Chapter 53

Chapter 53: Chapter 53

Beneath the warm sunlight, the area around the Kites Highlands bustled with people as though a late-spring festival were underway.

There was an inn beside the road where a waterwheel turned, powered by the stream flowing through the valley. The inn could not accommodate everyone, so many people had pitched tents outside and were living there.

The reason so many people had gathered was simple: they had come to watch the fights.

In an age when even the beheading of criminals was treated as entertainment, no one wanted to miss the rare spectacle of duels between skilled fighters.

As people gathered, merchants who smelled money naturally followed, and the crowd grew larger and larger, like a snowball rolling downhill.

Somewhere amid the festival-like scene, someone had somehow procured a goat, skinned it, and was roasting it whole. A large crowd had gathered around the fire, listening to a man’s story.

The smell of roasting meat was enough to make anyone’s mouth water, but the tale being loudly told by the lone speaker was no less enticing.

"I saw it! I’m telling you, I saw it! It’s true! I was there that day! After Red Cloak slaughtered dozens of men all by himself, a demon appeared!"

The storyteller spoke as though pleading with them to believe him. He was so compelling that it seemed he would be better off giving up adventuring and taking up storytelling instead.

Some people listened intently, while others merely smirked and took half of what he said with a grain of salt.

A demon, my ass.

"What did the demon look like?" someone asked.

"Red Cloak isn’t very tall, but his shadow grew as big as—th-that! As big as that mountain, I tell you! If that wasn’t a demon, then what was it?!"

Depending on the angle and intensity of a light source, a shadow could lengthen and grow enormous. If someone saw it while terrified and startled, it could certainly seem that way.

That was especially true in the eyes of uneducated people with no scientific knowledge.

"Never mind that. How did Owerstein die? I mean the Second Sword of the Three Swords Clan. Tell us more about that."

Someone else asked the question. He apparently had no interest in all the talk about demons.

The storyteller had not gotten a proper look at what happened because it had been dark at the time, so he did not actually have much to say.

However, faced with everyone’s curious gazes, he felt a needless sense of obligation and began spouting whatever came to mind.

"At first, I thought it was supposed to be a duel between the two of them, but then someone else barged in midway through. He threw something wrong and apparently hit his own ally. So Red Cloak killed them both. Three Swords, Shovel Handles—whatever they call themselves, they were nothing but a pack of dirty cowards. Even I was taken aback for a moment, you know? I was thinking, ’Huh? What’s going on? Are they allowed to do that?’ The whole thing was so confusing. Then we got pushed back amid the chaos, and all our supplies went up in flames. So we lost that day entirely because of those Shovel Handles Clan bastards."

There was one error in the storyteller’s account. The man had not hit his ally because of a bad throw. Rickart had caught one of the throwing daggers and immediately hurled it at Owerstein.

However, the storyteller had been some distance away at the time, and it had been dark, so it was understandable that he had seen it that way. He was not deliberately lying.

He merely exaggerated a little and interpreted things however he pleased.

The problem was that people like him did not care whether their guild won or lost.

After all, they were not the ones personally losing anything.

Astonishingly enough, that was genuinely how they thought.

The storyteller was merely a low-ranking adventurer who gained nothing if the guild prospered and suffered no particular loss if it collapsed.

He had never possessed the resolve to risk his life in battle in the first place. If it looked as though they were going to lose, he would simply run away.

Conversely, those who cared whether the guild prospered or perished were adventurers of at least intermediate rank.

There were also undoubtedly people whose reputations and fame were their very livelihoods. For a renowned clan, rumors that its members were cowardly and pathetically weak could prove fatal.

Not only could it make earning a living difficult, but their pride—which sometimes mattered even more than their livelihood—would never allow it.

"That cannot be true."

Someone flatly rejected the storyteller’s claims. He was wearing a cloak, making it difficult to discern his exact appearance, but judging from the object protruding at his waist, he seemed to be carrying a sword.

"H-Huh? Were you there that day too?"

