Chapter 90

Chapter 90

***

The frenzied autumn passed, and winter arrived. It wasn't even a year of famine, yet the roadsides were sparsely littered with the corpses of those who had starved to death.

Among them, the frozen corpse of a baby was particularly heartbreaking. What sin did this baby commit? Even if there were a god, could they answer?

However, those who suffered from chronic incongruity were numb to such sights.

Outlaws. Those who killed the masters of the land they lived on had lost their way. Their aimless anger ultimately drove even themselves into a dead end.

There was no class struggle, nor was there any ideological background. They simply got swept up in the mood and committed the act, not knowing what to do next.

Spilled water cannot be gathered back. Those who committed the murders of nobles fled up into the mountains. Banding together, they became bandits.

As if the world were blooming with mold, such outlaws overflowed everywhere.

In small territories, an army would only gather around ten people inside and out. In fact, rather than an army, it was merely adult men wearing mismatched battle equipment.

Although it was said that one heavily armed knight could take on a hundred commoners, there were also many knight families where the current generation held hoes instead of swords, a trend starting from their grandfathers' generation.

Those who locked themselves in their castles to survive alone, or those who were dragged out by outlaws, saw their entire families massacred and their villages devastated.

Who would punish them? Or rather, whose fault was it?

Sadly, questioning such things was meaningless. When a robber pointed a knife at your face, the law and justice surprisingly and easily became powerless.

Winter passed. Around the time the swallows returned, deep purple violets bloomed in the fields.

Nevertheless, the situation did not improve.

Though the weather was cool in early spring, the sunlight felt exceptionally stinging.

A man wearing a round-brimmed helmet already had his hair drenched in sweat. Panting in the heat, he heavily frowned his already wrinkled face.

Wearing a heavily padded gambeson and holding a hooked spear called a billhook, he stood at the entrance of the mountain, looking up.

From the crudely woven mountain fortress, the bandits were staring down at them.

"Those sons of bitches..."

Whether he deeply hated the bandits or not, the man didn't just casually curse, but said it as if he were thoroughly chewing his words.

"Did everyone come down?"

"Captain?"

"No one's injured, right?"

Voices checking on things could be heard around the man wearing the helmet. They were the man's colleagues.

There were seven of them in total. Although the standard of their equipment was similar, it varied individually.

Some wore helmets, some didn't, and some simply wore tight leather or cloth coifs, while their weapons ranged widely from spears and swords to axes.

This was because they were not soldiers, but adventurers.

However, there was a serious problem for them: the bandits numbered fifty. To be asked to subjugate fifty bandits with just seven people, was it a joke?

Of course, if they were fighting on a flat plain, killing fifty poorly equipped bandits would have been possible. The problem was that the bandits wouldn't come down from their mountain fortress.

Since there were so few of them, they couldn't besiege the fortress, and the bandits openly roamed around under the cover of the night.

The reason battles were difficult was actually because activities like eating, sleeping, defecating, and keeping watch on the streets were far more mentally and physically exhausting than the fighting itself.

Moreover, it was even worse when there seemed to be no answer. They would just charge up the mountain once a day, only to be chased back down by a barrage of stones thrown from above.

They couldn't just laugh off the stone-throwing, because if a stone thrown from a sling hit them wrong, their skull could be crushed and they could die instantly.

So they didn't know why they had to do this, but according to the captain, at least doing this kept the enemies intimidated.

"Hey, haven't you fixed the crossbow yet?"

The Clan Master asked, pulling out and throwing aside an arrow smeared with feces and urine. It was a poison arrow. If it pierced the flesh, the flesh would rot and decay from infection.

Fortunately, the bows used by the bandits were so crude that they couldn't penetrate the armor to reach the flesh.

But the stench couldn't be helped, so the captain grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and rubbed it on his armor with familiar ease.

"Captain, I think I need to take this to the bowyer. The cogwheel won't lock."

The only person in the clan who handled a crossbow spoke. Damn it, it broke after firing just five times. What's more, it didn't hit a single person. Was the crossbowman incompetent, or was the crossbow just junk?

"Can't you just pull it with your strength?"

"I said it won't lock, didn't I?"

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

"Does that make any sense?"

"Ah, damn it. Guys, let's eat first."

At the Clan Master's instruction, a few dragged their tired bodies and brought a large cauldron. They filled it with water and threw in whatever ingredients they had to boil it.

As the mysterious, unnamed soup started to boil vigorously, the adventurers scooped it into dubious wooden bowls that looked like they hadn't been washed properly.

Putting down their weapons and taking off their helmets, they sat sprawled on the ground, chugging it down or eating with their hands. Naturally, they didn't wash their hands.

Spices couldn't be expected. They merely ate by adding herbs found in nature or the salt they personally carried.

