Chapter 103

Chapter 103

***

"I heard about you from Sandy but... It's been 8 years, hasn't it?"

Blatter uncorked what looked like a medicine bottle and poured alcohol into a wooden cup as he spoke. As he handed the cup to Rickart, Rickart noticed his left index finger was missing.

He was a seasoned veteran who had lived by the sword for over a decade. He might have considered losing only a single finger instead of his life a rather cheap price to pay.

Rickart took the cup and drank a mouthful. It was wine. It had an appropriate astringency, seemingly mixed with a hint of floral fragrance.

Even Rickart, who knew little about alcohol, could tell it was exquisite. He also realized the man had specifically brought out such premium liquor for someone he hadn't seen in a long time.

A breeze carrying the scent of the river brushed past their faces. Turning their heads, they saw the sunset shattering across the calm ripples.

There was no smell of dung, and it was quite secluded—not a place just anyone could set up camp. But thanks to Blatter, the group had managed to relocate to the riverside.

It was exactly the same as back then. Blatter was drinking, and the place they talked was by a river.

So, what had changed? The missing finger on Blatter's hand? Or the fact that Rickart himself had grown significantly older and taller?

If using an empty wooden crate as a table while sitting on a sturdy stump and a large rock to share a drink was a change, then it was a change. After all, Rickart didn't drink back then.

"How is Sandy?"

"Hmm, well, I feel a bit sorry for her, but she became my wife."

"What do you mean?"

Rickart chuckled at the word 'sorry'. Blatter smiled faintly, like a day slowly fading into dusk as if feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"By the way, I remember you being quite famous, Ricky. How did you end up heading to the Eastern Frontier?"

Rickart's reputation was largely cemented as a genius swordsman. Because the events at the Cult of Condemnation's Sanctuary weren't widely publicized, remarkably few people even knew he had participated.

Adding the four-year gap, only those truly in the know were aware of his past exploits.

When asked if they knew the 'Red Cape', the typical response was, "Ah, him? He was incredible for such a young age. Is he still alive?"

"Just, you know, out of curiosity. I heard there's a final shred of hope left there."

"...You haven't changed a bit since back then. What was it you said? Something about war?"

"I questioned whether the war was even worth fighting. Whether it was truly necessary to travel all that way to the Eastern Expeditionary Land just to spill blood and fight a war."

Then and now, Blatter still couldn't comprehend what the young man was talking about. He merely respected him.

And now, he worried less about him. Whatever path Rickart chose, his skills would never regress; they could only improve.

"So, was that ancient war worth fighting?"

"Well, if you really look for reasons, you could find endless ones. Politics, achievements, that sort of thing. Some people probably find those important. But rather than clinging to the past, isn't it more important how we choose to live our lives right now? Bad things turn good, and good things turn bad."

"Listen to this guy, talking like some old man who's seen everything the world has to offer."

"Hahaha... Anyway, what's with the Lyken Brotherhood? They don't seem like a very upstanding organization."

Blatter used to be an adventurer. He belonged to the Beringen Guild branch and had practically lived as a long-term tenant within the Thieves Guild in Rheinfurt trying to establish a new branch of his own.

After taking a swig straight from the bottle, he looked at the river, just as he had in the past.

"I don't belong to them. It's just, well, literally making a living by the sword. If the pay is right, I'll do anything. I'm not with the guild anymore either. Meaning I'm not an adventurer. Things changed drastically after the Emperor died. These days, if you don't own your own land, you have to live like this. The clans almost entirely splintered apart. Every other guild is going through the exact same thing."

"...Really? Why?"

"Why do you think? Because there's no benefit to remaining in a guild anymore. Do this, do that—they only make you do annoying things. I'm busy enough just trying to survive, why should I listen to them? The Emperor's gone. Without him, guilds are just private armies anyway."

The Emperor's death had a far greater impact than anyone anticipated. Since the Emperor was the ultimate source of legitimacy for adventurers, it was only natural that everyone collapsed together when that foundation crumbled.

However, an organization collapsing didn't mean its people simply vanished. Countless swordsmen either lost their jobs or quit completely.

"And you know as well as I do, most Academy graduates are illegitimate children. A lot of them hold deep grudges against their main families. So, they band together amidst the chaos, storm their family estates, and slaughter them all. Then they claim the territory for themselves."

