Chapter 88

Chapter 88: Chapter 88

The scenes Rickart witnessed from the boat were difficult to describe.

Under the cool autumn sunlight, some places had become hellish scenes of chaos and suffering, while others continued their peaceful daily lives as though nothing had happened.

Of course, even those who appeared to be living normally were undoubtedly overshadowed by anxiety.

They kept their city gates firmly barred, strictly enforced curfews, armed themselves with swords and spears, and regarded outsiders with suspicion.

Most commerce had frozen to a halt. However, the demand for adventurers had increased dramatically.

Arms dealers made fortunes, demand for iron soared, and robber barons prowled the roads like wolves, hoping to seize their share of the spoils.

No profound insight into the course of history was necessary. No matter how ignorant people were, instinct told them what kind of situation they were facing.

Every man for himself.

Communities in both cities and the countryside closed ranks. On a smaller scale, blood relatives banded together. At the smallest level, people came to believe they could trust only themselves.

That was the kind of world it was becoming.

The people of Ernberg had also grown more closely united while becoming increasingly hostile toward outsiders.

Fortunately, at least on the surface, nothing appeared seriously wrong yet.

"Is Count Reinzult all right? Has he said anything?"

Rickart asked Volka, who was rolling wooden barrels into place against the wall.

Count Reinzult was the lord of the territory in which the city of Ernberg was located. Depending on the course their lord chose, the merchants, craftsmen, and other interest groups beneath him would have to follow or leave.

In other words, the extent to which the Order of Judgment would be persecuted depended on him.

"The Count doesn’t seem particularly concerned. The real problem is headquarters."

"What about headquarters?"

"I heard they’re offering bounties whenever someone identifies and captures a member of the Order."

"They aren’t forcing us to do it, are they? We don’t have to participate, right?"

As Rickart continued asking questions whose intentions were painfully obvious, Volka leaned an elbow on one of the barrels and stared at him.

"Ricky, I’m responsible for this branch. Our clan alone has ten members now. You don’t even know the new recruits, do you? And besides our clan, there are five more clans under my command. Altogether, that’s nearly fifty people. Some adventurers also have families to support. Opportunities to make money like this are rare. Can I really order them not to take advantage of one?"

Things were different now.

The days when they were simply happy to see one another, laughed together, trusted one another with their backs, and completed commissions were over.

There were many people depending on them now.

Volka was responsible for their lives.

"...I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that."

"I won’t inform on him. I won’t abandon Ice either. Even if that decision costs us, I’ll accept the loss. But I wanted you to know that if I’m forced to choose, I already know what my decision will be."

"I understand."

"Thank you. And congratulations."

"For what?"

"I heard you’re engaged to Marie ."

"Ah..."

Rickart gave a faint laugh.

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

The incident had occurred during the finals, so their engagement had hardly been an occasion blessed with unreserved celebration.

Volka practically tore the lid off the barrel he had just moved. He scooped out a cupful with a dirty wooden mug and drank it. Beyond the wall, they could hear adventurers noisily talking inside the branch building.

"But are you certain it was Rubens?"

"Marie said she clearly heard them mention the name. Something about Lorenz."

"Then this means war..."

The world was in turmoil over the Emperor’s death and the Order of Judgment, but adventurers had their own affairs to settle.

They could not overlook an attempt to assassinate Rickart.

Not as a branch chief, not as a clan leader, and not as his friend.

For people who made their living by the sword, repaying favors and avenging grudges was more important than life itself. If they failed to avenge an insult, they would be finished.

In a world where reputation mattered above all else, anyone who acted like a coward would inevitably lose the people who followed him.

"You must already be busy these days. We should find another way."

It was indeed a chaotic and busy period. Ironically, the more disorderly the world became, the more prosperous adventurers were.

But that was not entirely good.

More work meant more occasions to draw blades, and that inevitably meant a higher death rate.

Rickart had no intention of letting matters pass if he happened to encounter the Rubens Guild, but deliberately seeking them out and starting a conflict seemed unreasonable.

Ernberg was only a branch, while their opponent was not a single clan but an entire guild.

Their respective scales were completely different.

"No. They attacked you, so the decision has already been made. The only question is how we’ll do it, not whether we’ll do it."

Volka, however, spoke firmly without the slightest hesitation.

The Viola Clan was already known throughout the central northern region as a legendary fighting force. The Ernberg branch had also become the most powerful of all the guild’s branches.

Perhaps because he had become the leader of such a group, Volka’s judgment and decisiveness had grown remarkably sharp.

He had always possessed such qualities, but now he seemed to have matured significantly. He gave off the unmistakable air of a man who commanded an organization.

Rickart was currently thirteen years old, while Volka was eighteen.

