WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 111

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The mountain pass was nearly bare of grass, thick only with broken stones. Had it once been a quarry? Who knew. In any case, every footstep sounded especially loud there.

The three swordfighters subtly spread out. They seemed to be trying to surround Ricart, and they were also wary of his companions in the distance.

But Ricart had no reason to wait. Before they could finish forming up, he swung his sword.

The burning blade struck to the left, then immediately slashed down to the right. The enemy on the left lost his head, while the one on the right had both arms severed. It all happened in an instant, like a burst of flame.

The person in the middle sprang rat-a-tat backward. Ricart's gaze followed exactly.

The one who had retreated some distance looked stunned by what had just happened, face frozen.

To have pulled back in that brief moment, they were no ordinary fighter. Still, skill was always relative in a fight.

“You...”

“Let's not make things troublesome for each other.”

Ricart said this as he swung his sword with one hand and finished off the person writhing in pain with both arms cut off.

Two corpses. Blood pooled across the mountain's dry gravel. No blood stained the blade, only sacred flames burning upon it.

It was different from the faint glow unique to a Sword Master. Ricart's sword blazed with golden fire. Seeing it with their own eyes, the remaining opponent could not speak.

What was that?

Step.

Ricart took a step forward to finish this. The survivor immediately turned and fled.

Ricart ran after them to kill them, but instead of fleeing through the pass, they suddenly hurled themself off the cliff.

What? Were they trying to kill themself?

Standing at the edge and looking down, Ricart saw them flutter their cape like a bird, lightly stepping on protruding rocks in the cliff face before leaping again.

Ricart was startled. Even so, he grabbed a stone from near his feet and threw it hard at the fleeing enemy.

The enemy, who had lightly stepped on two or three rocky protrusions while fleeing, looked back.

They twisted urgently to avoid the stone speeding toward them. The rock Ricart threw only struck their shoulder.

“Agh!”

With a short cry, they fell. But they were already almost at the bottom of the cliff, so the fall did not kill them.

They staggered to their feet, looked up once at Ricart watching from above, then limped away. One arm dangled uselessly.

Ricart stared at the fleeing enemy in disbelief. What had that movement been? They had truly moved like a flying bird. Was that possible with a human body?

Even Ricart could not pull off such a feat, so he had no choice but to let them go. The enemy vanished into the nearby forest.

“What a ridiculous bastard. Jumping off a cliff.”

Marie's voice came from behind him.

When he turned, she was taking two swords from the dead enemies. Since neither sword had been properly used in the fight against Ricart, they were almost brand new.

“No, they lived.”

“What?”

“They flew down like some bird and walked away. I hit their shoulder with a rock, though.”

“That can't be true. Stop joking.”

Marie approached Ricart as if she could not believe him. Looking down the cliff from beside him, she saw that it was not an endless abyss, but it was still more than high enough to kill a person.

Yet there was no corpse where one should have been. Ricart and Marie looked at each other, equally dumbfounded. It was strange.

Still dazed, Ricart returned to the group and told them what had happened. Marie gave the two swords taken from the dead enemies to Beka and Roy.

“As you saw, I killed two of them, but one got away. It could be dangerous if they bring back their allies. What should we do?”

“They didn't seem like ordinary bandits. Did they say who they were?”

Bremen asked.

“The Rubens Clan. Have you heard of them?”

Ricart knew them well enough, but he did not know what they had been doing lately. The Viola Clan had changed greatly over four years, so the Rubens Clan might have changed as well.

At the words Rubens Clan, Bremen's face darkened.

“...Damn.”

“Why?”

“Each clan operates differently. As you know, the Viola Clan does not torment commoners and tends to be serious-minded. But Rubens will do anything for influence and money. They buy and sell people, run brothels and gambling dens, carry out assassinations, even lend money at usurious rates. No one who interferes with their business survives. Not even nobles.”

It was almost as if they had become a thieves' guild, to the point where it was hard to call them a clan at all. Their business was conducted in the shadows, of course, but if Bremen knew about it, then anyone in the know probably did as well.

It was a matter of choice. If one possessed force, how would one use it? When the imperial family had still stood strong, they had kept to the proper path in their own way. Now, they seemed to run wild like dogs off their leash.

“Once we cross this pass, we'll be in their territory, won't we?”

Marie asked.

“No. We're already in their territory.”

“...”

“There is a way to go around toward Beringen, but it will take at least a week. That road is not safe either. If we mean to retreat, we should go back the way we came.”

“Or we could hurry through in the other direction.”

“That's right.”

There were only two choices. Retreat or press forward. As always, it was one or the other.

They said people needed to know when to advance and when to retreat. Life would be easy if anyone truly knew that. The problem was that they did not.

Then Hartmann spoke. Usually, he simply followed Bremen and Ricart's judgment, but this was the first time he offered his own opinion.

“Let's go forward. If anything dangerous happens, I'll protect my family. Master, ma'am, fight the enemy without worrying about us.”