"Seriously?"

"I know, it sounds ridiculous. But that's the era we live in now. Sure, most of them end up dying in the attempt, but sometimes they manage to slip through successfully. The great nobles are so bogged down by the chaos they often just accept a pledge of fealty and wipe their hands clean. Or they genuinely have no idea what's happening to their vassals."

While there were people carrying grudges against the ruling class—like the Cult of Condemnation—there were also many who harbored deep-seated resentment from being born as illegitimate children or second sons.

Because Rickart had grown up relatively untouched by such hardship, he harbored no grudge against his main family, nor did he possess any ambition to climb the social ladder.

But others felt differently. This chaotic era was an opportunity. An opportunity to transcend their social standing. And the method for seizing that opportunity involved murdering their own blood relatives.

Whether it was the 2nd Prince and the 5th Prince glaring viciously at each other over the throne, or commoners down below, fundamentally, their situations were exactly the same.

Why shouldn't I be the lord? I think I'd do a much better job, wouldn't I? I don't have the right of succession? Well, if I kill you, then I do.

With society unraveling, seeing something desirable naturally birthed thoughts normally kept tightly suppressed. And watching others succeed nearby made people lose their minds entirely. I CAN DO THAT TOO!

Of course, there were plenty of failures resulting in miserable endings, but those blinded by ambition rarely saw them.

Who was a bandit and who was a thief? In such a chaotic world, the line blurring between them was thicker than ever.

"What about the Academy? Is it okay?"

"The Academy is doing incredibly well these days. I heard some branches went under, but Beringen's is practically soaring. Supposedly, there are more noble graduates than illegitimate children now. So they rake in donations from everywhere, they wear ridiculous matching uniforms instead of living in chicken coops like we did, and their overall standard is much higher... These days, I don't even get treated like a senior. Being twenty-six makes me practically Ancient History. You probably feel the same, right Ricky?"

It was good to hear it was doing well, but that didn't necessarily mean it was doing well from Rickart's perspective.

Although Rickart was technically the first graduate of Beringen Academy, he had absolutely no desire to be treated specially because of it. Of course, he was only the 'first' because Karlrich had arbitrarily handed him a diploma.

Because Karlrich had given it strictly to Rickart at the time, he didn't graduate as part of an inaugural class; he was literally the first.

However, an institution originally designed to gather abandoned children was now rapidly transitioning into an enrollment program for the wealthy and moderately powerful.

At the center of that transformation was Karlrich, who was establishing the educational system. Having spent his years simply tending sheep, Rickart had no concrete idea how things actually operated there.

"By the way, if you're heading for the Eastern Frontier, avoid the eastern roads. Even if you have to take a long detour, the northern route is better. I heard the Adelorn Kingdom is basically hell on earth right now. The north is arguably the safest since the Viola Clan has a tight grip on it."

"Viola... what?"

Rickart paused while enjoying a mouthful of exquisite wine upon hearing a familiar term.

Blatter had only heard a few floating rumors about Rickart and what little Sandy had shared; he didn't know the specific details of his life.

Unlike Rickart, whose exploits were concentrated mostly in the north, Blatter operated primarily in the central and southern regions. Sandy was simply sent on the occasional dispatch mission.

"The Viola Clan. They were the ones who contributed the most during the Cult subjugation operations. They received a direct land grant from the Prince—a rarity—and were recognized with absolute autonomy. The era truly changed after them. Other adventurers realized they didn't need a guild; if they were a clan, they could succeed just the same... But that meant they needed a territory first. Although, the vast majority of men like me are just wandering around desperately looking for work."

"Where is it? Where the Viola Clan is located."

"Britzlingen. It should take about three or four days from here. Anyway, even the Empire's 9 Swords are a thing of the past. It's just people who love to gossip inflating things artificially; what do they know? But the Viola Clan is different. People call them the Empire's strongest clan. Supposedly, criminals can't even breathe in their territory. That guy the Black Sword is the clan's guardian, and with the Emperor's Champions all dead, he's probably the strongest man in the Empire right now. Might be tied with the White Sword. But since they're so far apart, they'll likely never clash."

"......"

