Chapter 90

Chapter 90: Chapter 90

The autumn of madness passed, and winter came. Though it was not even a leap year, corpses of those who had starved to death lay scattered along the roadsides.

Among them, the frozen bodies of infants were particularly heartbreaking. What sins could those babies possibly have committed? Could even a god answer that question?

Yet those suffering from a chronic sense that something was wrong had grown numb even to such sights.

Outlaws.

Those who had killed the lords of the lands where they lived had lost their way. Their directionless rage had ultimately driven even themselves into a dead end.

There had been no class struggle or ideological foundation behind their actions. They had simply been swept up in the atmosphere, committed their crimes, and then found themselves with no idea what to do next.

Spilled water could not be gathered again. Those who had murdered nobles fled into the mountains. There, they banded together and became brigands.

Like mold spreading across the world, such outlaws proliferated everywhere.

A small territory could muster only around ten soldiers at most. In truth, they could scarcely be called an army. They were merely grown men wearing ill-fitting combat equipment.

It was said that a heavily armed knight could defeat a hundred men, but many knightly families had abandoned their swords for hoes as far back as their grandfathers’ generation.

Some barricaded themselves inside their castles to save their own lives. Others were dragged out by the outlaws, their entire families massacred and their villages left in ruins.

Who would punish these people?

No, before that, whose fault was it?

Unfortunately, debating such questions was meaningless. When a robber held a blade to your face, law and justice became astonishingly powerless.

Winter passed. By the time the swallows returned, deep-purple violets had begun blooming across the fields.

Even so, the situation did not improve.

Though the early spring weather was cool, the sunlight felt unusually scorching.

The man wearing a round-brimmed helmet already had hair drenched in sweat. Panting from the heat, he contorted his already wrinkled face into an even deeper grimace.

Clad in a gambeson stuffed thickly with cotton and carrying a hooked polearm called a bill, he stood at the entrance to the mountain and looked up.

From inside a crude stronghold of haphazardly woven timber, the brigands stared down at him.

"Those sons of bitches..."

The brigands must have tormented the man terribly, for he did not merely curse them. He ground out each word as though chewing it to pieces.

"Is everyone down?"

"Where’s the leader?"

"No one’s hurt, right?"

"No one."

Voices checking their condition could be heard around the helmeted man. They belonged to his companions.

There were seven of them in total. Their equipment was of roughly the same quality, but no two sets were alike.

Some wore helmets while others did not. Some merely wore snug-fitting leather or cloth caps called coifs. Their weapons varied widely as well, ranging from spears and swords to axes.

That was because they were adventurers, not soldiers.

However, they faced a serious problem.

There were fifty brigands.

Sending seven people to wipe out fifty brigands—was this supposed to be a joke?

Of course, if they fought on level ground, it would be possible for the seven of them to kill fifty poorly equipped brigands. The problem was that the brigands refused to come down from their stronghold.

With so few people, the adventurers could not surround the place, and the brigands openly roamed around under cover of darkness.

What made combat difficult was not the fighting itself. Every activity—eating, relieving themselves, sleeping, and keeping watch on the roadside—exhausted them both mentally and physically.

It was even worse when no solution was in sight. All they could do was charge up the mountain once a day, only to be driven back down by a hail of stones thrown from above.

Thrown stones were not to be taken lightly. A stone launched from a sling could crush someone’s skull and kill them instantly if it struck the wrong place.

The adventurers had no idea why they had to keep doing this, but according to their leader, even these futile attacks were necessary to keep the enemy frightened.

"Hey, is that crossbow still not fixed?"

The clan leader spoke as he pulled out and discarded an arrow whose head had been soaked in urine and feces.

That was their version of a poisoned arrow. If one lodged in flesh, the resulting infection would cause the wound to rot away.

Fortunately, the brigands’ bows were so crudely made that their arrows could not pierce the adventurers’ armor and reach their flesh.

There was nothing they could do about the stench, however. The leader casually scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it over the spot with practiced ease.

"Boss, I think we’ll have to take this to a bowyer. The gear won’t lock into place."

The clan’s sole crossbowman spoke.

For fuck’s sake. The thing had broken after being fired five times. Worse still, it had failed to hit a single person.

Was the crossbowman incompetent, or was the crossbow simply a piece of junk?

"Can’t you just pull it back using brute strength?"

"I told you, it won’t lock."

"No, I mean hold it in place and then let go."

"How is that supposed to work?"

"Ah, damn it. Guys, let’s eat first."

At the clan leader’s order, several of them dragged their exhausted bodies over and brought out a large cauldron. They filled it with water, threw in every ingredient they had on hand, and boiled the lot.

When the nameless soup—or perhaps stew—of mysterious origin began bubbling vigorously, the adventurers ladled it into wooden bowls whose cleanliness was highly questionable.

They put down their weapons, removed their helmets, and sprawled across the ground, either drinking it directly or eating with their hands.

Naturally, none of them had washed their hands.

Spices were out of the question. The best they could do was add herbs gathered from the wild or salt they personally carried.

