WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 119

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Perhaps what moved the world most was not what could be seen, but what could not.

Thus, one who was truly wise knew how to see beyond what lay before their eyes.

As Ricart entered Adelivari, he read the feelings in the eyes turned toward him.

Who was this man? What could he do, and what had he come here for? Confusion and surprise, anxiety and expectation, despair and hope, all mingled together.

There was a well-dressed elderly person with white hair, a man whose rough hands spoke of hard work, a child with bright, alert eyes, and a beautiful woman with her hair hidden beneath a hood.

Different in gender, work, role, age, and station, they all looked at Ricart and the soldiers following him with similar feelings.

Ricart lightly accepted those stares and looked over the people. Then he turned his gaze toward the city.

He had already seen the whole city from the mountain pass, but entering it felt different.

Honestly, it was the most beautiful city he had ever visited. That alone made it something he could never hand over to the enemy.

Adelivari was a city nestled amid the woods in a shallow basin. Unlike other cities, its old-fashioned buildings were not packed tightly together, but stood far apart.

A clear river ran through the center of the city, crossed by a long arched stone bridge.

The bridge was sturdy, with artistic carvings here and there. Stone statues of old heroes stood in rows on both sides. Some had been damaged by the passing years, while others remained intact.

Its only flaw was its small size. In terms of population, calling it a city was almost embarrassing. It was more like a large village.

Since it had once been the king's retreat, care seemed to have gone into building it. But with limited contact with the outside world, it did not seem to have grown much.

Perhaps its small size was what had preserved such beauty.

As Ricart confidently surveyed the city, someone stepped forward.

He was a middle-aged man in a loose hat and neatly tailored silk robes. His skin was firm and unlined, making him look remarkably young.

“Welcome to Adelivari, brave hero. I am Markwin, the mayor. If you have come to enjoy the hot springs, I would be happy to guide you personally. Would you like to unpack first, or look around the city?”

There was no chance Ricart had come here as a tourist. The mayor could not possibly have failed to realize that, so the question was a roundabout way of asking.

Who are you, and what have you come here for?

They had not even expected reinforcements, so his arrival was welcome. But they knew nothing about him, which made it unsettling.

Yet they could not carelessly provoke someone with military strength. The mayor had risked his life by stepping forward to question an unfamiliar conqueror.

Fortunately, Ricart was not as brutal and ignorant as an ordinary mercenary captain.

“Hero is too generous a word. I am Ricky... Ricart of the Stormhertz Calderbern family. On my way to the Eastern Frontier, I met the warriors guarding the mountain peak and heard of this place's troubles. I came to help.”

The citizens, who had been staring closely and listening to Ricart's words, began murmuring at the name Calderbern. It meant he was a descendant of Caldebert.

They would have to judge whether to believe him, but there was no way to verify it now.

They had seen him drive the enemies from the mountain. On top of that, he had soldiers under his command, so they did not dare question him.

What if they asked and lost their heads for being disrespectful? Ricart was the one holding the sword now.

There was barely anything that could be called a military force in the city. They had practically shut themselves inside, relying on nature and the walls. If the enemy had circled around and attacked, even a small force might truly have taken the city.

Grants's reputation was so terrible that they believed they would die whether they surrendered or not. All they had done was tremble in fear.

“You seem to have enough drinking water. How much food remains, how many weapons do you have, and how many able-bodied adult men can fight?”

This time, Ricart asked the question. Unlike the mayor's careful words, he was direct.

Under normal circumstances, such information was among the city's deepest secrets. But given the situation, they had no choice but to answer.

Still, revealing it was no different from laying all their cards on the table, and that did not sit well with them.

“I shall accompany you and explain everything in time. I will have my subordinates prepare a place for the soldiers to stay.”

Markwin spoke as calmly as he could. Ricart nodded. He understood the mayor's position.

Ricart, his friends, and the people who had originally been traveling with them to the Eastern Frontier headed for a place like a city hall.