Hearing about the Viola Clan and Bori-bori from a third party gave Rickart a very strange feeling. Many things had changed, and he hadn't been a part of any of it.

Mostly, he felt a sense of relief that they had lived diligently. They have incredible stamina. Do they ever get tired?

"It's not an Academy, but apparently they accept disciples like one. The Black Sword's disciples are supposedly extremely young but incredibly skilled with a sword. Just like you back then, Ricky."

"Haha, well, I'm not just a young kid anymore. I even got married."

Eighteen was exactly the prime of one's life. But since he had hacked his way through powerful adversaries at an unbelievably young age, he was past the point of being called impressive 'for his age'.

"Ah, the lady from earlier, right? She's gorgeous."

"Sandy's beautiful too."

"Well, that wears off after three months."

"It hasn't for me."

"Damn, you're broken in good, kid. Poor bastard. Such a young age."

"I didn't mean it like that."

Rickart chuckled and shook his head. He hadn't met many married men, but every single one he did meet seemed to grumble about it endlessly. And Blatter was no exception.

"How is Sandy? Is she still in this line of work?"

"She's nursing our kids right now. But once they're a bit older, I don't know... You know how it is. You can't let go of the blade for too long. If you stay out of the sword business for a while, you arguably can never go back. Even if she tries, getting that instinct back isn't easy. Hell, things could go horribly wrong while trying to find her footing again. Personally, I don't want her doing it anymore."

Rickart hadn't touched a sword in four years, yet his skills didn't seem rusty in the slightest. Because technical improvements had been meaningless to Rickart for a long time. Whenever his heart simply guided the blade, it instantly became a brand new sword technique.

"Then I guess you'll just have to work twice as hard, Mr. Blatter."

"Right..."

"Why not join a clan? The Viola Clan isn't the only clan in the world. Plus, you used to be a clan master, didn't you?"

"That's exactly why it feels incredibly awkward. Trying to start from the absolute bottom right now is tough for me. And if I demand respect for my seniority, my skills don't exactly back it up. Ultimately, it boils down to connections. Word of mouth, you know? Why would any clan trust my background enough to take me in?"

"Is that so? Do you really have to get in through connections?"

"That's just how the world works, Ricky."

As Blatter said, in a world lacking any objective indicator for a person's character or skill, relying on recommendations was the only way to join an organization.

Introducing someone to a lord, joining various guilds, enlisting in the army—it was the exact same everywhere.

Because it was a harsh and unforgiving world, someone you trusted having to recommend another trustworthy person was the bare minimum level of reliability required.

"In that case, let's do this. Come with us to Britzlingen. I'll recommend you to the Viola Clan. Seriously. I'm one of the founding members of that clan, you know?"

"...Really?"

"Of course. Making the violet the clan's symbol was all about eternal friendship. You're not someone who belongs in a place like this. I know that much."

"I mean, I'd appreciate it, but... wait, if you're a founding member, why the hell were you out tending sheep?"

"Just wanted to rest for a bit. Anyway, I don't know if it'll work out or not. But looking into it is still an opportunity, right? Let's go together."

Blatter had absolutely no reason to refuse. Securing a stable job in such turbulent times was practically a dream come true.

Though Rickart mentioned it lightly, opportunities often flew in as delicately as a tiny bluebird.

"Let me go grab some more alcohol."

Blatter stood up and headed somewhere. As a lover of alcohol, it seemed he planned on bringing out every single good bottle he possessed tonight.

The sunset faded entirely, and soon, stars began blooming rapidly across the sky.

Rickart and the group gathered supplies in Wertheim and forged northward, newly accompanied by Blatter.

Rickart also shed his shabby clothes for a proper gambeson and decent boots, finally donning attire befitting a swordsman, and visited the blacksmith to replace his rusty sword hilt and guard.

With his sword sheathed in a plain scabbard lacking any decoration and strapped to his waist, he truly looked like his old self again. No, he was actually taller and broader now, looking far more imposing and majestic.

However, perhaps out of habit, he still casually leaned on his wooden walking stick as he walked despite his youth.

For the migrants heading to the Eastern Frontier, having three swordsmen—Rickart, Marie, and Blatter—accompanying them felt like an utterly extravagant luxury.

Hiring skilled swordsmen as bodyguards cost an exorbitant amount. If they had that kind of money, they never would have abandoned their hometowns in the first place.

