WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 115

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The Hartmann Ricart had watched from nearby had been a quiet, dependable man. As a father and as a husband.

Of course, he could not have been perfect. Ricart did not know why he had killed a priest, but it had set his entire family on a road of hardship.

So no, every decision and choice Hartmann had made could not have been perfect.

But one thing was clear. He had not merely been a woodcutter. He had been a fine father with a warrior’s heart.

That was why Ricart respected and mourned him, as a father and as a warrior.

So was revenge all that remained? To honor him?

No.

To be honest, Ricart simply found the Rubens Clan revolting and wanted to kill them.

He did not want to excuse himself with reasons like revenge or mourning. He just wanted to kill them. That was all. That was why he was a demon.

The purest form of murderous intent did not bloom from anger or hatred.

It came simply from pleasure.

Excitement and exhilaration at the thought of slaughter rose within him. The more he thought about it, the more impatient he became, like a drooling dog. Ricart calmly observed that pure, dangerous blade within himself.

That was how he could draw out its power without being controlled by it.

Ricart had been staring into the abyss with his head lowered. When he opened his eyes, golden light rippled within them.

He was reminded of the old days, when he had wandered the Empire alone as a wanted man, leaving slaughter in his wake.

Fasina, in the southeastern Empire, was a region full of forests and strange rock formations. The Rubens Clan headquarters stood atop sheer cliffs.

It was not particularly large, but the surrounding terrain was so rugged that it seemed impossible to capture, no matter how many soldiers attacked it. It was a natural fortress.

Near the castle was a small village surrounded by forest. Surprisingly, quite a few people lived there.

The clan left them alone because it was easier to obtain goods and services from outside when people lived nearby.

The villagers were not well-off, but they did not seem to suffer any particular exploitation or extortion.

Still, they knew that something eerie and terrible happened in that castle. They lived in silence because they were afraid, spending every day in unease.

It was late afternoon, before the sun had begun to turn red.

A man in a red cloak and hood walked through the village.

An elder passed by with several carrots they had pulled from their vegetable patch in a basket. They accidentally dropped one. The carrot rolled along and stopped at the stranger’s feet.

The man picked it up and held it out to them. As the elder took it, they saw golden eyes burning beneath the hood and froze.

The stranger did not care. He headed straight toward the castle.

The elder watched his retreating figure for a long while.

At one point, the stranger’s path began to slope upward. A narrow road led all the way to the castle. There was no railing, and below lay a deep precipice.

The man passed along the road without fear and reached the gate.

The gate was not closed. There were only two sentries standing guard.

The sentries silently watched as a lone man approached. It never crossed their minds that he might have come to harm them.

His appearance was hidden by his cloak, but the sword at his waist was unmistakable.

“Hey. This isn’t a place you can just wander around.”

“Here to join?”

Wandering swordsmen sometimes came looking to join a clan. No matter how skilled they were, it was difficult to survive alone in the wild without belonging to a group.

But the man said nothing. He walked toward them in silence and stopped before them.

The gate was dark as evening beneath the deep shadows. Soon, they would need to light the bonfires.

“Sir, don’t cause trouble. This is your warning.”

As the stranger approached without hesitation, the sentries grew flustered and afraid. Just in case, their manner of speaking changed.

The man had pulled his hood low enough to show only his lower face. He spoke quietly.

It was Ricart’s voice.

“Blow the emergency whistle.”

“...?”

“I won’t say it twice.”

A flash of light burst forth.

One sentry squeezed their eyes shut. They heard something heavy fall with a thud.

When they opened their eyes again and turned toward their companion in confusion, the other sentry had no head.

Blood sprayed from the severed neck as the body lay collapsed. A chill ran down their spine, and they stiffened.

Without a word, Ricart slowly raised his burning sword and pointed its tip at the whistle hanging from the sentry’s neck.

The sentry could not make sense of what was happening. In a daze, they blew the whistle hard.

Pheee!

The piercing sound rang through the castle, and the person who had blown it died at once.

With a thump, they collapsed. Two corpses lay sprawled before the gate.

