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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 143

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The Leonia Fortress seemed as though it had been carved straight out of a cliff. Between the highlands and the fortress lay a bottomless precipice, and it could only be crossed by the drawbridge lowered from the fortress.

The people of the Ancient Empire had first settled here and raised its walls. Then the Sinatrians, especially the people of Leonia, had expanded it bit by bit as if it were part of their daily routine.

More than a thousand years had passed. The fortress had become so grand and solid that it looked as though giants from a distant age, not humans, had built it.

Yet it had fallen. To one person alone. Even if it were recorded in history, would later generations believe it?

The people of the time had witnessed that unbelievable feat with their own eyes. From then on, they no longer looked at Ricart as though he were merely another human.

God, or someone descended from God. That was the only explanation they could find. The braggart had become a man whose veins seemed to carry sacred blood.

Well, perhaps it did not matter whether he truly had divine blood among his ancestors. Ricart himself was sacred.

And being sacred meant possessing something fit for a king. The divine right of kings, the authority granted by God to rule and govern others.

It was an age when that mattered more than whether a ruler was capable. No matter how skilled one was, it meant nothing if people would not follow.

That sacred authority could only be inherited through blood. Thus, a king's children inherited the right and ruled the people.

That was why rulers sometimes obsessed over legitimacy. Of course, even a legitimate king might have countless lords who did not listen to a word he said. Still, without even legitimacy, one was as good as finished.

But did Ricart truly possess something sacred?

Raimund stood on the drawbridge of Leonia's citadel and looked down into the precipice.

As though it led to hell, the chasm became pitch-black at a certain point, and its end could not be seen. Wind rose endlessly from its depths.

Killing the Green Dragon brothers was one thing, but crossing this place while the drawbridge was rising truly felt like a miracle.

His legs trembled just from standing still and looking down. Yet Ricart had leaped over it on horseback.

“At least one thing is certain. His courage is beyond compare.”

And courage like that could not be explained unless God had bestowed it upon him. At least, not from the perspective of a sensible person.

He had captured the fortress through something beyond common sense. It was only natural to say that divine power dwelled within him.

Raimund turned his eyes from the precipice and entered Leonia Fortress. Soldiers had already rushed inside, leaving the place in an uproar.

They were entering homes where people were still living and carrying away anything worth money. Iron pots, usable furniture, everything.

“What generous treatment.”

One of the fellow knights said so.

After all, they were not dragging the men out to kill them, violating the women, and setting fires everywhere.

There were different kinds of plunder, each with its own nature. In this day and age, this was practically the same as not looting at all.

Those losing their possessions were still able to keep their lives. They sighed in relief and praised the king's generosity.

The city's prominent figures, however, had all been killed, their heads displayed near the walls. Naturally, all their property went into the king's coffers.

Raimund stopped a soldier who was running somewhere with a cheerful grin, arms full of looted odds and ends.

“Hey, where is Sir Ricart?”

“Who is that?”

“...El Cid.”

“Oh, he should be up that slope over there.”

The soldier answered while looking toward it.

Not all of it, but much of Leonia Fortress had been built by cutting into the terrain, so it was not level. Some places were high, while others were low.

Raimund went up the slope as the soldier had said. A large tree stood there. Ricart was resting beneath it, his red horse standing nearby. No one dared approach him.

Ricart looked down at the peaceful, in its own way, scene inside the fortress. To someone who knew what happened when a proper massacre took place, this was very peaceful.

Watching Ricart, Raimund felt that, for someone who fought so fiercely, he was surprisingly calm in ordinary moments.

“Will the king keep his promise?” Ricart asked.

“King Santonio's epithet is the Bold. If his nature is truly worthy of such a name, he will keep it.”

“Won't he see us as a threat?”

All those in power were suspicious and fickle. Like someone whose mood changed after leaving the privy, supporting a war was burdensome no matter what promise had been made.

“Still, perhaps it is fortunate that you and we are foreigners. If you were his knights, he might think differently.”