The only fortunate thing for these exhausted men was that, being early spring, they could cool down easily. The cool wind blowing and chilling their sweat tasted like honey itself.

"Captain, but how long do we have to do this?"

"Ricky said he's coming, so let's endure it a bit."

"I know he's an incredible swordsman, but will his arrival change anything? It's not like those guys will agree to a duel."

"I don't know. There must be a way."

"What if he comes and there's no way?"

"Then it's just a fight of who gets tired first."

"Damn it..."

"Hey, there's no giving up. Credit is our lifeblood. And do you want to lose to bastards like them?"

Still, as expected of a Clan Master, he seemed to have a proper mindset compared to the ordinary, grumbling adventurers.

The Clan Master didn't completely fail to understand his colleagues' complaints either. And although he didn't show it outwardly, he was just as frustrated inside.

Yet, a captain's role was to somehow lead them, sometimes comforting them and sometimes shouting at them.

However, battle sometimes involved exploiting exactly that: scratching at the opponent's emotions.

"Hey! You there!"

Someone shouted from the not-so-distant mountain fortress. The adventurers, who had been gulping down their food, turned their heads and looked up.

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

In such a dragged-out fight, negotiations were common. But the adventurers affiliated with the Beringen Guild's Ehrenberg Branch were different. They had their pride, or self-esteem.

One person jumped up and yelled.

"Fuck off! You son of a bitch!"

"Hey! How much money do you guys even make!? How about you join us!?"

"Are they crazy?"

"We made a huge amount of gold coins... last winter! A whole lot!"

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

"You fucking bastards! You can't understand a word! Your mothers, your wives...!"

Perhaps because things weren't going as expected, the bandit launched into unspeakable curses.

"You son of a bitch! I've memorized your face!"

"What are you gonna do if you remember it!? Come up! I dare you to come up and see!"

"Argh, damn it!"

He ground his teeth, but there was nothing he could do. But at that moment, someone initiated a conversation beside the adventurers.

"What are you all doing?"

Turning their heads, they saw a young man with blond hair wearing a red cloak standing vacantly. A single sword hung at his waist, and between the cloak, iron plate armor could be slightly seen.

It was a breastplate obtained as loot when the Rubens Guild surrendered. A sort of ancient artifact that was thin, light, and boasted ridiculous defensive power.

Moreover, the material was true silver. It wasn't just mixed with a little bit; it was entirely forged from true silver, an item that couldn't be replicated with the technology of the current era.

Making iron both thin and strong required metallurgy to be sufficiently developed, and on top of that, there were only a handful of blacksmiths across the entire Empire who possessed the skill to handle true silver.

Most knights wore chainmail, and high nobles were the same. Thus, the breastplate Rickart was currently wearing was no different from a mysterious ancient magic item.

People called it 'Ruben's Last Pride', carrying a slightly mocking meaning towards the Rubens Guild. Ruben was the founder of the Rubens Guild, and the armor was originally discovered by him in ancient ruins.

However, Rickart, saying that its shine was embarrassing, wore a surcoat-like garment somewhat covering it. The surcoat was embroidered with purple violets.

A red cloak, iron plate armor, and violets were the things that outwardly symbolized Rickart.

Incidentally, it was deeply ironic that the very people who ruined his lungs had offered up an item capable of perfectly protecting his torso.

"Ricky?"

"When did you get here?"

"Just now."

"Uh... As you can see, the situation is like this."

The Clan Master said. The other adventurers, right down on the floor eating their meal, stared up at Rickart blankly.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Wait a moment."

Rickart quietly looked up at the mountain fortress. After seemingly observing it for a while, he borrowed a heater shield from one of the adventurers who possessed one. Adjusting the leather strap to secure it firmly to his forearm, he spoke.

"I think I can break that door. When I break it, everyone come up at once. You have to come up quickly."

"Break it? That door? Without a log?"

No matter how crudely made the fortress gate was, it wasn't flimsy enough to be breached by a mere individual's strength.

Several people gathering their strength to ram it with a log chipped to a point was the usual method, which was difficult with their current numbers.

"Finish up here quickly and gather in Ehrenberg. An official document came from the Imperial Guild Office. Under the name of the Kelbron Court Count."

Kelbron was the territory of the Emperor’s Champion, Helauman. Generally, high lords were addressed by their titles rather than their names.

"What document?"

"Listen to Bolka for the details, but it seems to be related to the Judgment Cult subjugation."

"How much are they paying?"

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

With that, Rickart started ascending toward the mountain fortress alone. The swearing bandits stared down vacantly before beginning to provoke him.

"What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do?"

"A red cloak? Are you Ricky? But what are you gonna do?"

They threw stones as if they were monkeys. Rickart didn't even flinch, keeping his back straight as he calmly looked up, smoothly dodging them with subtle movements.

He continued climbing up to the mountain fortress. Due to his poor lungs, he couldn't run.

