Chapter 51

Chapter 51: Chapter 51

The crimson sunset looked as though it had been stained with blood—or perhaps set ablaze. Beneath it, more than a hundred pairs of eyes watched the duel, each carrying different emotions.

Some watched with encouragement, some with anticipation, some with curiosity, and some...

Marie could see Rickart’s back. The boy who had stepped forward for the duel wasn’t trembling. Rather than brave, he seemed strangely unburdened by any attachment to life.

For some reason, that was how she felt.

The enemies climbed farther up the highlands to watch the duel more closely. Though scattered here and there, they came so close that it made one wonder whether they should be taking such a risk.

Yet the boy didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.

It was as though he didn’t care whether a hundred enemies attacked him or a thousand.

The crimson sun hung between Rickart and his opponent, Eberstein. In the distance, it slowly sank behind the ridge.

The left side of one man and the right side of the other were bathed in red, while their opposite sides were darkened by the backlight.

Who would make the first move?

That was always of paramount importance in a duel with real swords.

Greater skill did not necessarily make a fight last longer. On the contrary, most such fights ended in an instant.

Many ended with the first exchange. Even the victor was often severely injured.

That was the nature of sword fighting.

Those who entered a duel with real blades had to commit all their skill and their entire lives to the tips of their swords.

Sometimes, they had to commit their deaths as well.

The crimson sun sank lower and lower. The spectators began to wonder whether night would fall before either swordsman moved.

As the world slowly and gradually lost its light, there came an exceedingly brief moment when everything grew noticeably darker than before.

At that instant, Eberstein stepped forward.

His movement was light and nimble.

But his sword would only be swung after his foot came down. Every sword strike worked that way. Otherwise, the attack would lose power.

Watching his opponent’s eyes while simultaneously taking in his entire body, Rickart shifted slightly to the right before Eberstein’s advancing foot even touched the ground.

Yet in that infinitesimal moment, Rickart sensed that the distance was wrong.

In other words, his opponent wasn’t fully committed to the attack.

The moment Eberstein’s foot touched the ground, someone sprang out from behind a rock to Rickart’s right.

So that was their plan.

Eberstein’s foot landed.

Then two swords cut through empty air without ever meeting.

Whoosh! Swish!

"Ricky!"

"Th-Those...!"

Everyone cried out in shock.

They had pretended it would be a one-on-one duel while planning a surprise attack.

The man who had suddenly emerged charged at Rickart, and Rickart hastily turned toward him.

But even that charge was a feint.

Rather than closing the distance completely, the ambusher swiftly circled Rickart. As he moved, he rapidly flung throwing knives with both hands.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

The knives were infused with Mana. They looked powerful enough to pierce steel plates. With a technique like that, the man had probably earned considerable fame in his region.

More frightening still, the first knife was intended to force Rickart to dodge, the second to block his escape route, and the final third knife was the true attack.

The plan was extraordinarily meticulous.

Indeed, Rickart avoided the first two knives but failed to evade the third.

His upper body twisted and bent sharply backward. To anyone watching from a distance, it looked as though the knife had struck him.

"Ricky!"

His friends cried out.

But Eberstein was currently the closest person to Rickart. He rapidly closed the distance, intending to finish Rickart off for good.

Then something incomprehensible happened.

The point of a knife suddenly appeared before his eyes.

Rickart had caught the third throwing knife and hurled it back at him.

Wait.

Was that even possible?

Of course it wasn’t.

For a moment, Eberstein felt as though time had slowed.

But because he understood better than anyone that he couldn’t evade it, that only prolonged the time he had to experience the terror and despair of impending death.

Thud!

The knife struck Eberstein squarely between the eyebrows. The entire blade sank into his skull until only the hilt remained, penetrating all the way to his brain.

The force behind it snapped his head backward.

The ambusher, now holding a dagger and moving in to help kill Rickart, faltered at the unexpected turn of events.

From his perspective, Rickart’s cloak spun like a top because of his violent movements.

The red cloak whipped aside, and the point of a sword shot out from behind it directly toward him.

"Gah!"

Faced with something he had never imagined, his footwork became tangled and he staggered backward as though about to fall.

In the end, he couldn’t even mount a proper defense. He merely thrust out his hand.

Rickart’s sword pierced his palm, continued forward, and drove straight through his throat.

"Ghk!"

As though there were no need to confirm the man’s death, Rickart immediately pulled out his sword and swung it through the air to cast off the blood.

Then he swept his slightly disheveled cloak aside with one hand and glanced left and right, as though checking whether anyone else intended to attack him.

Two corpses lay sprawled on the ground.

Despite the unexpected ambush, Rickart had killed both skilled opponents and now stood there calmly, showing no sign of distress.

He didn’t even make a show of it.

Admiration escaped allies and enemies alike.

Even a carefully staged acrobatic performance couldn’t have reproduced what he had just done.

It was skill at its absolute peak.

"Whoa..."

Even his friends, who had been running to help him, stopped in their tracks and stared blankly.

What had just happened?

There was another problem, however.

Reinhardt, the leader of the Widowmakers Clan.

"You cowardly fucking bastards!"

