and tied it behind the saddle before mounting.

He turned the reins and set out along the road. Open fields, wind brushing the grass, and the colorful spring flowers Bori loved came into view.

Having left that morning, he reached Beringen around noon. Familiar sights spread before him. Students in deep-blue uniforms walked about the streets.

From his horse, Ricard watched them closely at a distance. Seeing their bright smiles blossom, he thought their academy lives seemed less miserable than his had been.

It was Ricard himself who had provided the soil in which those smiles could bloom, yet he did not think of it as his accomplishment. He did not even realize it. He was simply glad. Even the chicken coop was a memory now.

In the end, it was much the same thing: fighting this war now, and struggling alone back then to make the academy a better place.

He first headed to the former headquarters of the adventurers' guild. But the guild was gone. In its place stood a tavern frequented by students.

He stopped some female students passing nearby. They wore much the same outfit Marie once had: dueling gambesons, short cloaks, and tall boots, with swords at their waists.

"Excuse me, student. What happened to the adventurers' guild?"

"... Sorry? Me? I'm not sure. There used to be one here?"

"..."

It had only been a few years. How could she not know?

But with students graduating and new ones enrolling every year, it did not take long. Two years were quite enough for something to be forgotten.

Ricard felt dazed by a place that was somehow familiar yet changed.

The girl giggled with her friends. They were at an age when even a falling leaf could make them laugh; it meant nothing in particular.

"Were you an adventurer?"

She asked with laughter still in her voice.

"I was."

"Do you have a clan?"

"Well, I suppose I'm still part of the Viola clan."

His parting with Volka had hardly been pleasant, but he had neither been expelled from the clan nor left it. Roy's family had been expelled, and Ricard had simply gone with them.

Yet at his answer, the faces of the girl and her friends suddenly hardened. In an instant, they were openly hostile.

"Hey, mister. Is this how you provoke us these days?"

"... What?"

"Hmph. Get off your horse first. You look like a qualified swordsman, but don't think that means we'll be scared of you."

What was she talking about? Ricard was utterly bewildered. Were the academy and the Viola clan on bad terms?

"Calm down. I'm not here to hurt anyone or cause trouble. I've only come to see Carly—Karlich. I heard he was the headmaster here."

"We'll see about that. Senior! Senior!"

One of the girls shouted into the tavern. When she yelled something about the Viola clan, students poured outside. Every one of them had a sword at their waist or held one in hand. None had drawn yet, but they looked ready to at any moment.

The students, boys and girls alike, surrounded Ricard. He was so dumbfounded he could find no words. He had no desire to draw his sword against students.

One girl emerged from the tavern after the others. She had short brown hair and a cute face.

Standing straight and carrying herself with easy confidence, she surveyed the students, then raised her chin to look up at Ricard. But the moment their eyes met, her expression froze.

"Huh?"

Ricard's eyes widened at a face he felt he had seen somewhere before. The girl blinked several times, then gave him an awkward smile.

"Ahaha, ha... Hello. It's been a while."

Her smile revealed a row of gold upper teeth. She was none other than Regina, the girl Marie had slapped in Ehrenberg.

Had she turned over a new leaf? Or was she nursing a grudge? She certainly looked much more pleasant than she had back then.