A capable retainer had to know how to conduct himself. If a ruler felt threatened by him, his ability could become poison instead.

What Ricart had done, what he had accomplished, was enough to surpass the king's own authority.

But neither Ricart nor the Flame Knights served King Santonio. Just as the ordinary soldiers regarded them as mercenaries, that was, in truth, what they were.

Raimund seemed to have something more to say. After hesitating for a moment, he spoke.

“...I confess that I did not trust you, Ricart. Forgive me. Now I am truly certain that there is no other man like you in this world.”

Ricart merely smiled at Raimund's honest words and made a joke.

“A confession? I don't have those tastes.”

“What? Ah, I see. Hahahaha. How embarrassing.”

“By the way, where are you from, Sir Raimund?”

“I am from the north of the Empire. There is a small estate called Arndel in Sigpringer. I joined the order ten years ago.”

If he had joined ten years ago, that was two years before Bilter. That meant he could not be older than his twenties, making him around the same age as eighteen-year-old Ricart.

“Don't you miss your family?”

“Well, I do not know. My memories have grown faint. At first, every day was painful, and I wanted to return home. But after about two years, I stopped thinking of it. Everyone is like that. Without realizing it, they become part of the order. Your brother must be the same. Do not grieve too deeply.”

“...”

Ricart fell silent for a moment. Raimund had meant to comfort him, but Ricart could not help feeling sad. His family was more precious to him than the whole world.

It was all thanks to his family that he had been able to live a life so completely different from the past life he had spent living like a demon. They had taught him that love and happiness existed in the world.

Still, Ricart did not sink into pointless gloom by himself. He could not simply cast those feelings aside, but he knew how to quietly bury them.

“What did your family call you? Sir Raimund, I mean. I don't think you could have forgotten that too.”

“...”

At Ricart's question, Raimund fell silent instead. As weathered, faded memories stirred faintly back to life, he felt gloomy and heartsick without realizing it.

No one in the order asked questions like that. There was only duty, courage, and brothers. That was all.

“...Ray.”

“Then I will call you Ray from now on. You may call me Ricky as well.”

“...Hearing the name Ray feels strange. It feels as though something is breaking. I do not know whether this is right.”

“A wavering heart does not mean you are becoming weak. If you are anxious, trust me and follow me. I have never broken a promise. Let us go to Adelorne.”

Ricart did not command him. Though he possessed near-miraculous courage and skill beyond all others, he did not pressure or suppress people.

For Raimund, who had lived a thoroughly controlled and restrained life in the order, like a monk under a vow of chastity, this way of being treated felt unfamiliar and awkward.

“I understand.”

Even so, Raimund nodded. Though it still felt strange, he decided to follow the path Ricart led, free from the chains of duty imposed by the Empire long ago.

Perhaps Ricart could offer him such a thing because he had experienced it first.

While Ricart and the Flame Knights remained beneath the great tree, one of King Santonio's knights slowly came up the slope. They removed their helmet, bowed respectfully to Ricart, and spoke.

“Señor El Cid, the king summons you.”

Señor was a Sinatrian word used to respectfully address a man. But El Cid was also a Salaman term of respect for a man, so together they essentially meant “sir sir,” which did not quite fit.

Still, Ricart was neither a knight nor a lord with lands of his own, so they seemed to have no suitable title for him and simply called him that.

Ricart rose from the tree's shade and followed the knight. The king's knight headed toward the Inner Castle.

As they drew closer, the Sinatrian knights and soldiers looked at Ricart with eyes entirely different from before. Their gazes held respect and awe.

Some lightly touched their helmets or gave small bows in greeting. All of them willingly stepped aside.

When he entered the Inner Castle that the enemy had once used, the king's vassals and knights crowded the hall. Yet the moment Ricart arrived, they all fell silent.

From here and there, he heard people calling him Señor, Señor, or El Cid.

The king's knight led him through the hall to the room where the king was staying. They climbed to the fourth floor. At the door, the knight said,

“My king, I have brought Señor El Cid.”

“Let him enter.”