Ricart entered the courtyard with his sword in hand.

Even though the whistle had clearly sounded, it took the emergency unit quite some time to appear.

At first, five or six people came out. When they saw the corpses at the gate, they recoiled in shock and returned to the barracks. Then they came back with more people.

Around twenty rushed into the courtyard and surrounded Ricart. From the mansion-like Inner Castle, people merely watched through the windows.

“Who are you? State your name!”

“Ricky.”

Those who knew the name reacted, while those who did not remained confused. Murmurs passed around Ricart.

Could he be that person from before? You know, that genius swordsman, the Red Cape. But why is he here now?

Then someone who appeared to be the leader of the emergency unit shouted with a deliberately fierce expression.

“What do you want? This is an open provocation against our Rubens Clan!”

Ricart raised his head.

Golden eyes blazed from beneath the shadow of his deeply drawn hood.

The murmuring stopped the instant they met those eyes.

“I came to kill every last one of you.”

The words fell like a death sentence.

The inside of the castle had already been quiet, but now even the mountains, streams, trees, and grass around it seemed to hold their breath.

By ordinary standards, it was an absurd situation. One man had come alone to fight an entire clan that had survived in this brutal world.

This was not even sabotage against the clan’s operations. No one had ever heard of someone simply storming in like this without regard for anything.

People were stunned by the sheer absurdity of it, yet they felt a fearful doubt at the same time.

Then people emerged from the Inner Castle. Their lower faces were covered with muffler-like cloths, and they wore coifs over their heads.

Just as clans divided their members into ranks such as recruits, trainees, formal disciples, and full members, these people were those seriously training in the Rubens Clan’s unique Mana Drive.

They were dressed to conceal their somewhat twisted skeletal structures, as if they knew it was shameful.

One of them spoke to Ricart.

“I still remember what happened four years ago. You caused our clan enormous losses and humiliated us. Not for a single moment since then have we forgotten our grudge.”

“I don’t particularly want to argue over who was right or wrong now, but didn’t you attack me first with some strange poison during the swordsmanship tournament?”

“You killed our clan master first, when you were a student. Lorenz. Do you remember him?”

They were so self-centered it was absurd.

Lorenz and his subordinates had ambushed Ricart and the students as they traveled through the forest to take on an adventurer’s request.

And they held a grudge because Ricart had killed them in return. What kind of worthless bastards were these?

But Ricart no longer wished to discuss such things.

“No. Why would I remember trash like that?”

The moment he said that, he shot forward.

He slipped past them in a low stance, like flowing water, sword in one hand. His blade sliced past one opponent.

The opponent tried to dodge, but one leg was cut off.

As it happened in an instant, a large number of people rushed at Ricart. Naturally, more of them became tangled up with one another.

Ricart spun like a storm and swung his sword at the fools. As if it were a lie, three or four torsos were severed at once.

It was an unbelievable sword strike.

And such attacks came without pause.

Like a skilled cook preparing fish, he swung his sword a few times, and corpses piled up in an instant.

Some people collapsed where they stood at the shocking sight. Those in better condition turned and fled into different parts of the castle.

The ones who were not on his level were dealt with all at once.

But the people wearing mufflers could not run, even if they wanted to.

Everything they had was in this castle. Not only their money, but also their research materials and specially processed mana hearts.

So they desperately faced Ricart, though they had no real way to deal with him.

It was as if an invisible curtain of death had spread before them. Anyone who entered its range was certain to lose a limb or die.

Their tactics of surrounding him and striking before retreating did not work. Neither did the agile movements unique to the Rubens Clan.

He was far beyond any Sword Master they had known.

How could this be possible?

Ricart’s eyes did not stay on his current opponent. They were always fixed on the next one.

And he wielded an unstoppable sword that could cut through anything.

Speed, strength, skill, judgment. His genius and experience combined to unleash terrifying power.

There was no set form to it. It improved with every moment.

Because all of it was enjoyable.

Among the enemies, some fled, deciding that research materials meant nothing if they died. Ricart cut one down, then threw his sword through another’s back with perfect accuracy.

