WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 157

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The scattered rain seemed not to fall, but to settle softly. On people’s heads, shoulders, and blades.

On that cloudy day, with the sun hidden behind the clouds, the blades beaded with tiny droplets looked as though they had been ritually cleansed. Ready to cut through flesh and bone, only to be drenched in blood.

But that would not happen to this special sword. Holy sword or demonic sword, whatever it was called, golden flames quietly rose along the blade for an instant, evaporating the droplets.

The bandits advancing with shields nearly as tall as themselves, shoulder to shoulder with their comrades, clearly saw it. The flames.

To them, it looked like magic.

Then those magical flames flashed before their eyes like lightning.

Crack!

There was not much noise, even as shields were cut apart and heads separated from bodies.

Snake-Eyes Ashtad stood behind several layers of subordinates, so he did not see it clearly. When his men collapsed limply, he thought they were suddenly playing some foolish prank.

But that made no sense. A prank at a time like this?

Only then did Ashtad realize they had no heads, that blood was spreading across the ground.

What?

Both sides of the narrow path were steep slopes. One went up, while the other dropped away.

By the time Ashtad noticed his men had lost their heads, Ricart had already run around the slope, kicked off the ground, and was falling back down.

He moved so fast that his hood had come off, revealing his hair and face. Seeing how young the swordsman was, Ashtad felt that something was wrong.

Holding the burning sword in both hands above his head, Ricart fell into the middle of the enemy.

The bandits were packed so tightly together that he could not land on the ground. He became entangled among them instead.

To anyone watching, it looked like suicide. He seemed certain to be buried beneath the enemy, trampled down, or seized.

Then everything changed at once.

The burning sword pierced through one man’s torso, then swept in a great circle.

Shhhhk!

It was a ring of blood.

Everything along that ring was severed. Those whose bodies came apart died without ever knowing why.

Bodies that were no longer living things, only chunks of meat, collapsed in heaps.

What kind of technique was this?

It was simply murder itself.

With corpses catching at their feet and blood flooding the ground, there was nowhere left to step.

Ricart stood alone at the center.

Everything else was covered in dark blood, but the burning sword and his flashing eyes remained clear.

Those outside its range survived through sheer luck. Inside, they died. Outside, they lived.

That was all.

At first, the survivors did not understand what had happened. Even seeing it with their own eyes, they could not believe it.

Then their pupils widened and their hair stood on end, yet they could not even scream. It was as if their lungs had stiffened. They had all sucked in breath at once, but could not let it out.

Whether it was misfortune or fortune, Ashtad barely survived as well.

He blankly watched Ricart run up the slope again, then drop back down.

Ashtad made his decision.

Unlike the subordinates standing there in a daze, he had the qualities of a man fit to lead a band. He threw himself down the slope beside the path.

Trees grew thickly there, so he desperately grabbed whatever he could and managed to stay alive. But it was dangerous. Below, a valley stream surged with violent currents. One wrong step, and he would be swept away and killed.

He moved along the steep slope, clinging from tree to tree. The rain had made the trees wet and slippery, forcing him to struggle with all his strength.

Even then, corpses rolled down from above. Or severed heads and limbs.

Snake-Eyes Ashtad had never been in Ricart’s thoughts to begin with.

As though to say, would a knight order care about the likes of you?

After Ricart cut through the enemy a couple of times with ease, the terrified bandits began shoving one another aside and fleeing in every direction. Most did not even know why they were running. Someone behind them pushed them, so they ran.

Some threw themselves down the slope like Ashtad, but many failed to grab hold of a tree and tumbled into the valley stream.

The path was narrow and blocked at both ends. They shoved one another off the edge, and chaos broke out.

Curses covered the area around the bandit stronghold.

“Hey, you bastard! Don’t push!”

Things like that.

With corpses and people constantly falling from above, Ashtad felt as though he was experiencing hell.

A hell where corpses fell from the sky.

Below was a watery hell.

He did not care whether his men lived or died, nor what was happening. He only moved his trembling limbs toward the bandit stronghold.

His startled heart pounded as though it would burst through his chest.

At some point, corpses and people stopped falling from above. It seemed the demon risen from hell had not reached this far.

So he clung to the trees and laboriously climbed back up the slope.

One of the men above stared blankly down at his chief. He too looked deeply shocked.

“Chief? What are you doing down there?”

“Don’t just stand there! Grab me!”

“What happened up front?”

“Damn it!”

In his anger, Ashtad grabbed the subordinate and pulled him down. The man nearly fell, but those nearby caught him just in time.

Once back on the path, Ashtad saw the bandit stronghold not far away. He rushed toward it and shouted.

“Hey! Open the gate!”

But no answer came from within.

An ominous silence lingered.

Then screams rose from far behind him. Each time he heard one, Ashtad flinched and turned around.

“Hey! I said open the gate! Who’s on watch? Want to die!? Which bastard is it!”

He was desperate, but there was no answer, and the gate showed no sign of opening.

His rage rose to the top of his head. Veins stood out across his forehead, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Then he suddenly realized something was wrong, and his heart dropped.

“Betrayal. That bastard Hott betrayed me.”