"No. I simply know that it cannot be true. And consider this a warning. I do not care what nonsense you spout, but you would do well to watch your tongue when speaking of the clan—unless you want it cut out."

A murderous gaze gleamed from the shadows beneath his hood.

The storyteller was suddenly gripped by fear and clamped his mouth shut.

Everyone’s eyes naturally turned toward the cloaked man, but he left the area and soon disappeared into the crowd.

By the time the smell of roasting goat had been overwhelmed by other odors, gradually faded into the distance, and finally grown faint, the man had reached the road leading up into the highlands.

The road, however, had been blocked off by a temporary fence, and people were standing in a long line.

"The next duel will take place before the sun reaches the ridge! If you wish to enter, do so now!"

A man was shouting through a cone held to his mouth like a town crier.

Naturally, admission was not free. Everyone had to pay, and the entry fee was growing more expensive by the day.

Those without money climbed the mountain on the opposite side and watched from afar. Even now, people who had gone up ahead of time could be seen peering down from above.

Judging from this alone, the guilds involved were truly absurd.

Were they trying to wage a war or not?

Still, the measure was unavoidable to some extent, both to filter out riffraff like the earlier storyteller and to maintain control over the area.

And if they could make money while doing so, all the better.

The cloaked and hooded man ignored the long line and walked straight toward the fence. Naturally, everyone’s eyes turned toward him, but the unusual air surrounding him kept anyone from trying to stop him.

The man guarding the fence saw him and asked, "Are you with a clan?"

"The Three Swords. First Sword, Gramschwitz."

"Hmm. The duels have an established order, though. For now, you’ll have to content yourself with watching."

The adventurer opened the fence without charging him admission.

Proven intermediate- and high-ranking adventurers—especially those who held a grudge against Red Cloak—were allowed to pass through freely.

After walking some distance beyond the fence, the top of the defensive tower eventually came into view high above him.

The area around where he now stood still bore many traces of the fire.

Adventurers had gathered here and there with people they knew, while wealthy spectators who had paid the admission fee had arrived early and spread mats in the best spots.

They had come with friends or lovers.

Gramschwitz looked around and saw that there were also a few people who had come alone, as he had.

Their expressionless faces and grim demeanors made them seem dangerous even from a distance.

The people appeared to fall into three broad categories: those who had merely come to watch the spectacle, those who had come to kill Red Cloak and make a name for themselves, and those whose sole purpose was to kill Red Cloak, fame be damned.

They all had one thing in common: the guild war itself was secondary to them.

All their interest was focused on Red Cloak.

The rumor that Red Cloak had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire had already spread far and wide.

At first, opinions had been divided. Was the rumor true or false? If it was true, had it simply been luck? Had the story been exaggerated?

Yet as time passed, people began going beyond merely saying that he had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire. Some now claimed that perhaps he deserved to occupy one of the Nine Swords’ seats himself.

Red Cloak Ricky.

The weight carried by that name was steadily growing.

He had even acquired the epithet of the greatest genius in history.

A genius who had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire at the age of twelve and claimed that position for himself.

At first glance, the claim was utterly unbelievable.

Yet he was proving it.

Not just once, but over and over again across several days.

Today marked exactly one week since the first battle.

"Hawk’s Talon Gramschwitz, is that right?"

Someone addressed him from behind.

Gramschwitz turned around and saw a middle-aged man with short hair and a brown beard, accompanied by three or four others.

"So it is you. I am Wolfgen, a clan master of the Hagen Guild. Have you come for revenge?"

A clan master was someone who stood beneath the guild master and oversaw several clans.

It was the same rank once held by Lorenz, whom Rickart had killed in the past.

The Three Swords Clan had only three members, and all three were brothers.

The First Sword, Hawk’s Talon Gramschwitz.

The Second Sword, Hawk’s Wing Owerstein.

The Third Sword, Flying Blade Erlich.

In truth, their signature technique involved the eldest and second brother drawing the opponent’s attention while the youngest finished them off with throwing daggers.