He was apparently enraged beyond measure that they had attempted such a cowardly ambush during a sacred duel. Dragging his enormous club across the ground behind him, he stormed down the slope.

The earth wasn’t actually shaking, but he was so massive that every thundering step made it feel as though it were.

"Hey, you filthy fucking bastards! You call yourselves men after doing that?! Aren’t you ashamed?! Huh?! What the fuck are you looking at, assholes?!"

The sun had already set, leaving the surroundings dim, but his tremendous voice gave him an overwhelming presence.

When their leader charged forward, his subordinates swarmed down the slope after him.

Rickart was momentarily flustered.

Wait.

This didn’t seem right.

Who was going to defend the tower?

Then several people charged at Rickart. They harbored the delusion that killing him would allow them to claim the vacant position among the Nine Swords of the Empire.

But since each of them had the same idea, they were competitors rather than allies.

"Move! Get out of my way!"

"I’m first!"

Rickart swiftly surveyed his surroundings once more, then charged toward them instead.

He moved diagonally toward the outer edge of the group and swung his sword beneath the dim evening sky.

Whoosh!

The blade whistled through the air as Rickart’s sword crossed paths with his opponent’s weapon.

The enemy’s weapon cut through empty air, while Rickart’s sword severed the tendons beneath the man’s armpit.

The arm wasn’t cut off completely and hung limply from his body.

"Aaagh!"

From that point onward, the enemies threw themselves into the fight with reckless abandon and became entangled with one another.

Just then, Reinhardt came thundering down from the high ground and demolished an enemy with a tremendous swing of his club.

"You shameless bastards!"

Crack!

The attack simply crushed weapon, armor, and flesh beneath its tremendous weight.

After killing one enemy, Reinhardt swung his club back and forth with booming sweeps.

It looked as though he were merely flailing it around wildly, but the attacks were so devastating that no enemy dared approach him carelessly.

As the enemies faltered and retreated, Reinhardt’s subordinates surged toward them.

"You fucking bastards!"

"If you don’t want us making widows of your wives, get lost!"

"Long live the Widowmakers!"

The Beringen Guild’s forces were vastly outnumbered, but the situation had already descended halfway into chaos. With evening darkness settling in, it was impossible to tell what was happening.

The hundred or so enemies split into three groups: those attacking Rickart, those fleeing before the Widowmakers Clan, and those standing at a distance and merely watching.

The most absurd sight of all was the men rushing toward the corpses of their own allies to loot their equipment. Perhaps they did not care who won or lost the guild war and merely wanted to make some money.

Everyone simply did whatever they pleased, turning the battlefield into complete chaos. Rather than a battle, it was little more than a brawl between people armed with blades.

Amid that chaos, however, the more cunning enemies attempted to seize the defense tower.

Even though it was difficult to distinguish anything around him, Rickart accurately spotted their movements.

He did not need to pay much attention to the enemies charging at him because they were so entangled with one another that they could barely attack properly.

But the enemies swarming toward the defense tower posed a definite threat.

"I’m fine! Defend the tower!"

In truth, Rickart did not even know where his friends were.

The sun had set before he realized it, and the surroundings were rapidly growing dark.

Amid the chaos, Rickart quickly assessed the course of the battle.

It was already too late to bring the situation under control by restraining Reinhardt. It was also too late for Rickart to return and defend the tower.

So he simply charged into the enemy.

Dark shapes swarmed chaotically in every direction, so he swung his sword at anything within reach.

Enemy arms were severed, sides were slashed open, and heads went flying.

The enemy could not distinguish friend from foe. They did not even know who was cutting them down.

"Fuck!"

"Aaaaaaargh!"

"Who is that? Get out of my way!"

Taking advantage of the confusion, Rickart broke through the enemy ranks and raced toward the bottom of the high ground.

Meanwhile, Boribori accurately distinguished Rickart’s voice even amid the deafening commotion.

To defend the tower, he planted himself firmly in the narrow passage leading toward it.

Boribori’s weakness was that his swordsmanship was based on writing characters. His footwork was inevitably less nimble, which forced him to use space somewhat passively.

But when he planted himself in one place and fought without moving, he was truly terrifying.

Sure enough, he swung his sword swiftly at the enemies rushing toward him.

The mana-infused blade left long, pitch-black afterimages darker than the night itself.

Whoosh! Chop! Whoosh! Chop!

The sounds resembled a butcher hacking and slicing meat.

Heads and limbs dropped one after another before Boribori.

He calmly swung his sword while retreating little by little. Unaware that dismembered corpses had fallen around his feet, the approaching enemies tripped over them and tumbled down in a heap.

"Boribori! Boribori of the Fivefold Dismemberment!"

Someone shouted.

Boribori resented how everyone gave him such terrible nicknames, but the person receiving a nickname had no control over it.

Other people were the ones who chose it.

There was one problem, however.

He could deal with enemies charging directly at him, but those keeping their distance and throwing iron weights or nets posed a problem.

Each of them appeared to have been a notable fighter in their hometown, and their ability to handle various weapons was by no means amateurish.

An iron weight struck the fingers of Boribori’s sword hand.

Crack!

"Urgh!"