Hartmann knew it too. Ricart and Marie could kill most enemies without difficulty.

If it had been only Ricart and Marie, there would have been nothing to worry about. Hartmann did not want to become a burden when they were hesitating because of his family.

Ricart hesitated over whether he should accept that resolve.

“I can fight too. I won't hold Master back.”

“Me too.”

Roy and Beka spoke.

Once people learned a little exercise or martial arts, confidence naturally followed. The children seemed the same. Having received real swords, they looked excited as well.

At his disciples' words, a smile spread across Ricart's face. He roughly ruffled Roy's hair.

“Don't get cocky. Stay behind your father.”

“I am worried, but if you have decided, I will follow.”

“We should be prepared, but nothing might happen. They looked like they had something urgent to do. They said they were looking for my friend.”

“Hm?”

Ricart looked at Marie.

“They said Bori stole the clan's secret manual.”

“What?”

“If Bori did it, there must have been a reason.”

“That's true.”

“Then it seems we've decided. Let's not waste any more time.”

Ricart and the others finally crossed the pass. Walking downhill was easier, but unease lingered quietly in their hearts.

They were traveling through Fasina, one of the regions in the southeastern Empire. It was a basin full of rivers, lakes, and cool forests. With little flatland, it was not suitable for farming.

Oddly shaped rocky mountains rose everywhere, blending with the woods to create splendid scenery.

At the edge of the forest, the group followed the river for a long way. From deep in the woods came the sound of a woodpecker.

The river was no deeper than a stream, but so clear that its bottom was plainly visible. Minnows darted beneath fallen leaves and between rocks when they saw people.

After following the river for about half a day, they saw a mass of crows gathered along the bank. As the group approached, some flapped away while others simply stepped back and watched from nearby.

They parted the curtain of crows and found corpses, just as expected.

There were around fifteen bodies. None had their limbs or heads properly attached, and judging by the decay and animal damage, they had not been dead for more than a few days. It was difficult to determine the cause of death.

“At least they weren't killed by wild beasts. Their clothes have all been stripped away, and there isn't so much as a tool nearby.”

Ricart spoke. They had been killed, then thoroughly stripped clean. These were not signs of a grudge but of ordinary robbery.

“Fasina was also a region where peasant uprisings were fierce. And the Kingdom of Adelorne is right next to it. All those starving refugees and mercenaries... You can guess the rest.”

There was no management or control. In other words, it was a lawless land. The Rubens Clan was not the only problem. Outlaws were the problem, and the Rubens Clan was merely one group among them.

Should I have gone another way? No, it would probably be the same wherever I went. It was simply that the path I took was always the hardest.

Hartmann's family did not panic or tremble at the sight of the corpses. They had seen too many before. Still, they understood perfectly well that we were now in a dangerous place.

After refilling their water upstream from the corpses, they continued on. The curtain of crows covered the ugly sight once more.

After walking along the river for another half day, they came upon a city. It was strange to find a city in such a place, but in truth, it was a city of criminals.

There were no walls, not even a proper wooden palisade. Most buildings were made of wood, giving the entire place a hastily built look.

Fugitives, vagrants, thieves, robbers, gangsters, mercenaries. It seemed like every rotten sort in the world had gathered there.

Yet surprisingly, even here, people did business. Most dealt in stolen goods, sold alcohol, or worked as pimps.

It was hard to imagine what such a place could possibly have, but it overflowed with wealth. Loot taken from everywhere.

It seemed lawless, yet it had rules of its own. One area was incredibly filthy while another was remarkably clean. Here, the rich were kings and money was god.

“It feels as though we've reached the gates of hell.”

Bremen said this. Aside from Bremen's days as a mercenary long ago, Bremen had never traveled this road. Bremen seemed not to have known it had become this bad.

It looked far too dangerous to pitch a tent and stay, so the group searched for a suitable inn. An inn operating in a place like this had to guarantee some measure of safety. Of course, some measure did not mean complete safety.

But there was no need to search. There was only one inn.

A huge building stood there, like a Nord longhouse expanded several times over. No other place offered lodging.

There were several entrances, with people constantly coming and going. Around them lay people who were drunk or beaten badly enough to wish for death.

There were so many strange people around that no one paid the group any attention.

They did not know whether they were allowed inside, but they entered anyway. As expected, it was packed and noisy. People drank, sang, shouted, and made a terrible racket.

On one side, an impromptu fighting ring had formed. No one stopped the people brawling with their fists. People placed bets, and when someone lost consciousness, they were simply thrown outside. Whether they died or not was nobody's concern.

A long charcoal brazier stood in the middle. Flat stones and iron plates had been set on top, and people grilled anything they could find. Most of it was meat, vegetables, and fruit, but some things were impossible to identify.

There were no employees. Everyone handled their own charcoal and fetched their own food.

Appetizing smells mixed with revolting ones until the stench was enough to make one's head spin.