Their method was so cunning and artful that no one who fell victim to it had ever survived. As a result, the technique remained virtually unknown, and the clan was famous for completing every commission it accepted without fail.

But with two of the brothers killed overnight, only the eldest remained. The clan was now effectively disbanded.

"If revenge is your goal, join us. You won’t stand a chance in a duel. Red Cloak is the real thing. Watch the next fight and think it over."

With that, Wolfgen walked away.

Gramschwitz remained silent.

Time passed. The sun reached its zenith and gradually began to descend, drawing ever closer to the mountain ridge.

A group of people came down from the highlands. Among them, a boy wearing a red cloak immediately caught Gramschwitz’s attention.

He had blond hair and a face still full of youthful innocence.

He was tall and well-built for his age, but he had not yet finished growing, and his frame had not fully matured.

The moment Rickart appeared, the conversations taking place here and there abruptly ceased.

The day’s main event was about to begin.

One duel was held each day, or sometimes two.

Now, one week in, this would be the twelfth duel.

Sixteen people had died so far because Rickart accepted duels regardless of how many opponents challenged him at once.

The results spoke for themselves.

No matter how young he was, he had proven himself worthy of occupying one of the Nine Swords of the Empire’s seats.

What was even more astonishing was that he fought these duels publicly.

Most fighters held private duels with only the minimum number of witnesses, fearing that their secret techniques might be exposed or their swordsmanship deciphered.

Was he arrogant or simply bold?

Gramschwitz would find out soon enough.

Rickart removed his cloak and handed it to a swordswoman standing nearby. He entered the dueling ground carrying only a single sword.

His opponent was a bare-chested man armed with a round shield and a sword.

Members of the Beringen Guild and the coalition cleared space for the duel and prevented the spectators from approaching.

Under the warm sunlight, the bare-chested man rolled his shoulders and deliberately took several deep breaths.

Then he let out a series of battle cries.

"Hup! Hup! Hah! Hah! Haaah!"

Since he was about to risk his life, he appeared to be doing his best to ease his nerves.

Rickart, however, showed no particular agitation or overflowing confidence. He simply drew his sword as though this were nothing out of the ordinary.

His opponent spread his sword arm and shield arm wide and shouted loudly.

"I am Rislen the Heart Carver of Muhrheim! Today, I shall defeat you and become one of the Nine Swords of the Empire!"

He shouted in a booming, gravelly voice, but his nervousness remained plainly visible.

Rickart drew his sword, casually tossed the scabbard toward his allies, and answered.

"Ricky of the Viola Clan."

Once they had introduced themselves, the duel began.

The spectators held their breath and watched.

Those who had already witnessed several of Rickart’s duels had no real expectations concerning the outcome.

They were merely curious about what Rickart would show them this time.

Rislen advanced with his shield held before him, approaching with extreme caution as though hunting a wild beast.

He took hesitant steps and barely lifted the soles of his feet from the ground, ready to react at any moment.

Rickart remained still with his sword hanging loosely at his side.

Yet Rislen suddenly flinched all on his own and hurriedly widened the distance before cautiously approaching again.

He repeated this five times.

"Huff! Huff! Huff!"

They had not exchanged a single blow, yet Rislen was already sweating and breathing heavily from tension.

Just as Rickart tilted his head, seemingly bored, Rislen seized upon that momentary opening and charged fiercely with his shield held out in front of him.

Rickart simply slipped to the side.

Despite his nervousness, Rislen reacted with remarkable fluidity. He swung his shield toward the direction Rickart had dodged and slashed with his sword.

Thud! Swoosh!

Rickart merely widened the distance and leaned back slightly to evade the attacks.

Rislen hurriedly withdrew once more and raised his shield before him.

Then a sudden impact struck Rislen’s head, and his consciousness went dark.

Rickart had kicked him in the head.

Rislen’s own shield had obstructed his vision, allowing Rickart to deliver a high kick from his blind spot.

Crack!

Rislen collapsed anticlimactically and slammed his head into the ground. He appeared to have been completely knocked unconscious by that single blow, as his body went limp and he did not move.