There was one consolation for these exhausted men: because it was still early spring, they could cool down quickly. When a cool breeze dried their sweat, that alone felt heavenly.

"Boss, how long do we have to keep doing this?"

"Ricky said he was coming, so let’s hold out a little longer."

"I know he’s an incredible swordsman, but will his arrival really change anything? It’s not as if those bastards will agree to settle this with a duel."

"I don’t know. He’ll find a way."

"What if he arrives and doesn’t have one?"

"Then it’ll become a contest to see who gets exhausted first."

"Damn it..."

"Hey, giving up isn’t an option. Our credibility is our lifeblood. Besides, do you really want to lose to bastards like them?"

As expected of a clan leader, he seemed to have a proper sense of responsibility, unlike ordinary adventurers who did nothing but complain.

It was not that the clan leader failed to understand why his companions were grumbling. He felt just as frustrated inside, even if he did not show it.

Nevertheless, a leader’s duty was to keep everyone moving forward somehow—comforting them at times and browbeating them at others.

Yet combat sometimes involved deliberately exploiting such things.

Namely, provoking the enemy’s emotions.

"Hey! You down there!"

Someone shouted from the stronghold, which was not too far up the mountain. The adventurers, who had been gulping down their meal, turned their heads and looked up.

"How about we pay you one gold coin per head, and you just leave!?"

Negotiations were common in prolonged, inconclusive battles like this one.

But the adventurers of the Ernberg branch of the Beringen Guild were different.

They possessed pride—or perhaps a sense of honor.

One of them abruptly sprang to his feet and shouted.

"Fuck off, you bastard!"

"Hey! How much money do you people make!? Why don’t you join us!?"

"Are they insane?"

"We made a huge number of gold coins last winter! Gold coins... How many was it again? Anyway, it was a lot!"

"Then we can just kill you and take all of it!"

"You fucking bastards! Don’t you understand what I’m saying!? Your mothers, your wives...!"

Perhaps because things were not going as planned, the brigand hurled obscenities too vile to repeat.

"You son of a bitch! I remember your face!"

"And what are you going to do about it!? Come up here! Come on up!"

"God fucking damn it!"

The adventurer ground his teeth, but there was nothing he could do.

Just then, someone spoke from beside them.

"What are you all doing?"

They turned and saw a blond young man wearing a red cloak standing there blankly. A sword hung at his waist, and glimpses of plate armor could be seen through the opening of his cloak.

It was a breastplate they had obtained as a spoil of war when the Rubens Guild surrendered. It was a type of ancient artifact—thin and lightweight, yet possessing absurd defensive strength.

Furthermore, it was made of true silver. It did not merely contain a small quantity of the material; the entire suit of armor was made from it. It was something that could not have been produced with the technology available to modern humans.

Making iron both thin and durable required highly advanced metallurgy. Moreover, there were only a handful of blacksmiths in the entire Empire capable of working with true silver.

Most knights wore chainmail, and the same was true even of high-ranking nobles. Thus, the breastplate Rickart currently wore was practically an incomprehensible piece of ancient magical equipment.

People mockingly referred to it as "Ruben’s Last Pride." Ruben had founded the Rubens Guild, and he had originally discovered the armor in an ancient ruin.

However, Rickart found its shine embarrassing, so he wore something resembling a surcoat over it to conceal it. The surcoat was embroidered with purple violets.

The red cloak, plate armor, and violets had become the visual symbols of Rickart.

It was rather ironic that the men who had damaged his lungs had offered him something capable of protecting his torso perfectly.

"Ricky?"

"When did you get here?"

"Just now."

"Uh... As you can see, this is our situation."

The clan leader spoke. The other adventurers had been eating, so they remained seated on the ground and stared blankly up at Rickart.

"Do you have a way to handle this?"

"Give me a moment."

Rickart silently studied the stronghold. After observing it briefly, he borrowed a heater shield from one of the adventurers. He adjusted its leather straps, secured it firmly to his forearm, and spoke.

"I think I can break down a gate like that. Once I destroy it, all of you come up together. You’ll need to move quickly."

"Break it down? That thing? Without a log?"

No matter how crudely constructed the gate was, it was not weak enough to be breached by one person’s strength.

Ordinarily, several people would have to work together and ram it with a sharpened log. They did not have enough people for that.

"As soon as you finish this job, gather in Ernberg. An official notice arrived from the Imperial Guild Bureau under the name of the Count Palatine of Kelbron."

Kelbron was the territory of Hellauman, the Emperor’s Champion. High-ranking lords were generally addressed by their titles rather than their names.

"What does the notice say?"

"Ask Volka for the details. It seems to concern the campaign against the Order."

"How much are they paying?"

"I don’t know. Finish your meal and get ready."

With that, Rickart began climbing toward the stronghold alone. The brigands who had been hurling abuse stared down at him before beginning to taunt him.

"What are you going to do? Huh? What are you going to do?"

"A red cloak? Don’t tell me you’re Ricky. So what are you going to do?"

