WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 120
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The moon looked down on the world with half-lidded eyes, as though reading a tedious book.
It was late spring. Except at midday, the weather was cool, and deep at night, it turned chilly.
The enemy had formed a ring around Adelivari's entrance. The mercenaries keeping watch there shivered as they warmed themselves by the fires.
From the encampment came the sound of laughter as men kept company with prostitutes, along with things breaking and incoherent shouting.
Resentment seeped through every sound. The resentment of exhausting field life and dreams of striking it rich in one blow.
Mercenaries were one of the world's oldest professions. For money, they would do anything, whether saving the world or assassinating an innocent person.
Demons and mercenaries had one thing in common: they worked by contract. The reason mercenaries could not become demons was that they did not always follow their contracts exactly.
Employers and mercenaries always distrusted one another, and in truth, they often betrayed one another too.
Once the job was done, employers might refuse to properly pay the mercenaries, acting completely differently from when they had first needed them. On the other hand, plenty of mercenaries took the advance payment and ran.
Thus, employers and mercenaries could become bitter enemies. Sacred contracts becoming scraps of paper was an everyday occurrence.
One of the world's oldest professions. For all that long history, mercenaries had been scorned and feared.
Yet if one looked inside, mercenaries could also be pitiful. They lost comrades they had grown attached to, grew used to being abandoned, suffered every ugly thing imaginable, and never tried to excuse themselves.
They were not used to being hated. They simply had no time to care. Though they knew they might die at any moment, their attachment to life was stronger than anyone's.
Even these cruel hunting dogs had their own sorrows. Perhaps that was why they always kept company with prostitutes. They resembled one another.
Then a man walked toward them. On a night beneath a half moon, he came like a reaper, as though he intended to put an end to their sorrowful lives.
The mercenaries huddled around the fire raised their heads toward the stranger. Because it was dark, they had failed to notice him until he was already close.
A young man in a red cape and chainmail addressed them. The flickering firelight dimly illuminated him.
“What mercenary company are you with?”
When Ricart asked, one mercenary paused to think before answering.
“Uh, your mother's mercenary company?”
Still curled up against the cold, the mercenary immediately began hurling insults. Had they thought Ricart was merely picking a fight? The funny thing was that none of them even imagined they were about to die.
Ricart let out a small laugh.
“I have no personal grudge against you.”
As the blade slid from its sheath, golden flames rose along it. The mercenaries could only stare wide-eyed, wondering whether it was magic or sorcery.
The fully drawn blade split the darkness in an instant. With a flash before their eyes, three or four mercenaries warming themselves by the fire sprayed blood and collapsed at once.
One of them fell into the campfire and sizzled as the body roasted. Already dead, the mercenary felt none of the searing pain said to be the worst.
Not as an act of mourning, but because it was unpleasant to look at, Ricart kicked the corpse away from the fire.
Another mercenary passing nearby bent forward and craned out their neck, trying to see what was happening.
Then they spotted the scattered corpses and recoiled in terror. Perhaps they had been on their way back from relieving themselves, because they had no weapon and were not properly armed.
“Hey! Hey!”
When Ricart turned toward them with blazing eyes, they froze in fear, then ran off as fast as they could.
“An intruder! An intruder!”
Ignoring them, Ricart headed for the nearest unit banner.
He did not run. He walked.
At the cry of intruder, people everywhere rose with confused expressions. Some had been sleeping, some making love, some rolling dice, some drunk.
But they did not know how many intruders there were or where they had appeared. So they carelessly thought, Surely they are not near me.
Still, unease made some step from their tents to inspect their surroundings.
One of them had the bad luck to cross Ricart's path. Ricart swung his sword and took off the mercenary's head, then kicked the body back into the tent.
When the mercenary inside saw their headless comrade fall backward, they nearly fainted in shock.
“Fuck! What is this?!”
Everyone simply stumbled about in confusion, feeding the chaos themselves.
“Where is the intruder? Where is he?!”
At least the mercenary company's commander finally emerged after disentangling themself from the prostitutes and belatedly putting on armor.
“Stop making such a fuss! Assemble by squads, you rotten bastards!”
Then the commander met Ricart's eyes as he approached. Their gaze locked onto the burning sword.
Perhaps the mercenary commander possessed a particularly sharp instinct. The commander hurriedly threw themself into the command tent. Ricart started after them, only to encounter other mercenaries.
