Chapter 98

Chapter 98

***

The Judgment Cult was no more. While there might still be believers lingering like ghosts somewhere in the Empire, the Holy Temple, at least, no longer existed.

Exactly what transpired at the temple that day remained largely unknown. Very few survived, and those who did chose not to speak of it.

What was certain, however, was that Court Count Helauman Kelbron, the Supreme Commander of the subjugation operation, had fallen in battle. His corpse was so unimaginably mangled that recovering it proved difficult.

Whether he deserved to be commemorated was debatable, but circumstances didn't allow for it anyway. His death was handled quietly within his own family.

The 5th Prince, Bellator, loudly proclaimed he had achieved vengeance for the late Emperor, marketing it extensively as if he had secured his legitimacy as the next Emperor. However, the effect was far less significant than he anticipated.

This was because heavyweights like Kings, Dukes, and Margraves weren't the type to be easily swayed by mere symbols and rhetoric.

They only moved when there was tangible, guaranteed profit. Or if the opposing side possessed enough power to inflict severe damage. And frankly, they were all too busy keeping their own vassals in check to care.

The 2nd Prince, Lotharius, was still alive. He was first in the line of succession.

Because the eldest son had died young and the Emperor's grandson had become the Crown Prince, Lotharius had faced intense scrutiny and was sent away from the Imperial Capital early on to become a Count.

As a result, he had absolutely no political foundation within the capital, and having lived a secluded life, his social skills were lackluster, meaning he lacked any clear support from the vassals.

Not much was known about what kind of person he was; in short, he possessed little else besides his rightful claim.

Conversely, the 5th Prince was second in line but held a solid political faction within the capital. While his support among the vassals was also ambiguous, he actively made outward efforts to secure it.

The Emperor was elected by high-ranking nobles who held voting rights. Traditionally, unless there were specific reasons otherwise, the Emperor had always been elected from the Nivelinger family, the lineage of the founding Emperor. But in reality, any noble holding a sufficient title was eligible to be elected.

In other words, the Elector Princes needed to convene and hold an election to choose an Emperor. But currently, with no Crown Prince and the 2nd and 5th Princes at each other's throats, nobody knew who would be elected.

It was a situation where either the 2nd Prince or the 5th Prince had to die. Even if neither personally lusted for power, it was the inescapable destiny of those born as sons of the Emperor.

Throughout the Empire, outlaws still ran rampant. While some regions remained profoundly peaceful, others witnessed atrocities every single day.

The rebellion in the Adelorn Kingdom was also proving difficult to fully suppress, and the war was dragging on.

That was the state of the world. Historically speaking, it wasn't particularly unique. It was the sort of commonplace chaos that erupted just often enough to keep people from forgetting. However, for those living through it, it was a tragedy.

A bizarre stability—seemingly peaceful, yet not quite—persisted for several years. The Emperor's throne couldn't remain vacant forever, but for the time being, that was the reality.

In the midst of all this, Rickart and his friends parted ways after the Cult subjugation operation. They hadn't genuinely fallen out with each other; their chosen paths simply diverged.

Perhaps it wasn't so unusual for friends to drift apart as they grew older. Wasn't that just how life worked for everyone?

Bolka was granted a piece of unclaimed land somewhere in the east at a steeply discounted price by the Imperial Family. Similar to a knightly order's domain or a monastery's territory, it was an area granted autonomy. Should he call it a Clan Territory?

Regardless, the Imperial Family provided absolutely nothing besides the land itself, so the burden of securing it and cultivating the wild terrain fell entirely on Bolka's shoulders.

A few individuals followed Bolka to the very end, and Bori-bori was among them.

Bori-bori was finally able to shed that loathsome nickname "Dismemberment"; people now called him the "Black Sword".

As a bona fide Sword Master, he became renowned as the guardian of the Viola Clan and a true master of the blade.

Leveraging his connections from Ehrenberg, Bolka stubbornly built everything from the ground up, borrowing and buying whatever he could scrape together.

It was difficult, dangerous, and exhausting work, but it was incredibly rewarding. After all, he wasn't part of a guild anymore; this was purely his—no, it was theirs.

Furthermore, a new life blossomed between Bolka and Delphi. Unlike their own histories of being cast aside, they showered love and blessings upon the new generation.