Like a pack of monkeys, they began throwing stones.

Rickart did not flinch. Keeping his back straight, he looked up calmly and merely shifted aside whenever necessary.

All the while, he continued climbing toward the stronghold. His bad lungs prevented him from running.

"Hey! Your girlfriend was delicious! I had her yesterday! She absolutely loved it!"

"You little brat! You think you can do whatever you want just because you’re good with a sword!?"

Despite the vicious insults, Rickart did not become angry. He knew that every imaginable obscenity was thrown around on a battlefield. If he reacted to each one, the stress alone would render him incapable of fighting.

Still, he made sure to remember their faces.

Most of the brigands threw their stones by hand. Some missed him completely, while others were surprisingly accurate and vicious. A few launched stones with slings.

Rickart dodged those he could and blocked the rest with his shield.

Thud! Thoom! Thud!

He either evaded or blocked every stone, never once stopping as he climbed.

At last, he reached the stronghold’s gate. While the brigands watched from above, Rickart drew upon Illiya’s strength and kicked the gate with all his might.

"You fucking idiot! What do you think that’s going to accomplish!?"

Boom!

"Bring a spear!"

The walls of the stronghold were not particularly high, so a spear thrust down from above could reach him.

Before anyone could bring one, however, an ominous sound rang out.

Boom! Crack!

They had unmistakably heard wood splintering and partially breaking. The entire gate had not shattered in one blow. Instead, part of the wooden bar securing it from behind had broken.

For a moment, the brigands wondered if it could truly be happening, before reassuring themselves that it was impossible.

Rickart drew his sword and, in one swift motion, cut through the grass ropes tightly binding the timbers together. After severing several of them, he delivered one final, powerful kick to the weakened gate.

Boom! Craaack!

One of the partially shattered doors swung open, hanging in tatters. The bar securing the other door had broken completely, so Rickart simply pushed it open.

He turned around and shouted to the adventurers.

"Now! Come up!"

However, the adventurers who had witnessed everything from below were just as astonished as the brigands. They merely blinked their widened eyes.

The clan leader was the first to regain his senses. He hurriedly grabbed his equipment and began climbing the mountain.

"Let’s go!"

Rickart steadied his slightly ragged breathing and slowly entered the stronghold. Looking at the brigands still clinging to the palisade, he addressed one of them.

"What was that you said about my girlfriend?"

"I-I heard she was beautiful... I was just saying it..."

An incredulous laugh escaped Rickart.

Making excuses now would not earn the man forgiveness.

Mentioning Marie was bad enough, but Rickart also knew what these brigands had done throughout the previous autumn and winter.

They had devastated villages and murdered innocent children merely because they were of noble birth. Nor had they simply killed them. They had committed acts too horrific to put into words.

That was why they had to die.

Besides, this was his job.

Rickart crooked a finger, beckoning the man who had insulted him. Perhaps realizing that escape was impossible, the brigand unexpectedly stepped forward without resistance.

"H-Haha, how could a man like me possibly—"

The brigand tried to make another excuse, but the sword in Rickart’s right hand suddenly swept horizontally from left to right.

The brigand flinched.

Then his cleanly severed head slowly tilted to one side.

Only then did the remaining brigands feel their hair stand on end.

At that moment, the adventurers arrived, already furious beyond measure.

A massacre began.

Rickart and the other seven stabbed and slashed their way through approximately thirty brigands. The survivors all fled, leaving the stronghold awash in blood.

Even the one-sided act of killing people was physically exhausting. Once the situation was under control, the adventurers removed their helmets and wiped their faces, which were smeared with sweat and blood.

They then dropped to the ground and panted heavily.

After taking some time to catch their breath, they searched the stronghold.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—there were no prisoners to be found. There was only food beginning to rot and valuables such as silver tableware.

They would fetch a decent sum if sold, but it would not amount to much once divided among everyone.

The clan leader turned to ask Rickart how they should distribute the spoils, only to realize that he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where did Ricky go?"

"I saw him leaving a little while ago."

The clan leader blinked and climbed onto the stronghold’s palisade to look down.

Rickart had already descended the entire mountain and was walking away alone at a leisurely pace. His cloak fluttered slightly whenever the wind blew.

The sight of his calm, effortlessly composed departure sent an inexplicable thrill through the clan leader.

Perhaps the pride he and his companions possessed came from the fact that they belonged to the same branch as Rickart.

When someone acted differently from everyone else—and looked impressive while doing so—it was only natural for those around him to unconsciously want to follow his example.

Rickart never cried out for justice.

But he possessed a fundamental sense of right and wrong. Even when the world descended into madness, that common sense never wavered.

More importantly, he was strong.

When Rickart was with them, it never felt as though they could lose. No matter how difficult things became, his presence gave them hope that if they endured, everything would somehow work out.

Whether Rickart intended it or not, that was how his fellow adventurers felt.

And they believed in him.

Because just as it had now, things truly did work out whenever he was there.

The Ernberg branch had the highest participation rate in the campaign to subjugate the Order of Judgment.