Chapter 88

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Ricard could hardly put into words the scenes of life he had witnessed on the boat journey. Beneath the sunlight of a cool autumn day, some places were hells of screaming chaos, while elsewhere people still went peacefully about their lives. Of course, even where life appeared ordinary on the surface, a shadow of anxiety must have lain beneath.

They barred their city gates, strictly enforced curfews, and armed themselves with swords and spears, wary of outsiders. Most commerce ground to a halt. Yet demand for adventurers rose sharply. Weapons dealers made fortunes, demand for iron increased, and robber barons prowled the roads like wolves, hoping to make a killing.

No great insight into the times was needed. Even the most ignorant understood their situation instinctively.

Everyone had to fend for themselves.

In towns and countryside alike, communities closed ranks. On a smaller scale, blood relatives banded together. And on the smallest scale of all, a person could trust only themselves.

That was what the world was becoming. Ehrenberg's citizens, too, drew closer together and grew increasingly hostile toward other regions. The one saving grace was that, outwardly at least, nothing was seriously amiss yet.

"Is Count Reinhold all right with things? Hasn't he said anything?"

Ricard put the question to Volka, who was rolling barrels into a neat row against the wall.

Count Reinhold was the lord of the region that included Ehrenberg. Depending on the course a lord took, the merchants, craftsmen, and other interest groups under him had to either follow or leave. In other words, the severity of the persecution of the Church of Judgment lay in his hands.

"The Count doesn't seem too concerned. Headquarters is the problem."

"Why headquarters?"

"They're offering a bounty for every church member we track down and arrest."

"But they aren't forcing us? We don't have to do it, right?"

As Ricard continued asking questions whose intent was painfully obvious, Volka leaned against a barrel, propped his elbow on it, and looked at him.

"Riki, I'm responsible for this branch. Our clan alone has ten people now. You haven't met the newcomers, have you? And besides our own, there are five clans under me. That's almost fifty people altogether. Some of those adventurers have families. Chances to make money like this don't come along often. Can I tell them not to take them?"

Things were different now. Gone were the days when they could simply enjoy seeing each other, laugh together, and watch one another's backs on commissions. There were many mouths to feed. Someone had to take responsibility for them.

"... Sorry. I didn't think of that."

"I won't inform on Ice. I won't abandon him, either. If that costs us, I'll bear the loss. But I wanted you to know that if I'm forced to choose, my decision is already made."

"I understand."

"Thanks. And congratulations."

"For what?"

"I hear you and Marie are engaged."

"Oh..."

Ricard gave a wry smile.

"It was a little too tragic to call an engagement ceremony."

With what had happened during the final, it had hardly been an entirely blessed occasion.

Volka all but tore the lid off one of the barrels he had moved, scooped up a cupful with a dirty wooden mug, and drank. Through the wall came the chatter of adventurers inside the branch building.

"But are you sure it was Rubens?"

"Marie says she heard them clearly. They were saying something about Lorenz."

"Then that means war..."

The world was in an uproar over the Emperor's death and the Church of Judgment, but adventurers had affairs of their own to deal with. The attempt to assassinate Ricard could not be overlooked—not by a branch head, a Clan Leader, or a friend.

To those who lived by the sword, repaying favors and grudges mattered more than life itself. Leave a grudge unanswered, and you were finished. In a world where reputation meant everything, followers inevitably deserted a coward.

"You're busy enough as it is these days. We'll have to find another way."

These were turbulent, busy times. Ironically, the more chaotic the world became, the more adventurers prospered. But that was not entirely a good thing. More work meant more fighting, which inevitably meant more deaths.

Ricard had no intention of letting matters slide if he encountered the Rubens Guild, but he felt that seeking them out to start a fight would be too much. Ehrenberg was only a branch, after all, while their opponent was not a mere clan but an entire guild. They operated on different scales.

"No. They attacked you, and that settles it. The question is how we do this, not whether we do it."

Volka spoke firmly, without the slightest hesitation.

The Viola clan was already known throughout the north-central region as a legendary fighting force, and Ehrenberg was the strongest of the branches. Perhaps becoming the leader of such a group had sharpened Volka's judgment and decisiveness. He had always possessed those qualities, but he seemed so much more grown-up now. He had the unmistakable air of an organization's boss.