The soldiers were originally from Adelorne and had often come here in the past, so there was almost no wariness toward them. From the city's perspective, only Ricart and his group were outsiders.

The hall resembled a small royal palace. In fact, it had once been an auxiliary palace where kings stayed when they visited.

“This palace is called Non Curarum in the ancient language,” Mayor Markwin said. “It means ‘without worries.’”

Considering the present situation, it was an ironic name.

As they passed through the corridors, the delicate carvings on the walls and the bases of the pillars caught their attention. There were witches with frightening faces, knights slaying dragons, winged horses, and more.

Beyond the curtained area was an audience chamber. Further down the corridor lay the king's bedroom, along with rooms where attendants had stayed. The place for enjoying the hot springs was somewhere behind the palace, like a rear garden.

When Ricart was led to the king's bedroom, he shook his head.

“I am not a king. I will stay in another room.”

Markwin looked at him with mild surprise, as though he had not expected that answer. He had only seen people who trusted in their own power and acted arrogantly. Ricart was the complete opposite.

Ricart was not acting out of humility. The Adelorne royal family was tied to his own family somehow, which made him uncomfortable.

The Calderbern family had a separate count's house, though it was not quite a collateral branch. Staying where generations of Adelorne kings had come to rest made him feel uneasy.

Even if they had declined with time, he thought that was all the more reason to treat them with respect.

Bowing to a powerful person or family could come from fear. But looking down on them because they had fallen was something no decent person should do.

So Ricart and his companions stayed several to a room in the modest chambers once used by royal attendants. Even those rooms were far better than most fine inns.

There were no sounds of rats moving through the walls or ceiling, and every room had its own fireplace.

Ricart unpacked and even declined the hot springs. Being able to wash in hot water without them was luxury enough.

The palace servants brought them neat silk clothing, and Roy's family, along with Bremen, did not know what to do with themselves from gratitude.

Even Ricart and Marie, both nobles, felt awkward about it, so it was understandable. Bori was the most at ease in the silk clothes and looked perfectly natural in them.

“No wonder it costs so much. It feels nice.”

It was not as if Bori had never seen silk before, but all of it had been inferior stuff. Wearing clothes made from truly fine silk felt like soft wind or clouds clinging to the body.

After washing up and changing into silk, everyone looked so refreshed that they were almost unrecognizable.

“I've lived long enough to see this. When I was thrown out of the clan, I thought I would never enjoy such luxury again.”

Roy lowered his head and could not take his eyes off the teal silk clothes he wore. He kept stroking them.

“You brat, how old are you to say you've lived long enough? Don't get used to comfort.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes you stop.”

Ricart pulled Roy's head close as if embracing him and vigorously ruffled his hair.

“Can I stop at Sword Master level, then?”

Bori asked.

“You can decide that for yourself.”

“That hurts a little. You used to carry me around and raise me.”

“Now you can carry me around.”

Having washed clean in warm water and put on fine clothes, they could not help feeling cheerful. Ricart traded jokes with Bori.

Ricart and his group went nowhere else, simply chatting noisily in the palace corridors. The women were busy admiring the intricate embroidery sewn into their clothes.

Then Mayor Markwin returned.

“Is there anything making you uncomfortable?”

“We have been living out in the dew. How could there be anything uncomfortable? Thank you for your kindness.”

“Kindness? Not at all. Would you like to rest a little longer, or shall I show you to the armory?”

Ricart looked at his companions, then back at Markwin.

“Please take me to the armory.”

Markwin nodded and walked toward one of the storehouses attached to the palace. This time, Ricart followed him alone.

They passed through something like an indoor garden within the palace and continued after the mayor until they came to a door secured by a large lock.

When Markwin unlocked it and threw the door open, neatly arranged weapons and armor filled the cool interior.

Sunlight entered only through a narrow slit set nearly against the ceiling, something that could barely be called a window.