When Ricart entered with King Santonio's permission, he saw the king standing by the window.

The wind blowing in from outside was so fierce that Ricart wondered if the shutters should be closed. Yet the king simply stood there in the wind, looking outside.

Ricart followed his gaze and saw an unbelievably wide-open view to the west. He had not realized it when crossing the drawbridge, but the fortress seemed to connect to the other side of the mountain.

“If my younger sibling cannot use this road, they must go around the distant mountain range. I have gone around those mountains and settled matters with them several times. But do they have that kind of nerve?”

Ignoring this fortress and sending an army far around it meant leaving one's rear exposed. Yet King Santonio had taken that risk and carried out such military operations several times.

Of course, he could never be fully at ease, so even after winning several battles, he had eventually been forced to withdraw. Still, the fact that he had attempted such operations was enough to show his boldness.

“I have never met him, so I cannot say.”

“Though we are far apart and never see one another, war is like having a conversation. Do you have the ability to defeat me? Do you have the leadership to drive your soldiers through a forced march? Are you prepared to kill me? What kind of conversation are you having with your brother?”

“I am not the sort to speak with words. I only show it through my actions.”

“Is that so? Yes, that does seem like you. Still, surely there is sadness in raising a sword against a man born from the same womb.”

“Of course. But that is why I must act.”

“Are you prepared?”

“...I do not know whether I am prepared to go that far. If I thoroughly crush his army, he will not be able to move.”

“I hope so. But if we are doing this, I want it done properly. I do not want to offer lukewarm, half-hearted support. If I must become enemies with the Red Reaper anyway, I want to finish him.”

“I will.”

“I will give you my troops. Go to Valensha. The amir there has said that they will convert and surrender to me. We have discussed it for a long time, but I had no time to spare because of my long struggle with my younger sibling. If you take Valensha, it will be like putting a knife to your brother's throat. Cast aside by the Empire, port cities are the only places from which he can receive supplies from outside. Once you take Valensha, you will be able to force the decisive battle you desire.”

King Santonio possessed exceptional strategic insight. Ironically, so did the Sultan of Mayub. A chaotic and brutal world gave rise to people like them.

Those who relied on bloodline alone and lacked ability had long since fallen away or failed to keep their lives.

Put less kindly, it was no different from demons competing against one another in a hellish world until the final victor became king. King Santonio was such a man.

“By the way, I have killed knights from Valensha. Will the amir there not dislike that?”

“No. The opposite. The amir lost the Salamans' trust long ago. That is why the knights there have such poor discipline. But one admirable thing about them is that they know they are incompetent and weak. In difficult times, surrendering early is also one way to survive.”

“Then I will lead the troops there.”

“Good. Still, it is fortunate that you are not my retainer.”

“Is it acceptable to give me troops when I am not your retainer?”

“You have already fought at the risk of your life and captured the fortress. Is it not my turn to keep my promise? It has nothing to do with you being a foreigner. A king's words must carry weight.”

King Santonio had a good eye for people, knew how to use them, possessed exceptional strategic insight, and was proud and bold.

That was why he could rule as king in this chaotic land where race mixed with race and religion with religion.

Of all the lords, kings, and emperors Ricart had seen, Santonio seemed the most suited to be a ruler.

“I will be going, Your Majesty.”

“Call me Sancho.”

“Pardon?”

“When we meet next, call me Sancho. Not king or Your Majesty.”

Ricart was briefly taken aback, then smiled.

“Then next time, call me Ricky.”

King Santonio, looking out over the vast land beyond the window, smiled deeply as well.

Ricart left the fortress, made preparations with Raimund and the other knights, and departed Leonia Fortress three days later.

Except along the coast, Sinatria was largely highland country. Strong winds blew especially often across those plateaus, making the banners snap powerfully in the air.

Unlike when he had first come here, hundreds of such banners now fluttered behind Ricart as he rode his red horse.

The knights and soldiers gathered beneath them numbered well over five thousand. They marched while looking upon the hero's back.

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