Ricard was thirteen years old now. Volka was eighteen. A swordsman's prime lasted from his late teens to his mid-twenties. After that, most either retired or died. To survive into one's thirties or forties and still work as an adventurer was an extraordinary feat in itself. Dunkel was one such man, as was the branch head Ricard had met in Torweil.

In any case, Volka's words left Ricard both proud and burdened. He felt that his friends cared for him as much as he cared for them. The oath of vengeance they had sworn in Griffinswald drifted vaguely back to him. Molty and Lara had retired early. Were the others doing well?

Volka gulped down his lukewarm beer, then spoke.

"Let's do this. I think we'd better send Ice out of town for a while. He can be the one to avenge you, Riki. So talk him around for me."

"I'll go too."

"I thought your lungs were bad?"

"I'm told the person who made the poison would have the right antidote."

"..."

Volka gazed silently at him.

"What?"

"I used to think you were just brave. Now I'm starting to think you simply don't care if you die."

Volka still could not forget the sight of Ricard's back as he went off to fight alone after Molty fell wounded, back when they were academy students sent to help with a commission. He had been so stunned that he thought Ricard was mad. Then Ricard defeated the enemy and returned, shattering everything Volka had thought he knew.

Ricard was extraordinarily skilled, of course, but even so, there was something strange about his indifference to cold, sharp steel.

"You think so?"

Ricard did not care how others saw him, but sometimes other people noticed things about him that he himself had never realized. Hearing it from a friend, of all people, made him think there might be something to it. But he did not dwell on it.

"Be careful, if only for Marie's sake. We're not knights. If things go wrong, we're allowed to run."

"All right."

"Rest as long as you like before you go. If you go, Marie will follow, and Bori will probably join you this time. With Ice, that makes four. Honestly, I don't think destroying a guild would be all that hard for you."

Ricard, Boribori, Ice, and Marie were swordsmen in a different league from other adventurers. Their reputations were already widespread, and Marie's fame in particular had soared recently. Perhaps she had left a deep impression on those present at the Emperor's assassination, for people had begun calling her the Witch of the Sword. She was also the first female Sword Master, making her an idol to many women adventurers.

Even Volka did not simply issue orders to those four as though they were his subordinates. Unlike ordinary adventurers, they were given considerable freedom. And when it came down to it, the four of them were far more terrifying than the old Ehrenberg Five. Perhaps it was precisely because they were so powerful that they could still remain friends with him.

"Don't you need permission from headquarters, though?"

"Why would I need permission to take revenge? I'll have to notify them."

"... Is that really how it works?"

"If necessary, I'll break with headquarters too. Not because of Ice."

"Uh... why?"

"It's hard to explain. I just don't think you can last long under someone else's thumb."

Volka seemed to have troubles of his own. He seldom went into battle these days, unlike before, but life as an administrator seemed no easier. Perhaps he had been happier when all he had to do was take whatever work he was given without thinking about it. The shoulders of a man responsible for so many people and families looked heavy.

He had his own path to follow. Watching Volka, Ricard suddenly remembered being ten. Just as he and his brothers had said goodbye at that crossroads in his life, it seemed that now his friends' paths were beginning to diverge too. It was not a parting born of hurt feelings. It was simply the natural course of things.

Would that leave him walking through life alone in the end? No, he had Marie. Was it time to be more careful, as Volka said? He did not know. Life was difficult.

Ricard sat beside Volka, whose head was bowed, and said,

"Give me a drink too."

"Hm?"

"My brother taught me to drink when I visited home. It didn't taste very good, but it wasn't too bad."

"Really? Don't tell me you drank wine?"

"How did you know?"

"Nobles insist—absolutely insist—on drinking wine. It doesn't even taste good. There's an old saying: beer in the north, wine in the south. I'll teach you properly."

For the first time in a while, a boyish gleam returned to Volka's lifeless eyes. Teaching a friend who knew nothing about drinking was fun, after all.

"How are things with Delphi? When are you two getting married?"

"Marriage? All we have to do is swear our vows before a priest. We can do that anytime."