A swordsman’s prime generally lasted from his late teens to his mid-twenties. After that, most either retired or died.

Continuing to work as an adventurer into one’s thirties or forties was an extraordinary accomplishment in itself. Dunkel had done so, as had the former chief of the Torveil branch.

In any case, Volka’s words made Rickart both proud and uneasy. He had always cared for his friends, and now he could feel that they cared just as deeply for him.

He vaguely recalled the oath of vengeance they had sworn in Griffinswald.

Molti and Lara had retired early.

Were the others doing well?

Volka drained the lukewarm beer and spoke.

"Let’s do this. I think it would be best to send Ice away on an outside assignment for a while. He can be the one to avenge you. Talk to him and explain it properly."

"I’m going too."

"I heard your lungs are damaged."

"They say only the person who made the poison will know the correct antidote."

Volka silently stared at Rickart.

"What?"

"I used to think you were merely brave. Now I’m beginning to think you simply don’t care whether you die."

Volka could still remember it clearly.

During their Academy days, when they had gone to assist with a commission and Molti collapsed after being wounded, Rickart had walked off to fight alone.

At the time, Volka had been so astonished that he thought Rickart was insane. When Rickart ultimately defeated the enemies and returned, the sight had shattered Volka’s understanding of common sense.

Rickart was undeniably powerful. Even so, there was something strange about how little he seemed to care when facing cold steel.

"Is that so?"

Rickart did not concern himself with how others viewed him, but sometimes other people saw things about him that even he had never noticed.

Hearing it from a friend made him think that it might be true.

However, he did not dwell on it.

"Be careful with your life, if only for Marie ’s sake. We aren’t knights. If things go wrong, we’re allowed to run away."

"All right."

"Rest here for as long as you want. If you go, Marie will follow you, and Bori will probably join you this time. With you four, including Ice, honestly, I don’t think destroying an entire guild would be particularly difficult."

Rickart, Boribori, Ice, and Marie were swordsmen in an entirely different league from ordinary adventurers.

All four had already earned widespread renown, but Marie ’s fame had recently risen especially high. Perhaps because she had left such a powerful impression during the assassination of the Emperor, people had begun calling her the Witch of the Sword.

She was also the first female swordsman to become a Sword Master.

As a result, Marie had become an idol to many female adventurers.

Even Volka did not command these four unilaterally as though they shared a strict superior-subordinate relationship. Unlike ordinary adventurers, he managed them loosely.

When one considered their abilities, they were an even more terrifying foursome than Ernberg’s famous five from the past.

Perhaps it was precisely because they were so powerful that they had been able to continue treating one another as friends.

"But don’t you need permission from headquarters?"

"Why would I need permission to take revenge? I’ll notify them, of course."

"...Is that really acceptable?"

"This isn’t only about Ice. If necessary, I’m prepared to break away from headquarters."

"Uh... Why?"

"It’s difficult to explain. I suppose I’ve realized that I can’t remain under someone else’s authority forever."

Volka appeared to have his own troubles.

He no longer participated in battles as frequently as before, but life as an administrator was apparently no easier.

Perhaps the days when he had mindlessly accepted whatever assignments he was given had been more comfortable. The shoulders of a man responsible for numerous people and their families looked heavy.

He had his own path to follow.

As Rickart watched Volka, he suddenly remembered when he had been ten years old.

Just as reaching a turning point in his life at ten had separated him from his brothers, perhaps this was the age when the paths of friends also began to diverge.

It did not mean they were parting because of resentment or hurt feelings.

It simply happened naturally.

Would Rickart eventually find himself alone on the road of life?

No. He had Marie .

Was it time to start valuing his life, as Volka had said?

He did not know.

Life was difficult.

Rickart sat beside the downcast Volka and spoke.

"Give me a drink too."

"What?"

"My brother taught me how to drink when I visited my hometown. It didn’t taste particularly good, but it was drinkable."

"Really? Don’t tell me you drank wine."

"How did you know?"

"Nobles always insist on drinking wine. They go out of their way to drink it even though it tastes terrible. There’s an old saying: beer in the north, wine in the south. I’ll teach you properly."

For the first time in a long while, Volka’s lifeless eyes regained a trace of boyish excitement.

Teaching a friend who knew nothing about alcohol was bound to be enjoyable.

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

"Marriage is just swearing your vows before a priest. We can do it whenever we want."

"Do you still love her?"

"Love? What love? Hey, we’re staying together out of loyalty, that’s all!"

"Delphy would be hurt if she heard that."

"You really don’t know much besides how to use a sword. Today’s the day. Your big brother is going to teach you properly about alcohol and women."

Volka spoke as though Rickart’s ignorance frustrated him, while Rickart merely grinned.