But that left him empty-handed. In that brief instant, his enemies seized their chance and rushed him.

Golden energy gathered in Ricart’s hand.

He struck their blades with a knifehand, and they shattered all at once.

Clang!

Then he seized one of them and drove his hand through their heart.

But he did not pull his hand back out.

He pulled it upward.

His hand split through ribs, cut through the shoulder, and emerged above it. The victim’s mouth fell open as they dropped to their knees with a thump and collapsed.

Ricart held a living heart in his hand.

What was astonishing was not that it still beat.

It was Ricart, gripping it and smiling cruelly.

“I hear you like things like this?”

He clenched his hand, crushing the heart, then tossed it to the ground.

“Come eat it like dogs.”

Even those who had trained by abandoning their humanity staggered back at the shocking sight.

Silence fell once more.

Did he just wield the Sword of Light with his bare hand?

It was unbelievable. Impossible.

Brutally cut corpses lay scattered across the courtyard, and the ground was slick with blood. The late afternoon sun was gradually turning red.

As Ricart continued his slaughter, unbearable joy surged through him.

He might observe himself inwardly and keep himself under control, but even then it was difficult to restrain the laughter that kept leaking out.

Perhaps it was cynicism toward this entire farce, including himself. Perhaps it was disgust.

If such things could be humor.

Among broken weapons and hideous corpses, Ricart shook with laughter.

Then he threw back his head and burst into wild laughter.

“Heh heh heh, heh... Ahahahahahaha!”

The enemies lost all will to fight. They could only stare blankly at Ricart as he laughed loudly, their faces stricken.

It was fear of death that could not be controlled or resisted.

They all felt as if they were having a nightmare in reality.

A demon did not need reasons.

Grudges. Gaining power. Things like that.

Such reasons were only self-justifications. Even if they abandoned their humanity, they were merely garbage that could not even become monsters.

A true demon was connected to the purity of a child.

Ricart walked slowly over and pulled free his sword some distance away.

Everyone merely watched. Not one of them dared make a sound, much less stop him.

Ricart walked toward the gate and brought down his sword, cutting the thick rope.

The portcullis dropped, slamming the gate shut with a bang.

Normally, one blocked escape routes to stop intruders from fleeing.

But now it was the opposite.

This place was a slaughterhouse.

Ricart looked back at the people of the Rubens Clan, baring his white teeth in a smile.

The smell of blood and iron filled the air.

But something was still missing.

Fire.

What was a festival without fire?

Ricart charged at his enemies again.

They fled. Into the Inner Castle, into the barracks, running as though playing hide-and-seek.

But that was a mistake.

Because he was going to burn it all down.

Fire and steel, blood and death.

Ricart was the person who handled them best. And to survive in hell, he had learned more thoroughly than anyone how to become a demon.

He had no interest whatsoever in the Rubens Clan’s research, treasures, or anything else.

There was only slaughter and death.

At some point, cries for mercy began to echo intermittently from throughout the castle.

Or screams filled with pain as people burned.

To someone, it was wonderful music.

The elder working in their vegetable patch in the nearby village watched the castle burn in the distance.

The entire village stood still and watched.

At sunset, beneath the red glow of dusk, black smoke rose high enough to reach the sky. The smell of burning reached the village.

Then the hooded stranger walked out from where the castle stood.

Only one or two hours had passed since he first arrived. It was also how long it had taken for a powerful clan to be annihilated.

As he quietly passed through the village, everyone could only watch in silence.

Then the elder asked him.

“Are you an angel or a demon?”

Ricart glanced back at them.

His eyes were no longer burning as they had been before. They were simply clear hazel eyes.

“Well, perhaps it’s as you see it, elder.”

Then he walked away along the path he had come from and disappeared.

The Rubens Clan headquarters continued to burn for two days and nights.

There were no survivors. Later, only unbelievable rumors spread, claiming that an angel of death had come and rained down fire.

Ricart had defined himself as a demon, but apparently, to the elder, he had seemed like that angel of death.

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