Hott was his second-in-command. He had been both comrade and subordinate ever since they deserted the mercenary company, and lately Ashtad had sensed something unsettling from him.

That was why he had brought out all his men, more than necessary. He meant to complete the job spectacularly and assert his authority once more.

Then something heavy fell from atop the stockade.

The ground was muddy, so it could not roll. It simply landed with a wet splat.

Ashtad looked over to see what it was.

It was Hott’s severed head.

He stared at it blankly, then raised his head with the same vacant expression.

Strange men stood atop the stockade, silently looking down at him.

From that point on, Ashtad could no longer understand the situation at all.

What the hell was this...?

“W-who are you?”

he asked, but there was no answer. The people atop the stockade only looked down at him impassively.

Then his men’s cries rose closer behind him.

“Argh!”

“Don’t push! I said don’t push!”

“What’s happening up front!?”

“Chief! Chief!”

Ashtad ran without a thought, as though he had not heard their desperate calls.

All that ruled his mind was that he had to survive while he still could. He was in no state to gather his men or decide on a counterattack.

Yet when people reached that state, they became remarkably simple. They only ran along whatever path lay open before them.

Unfortunately, this was a mountain. There were not many paths.

And on each of the few narrow mountain trails, disciples of the Mikela Sword Order whom Ricart had stationed beforehand stood firmly in the way.

Perhaps some bandits had fled ahead of them, because several corpses lay piled at their feet. Like a naturally formed wall, the pile made it hard to climb over and escape.

Ashtad had completely lost his mind. He shoved aside whatever subordinates were around him.

His subordinates had lost their minds too. They could not even tell whether he was their chief, and they shoved one another wildly.

As they fled without thinking, people were pushed from both directions. Those trapped in the middle were nearly crushed to death.

“Please, don’t push!”

“I said don’t push!”

“You bastards! I’m Snake-Eyes Ashtad! Move!”

Those on the receiving end had no idea what was happening.

For those carrying out a proper strategy and operation, though, it was simple.

In the end, everyone surged toward the weaker point.

Ashtad suddenly came to his senses. Not far away, a violent valley stream flowed, and his men were falling into it in droves.

Only then did he realize why they had kept pushing in this direction.

But it was already too late.

People on the other side continued pushing them this way.

There was nowhere to go except into the valley stream.

Whether he had gone mad or was making one last desperate struggle, he pulled out a dagger and stabbed a subordinate who kept pushing him.

“I told you not to push!”

Was this how he had to survive?

He did not know.

The tragic part was that even this did little good. No matter how many men he stabbed, the force pushing him did not lessen.

Besides, they were packed in from every direction. It was difficult even to move his arm and stab.

So he kept stabbing the men pushing him until the very end. He stabbed those he had already stabbed over and over.

Then he fell into the valley stream.

Surprisingly, he was not terribly afraid then. He had watched death approach with his own eyes, and had time to prepare himself.

Rather than the sensation of hitting the water, he first felt himself being swept away.

Water rushed into his lungs through his nose and mouth. In an instant, he lost all sense of direction, front and back, side to side, above and below.

He lost consciousness like that, and drowned.

The men who had gone before him, and the men who followed.

Most of the bandits from the stronghold died that way.

The number Ricart killed himself was not as high as expected. Twenty, perhaps? Thirty?

Most died while shoving one another. Quite a few fell and were trampled to death.

The mountain trail was covered in corpses crushed underfoot.

The sight was so grotesque that everyone except Ricart, who had devised the plan, was too shocked to speak.

Even Ice and the Order’s disciples were dumbfounded.

They had only carried out the order to guard the paths, yet this was the result.

It was a truly brilliant method.

For killing people.

“Have the soldiers come clear the corpses strewn across the path.”

Ricart said this to the knights as he looked around the inside of the bandit stronghold.

The stronghold was empty. Other than a few women and children who had handled odd jobs, there was no one left.

Had there been a battle, it would have become a complete mess. Instead, it was clean.

The valley stream rushed on as though innocently denying what it had done.

With that, they had secured a place to avoid the monsoon season and finished the bandit suppression the Mikela Sword Order had intended to carry out.

When they searched the stronghold, they found that Snake-Eyes had amassed an enormous fortune.

He could have used this money to buy food. Ricart could not understand what greed had driven him to keep it all for himself.

Ricart rewarded the ten knights. Ice and the Order’s disciples had worked hard as well, so he gave them a portion in the form of a donation.

Everything left over would be used as military funds.

He kept nothing for himself.

It took exactly one day for the knights to break camp, move up to the bandit stronghold, clear the corpses, and set up camp again.

Then, as if on cue, the rain grew heavier after a day had passed.

They said luck depended on how one chose to see it.

No matter how hard the rain poured, they could enjoy the sound of it striking a solid roof and the water flowing from the eaves.

They were no longer suffering because of the monsoon season. It felt more like a period of rest.

With a good friend by your side and the quiet sound of rain all around, there was nothing more to ask for at that moment.

Of course, it had been a tragedy for those who had lived here before.

The valley stream beside the bandit stronghold swallowed that tragedy without leaving a trace.

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