"Do you still love her?"

"Love, my ass! Listen, it's loyalty that keeps you together!"

"Delphi would be upset to hear that."

"You really don't know much about anything except swordplay, do you? Right, today's the day. Let someone older teach you properly. About booze and women."

Volka sounded exasperated, while Ricard merely grinned. One mug, then another, of sour-smelling beer went down their throats. The more they drank, the more easily the nonsense flowed. Even the most trivial remarks set them laughing.

Perhaps this was what made having friends so good. Even empty talk could fill the heart. Turning away from reality was not a good thing, but sometimes one needed to look elsewhere and clear one's head. Perhaps that was where the pleasure of drinking lay. Shared with a friend, a drink tasted twice as good.

The farther a lord lived from Nibelungen, the imperial capital, the more lukewarm his response to the Emperor's death tended to be. Put simply, their attitude was: what did the Emperor's death have to do with them?

Yet they could not escape its aftermath. Like tremors spreading from an earthquake's epicenter, peasant uprisings broke out everywhere as people followed one another's lead.

Peasant uprisings were nothing new. There had always been small ones and large ones alike. What made this time different was that some force seemed to be directing them. In any case, venturing beyond inhabited areas had always been dangerous, but now it was far more so.

Robbers did not walk around with the word written on their foreheads. Nor were they born robbers. These were times when anyone could turn to robbery if circumstances and opportunity aligned: knights, soldiers, veterans, mercenaries, adventurers, merchants, even simple peasants and woodcutters. If you met someone on the road, you could never afford to look like easy prey. Even robbers chose their victims rather than attacking just anyone.

Under such circumstances, the weak and powerless once again gathered around lords' castles and adventurers' guilds. Most were elderly people, women, and children who had lost their family's breadwinner. They believed those places offered at least some safety.

The Rubens Guild was making money off such people. It charged them for space, made the women sell their bodies, dragged the elderly off to labor and stole their daily wages, and sometimes even sold the children.

One might call it turning useless people to profitable use, but whether because the Emperor was dead or not, they too had thrown off all restraint. Adventurers had at least once proclaimed that they did not break the law. Now they no longer cared who was watching and did whatever they pleased.

In truth, the Rubens Guild was desperate to recoup its losses after being pushed aside by the Beringen Guild and suffering several defeats at Ricard's hands. That made its members ever more ruthless, merciless, and crazed. Strangely, even people who had not been cruel before could grow addicted to cruelty once they began.

Southwest of Beringen, west of Griffinswald, and north of Rheinfurt stood a small city distinguished by its reed beds. It was called Zelle. It had little commerce worth speaking of beyond buying and selling surplus crops from the neighboring villages.

Now, however, people who were all but refugees had flocked there and were living in clusters of huts and tents around the city. Only about one in ten was an adult man. The rest were women, the elderly, and children.

Country women painstakingly powdered their faces and tried soliciting customers outside their tents, but there were so few men that business was poor. In the end, they scarcely bothered calling out and merely sat slumped in dejection. They had resorted to selling their bodies, only to find no buyers even for that. Such was the tragedy unfolding there.

Then four strangers appeared in that forlorn place strewn with autumn leaves. Three were tall, and one was short. All wore long cloaks with their hoods drawn low, hiding their faces, but their builds marked them as men. One in particular stood out in a red cloak.

"Um... hello, handsome? No, my princes? Won't you look this way?"

"H-hey! I'll show you a r-really good time! H-honest..."

"Please, just look over here. My child is starving. Please."

They were not professional prostitutes, and their attempts at solicitation were clumsy. For some, it was closer to begging.

But the four strangers seemed uninterested in the women. They raised their heads slightly and surveyed their surroundings. Their attention settled instead on five or six adventurers near the brothel district. Those men, too, were scrutinizing the sudden arrivals, ready to rob them if the opportunity arose. The danger was obvious, yet the four walked straight toward them without hesitation.

Perhaps sensing something was wrong, the Rubens adventurers reached for their sword hilts and held out their other hands.

"Hey, stop. Don't come any closer."

The red-cloaked figure in the lead stopped some distance away.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Don't you know who we are? We're the Rubens Guild. We've got a hundred swordsmen behind us. You'd better not try anything."

