Chapter 50

Chapter 50

***

One should not judge a person solely by their appearance, but sometimes, there are instances where nothing else comes to mind.

Reinhardt, the Clan Master of the Widow Maker Clan, was a man who looked like a bandit to anyone who saw him. His words and actions were no different.

"Hey! We might die today or tomorrow, so just drink!"

The massive man with a sparse beard spoke in a husky voice as he sat sprawled on the floor inside the defense tower. He looked to be nearly two meters tall, and his belly, bursting out of his clothes, resembled a small hillock.

A wooden club, as tall as a man, stood leaning against the wall. Looking at its sheer weight, one had to wonder if it could truly be used as a weapon. Even now, dried bits of hair, flesh, and blood clung thickly to its surface.

"No, forget the alcohol! I told you, nearly a hundred enemies have gathered below us!"

Bolka shouted, looking frustrated.

"We know that, kid! So what? Are you saying we should abandon this place and run? The instructions I received were to protect this tower. So whether a hundred come or a thousand, we guard it! What do I care!"

With that, Reinhardt downed the bowl of alcohol in a single gulp. After drinking such a massive amount in one breath, he let out a thunderous belch. It was strong enough to cause a breeze.

"Kkeueoeoeoeoeok! Keoreureuk. Kkeok."

"Ugh, damn it!"

Delphi frowned and turned her head away. Rickart, Bori-bori, Marie, and Bolka did the same.

They waved their hands to clear the air, but it was no use. The stench erupting from deep inside his belly was terrible.

Bolka swore inwardly. No, the curse he meant to keep inside eventually spilled out.

"Damn it."

Nevertheless, Reinhardt didn't care. He grinned, opening a mouth big enough to swallow a person whole. He seemed satisfied seeing the young kids suffer from his belch.

"Hehehe, you cute, little things. If you want to go, then go. I won't force you. However, unless different orders come down, my brothers and I will die here."

Was it responsibility? Or loyalty? Not even a noble knight would go this far. Anyone could see this was an obvious defeat, and retreating was the right choice.

However, as Delphi had assessed, his stubbornness seemed to stem from simple ignorance.

Reinhardt didn't think about anything else. Instructions came down from above, he decided to do it, and so he would. That was all.

Unlike Bolka, Rickart looked at Reinhardt and thought the guild's executive branch had done a truly excellent job with personnel management.

In an army, every commander has a different temperament or character; some are well-suited for attacking, while others are suitable for defense.

Of course, there are those who are good at both, but setting competence aside, such inclinations definitely existed.

Among them, the type of commander who protects a base well usually possesses exceptional stubbornness, unusual venom, or grit.

The Beringen Guild executive branch seemed to have placed Reinhardt here considering those exact traits.

However, this wasn't a general war mobilizing an army. While similar, there were clearly different aspects.

Just then, Reinhardt looked at Rickart standing beside Bolka and his eyes shone.

"Oi, Red Cloak. Is it you? The genius swordsman who killed the Mad Dog?"

"That's right."

Rickart nodded in affirmation.

Bolka, Delphi, and Marie didn't know this fact, so they looked back at Rickart, blinking their eyes in surprise. Mad Dog? No way, isn't that one of the Empire's 9 Swords?

The fact that Rickart and Bori-bori, along with Nameless, had executed the Ehrenberg 5 was top secret at first, so rumors hadn't spread much.

However, people in the know, including Clan Master class individuals, knew everything. It was just that Bolka and Delphi, despite being close to Rickart, didn't know.

Reinhardt wasn't a Clan Master who oversaw multiple clans, but he held a status equivalent to that within the guild, so he had heard things here and there.

"He's not a guy you can kill with just luck. Even if Nameless helped, it wouldn't have been easy. I know that much. I've seen that terrifying bastard with the Mad Dog disease in person."

Tipsy from the alcohol, Reinhardt naturally recalled an intense memory.

Steiner, standing with a burning village behind him, holding a sword glowing red. His eyes glistened with madness, truly like a dog with rabies; just remembering it made Reinhardt's knees shake, feeling as if the man would rush at him any moment.