"Hey! Your girlfriend was tasty! I had her yesterday! She was dying from pleasure!?"

"You young punk! You think you can act like you own the place just 'cause you know how to use a sword a little!?"

Despite hearing the severe curses, Rickart didn't get angry. He knew that all sorts of curses were thrown around on the battlefield. Reacting to such things individually would only cause stress and hinder his ability to fight.

However, he firmly memorized the face.

The bandits mostly threw stones by hand. Some missed wildly, while others were quite accurate and fierce. And among them, some were thrown using slings.

Rickart dodged what he could dodge, and blocked what he needed to block with the shield.

Thwack! Clang! Thud!

Dodging or blocking them all, he didn't stop climbing the mountain. Finally reaching the gate of the mountain fortress while the bandits looked down from above, Rickart drew upon Ilya's strength and kicked the gate with all his might.

Crash!

"Hey, you retard! What's that gonna do!?"

Crash!

"Hey, bring some spears!"

The mountain fortress wasn't as high as a castle wall, so their distance would reach if they thrust spears from above.

However, before they could fetch their spears, an unfamiliar sound reached their ears.

Crash! Crack!

The clear sound of wood splintering, slightly breaking, was heard. The gate wasn't entirely shattered in a single blow, but the wooden board secured by the latch behind it had fractured a bit.

For a moment, the bandits felt a sense of disbelief and rationalized it away, thinking, 'No, it couldn't be.'

But Rickart drew his sword and slashed through the ropes tightly binding the wood together in one fluid motion. After a few cuts, he threw one last, powerful kick at the weakened door.

Crash! Smash!

One half of the door, completely tattered, swung open. The latch on the remaining door was entirely broken, so he simply pushed it open.

Rickart looked back and shouted to the adventurers.

"Now! Come up!"

Meanwhile, the adventurers who had been watching from below merely blinked their wide, surprised eyes, just as shocked as the bandits.

At least the Clan Master quickly came to his senses and hurriedly grabbed his equipment, running up the mountain.

"Let's go!"

Rickart calmed his slightly ragged breathing before slowly stepping into the mountain fortress. Staring at the bandits still clinging to the fence, he addressed one of them.

"My girlfriend was what?"

"A b-beauty, that's what I heard... I just said it as a joke..."

A hollow laugh escaped Rickart. Making excuses now wouldn't save him. Mentioning Marie was one thing, but he also knew what these bandits had been doing over the past autumn and winter.

They were the scum who turned villages into shambles, and if their victims were nobles, they wouldn't even spare the innocent children. They didn't just kill; they committed unspeakable atrocities without hesitation.

So, there was no choice but to kill them. It was partly a job, as well.

Rickart beckoned with his finger, calling over the guy who had cursed. Judging that it was impossible to run away, the bandit surprisingly stepped forward obediently.

"H-haha, how could a guy like me, sir..."

Just as the bandit was about to mumble an excuse, the sword held in Rickart's right hand swung horizontally from left to right in a flash.

The bandit flinched, and his cleanly severed head slowly tilted to the side.

Only then did the other bandits' hair stand on end, but the adventurers had already arrived by then. Their anger was at its maximum.

A massacre ensued.

As the eight men, including Rickart, stabbed and slashed, killing about thirty people, the rest scattered. The mountain fortress was turned into a sea of blood.

Unilaterally killing people was actually exhausting physical labor. Once the situation was settled, the adventurers took off their helmets and wiped their sweat-and-blood-stained faces. Then, they immediately collapsed onto the ground, panting heavily.

After catching their breath for a while, they searched the fortress. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were no prisoners insight. There were only rotting food supplies and valuables like silverware.

Though they would fetch quite a bit of money if sold, divided among the numbers, it wasn't a massive sum.

When the Clan Master turned his head to ask Rickart how he wanted to divide the loot, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where did Ricky go?"

"He just left."

The Clan Master blinked in confusion, climbing up the fortress fence to look down. Rickart had already descended the mountain and was leisurely walking away alone. Every time the wind blew, his cloak fluttered slightly.

Looking at that calm and composed figure, the Clan Master felt a strange chill.

Perhaps the source of the pride he and his colleagues felt stemmed from the fact that they were affiliated with the same branch as Rickart.

When someone acted so distinctly and looked that cool doing it, it was only natural to unknowingly want to follow in their footsteps.

Rickart didn't shout about justice. But he maintained a minimum standard of common sense. Even when the world was going crazy, that common sense remained unshaken.

And above all, he was strong. Being with him erased any thought of losing. No matter how hard things got, one could harbor the hope that as long as they endured, they'd pull through somehow.

Whether Rickart intended it or not, his fellow adventurers felt this way. And they believed in him. Because, just like now, he actually made it happen.

The Ehrenberg Branch ended up having the highest participation rate in the Judgment Cult subjugation operation.