“He's here!”
“The intruder is here!”
Some wore their helmets crookedly, while others had not even managed to put on both shoes. Still, they held weapons in their hands. And unlike the Rubens Clan, they did not rashly try to engage in close combat.
Whizz!
An arrow shot through the darkness and grazed Ricart's face. From then on, Ricart moved swiftly, first tearing out the unit banner beside the commander's tent.
At the sight, the mercenaries shouted.
“That bastard!”
“The Prince! The Prince is here!”
“You son of a bitch! Put that banner down!”
The mercenaries who had been watching Ricart from a distance lost their minds when they saw him pull out the unit banner.
Unable to endure it, they rushed him all at once. Ricart lowered his stance with his sword in one hand, then swung it broadly to the side.
Spear shafts were severed, bodies cut in two, and golden streaks flashed. The mercenaries either died or fell in heaps with their weapons cut apart.
The mercenaries gathering nearby froze at the unbelievable sight.
What was this?
As the mercenaries who had charged him fell, Ricart swiftly broke through the enemy ranks.
The stunned mercenaries came to their senses.
“Hey, you fucking bastard! Put the banner down!”
Someone brought over a bucket of filth and flung it at Ricart. He had not expected such an attack, so he jerked aside in alarm.
He barely avoided it, but the stench brushed his nose. Ricart frowned and fell to the ground.
Taking that chance, those holding spears and billhooks thrust at Ricart as he lay there. As expected of mercenaries, their coordination was excellent.
No special swordsmanship was needed. Few things were as threatening as attacking together in proper coordination.
But Ricart was no ordinary man. An average Sword Master might have been helplessly caught, but Ricart sprang up and leaped high into the air from where he stood.
It was dark, and he had jumped so suddenly and so high that many mercenaries thought Ricart had vanished. Instead of the distinctive sensation of piercing a person, their hands felt only bare ground.
Only a few sharp-eyed mercenaries looked up, but Ricart was already descending, his cape and banner fluttering behind him.
Flash!
It was as though lightning had fallen from the darkness in the middle of the night. Ricart split a mercenary vertically in two and passed through the gap.
As the mercenaries faltered in shock, the golden, burning sword embroidered the night like a dancing star.
Thwack! Clang! Whoosh! Whizz!
Blood already soaked the ground, and chunks of flesh fell with wet slaps. Only then did the mercenaries hurrying toward him begin to think something was very wrong.
To them, Ricart looked like a legendary hero wielding a holy sword. Sword Masters were so rare that even seeing one before their eyes, they did not realize what he was.
Then Ricart abruptly changed direction and ran back into the enemy camp. By now, the mercenaries had lost their sense of direction even within their own camp.
“What? What happened? Where did the banner go? Who is it? Who is the intruder?”
The mercenary commander who had seen Ricart earlier and hidden in a tent asked the subordinates. But explaining everything would have taken too long.
Instead of an explanation, the banner flew toward the commander from afar. When the commander turned, the spearhead at the end of the banner pierced straight through their face.
Thud!
Their head snapped back, and they fell flat on the ground. Ricart arrived in an instant, pulled the banner spear free, and drove it forcefully into the earth.
A burning sword in one hand, a banner in the other.
“Come and take it!”
The blood of the mercenary commander ran down the spearhead and soaked the banner.
Ricart subdued the enemies with his wide-open eyes. Then he shouted again.
“If you do not have the courage to take it, get out of my way!”
He then boldly walked out of the ruined enemy camp. He had stirred it up as he pleased and simply walked away.
The mercenaries were bewildered and frightened, unable to understand what had happened. They could only stare blankly.
Ricart left the enemy camp and climbed the stairs leading to Adelivari. When he looked back halfway up, one part of the camp was in uproar, like ripples spreading across a lake after a pebble had been thrown in.
The mercenaries from other units could tell something was happening over there, but did not know exactly what. Many had woken from sleep and panicked before they even knew why.
When Ricart finally returned to Adelivari, the waiting citizens had lit torches and watched him with blinking eyes.
Ricart stood covered in blood from head to toe, holding the enemy's banner. He hardly looked human.
“Hang the banner from the walls. If anyone wants to reclaim it, open the gates for them at any time. Tell them that they may take it back if they defeat me in battle.”
Ricart treated the enemy banner as spoils of war. Usually, those who occupied a castle or city hung their own banners, but this was closer to putting it on display.