Since they had only encountered each other in passing due to a request, he considered it a thousand times fortunate that he hadn't met him as an enemy.

A Sword Master referred to a being who had transcended the human realm. So, after that day, Reinhardt thought it was impossible for a human to kill a Sword Master.

But he died. At the hands of a young genius swordsman. Of course, it might have been possible because a powerful ally named Nameless existed, but it was still a great feat. He himself couldn't have done such a thing at that age.

"To catch a tiger, you must have the guts to enter the tiger's den. Regardless of the circumstances, you certainly did a great job. But keep this in mind. Fame is a double-edged sword. It seems like it will lead you to the road of success, but it's actually a rope hanging over a cliff. You can fall at any time. Moreover, there will be many guys trying to kill you to steal that fame."

Hearing Reinhardt’s words, Rickart thought this man wasn't just an ignorant person. He simply smiled slily and said.

"I didn't kill him for success. I just beat him to death because he was a rabid dog. And, I'm already familiar with guys rushing in coveting fame."

Ten years as a shepherd, ten years on the battlefield, and ten years as a rare murderer. In his previous life, Rickart had spent ten years killing guys rushing to obtain fame.

Rickart was someone who had experienced all kinds of guys, gone through all kinds of methods, and overcome all kinds of crises.

"Did you live two lives or something? You have no cute charm for a kid."

Reinhardt said with an expression asking what kind of kid this was. Rickart just laughed at his words, which unexpectedly penetrated the essence of things.

With that, they stepped out of the defense tower. Outside, the sun was just beginning to set.

"The Mad Dog? You mean the Empire's 9 Swords, Mad Dog Steiner?"

Bolka approached quickly and asked, bewildered.

"Ask Bori."

Rickart answered as if it were nothing much, and examined the surroundings of the defense tower first.

The cylindrical defense tower was built with bricks, but the top had collapsed and large stones were scattered around. Bushes grown over a long time covered those stone piles, seeming to inform of the transience of time.

That is to say, the defense tower had currently lost its defensive function and was just useful as a temporary shelter.

Around the defense tower, adventurers of the Widow Maker Clan were living in tents. There were about a dozen of them in total. Combined with Rickart's Viola Clan, it was about twenty people.

Rickart walked with steady steps and examined the south side of the defense tower. Below was a sheer rock cliff; it seemed impossible for enemies to come this way.

Below the rock cliff, a valley stream flowed from east to west, and a road existed beside the water. If one went straight west, the road split to the north and south.

To the enemies, this road was very important. Because to go to the Siegfinger region, the Empire's Central North, one had to pass this road.

Walking a bit west from the defense tower, a suspension bridge was installed connecting to the opposite mountain. The old ropes still looked strong, but the footholds were half-rotten and looked unstable.

That is to say, the places where enemies could attack were the gentle slopes to the north and east. Even that road was narrow near the defense tower.

They could protect it if they tried, but if a large number flocked in and blocked the entrance, it seemed perfectly suited for starving to death.

Rickart reached a conclusion in his head. The defense tower had become nominal, but the location was definitely a strategic point. It was a terrain commanding a view in all directions, and moreover, it had its own escape route.

"What are we going to do?"

Marie, who was following Rickart closely, asked.

"Mm?"

"As Bolka said, staying here continuously doesn't look particularly good."

"What 'Bolka'. Just call him Bolka."

"No, really, what are we going to do."

"From what I see, it's worth protecting. Even if it weren't, I don't think we should just give up this place. If we give up everything whenever enemies flock in, what will remain? We must at least inflict damage. Marie, what do you think?"

"How about requesting support?"

Rickart shook his head. The guild was probably pouring almost all its manpower into seizing newly obtained areas. That place was probably also, or even more, difficult than here.

Nevertheless, Bolka's reaction or Marie's opinion wasn't wrong. It was understandable enough, and common sense.

"Ricky, aren't you afraid of dying? Is it confidence in your skill?"

"Well, I don't really know myself. What do you think?"

"It doesn't seem like it's simply because you're brave."

Rickart didn't answer and just smiled slily. Honestly, Rickart himself didn't know that part well either.