Ice, along with Daisy, the Nuns of Prophecy, and the surviving children, purchased an ancient, abandoned monastery and established an orphanage.

It was named the 'Michela Sword Monastery'. It wasn't merely a place for worship; it functioned as a sort of militant monastic order.

Although Ice was currently the only armed monk, he personally taught the children how to wield a sword.

Ice became known as the 'Sword of Purity' or the 'White Sword'. People widely considered him to be on par with the Black Sword, Bori.

'Praise God, and be brave in the face of love' was the Order's motto, and they made it their sworn duty to protect the weak, especially children.

Due to a chronic lack of operational funds, they too lived tightly, but every single day felt deeply fulfilling.

To witness the children's bright smiles and watch them grow year by year filled their hearts with immense joy.

Those who had once been abandoned had all formed and were continuing to build their own families and beliefs in their own unique ways.

And as for Rickart...

God's language is silence, so He didn't bother using words to announce the changing seasons. He simply let people feel it as the snow melted, sprouts emerged, creatures awoke from hibernation, and the warm sunlight bathed the earth.

God revealed everything. It was simply humanity that chose not to see.

Yet, there were always those who couldn't afford the luxury of admiring a vibrant spring. Life was simply too harsh and grueling for them.

This was especially true for those practically chased from their homes by the tyranny of cruel lords, corrupt priests, and rampant outlaws.

Unless one already had relatives living there, settling down as a foreigner in a new land was incredibly difficult. It was an era particularly hostile and exclusive toward outsiders.

However, a certain rumor began circulating among these destitute, ostracized people.

The Eastern Frontier. The rumor claimed that if you went there, you'd be given free land, there were no tyrannical lords, and it was a place where people saved themselves through their own beliefs.

An increasing number of people were packing up and heading there based solely on that rumor.

Consequently, specific gathering places formed for these hopeful migrants, and there were even professional guides offering to lead them all the way to the Eastern Frontier.

It was nearly impossible to determine whether these guides were con artists or not. Even if they were, the victims had no means of seeking restitution, let alone anywhere to complain.

Near the border between the central and southern regions of the Empire lay a settlement that was neither a proper village nor a city—just a cluster of dwellings formed by people congregating. It had no official name; people simply called it 'Crossroads'.

There were a few dilapidated buildings and a sprawling barn, but the vast majority of people simply pitched tents or erected crude huts to survive.

A graveyard lay nearby, and it seemed the undertaker had the most lucrative job in town. The sick gathered near the graveyard, quietly awaiting death.

A family arrived at this very place. A heavily bearded, solidly built father, a mother who looked quite young compared to her husband, an older teenage daughter, and a young son who appeared to be around seven or eight years old. A family of four.

They clearly had a troubled past, but that was nothing special here. Tragic stories that would bring anyone to tears were as common as the trash littering the streets.

The father gripped a woodcutting axe in his hand, the blade wrapped in cloth. He carried a massive bundle of household goods on his back, and save for the youngest son, his wife and young daughter each carried heavy bundles as well.

He slowly scanned the wretched, barren settlement before heading toward a building named 'Lily Lily'.

It appeared to be a shabby inn, but it functioned almost like a quasi-government office. This was where parties bound for the Eastern Frontier were organized; once enough people gathered, the journey began.

Upon entering the building, a nauseating stench immediately assaulted their noses. The clientele inside consisted entirely of thugs, criminals, and prostitutes.

The father walked straight up to the bartender.

"We want to go to the Eastern Frontier."

The bartender, busy wiping a wooden mug with a filthy rag, merely dragged his eyes up to glance at the man. Continuing to wipe the mug as if deliberately ignoring him, he asked:

"Name."

"Hartmann."

"A defector from the Judgment Cult?"

"No."

"Criminal?"

"Yes."

"What crime did you commit?"

"I killed a priest."

"...So you're an outlaw."

"No."

The bartender slammed the mug down. He stared intently at Hartmann and the family huddled behind him.

His wife was hauling a heavy pack, and his young daughter and son were tightly clutching their mother's skirt on either side, staring up at the bartender with wide eyes.

"Three adults and one child. That'll be three silver and one copper."

"I have two children."

"Once they hit ten, they ain't considered kids around here no more."