Rickart silently looked down at him for a moment, then turned around and simply walked away.

He had not swung his sword even once.

He then returned to the defensive tower with the members of the Beringen Guild.

With the day’s duel already over, the paying spectators began voicing their displeasure.

"That’s it?"

"Put up a proper opponent!"

"You charged us three silver coins to watch this garbage?"

"If it’s already over, at least behead the loser or hang him!"

The adventurers of the guild coalition paid no attention to the spectators’ complaints and drove them out.

"Hey, mister. Why don’t you say that to my face?"

"N-No, that’s not what I meant. But honestly, this is too much."

"Ladies and gentlemen! The duel is over! Get out! I said, get out!"

The adventurers herded the civilians out of the highlands like sheep.

Those whose moods had been ruined continued grumbling as they left, claiming that they had been swindled and that the Hagen Guild and the other guilds were pathetic.

Rislen eventually regained consciousness, but he could not support himself, so his companions had to help him away.

Gramschwitz silently watched everything unfold.

Wolfgen approached him once again.

"Well?"

"...It is too early to make a definitive judgment, but he has no ingrained mannerisms or habits. Nothing restrains his movements, either. I see no trace of him having learned from anyone. Honestly, it is almost impossible to believe. To have reached such a level at his age..."

His powers of observation were extraordinary.

Even after watching a duel so one-sided that it could barely be called a fight, he had managed to perceive its essential points.

"Hmm..."

Wolfgen nodded somberly in agreement.

"All the capable fighters willing to participate in duels died four days ago. Only fools like that one remain. The rest of the capable fighters no longer care about duels. What will you do? If you wish to challenge him, I can arrange it as early as tomorrow."

In other words, the only skilled fighters remaining were those who wanted to kill Rickart out of a desire for revenge rather than fame.

They would use any means necessary.

Whether it was to restore their tarnished honor, settle a personal grudge, or tilt the war in their favor, their individual objectives were finally converging into one.

Gramschwitz thought for a moment before asking in a tone that suggested partial agreement.

"What is the plan?"

"Follow me."

Gramschwitz followed Wolfgen, a clan master of the Hagen Guild, to a secluded place.

Rickart was watching them intently from above.

The defensive tower itself also served as a kind of observation post, offering a clear view of the entire surrounding area.

Although people were packed together like clouds, making it difficult to distinguish one person from another, Rickart’s uncanny eye for detail easily separated the ordinary riffraff from those who radiated an unsettling presence.

Rickart knew it too.

All the fighters worth killing in a duel had died around four days ago, and the remaining experts were plotting something.

He would have to think carefully to determine exactly what they were planning, but one thing was certain.

The real fighters—those prepared to die—were about to make their move in earnest.

Rickart instinctively knew that he would have to stop them if he wanted to defend the tower to the very end.

He also knew that people with exceptional resolve were more difficult to face than those who had merely reached a high level of swordsmanship.

To confront people like that, skill and ability alone were not enough.

He needed to possess the same resolve.

But what did Rickart currently have to hold on to?

He no longer possessed the burning resentment and rage toward the world, nor the bitter self-loathing that had consumed him in his previous life.

Loyalty to the guild?

Just as the others felt no such loyalty, neither did Rickart.

Only the words Volka had spoken remained tucked away in a corner of his heart.

"We’re going to clear some empty land and build an estate of our own. I’m going to live there with Delphy until I grow old and die."

That’s right.

Someday, I will too.

Though still vague and indistinct, Rickart also had a humble dream.

Images of his friends smiling together in their old age formed in his mind.

For that future, he could risk his life.

Resentment and dreams intersected upon the Kites Highlands.

Even if it was nothing more than entertainment to some.

Who was right, and who was wrong?

Who was justified, and who was at fault?

There was no need to think about such things.

Everyone in the world had a story of their own, and when a swordsman died, there was no room for excuses.

There was no reason to grow sentimental.

Even if he was defeated and killed, he would harbor neither resentment nor regret.

If Rickart had any resolve, that was it.