Looking at the path Rickart had walked until now, he hadn't spared his body to the point of seeming reckless. But the thought occurred that it wasn't just because he was brave.

Rickart moved his steps again and went to examine the enemies located below the eastern highland. Seeing them from here, a hundred people didn't look like that many, but it was clearly a large number.

But in Rickart's eyes, the enemies looked lax, just people gathered in large numbers. Because they hadn't built a camp by digging trenches or driving stakes.

It seemed they had just filled the headcount of a hundred by gathering clans that played separately.

Above all, they didn't have a separate supply unit. There was no system or organization to procure food. They depended on what they each brought separately, so food seemed likely to run out soon too.

The vague, complacent thought that if many people gathered, it would somehow work out was visible plainly in his eyes. They looked like a beggar group living in tents. Of course, their appearance wasn't beggar-like.

Perhaps they didn't even have a commander. If not, they wouldn't have spent time vainly gathering down there. Or they would have spread out widely to surround us.

Of course, even if a commander existed, it was useless if they didn't listen. Adventurers had distinct individualities, making them hard to handle like general soldiers.

Individual combat power was excellent but uneven, so exercising group power was hard too.

But in the midst of the sunset becoming thicker, among the enemies gathering noisily, a few groups fell out. They walked up to where the defense tower existed.

Judging by the weapons they were equipped with coming up, it seemed they were coming to fight. If so, why come separately instead of attacking all together?

He could know the answer to that question before long.

A man wearing a Longsword at his waist came up to about the middle alone and shouted toward this side.

"Oi! Red Cloak! Red Cloak Ricky! Come out! Let's compete!"

This was exactly the difference from a general war. Individual purpose was more important than the whole goal. Meaning, obtaining fame.

Rickart looked at the person coming forward vacantly, then went down with steady steps holding his sword in one hand.

"Ri, Ricky."

"Ricky!"

Marie called Rickart bewilderedly, and Bolka, who was talking with Bori-bori in full swing, also shouted in surprise. Because it was a fight he didn't dare need to respond to.

But Rickart didn't look back; he continued going down the gentle slope covered in short grass. Because of the sunset, the protruding rocks were dyed red.

Rickart, holding his sword in his left hand, went down nonchalantly and stood facing the enemy, putting some distance between them. The place Rickart stood was slightly higher terrain.

"I am Weberstein, the 2nd Sword of the 'Three Swords' Clan."

It was a clan he was hearing of for the first time. It might be famous in other places, but Rickart heard it for the first time now.

The man with an impressive beard covering his lower face watched Rickart quietly, then continued speaking.

"You're younger than I thought, Red Cloak. No personal feelings."

With that, Weberstein didn't speak lengthily anymore and pulled out his sword. He aimed the sword tip at Rickart with a stable posture. Seeing his eyes, there seemed to be no carelessness or place to enter.

Honestly, Rickart had mostly finished fights in one stroke using the opponent's carelessness until now. The Bilton brothers walking defenselessly, or strong people rushing recklessly underestimating his young age.

Catching that one moment's carelessness accurately and not missing the chance, that was the reason, if it was a reason, that Rickart had been winning continuously until now.

However, now that his fame had spread as it had, there were no careless people. They didn't look down on him for being young.

Leaving aside the stage of the sword, a gradually more difficult fight was waiting.

But even if he won using carelessness, that wasn't Rickart's all. He didn't depend only on that either.

From the highland field, the Beringen Guild side people scattered here and there looked down from above, and the enemies looked up from below.

Not only Rickart's friends, but Reinhardt also stopped drinking alcohol and came out to watch. All eyes gathered on Rickart and that opponent.

All people having high fame in the world had to prove whether they had skill fitting that fame indeed.

Moreover, for a person walking toward being called the strongest, or even if already achieved, much more even if looking beyond that, proving until dying was a swordsman's fate.

Rickart didn't do a self-introduction; without any word, he pulled out his sword. He had no interest in proving or the like, and anyway, proving is not done with words.

His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, and the blade was dyed red as the sunset permeated it.