The road heading north from Wertheim steadily descended into lower altitudes, making it far less strenuous than usual.

Perhaps because of this, everyone's faces brightened up significantly, and conversations flowed freely. Caught up in the atmosphere, Marie playfully joked around constantly, and Blatter teased the young couple mercilessly.

Even the perennially anxious Bremen seemed to put his worries aside for the day, and everyone took turns holding Dalia's baby. As if giving a blessing to the child, one person after another.

His name was Liche, wasn't it?

If only the journey to the Eastern Frontier could truly continue like this—but reality was rarely a dream.

The road stretched across a vast, lush green field, and beside it stood a massive, impossibly ancient oak tree.

However, instead of acorns, humans were hanging densely from its branches. It was what was commonly known as a hanging tree. They could be spotted occasionally while traveling the world.

The laughter amongst the group abruptly vanished. Not another word was spoken.

Bremen nervously looked around while keeping a sharp eye out, and while Blatter and Marie protected the group, Rickart walked ahead alone to inspect the tree. No, to inspect the decomposition levels of the corpses.

The birds and bugs had already gouged out their soft eyes and lips. Maggots rained down heavily upon the ground beneath them, ready to sprout wings and swarm furiously.

Rickart crunched his way through the grass surrounding the tree, meticulously examining the other corpses as well.

An ordinary person might not notice, but Rickart easily recognized that the varying levels of decay meant the times of death were wildly incongruent. This meant people were hung here on a regular, systematic basis.

Just by looking at the gruesome scene, it was impossible to discern whether criminals had done this, or if it was the result of a legitimate punishment.

Only a stench far worse than the livestock dung from earlier stung their noses.

But Rickart didn't frown or pinch his nose, doing so as if offering a final act of mourning regardless of whether the deceased had committed sins in life or not.

White clouds drifted lazily across the deep blue sky. The cool field seemed like a perfect place to herd cows or sheep.

Turning his head, he saw what looked like a village far in the distance. Despite there being no signs of fire, there wasn't a single person in sight.

Then, a remarkably young voice echoed from right behind him.

"You travelers? Eastern Frontier?"

Turning his head, he saw a boy and a girl standing there. They looked roughly fourteen or fifteen. Given that fifteen was considered adulthood, he didn't know if 'boy and girl' was strictly appropriate.

The girl's auburn hair was roughly tied back, while the boy bore a striking resemblance to someone Rickart knew. A resemblance to exactly when Rickart's own fame was reaching its absolute peak.

Both wore a swallow embroidered on their chests, and both carried swords at their waists.

Taking the breeze blowing across the field head-on, Rickart answered smoothly.

"Eastern Frontier."

"Then you'd better turn back. Or go east instead."

"I heard the east is basically hell."

"Here is hell too."

"Then where exactly should we go?"

"Well, wouldn't you be the ones to decide that? You came from Wertheim, right? Just wait it out there for a few months before setting out again."

The boy remained silent throughout, leaving the girl to converse entirely with Rickart.

"And if we want to keep going?"

"I don't recommend it. You and the people behind you will all die."

"If you possess the spirit of a warrior, then who knows. You're carrying swords, after all."

The boy finally broke his silence and spoke.

The word 'spirit' brought a small smirk to Rickart's lips. No matter how numerous or powerful the opponent, he had never once avoided a fight, and had never lost a single one.

"What exactly makes your spirit so strong that you wander around this hellish place?"

"It's not about our spirit, our master told us to. He said if we save even one decent person, we'll build up one more reason to justify continuing holding a sword."

"That's admirable. Who exactly is your master?"

"You probably wouldn't believe us if we told you. Nobody else seems to believe us anyway."

"Is that so?"

Showing his apparent disinterest if they were hesitant to answer, Rickart turned his gaze away. He glanced toward the distant village, then quickly scanned the area where his group waited.

Blatter, Marie, and the rest were all looking anxiously toward where Rickart stood with the young boy and girl.

"The Black Sword, Bori. That man is our master."

"Hard to believe, right?"

The boy and girl spoke simultaneously. Rickart turned his head to look at them once more.

And then spoke.

"Well, if I said I taught Bori, you probably wouldn't believe that either."