The motionless figure in red pulled back his hood. Blond hair gleamed in the autumn sunlight. It was Ricard. He casually surveyed the area with an impassive gaze, then addressed the Rubens Guild adventurers.

"Thanks to you lot, my lungs are damaged, so I can't talk for long. I'll let one of you live. Decide among yourselves. Who lives, and who dies?"

No answer came. An eerie silence descended, broken only by the wind rustling through the nearby reeds.

The reeds, taller than a person, never grew alone. They gathered in great numbers, thick along riverbanks and marshes. Their white heads curved gently, as though bowed. When the wind swept through them, they merely bent with it. They might lack steadfastness, yet they kept their peculiar calm through the harshest storms. There even seemed to be a certain lofty dignity to them.

At times they seemed to speak for the human heart, or to resemble those so accustomed to misery that they drifted helplessly through life, swept this way and that. So it was with the people living beside the reed beds. They were powerless before merciless violence, yet they lived on.

But there were others who did not belong among those people or those reeds. It was as though beasts of prey had emerged from hiding in the reed beds.

"So who's doing it?" Boribori asked.

"It's our opening move. We need to shock them. Bori, you do it."

"... I understand shocking them, but why does that mean me?"

"Marie, block that side. Ice, over there."

Ignoring Boribori's question, Ricard openly gave his orders in front of the enemy. Though outnumbered by the six adventurers, they split up to prevent any escape.

The Rubens adventurers guarding the makeshift brothel district felt both incredulous and uneasy. Some scowled deliberately, trying to look as threatening as possible. Others forced their faces into impassive masks to hide their fear. Still others simply thought Ricard and his companions insolent. Each of the six felt differently.

"What do you think you're doing? You want trouble with us?"

"Who do you belong to? You dare take on a guild?!"

"We tried talking nicely, but I guess that won't work!"

Like frightened dogs barking, the adventurers raised their voices. Yet none dared come within sword range. Boribori drew his sword with a sulky expression. The phantom sword reflected no sunlight, as though its blade had a matte finish. It seemed somehow hazy.

"You'd better tie your arms and legs on tight. If you're lucky enough to block even one stroke, you'll only lose your head."

It was a baffling, terrifying remark. But Boribori meant it as a sincere warning, not mockery. Hard as it might have been to believe, he did not want to chop people into pieces either.

Boribori stepped forward and swung his sword one-handed. He was no Sword Master, but his innate reserves of mana were so vast that vivid black lines streaked through the air.

SWISH! SWISH! THWACK! SWISH!

A character was written in an instant, and everything in its path was severed. Arms, legs, a head, and pieces of torso tumbled down. An enormous quantity of blood spread across the ground.

The surrounding adventurers' hair stood on end. Several collapsed where they stood. The sight was so brutal and astonishing that even the women watching anxiously nearby lost their breath. Their neck muscles tightened as strangled gasps escaped them.

Boribori shifted slightly to avoid the spray of blood, then inscribed a large character toward the adventurers frozen in shock. The phantom sword swept broadly left and right, cut diagonally, traced several more strokes, and finished with a dot. Mangled pieces of human bodies fell in a heap.

"Wow..."

Marie, now a Sword Master, exclaimed in admiration. She knew Boribori's swordsmanship well, but no matter how often she saw it, it remained bizarre and terrifying.

One man survived, sitting on the ground in a puddle of his own urine. It was no mistake. Boribori had deliberately spared him on Ricard's orders. He pulled over the hem of his cloak, wiped his sword clean, and sheathed it. Ricard, who had merely watched from behind, walked up to the survivor.

"I understand you're shaken, but I'd like you to remember exactly what I say. Go to your Guild Master and tell him Riki is here. He has three choices. One: the Guild Master dies on everyone's behalf. Two: the entire guild suffers devastating losses. Three: he hands over the antidote. Go."

Having delivered his nonnegotiable terms, Ricard emptied the collection box and scattered its contents across the street. The coins jingled brightly, but no one dared approach to pick them up. So he left with his friends. Unlike when they arrived, no voices called out for customers.

Still, the only sound was the wind rustling through the reeds.