His right index and middle fingers broke simultaneously.

Boribori gritted his teeth and tightened his remaining fingers and other hand. Fortunately, he did not drop his sword.

But he could no longer display his full ability.

"Bori!"

It was Marie’s voice.

He could not see where she was because the enemies blocked his view, but she seemed to be somewhere beyond them.

"I’m fine!"

He was not fine, but he shouted that he was.

He needed to let his allies know he was still alive so they would not falter.

Besides, he had not been struck in a vital area. If he gritted his teeth and continued fighting, he could somehow endure.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sounds of blades colliding rang out from both nearby and farther away.

The screams of dying people occasionally accompanied them.

Boribori’s breathing quickened. Throughout the darkness, lights flashed like fireflies.

Those lights were traces left by battles between people proficient at manipulating mana.

They were not SwordMasters, but they were at least capable of infusing their weapons with mana.

The situation appeared to be coming under control around those fighters.

Marie was among them.

Once they struck the exposed backs of the enemies attempting to climb toward the defense tower, the enemy forces began splitting apart in both directions.

They had never established a proper plan beforehand, nor was their fighting spirit particularly strong.

Once they concluded that the attack had failed, they scattered in every direction and raced down from the high ground.

Dismembered corpses were piled knee-high within the narrow passage.

After struggling past them, Marie finally joined Boribori.

"Are you all right?"

"My f-fingers are hurt. Where’s Ricky?"

"I don’t know..."

"He’ll be fine."

Boribori spoke with absolute conviction.

Marie found it astonishing that he could be so certain, but there was something more urgent to address.

"Let’s administer first aid."

"Okay."

The two began walking toward the defense tower.

At that moment, flames suddenly surged from far below the high ground.

Both of their heads automatically snapped toward them.

Rickart had started the fire.

Once the battle descended into chaos, he had executed what he believed was the best available strategy.

No one could distinguish ally from enemy anyway, so Rickart infiltrated the enemy camp and set their supplies ablaze.

The enemies stationed far from the fighting had been relaxing in their makeshift encampment, believing themselves safe.

Rickart ambushed and killed them, then used nearby bonfires and torches to start fires wherever he could.

The flames rapidly grew and illuminated Kaitz Heights in place of the sun.

The eerie red firelight reached halfway up the high ground, revealing the chaos that darkness had concealed.

The enemies fighting on the heights suffered a severe psychological blow when the flames suddenly erupted.

Regardless of whether their forces were numerous, one thought immediately came to them.

They had nowhere to return to.

Moreover, no matter how they looked at it, most of the corpses strewn everywhere belonged to their side.

Perhaps they could have ignored that reality while darkness concealed it.

But once the bodies became visible, fear seized them.

Were they losing?

Then Rickart began ascending the high ground again with his sword in hand.

He did not run.

He slowly walked upward.

What was astonishing was that after carrying out his surprise attack, he did not hide in the darkness and sneak back.

Instead, he boldly ascended toward the numerous enemies watching him in plain sight.

His red cloak billowed behind him, making his body appear larger.

The shadow beneath Rickart’s feet expanded like a giant and thrashed wildly.

Rickart panted heavily.

Like a machine, he calculated how many more enemies he could kill with his remaining stamina.

Dozens of tactics arose in his mind accordingly.

That one is inexperienced.

That one is fairly skilled.

That one has little stamina remaining.

If I retreat to the right while fighting, I can exploit the advantage offered by the flank.

Thoughts like those whirred through his mind like machinery.

Even without consciously focusing on them, the enemies’ weapons and their condition entered his vision and were registered in his mind.

Rickart stared at his enemies with eyes immersed in thoughts that were neither fear, courage, nor madness.

To the men standing there in despair, staring at him, Rickart no longer appeared human.

They sensed an inexplicable aura around him.

That bastard isn’t human.

Then one man fled first.

That was all it took.

With no need to watch how the others reacted, everyone began running.

Rickart had been halfway up the high ground when the enemies before him fled.

He simply stopped where he was and looked around, surveying the scene.

Corpses lay scattered around him.

The terrifying flames raging below illuminated his figure.

To those watching from afar, it was as frightening as a deliberately staged scene.

His enormous shadow seemed to dance in delight.

The dead who had fallen.

The living who had fled.

And the one person who remained standing alone.

The contrast between them could not have been clearer.

Reinhardt also watched Rickart from a distance.

He himself was practically bathed in enemy blood, yet the sight of Rickart reminded him of the first time he had seen Steiner.

Things that were not human wandered this world.

A human could not kill a monster.

Only another monster could kill one.

That was what Reinhardt believed.

In the end, the boy in the red cloak was not human either.

But to Rickart, the surrounding landscape looked familiar.

No—it was a deeply familiar scene he had merely forgotten for a moment.

Fire and steel.

Blood and death.

He could see them all and smell them as well.

The past and present overlapped before his eyes.

Perhaps because he was exhausted, Rickart’s ears felt muffled.

He could barely hear anything except the pounding of his heart and the rasp of his own breathing.

It felt as though a hand had suddenly risen from the abyss, seized his ankle, and begun dragging him downward.

Into deep water.

Or into the past.

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