People took the banner from Ricart. The spear shaft was sticky with enemy blood. When they planted it on the wall, its wing-shaped banner fluttered beneath the moonlight.
Ricart returned to the secondary palace and removed his equipment with Roy's help. His body had grown hot from battle, and steam rose from him despite the weather not being especially cold.
Roy found Ricart unfamiliar as he looked down and reined in his killing intent. His eyes seemed like...
“Master...”
Roy set the heavy chainmail aside and called softly. He felt uneasy, wondering whether this was somehow not the same person. Ricart turned to the boy and smiled faintly.
“On the other side of courage lies madness. No one in this world is without fear. Deciding how far I should go mad is very difficult, but I must do it. It is like walking a tightrope.”
“Still, you took on something dangerous for the people, right?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I can win. More than sufficiently. I can see it.”
“...Will I be able to see it someday too?”
“Of course.”
Ricart rubbed Roy's shoulder with a hand dirtied by battle, then went to wash in the bathhouse.
Meanwhile, Roy tended to Ricart's armor, which was splattered with blood and flesh. He carefully wiped and oiled every link of chainmail so it would not rust.
Maintaining and repairing battle equipment took a great deal of work. That was why knights needed squires, and Roy had taken on such tasks for Ricart.
At the bathhouse, Marie poured water over him and scrubbed his back. The hot spring water was so warm that even the blood clinging all over his body seemed to wash away completely.
Marie examined Ricart's body for wounds. Her fingertips trembled, and Ricart took her hand.
No matter how brave she was, she must have been anxious. Ricart had done that reckless thing alone.
“Do you have to do it alone?”
“I promised the people.”
“I think the three of us could do it together.”
“When a melee breaks out, it is easier alone.”
“How many more times do you have to do this?”
“Until I kindle a fire in people's hearts.”
Ricart was not acting recklessly merely to show off his strength. He intended, quite literally, to give courage to the people and fear to the enemy.
He meant to shape the battle itself in his favor.
“But listen, say we win this fight. What happens then?”
“What do you mean, what happens?”
“The king.”
“Well...”
Ricart trailed off. With his wet hair hanging down, he lowered his head, thought deeply, then spoke.
“I used to think about my own salvation. But as time passed, I realized I was building salvation for myself. Now, perhaps I am giving others a chance to be saved. I do not think final salvation matters to me anymore.”
“...Is that so? Well, whatever happens, we will always be together.”
“That is right. But if I become king, then Marie becomes queen.”
“Hmm, I do not know.”
“Why not?”
“Who says I cannot become Emperor?”
Ricart turned toward Marie and laughed. It was a funny joke. Their lips naturally met.
The night deepened, and the next day dawned. The enemy seemed unsettled, and perhaps rumors had spread, because the crowd of fifty thousand whispered words like those of a prophecy.
‘When stars sparkle on the lake, the Prince will come. When the Prince comes, this misfortune will end.’
Before the day grew dark, another banner was hung from the walls. Another went up the next day, and then one more was added each day, until five banners fluttered in the wind.
The enemy tried to respond by digging traps and forming fields of fire, but Ricart escaped like a weasel and somehow seized another unit banner each time. Eventually, they gave up.
Taking the matter seriously, the enemy appeared to prepare properly for battle and withdrew to make camp far away, almost a full day's walk away.
The city could clearly see below while the enemy could not see it, so they seemed intent on solving that problem first. Grants truly was no ordinary man.
Once the enemy withdrew, the citizens of Adelivari felt as though they could breathe again. They began bringing out the wealth and food they had hidden away.
Men and women, old people and children alike, supported the battle by doing what they could.
They gave their labor to build watchtowers on the peaks, made arrows, spun thread on spinning wheels, sewed torn cloth, and even the children ran errands for soldiers.
Hope dwelled in every hand. Hope that they could somehow stop that destructive Demon Lord. As those hopes gathered one by one, they naturally became one.
It was like a flame. A flame with no fixed form, changing from moment to moment, yet holding only one purpose.
To burn itself.
To kindle hope in people's hearts and carry it forward. In that sense, Ricart deserved to be called a hero. From adventurer, to shepherd, and now hero.
Beyond all those extreme techniques, and even beyond prophecy, what ultimately mattered was a deep heart and broad wisdom.
And so, now he could carry out his task with joy.
That task was to advance boldly and carry the flame of hope.
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