The bartender retorted, gesturing toward the daughter with his chin.

Arguing wouldn't get the price lowered anyway. It was by no means a small sum, but perhaps it was an appropriate price to pay for chasing their very last sliver of hope.

Hartmann placed three silver coins and one copper coin on the bar. They were dented and slightly misshapen.

The bartender pocketed the money, gestured with his eyes toward a corner of the room, and spoke.

"Those two over there, Rieman and Yapp, will be heading out shortly. And that old man in the far corner, Bremen, you'll probably have to wait a bit with him. You choose."

Hartmann turned to look at the people seated along the wall. The men named Rieman and Yapp were young, reasonably well-armed, and judging by the others at their table, they seemed to have companions.

In contrast, the old man named Bremen occupied a table all by himself, his head bowed low beneath a coif. It was impossible to tell if he was asleep or just resting. However, a short sword was strapped to his waist.

Guides didn't merely show the way. They had to possess enough martial prowess to protect their clients to some extent during the perilous journey to the Eastern Frontier.

From that perspective, the old man Bremen seemed the least reliable by far.

However, Hartmann approached the old man. Not for any particular reason, but simply because he knew he stood no chance against men like Rieman and Yapp if they decided to turn their blades on him.

He intended to protect his family himself; he only needed someone to show the way.

When Hartmann reached the old man, Bremen, who had been keeping his head down, slowly raised it to look up at him. His thick, unkempt white mustache was quite striking.

Bremen briefly swept his gaze over Hartmann's family before speaking.

"Do you know how to handle that axe a bit?"

"I've been swinging an axe my entire life."

"No, not chopping wood. I'm asking if you can chop people with it."

"That's exactly why I'm here."

"...I see. Name?"

"Hartmann."

"I'm Bremen. I could use an extra hand, so you'll have to help out a bit. We've got a lot of things to load."

"Before that, how do I know I can trust you?"

He wasn't an officially appointed guide by a lord, nor did he belong to a mildly reputable group like the Adventurer's Guild. He was just a guide.

Bremen stared blankly at Hartmann, who had asked the question, and replied.

"You're looking for trust in this day and age? Well, the only thing you can do here is to either trust me or not. You just have to pick one."

Hartmann didn't answer. Bremen then posed a question to him.

"Let me ask you one thing too. Nine out of ten people who head for the Eastern Frontier die on the way. You still want to go?"

Hartmann thought of his family. For that reason alone, he couldn't easily answer. But giving a slow nod was all he could do.

Bremen slowly rose from his seat. He didn't appear physically impaired, but he possessed that slow, creaky quality typical of old men.

Expecting to stay for a day or two, Hartmann rented a room. There were no vacancies, but the bartender managed to kick out a patron who was behind on rent to accommodate them.

Since someone else had just been staying there, the room was filthy and in complete disarray. His wife, Elia, roughly tidied things up, set down their heavy burdens, and finally took a breath.

Hartmann followed the old man outside to meet the people living in tents. They were all intending to head to the Eastern Frontier with Bremen. In other words, their travel companions.

There was one man with several children, similar to Hartmann's situation, three young thugs, and an unmarried mother.

Including the children, there were 14 people in total. No one knew what these people had done before or what stories brought them here. Their only shared commonality was the desire to start a new life.

The group felt awkward around one another. And extremely wary. Yet, they still helped each other organize their belongings, buy travel supplies, and occasionally slipped necessities to one another on the sly.

The man named Geyser was around Hartmann's age—a widower with three daughters and one son.

Astonishingly, he owned two cows and three calves; considering livestock was the greatest wealth a commoner could possess, he was practically a rich man. Whatever his reasons for seeking the frontiers were, they remained a mystery.

Dalia, the former prostitute, constantly cradled her newborn baby. She had no husband, and whether it was an act or not, she acted demure and visibly uncomfortable around men.

As Hartmann roughly acquainted himself with the others, organized his belongings, and familiarized himself with his duties for the journey, evening fell.

Exhausted from the grueling travel, his wife Elia fell asleep hugging their children tightly. Suddenly, the door rattled open. The heavy footsteps clearly belonged to a man, and she assumed it was her husband.

As the man lay down with her daughter and son separating them, her daughter's trembling, terrified voice called out in the darkness a moment later.