Spearheads gleamed in the light, and there was something unusual about them. What stood out was how well maintained they were. It clearly meant someone had diligently cared for them over a long time.

“These weapons and armor were prepared to protect the king in an emergency. The blades are made of meteoric iron, and the spear shafts are ash wood. Every piece of equipment here was made by Billunt, the legendary blacksmith from Zoltgen.”

There was a final trace of pride in Markwin's voice.

Ricart slowly walked through the armory, looking over the weapons. Spears, swords, axes, maces, shields, helmets, and all sorts of armor.

“When were these made?”

“More than a hundred years ago. Other than replacing certain parts, we have kept them as close to their original state as possible, like new.”

After hearing that, Ricart frowned and tilted his head.

“...That is strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“You maintain these weapons and armor so diligently. Then how did things become like this without even being able to suppress a peasant uprising? If you had put even half this effort into training proper soldiers, it would not have come to this.”

Rather than admiring the excessively well-maintained equipment, Ricart felt something was off.

When a country was falling apart, it often put all its heart into useless things. This looked exactly like that.

Maintaining weapons was not useless, of course. But was not the important thing training people, using them, building experience, and developing better capabilities?

Understanding Ricart's meaning, Markwin's face flushed slightly with shame.

“Maintaining them is good, but now is the time to take them out and use them. Even if they break on the battlefield. Bring all of this out and distribute it to the soldiers.”

“All of it? These are precious weapons made by a legendary blacksmith.”

Ricart gave a disbelieving snort.

“Do as you like. If you want this place to fall too, then keep them here. You will see them in the enemy's hands afterward, if you are still alive.”

With that, he took a helmet, chain mail, and other equipment for himself before leaving.

Then he asked Marie to make him a surcoat bearing his family's crest, a white cross on a red field.

Normally, flags and surcoats were made by a wife praying for her husband's fortune in war. That was why he had asked her.

Afterward, he went outside with his companions and examined the city. The shade beneath the trees was cool, the river was clear, and the wind blowing down from the mountain was refreshing.

If not for the present situation, it would have been an excellent place for sightseeing. But Ricart put aside any admiration and learned where each building stood, where the soldiers stayed, and what the terrain was like.

Near the city's main gate stood a long wall about chest-high.

It hardly looked like a real city wall, but directly below it was a cliff some four or five meters high. There was no need for a taller wall.

It seemed to have been built that high because, in battle, it only needed to protect the archers' bodies.

There was also a long wooden structure with a roof built along the wall. It concealed where and how many soldiers had been stationed from those outside.

It was also good for keeping off snow, rain, and wind. In truth, that was its greatest advantage for the defenders.

Whether it was the weapons or the walls, they were remarkably good at thinking carefully about design, upkeep, and repairs.

But people were the ones who had to use all of it. If the people were inadequate, none of it mattered.

“Wow, damn. But if they all rush us at once, aren't we completely done for?”

Bori said while looking down through an arrow slit in the wall. The people below truly covered the ground in black, stretching all the way to the horizon.

No matter how often one heard that numbers were not everything, seeing such a sight in person was enough to crush the spirit.

“I see a great deal of anxiety.”

Ricart said.

“Really?”

“Think about all those people turning their backs on Grants. That is probably what Grants fears most. That is why Grants must have been gathering subordinates without restraint.”

In the end, Grants was fundamentally no different from Ringwald, whom Ricart had met before. Perhaps Grants was simply a larger version, someone swallowed by the consequences of their own actions and unable to clean them up properly.

Judging by the troop arrangements and the attempt to circle around and attack, Grants did not seem entirely stupid. But Grants had taken on more than they could handle, which placed them at a strategic disadvantage.

Of course, Ricart was the only one able to assess the situation so coolly.

This was not an era with military academies. One could acquire such insight only through experience.

Ricart quietly studied the enemy's deployment and began forming plans one after another.

Countless small plans arose in his mind. He connected them, searching for a path to victory.

Once he reached a conclusion, he gathered the soldiers and the people of the city.