One cup, then two. Sour-smelling beer flowed down Rickart’s throat. As he drank, idle chatter came more easily, and even trivial remarks made them burst into laughter.

Perhaps this was what made having friends so wonderful. Even conversations with no substance could fill one’s heart.

Ignoring reality was not good, but sometimes a person needed to look away and clear his head. Perhaps that was where the pleasure of alcohol lay.

And when shared with a friend, it tasted twice as good.

The farther a lord’s territory was from the imperial capital of Nibelungen, the more lukewarm his response tended to be regarding the Emperor’s death.

Put simply, most of them thought:

What does the Emperor’s death have to do with me?

Yet they could not escape the consequences of the incident. Like tremors spreading from the epicenter of an earthquake, peasant uprisings began erupting everywhere, each inspiring the next.

Peasant uprisings had existed for a very long time. Some were minor, while others occurred on a massive scale. What made these particular uprisings unusual was that some organized force seemed to be directing them.

In any case, leaving inhabited areas had always been dangerous. At a time like this, it was far more dangerous than usual.

Bandits did not walk around with the word "bandit" written across their foreheads. Nor were they born as bandits.

In this age, if circumstances aligned and an opportunity arose, anyone could become one.

Knights, soldiers, veterans, mercenaries, adventurers, merchants—even simple peasants and woodcutters could turn to banditry.

Whenever one encountered someone on the road, one could never afford to appear weak. Bandits robbed people who looked vulnerable, not just anyone.

Under such circumstances, the powerless once again gathered around their lord’s castle or the local Adventurers’ Guild.

They were mostly elderly people, women, and children who had lost the heads of their households. They believed those places offered at least some measure of safety.

The Rubens Guild was profiting from such people.

It charged them for the spaces they occupied, forced the women to sell their bodies, dragged the elderly into hard labor and seized their wages, and sometimes even sold the children.

One might argue that the guild was efficiently extracting profit from people who would otherwise be considered useless. But perhaps because the Emperor was dead, its members had also slipped their restraints.

Adventurers had traditionally upheld a principle of not engaging in illegal activities. Now there was no longer anyone whose judgment they feared, so they acted however 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 Rickart’s hands.

As a result, its members had grown even more ruthless, merciless, and deranged.

Strangely, even people who had not originally been cruel sometimes became addicted to cruelty once they began committing brutal acts.

Southwest of Beringen, west of Griffinswald, and north of Rheinfort stood a small city distinguished by its surrounding reed fields.

The small city was called Zelle. It had little trade to speak of and mainly bought and sold surplus crops from the nearby countryside.

Now, however, people who were refugees in all but name had gathered there. They lived in crude huts and tents erected in swarms around the city.

Only about one in ten was an adult man. The rest were women, elderly people, or children.

Country women applied powder to their faces as best they could and tried to attract customers outside their tents. But because there were so few men, business was poor.

They could hardly even be said to be soliciting customers. Most simply sat there with dejected expressions and slumped shoulders.

They had resorted to selling their bodies as a final means of survival, yet there was no one willing to buy.

That was the tragedy unfolding there.

Then, amid the mournful autumn leaves, four outsiders appeared.

Three were tall, while one was short.

All four wore long cloaks with their hoods pulled low, concealing their faces. Judging by their physiques, they appeared to be men.

The one wearing a red cloak was particularly conspicuous.

"Um... Excuse me, gentlemen? No, my princes? Would you look over here?"

"O-Over here! I-I’ll show you a really good time! I mean it..."

"Please, just look this way for a moment. My child is starving. Please."

Because they were not professional prostitutes, their attempts at soliciting customers were clumsy. Some were practically begging rather than soliciting.

The four outsiders, however, appeared uninterested in the women. They raised their heads slightly and surveyed the area.

Their attention settled not on the women, but on the five or six adventurers stationed near the makeshift red-light district.

The adventurers were also closely observing the newcomers, ready to rob them if an opportunity arose.

Anyone could see that they were dangerous, but the four outsiders walked toward them without hesitation.

Apparently sensing something unusual, the Rubens adventurers placed their hands on the hilts at their waists and extended their other palms.

"Hey, stop. Don’t come any closer."

The red-cloaked figure leading the group stopped at a reasonable distance.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Don’t you know who we are? We’re from the Rubens Guild. There are a hundred swordsmen behind us. You’d better not try anything foolish."

The red-cloaked figure, who had remained silent, removed his hood.

Blond hair gleamed beneath the autumn sunlight.

It was Rickart.

He calmly surveyed the surroundings before addressing the adventurers of the Rubens Guild.

"My lungs are damaged because of you people, so I can’t speak for long. I’m going to let one of you live. You decide among yourselves. Who lives, and who dies?"

No one answered.

A strange silence descended over the area. The only sound was the wind brushing through the nearby reed field.