"M-Mother..."

Only then did Elia open her eyes. In the pitch-black room, a filthy, unfamiliar man was grinning at her. His hands were actively groping her daughter. A wave of sheer terror washed over her.

"Eek!"

The man instantly clamped his hand over Elia's mouth. It was the man who had been kicked out of the room for unpaid rent.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch. Unless you wanna die."

He drew a rusted knife, paralyzing Elia with fear; no sound escaped her throat. At that moment, her daughter wrenched herself free from his grasp and screamed.

"Father! Fatheeeer!"

"You little bitch!"

The man grabbed the young girl as she frantically reached for the door handle and violently threw her aside. Along with a loud THUD, he began undoing his belt, snarling.

"Kids who don't listen need to be beaten."

Just then, the door swung open. As the man turned to look, the heavy, whistling sound of something cleaving the air echoed through the room.

WHOOSH! THWACK!

The axe blade buried itself squarely in his skull. He slumped over, instantly lifeless.

Hartmann, his thick beard bristling, was practically vibrating with rage, his jaw clenched tight. Only then did the young daughter sob uncontrollably and throw herself into her father's arms. The corpse lay sprawled on the floor, bleeding profusely from its head.

"Father, Father..."

Hartmann held his daughter tightly for a long while before grabbing the dead man by the scruff of the neck and dragging him out. The man was not small, but Hartmann dragged him single-handedly. His thick forearms resembled rough-hewn logs.

The building had zero soundproofing, and hearing the loud commotion next door, people in other rooms opened their doors to peek out.

Ignoring them completely, Hartmann hauled the corpse all the way to the stairwell and callously pitched it down.

A thunderous CRASH echoed below, causing everyone in the dining hall to look up in alarm. Hartmann's deep voice boomed.

"Which motherfucker wants to touch my family next!?"

The patrons looked back and forth between the corpse and Hartmann. Far from being terrified, they seemed completely unfazed, suggesting they were well accustomed to this sort of violence.

Bremen was among them. He simply stared blankly at the corpse.

Carrying his bloody axe, Hartmann returned to his room. His wife was frantically scrubbing the streak of blood smeared across the floorboards.

Hartmann pulled his terrified daughter and son into a tight embrace to help them fall asleep again. And he himself stayed awake the entire night, watching over his family without getting a wink of sleep.

The next day, the Hartmann family trailed after Bremen, leaving 'Crossroads' behind. They departed in a somewhat rushed manner. The wheels of the oxcart rattled and clattered as it rolled along.

However, unlike the other groups heading north, Bremen steered them east. Finding this odd, the man named Geyser asked:

"Why are we heading east?"

"The path is rougher this way, but it's safer. We'll stop by Wertheim to resupply."

"Safer, you say? Is there really a difference?"

"The bastard who died last night was part of a local bandit gang. If they decide to retaliate, our only option is to seek protection."

Geyser stole a quick glance at Hartmann.

His murder was justified. However, it had indeed created a potentially hazardous situation.

"Who's gonna protect us? If there was someone like that around here, this place wouldn't be such a lawless shithole."

"I wouldn't know about that. I suppose they just want to live a quiet life."

"Who on earth is it? This person providing protection."

"A young shepherd couple. It's not so much that they explicitly protect us, but more like we can run there if things go completely sideways."

"Excuse me?"

"They started tending sheep about four years ago, give or take. Considering they haven't had a single sheep stolen in four years, they obviously aren't your average shepherds."

"Is that the only reason you chose this route?"

Geyser furrowed his brow. It wasn't even a retired mercenary, but a shepherd? He seemed incredibly displeased with the choice.

"And I saw it with my own two eyes."

"Saw what?"

"I saw him kill five armed robbers with nothing but a wooden stick."

Geyser's frown deepened further. It sounded like complete and utter dogshit to him.

The only reason he had chosen Bremen instead of another guide was because of his cows. He figured if the other, more vicious-looking guides suddenly turned on him, it would be difficult to protect his livestock. But now, he was beginning to seriously regret his choice.

"What's this shepherd's name?"

Dalia, who rarely let her baby out of her arms, chimed in. Knowing full well these people wouldn't believe a word he said anyway, Bremen let out a long sigh before answering.

"Ricky..."