There was no proper square, so Ricart climbed onto the railing of the stone bridge. Looking over the hundreds gathered along the riverbank, he spoke as though delivering a speech.

A statue carved in the image of an ancient hero stood beside him. Its gaze was fixed on the enemies outside the city.

“I will help you defeat the enemy. But you must help me as well if we are to defeat them. I am not talking about empty promises. We can win. It can be done, so will you do it or won't you? Let us begin with that question.”

Everyone merely blinked or wore anxious expressions. They would do what Ricart told them to do, but that was not enough. They could not be dragged along unwillingly.

Ricart demanded something more than that. He wanted them to willingly fight.

“When I came here, I heard that the people of Adelorne were proud. Do you no longer have a blade of pride with which to strike at your enemies? Has it rusted away, or has it already broken? I am not asking you to go out and fight. Let each of us do what we can, what must be done. Women, mend torn uniforms. Men, carry stones if nothing else. If a neighbor is in difficulty, care for them as you would family. Push and pull carts to move food. What I want is for everyone to unite for victory.”

The very idea of universal conscription did not exist, and neither did the idea that one had to step forward and fight even when death was close.

If someone went to a farmer or merchant and said they had to fight because everyone was about to die, they would only stare in confusion and say, “But I am not a soldier?”

That was why losing a war meant handing over the power of life and death to the other side.

That was the common sense of the age. Everyone lived that way. The tens of thousands of people swarming below were proof of it.

But no longer. At least, not from this moment onward.

Ricart was not asking everyone to fight. He was asking them to at least handle logistics. The soldiers would fight, and at minimum, the others had to do what they could.

In battle, logistics could be even more important than taking up a weapon and fighting. Broken weapons and armor had to be repaired in time, food had to keep coming, and wages had to be paid properly.

Naturally, saying all this would not make them understand right away. Ricart knew that too.

“You do not seem to trust me, so I will make you one promise. Every day, I will personally take an enemy unit's banner. But if I keep my promise and you do not keep yours, I will hold you accountable. Anyone who disagrees may raise their hand and speak freely.”

Ricart spoke politely, yet confidently. Then he subtly pressed them and compelled them. It was not some special skill. This was simply how one took hold of people.

Great commanders always tried to keep their promises to their soldiers. Not because they were kind, but because that was the proper order.

It was not, “Go out and fight until you die.” It was, “I have done everything I promised for you, and you still will not listen? Then you die.”

That was how orders gained authority, discipline took hold, commands were obeyed, and proper operations could be carried out. Ricart had learned such things from Caldebert.

In his past life, his first commander had charged boldly forward and died in battle. His second commander had trusted only in authority, given absurd orders, and lost the encampment. His third commander had been Caldebert.

Of course, the citizens were not soldiers. But without their participation, there was no way to carry out the plan for victory.

In any case, everyone agreed in silence to Ricart's partly forced promise.

Ricart decided that was enough for now and waited for night to fall.

When the cool moon rose, he put on his armor and confidently headed down to the main gate.

He was going to take an enemy unit's banner.

To a soldier, a unit banner represented honor, pride, or something greater still. Losing it was not merely shameful. It broke the will to fight and shook unity.

Grants had many mercenary companies under their command, and each had lower units beneath it. There were more than enough banners to take.

Under the cold moonlight, Adelivari's citizens gathered along the walls and looked down below. Even if it had been a partly forced promise, they wanted to see whether Ricart would keep it.

More than anything, to people ignorant of battle, it looked as though he was going alone to fight that enormous force. It made Ricart seem mad, and even seeing it with their own eyes, they could hardly believe it.

Still, it was truly a magnificent sight. Until now, fear had kept them from looking. But tens of thousands of people filled the wide plains, fires lit all around them, and it seemed as though countless stars had risen upon the earth.

Those with a poetic heart already felt as though the first line of a martial ballad had come to them.

He let his red cape billow as he walked into the host of stars.

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