Reeds that grew taller than a person never grew alone. They gathered in vast numbers along rivers and across wetlands.

The white plumes at their tips bent softly, as though bowing their heads. Whenever the wind swept through them, they simply leaned in the direction it carried them.

They might have lacked steadfastness, yet even amid the harshest storms, they retained their distinctive tranquility. There was almost something noble about them.

At times, they seemed to embody the human heart. At others, they resembled people who had grown accustomed to misery and now lived feebly, swept helplessly back and forth.

The people living beside the reed field were like that.

They were powerless before merciless violence, yet they continued to live.

But among them stood figures who belonged neither with those people nor with the reeds.

They were like predators emerging from concealment within the reed field.

"Who’s going to do it?"

Boribori asked.

"This is our first move, so we need to make an impact. Bori, you do it."

"...I understand that we need to make an impact, but why me?"

"Marie , block that side. Ice, take the other."

Ignoring Boribori’s objection, Rickart openly issued orders in front of their opponents.

There were six enemy adventurers, yet Rickart’s group, despite being fewer in number, separated to block every escape route.

The Rubens adventurers guarding the makeshift red-light district felt both bewildered and uneasy.

Some deliberately scowled to appear as threatening as possible. Others stiffened their expressions to hide their fear. A few simply thought Rickart’s group was being insolent.

Each of the six felt something different.

"What do you think you’re doing? You want to start something with us?"

"Who do you work for? You dare challenge our guild?!"

"We tried to settle this peacefully, but I suppose that isn’t going to happen!"

Like frightened dogs barking, the adventurers raised their voices.

However, none dared enter sword range.

Boribori drew his sword with a sulky expression. As though it possessed a matte finish, the Phantom Sword reflected no light even beneath the sun. Its form looked strangely indistinct.

"You’d better make sure your arms and legs are firmly attached. If you’re lucky enough to block even one stroke, you’ll lose only your head."

It was a terrifying and difficult-to-understand warning.

Boribori was not mocking them. He was genuinely cautioning them. Though no one would have believed it, he did not particularly want to cut people into pieces.

Boribori stepped forward and swung the sword in one hand.

He was not a Sword Master, but he had been born with an enormous amount of Mana. Vivid black lines were drawn through the air.

Whoosh, whoosh! Slash! Whoosh!

Characters were inscribed in an instant, and everything along their strokes was severed.

Arms, legs, heads, and torsos tumbled to the ground.

A tremendous volume of blood spread across it.

The adventurers nearby felt their hair stand on end. Several collapsed where they stood.

The scene was so brutal and astonishing that even the women who had been watching anxiously nearby found themselves unable to breathe. The muscles in their throats tightened, and strangled groans escaped them.

After lightly avoiding the spray of blood, Boribori inscribed a large character toward the adventurers frozen in shock.

The Phantom Sword swept broadly from side to side, drew a diagonal stroke, added several more lines, and finished with a final dot.

Boribori pulled over the edge of his cloak, wiped his blade, and returned it to its sheath.

Rickart, who had merely watched from behind, approached the survivor.

"I understand that you’re disoriented, but I want you to remember my words clearly. Go to your guild master and tell him Ricky has come. He may choose one of three options. First, the guild master dies as your representative. Second, the entire guild suffers catastrophic losses. Third, you hand over the antidote. Go."

After unilaterally delivering his terms, Rickart emptied their collection box and scattered the money across the street.

The jingling coins made a cheerful sound, but no one dared come forward to pick them up.

Rickart left with his friends.

Unlike when they had arrived, no voices called out to solicit them.

The only sound was still the wind brushing through the reed field.

Then the mutilated pieces of the dead adventurers’ bodies collapsed into a heap.

"Wow..."

Even Marie , who had become a Sword Master, exclaimed in admiration.

She was already familiar with Boribori’s swordsmanship, but it remained unusual and terrifying no matter how many times she saw it.

One man had survived, sitting on the ground after wetting himself in terror.

Boribori had not missed him by accident. He had deliberately spared the man on Rickart’s instructions.

Boribori pulled over the edge of his cloak, wiped his blade, and returned it to its sheath.

Rickart, who had merely watched from behind, approached the survivor.

"I understand that you’re disoriented, but I want you to remember my words clearly. Go to your guild master and tell him Ricky has come. He may choose one of three options. First, the guild master dies as your representative. Second, the entire guild suffers catastrophic losses. Third, you hand over the antidote. Go."

After unilaterally delivering his terms, Rickart emptied their collection box and scattered the money across the street.

The jingling coins made a cheerful sound, but no one dared come forward to pick them up.

Rickart left with his friends.

Unlike when they had arrived, no voices called out to solicit them.

The only sound was still the wind brushing through the reed field.