At the back of the building was something like a bar. The people gathered there had a different air about them. Their relaxed demeanor made them look, at a glance, like the group that ruled this place.

Ricart and the others barely managed to push through the crowd toward them. Just in case, they kept their weapons close to their bodies.

Ricart took the lead and approached the people near the bar.

“Who owns this place?”

“...”

Those sipping drinks or playing cards turned to look at him. No one answered.

“Is there a room large enough for seven people?”

Ricart asked again. Then a person with narrow, shifty eyes replied.

“You should've asked that from the start. Why are you looking for the owner? Watch your mouth here, or you'll get badly hurt.”

“I'll decide that for myself. Don't run your mouth.”

“Huh. Looks like you know how to use a sword.”

“Enough to keep myself alive. Just tell me the price.”

“Let's see... Are those people behind you with you? Oh, what is this? One of them is damn pretty. The other one's passable. Is she the kids' mother? Lend us the two bitches for three days, and the room is free.”

“...”

Hartmann gripped the axe wrapped in cloth, but Ricart raised a hand to stop him without even turning around, as though he had eyes in the back of his head.

Scum always tested people's nerves to see how they would react. Like sharks nudging an unfamiliar creature, they tested whether someone would bend, whether they were an easy target.

But Ricart had been born to a knightly family and could not endure an insult. That was different from simply having a bad temper. It was the natural way of things. If someone insulted him, it was nearly his duty to risk his life and punish them to defend his honor.

Especially when Marie was insulted before his eyes. That was no different from declaring oneself an irreconcilable enemy.

“Ooh, everyone, look at this guy. Looks like he's got the nerve to draw his sword.”

As Ricart glared coldly, the narrow-eyed person turned to their companions. The others nearby scowled and glared at Ricart.

First they provoked with words, then pressured with force. Most people lost their nerve here. They would smile meekly, say nothing, or simply leave.

But Ricart did none of those things. He did not smile meekly, leave, or fall silent.

“Say one more word, and I'll kill you.”

Nothing else needed to be said. Unlike the other person's roundabout sneering, this carried a single clear meaning.

At that, the atmosphere changed somewhat. The inside of the huge building remained noisy, but the area around Ricart fell silent.

Marie had seen it coming and moved the children back. She signaled instructions to Bremen and Hartmann with her eyes and hands. If necessary, they would fight with their backs to the wall or get outside.

With Ricart pressing this hard, the narrow-eyed person had to make a choice. Would he back down a little, or keep at it? He felt the pressure too.

He thought frantically. He needed to find something that would seem provocative without being too provocative, something that would preserve his pride. He could not hesitate too long either. That would make him look frightened.

The words he managed to come up with while pretending to stay calm were these.

“...One word.”

Whoosh! Crack!

The moment the words left his mouth, something flashed like lightning. Half of the narrow-eyed person's skull was cut away. Their tongue and lower teeth were exposed to the world.

Their body remained in the same position, one arm resting on the bar. Even with half his skull missing, he slowly tipped over and fell.

Ricart's scabbard was empty. Only when the person collapsed with a heavy thud and blood spread across the floor did their companions realize that Ricart had drawn his sword.

“Y-you bastard!”

“Guys! Ret's down!”

The nearby companions realized it too late, eyes wide. They fumbled for weapons or tried to rush Ricart. Unable to attack him from the front, they seemed intent on surrounding him first.

But when the sword swung like lightning, several people spurted blood from their necks at once. They were all different heights, at different distances.

Without stopping, Ricart leapt onto the bar with sword in hand. His red cape fluttered, and the drinks and food on top crashed down.

Ricart kicked a wooden bowl hard. With a whack!, the bowl flew out and struck someone on the crown of the head. Then he lowered his stance and swung his sword left and right. Each time, three or four people collapsed.

It looked like magic. No one had seen him draw his sword. No one could see it swing. They could not even hear screams as people sprayed blood and fell.

Only then did the enemies recoil from Ricart in panic. Some fell to the floor, while others were pressed against the walls, looking up at Ricart with shocked eyes.

Standing atop the bar, Ricart noticed that something had changed. When he turned to see what it was, he found silence.

The inside of the building, which seemed several times larger than a longhouse, was as quiet as a grave. It had been as loud as a marketplace only moments ago.

Everyone was looking at Ricart. Their gazes were like those of an audience watching an actor on stage.

Ricart addressed the crowd. He did not need to raise his voice for everyone to hear.

“I asked who owns this place.”

Then someone opened a door leading farther behind the bar and came out. Ricart turned to look at them. They looked up at him. Their eyes met.

After a brief silence, they spoke.

“Uh... There isn't really an owner here, you know? Only the strongest person gets to stay in the back room. And right now, I'm the strongest.”

Ricart was both dumbfounded and incredulous. He kept letting out hollow laughs.

Because the person claiming to be the strongest was none other than Bori.

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