WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 23

──────

Real combat was always the worst. There was no such thing as a day when everything went well. Someone died. Or they were badly injured and left disabled.

So assuming the best-case scenario was impossible. You always had to prepare for the worst. For countless different kinds of worst.

Then when the worst happened, how would you respond?

That was not something you could learn by studying. Only experience crossing the line between life and death could teach it.

Ricart had that experience. Countless times. Thinking that seemed to calm him a little. He had faced situations worse than this dozens of times.

Yet contrary to his mental calm, his heart pounded so hard it felt ready to burst.

Even fear of death eventually became familiar, but whenever he faced the worst, his heart always raced. Why?

Maybe it was excitement. Maybe fear. Or maybe both.

One friend was seriously injured, the rest of their allies had run away, and only he and one other friend could fight.

The more objectively Ricart assessed the situation, the faster his heart beat.

Ricart's strengths were one-on-one fights and ambushes. But now, he had been ambushed, and far from facing one opponent, he was badly outnumbered.

So should they abandon the injured person and run? No. That was not a condition to consider. It was the objective. He had to protect them.

Then the answer was clear. He had to defeat the enemy. To defeat them, he had to fight.

Ricart peeked out from his hiding place, watching the enemies approaching. There were more than ten of them, while the rest seemed to be searching elsewhere.

Ricart's mind began moving rapidly, like a machine. In an instant, countless plans were made, discarded, and revised in his head.

“Ricky...”

Volka called him. When Ricart turned, Volka wore a deeply conflicted expression.

They had to run. No, he had to fight for his friend. But then they might die. No, they would definitely die. They had to run now. Every second counted. Now, now... No, he could never do that...

Every bit of that inner conflict showed on Volka's face. Ricart firmly gripped his shoulder with an unwavering gaze.

“Protect Molty.”

“What?”

Then Ricart grabbed his bloodstained sword and burst from cover. Volka nearly had a heart attack. There was not even time to stop him.

Volka knew Ricart was extraordinary for his age, but was this not taking things far too far? He was going to die!

Ricart gripped the ricasso and hilt of his sword, then charged at the nearest enemy. The man spotted him and hurriedly backed away.

“He's here!”

He shouted, drawing his allies' attention.

It took two hands to clap, and since they would not fight him, Ricart had no choice.

But this was already within his expectations. He changed direction and charged straight at someone else.

The enemy's leader, by the look of him.

The most classic way to turn around a disadvantageous battle was to kill the enemy commander or leader. The problem was how to do it.

Ricart boldly leaped into the middle of the enemy ranks to kill their leader. There was no backing out now. The enemies began closing in around him. If he failed, death was all that awaited him.

“You little brat!”

The enemy leader gripped his sword with both hands and swiftly slashed at Ricart. It was a vicious strike, as though he had not won his position as leader in a card game.

But Ricart's eyes were frighteningly cold and composed.

Ricart's sword, neither fast nor slow, smashed against the man's blade.

Clang!

But the result was unexpected. Ricart had clearly meant to break the enemy's sword, yet it did not break. Was it some legendary famous blade?

It was not. Rather, blue sparks like flames fluttered at the point of impact. The man seemed to have attained some level through mana training.

Yet the enemy was even more surprised than Ricart. He had expected to swiftly cut down the small boy who had rushed him, but Ricart's unexpected counterattack left his wrist throbbing.

With his wrist stinging, it was difficult to launch another strike. Ricart did not let the momentum slip away and pressed forward.

He released the hand gripping the ricasso, took the hilt in both hands, raised the sword over his head, and swung upward from below. It was not a particularly fast attack.

But the other man wanted to avoid another collision between their blades because his wrist hurt, so he took a slight step back.

But Ricart's last attack had not been an attack. It was a kind of feint. Here, his genius burst forth like flame.

As though he had known the man would evade, Ricart took a large step forward. Despite the unexpected situation, he made an even bolder move.

For the best result in the worst moment.

Ricart crossed his arms, and the great sword spun over his head. Using its centrifugal force and weight, he brought it down in a swift, heavy blow.

At that moment, Ricart swung his sword with all his strength toward a single timing, a single point. His abdominal muscles and legs firmly supported his body, and his serratus anterior tensed tightly. His arms merely guided the way. His will traveled through the sword's tip.

Unable to evade, the enemy had no choice but to raise his sword to block. Expecting another heavy impact on his wrist, he clenched his teeth so he would not drop his weapon.

What kind of little brat could handle a great sword too large for his own body so skillfully?

But no great impact reached him.

Because his sword broke.

Craang!

Not mere sparks, but blue flames scattered like falling blossoms. They were beautiful, completely out of place in this situation.

Thud!

Ricart's sword struck the man's neck just like that. His head rose slightly, then dropped to the ground. Blood burst from the severed neck like a fountain, and the beheaded man collapsed to his knees.

Ricart shoved his foot against the man's chest. Finely sprayed blood spattered across his face and clothes.

Ricart held the sword in one hand. It was so large compared to his body that its tip touched the ground.

Then he looked once at the enemies to his left, then at those to his right. They all wore stunned expressions. What was this...?

Everything from the first strike to this moment had happened in an instant. A child had suddenly appeared, charged the leader, exchanged one or two blows with him, and somehow this had happened.

Breaking an enemy's sword by countering their attack was an extremely difficult technique, though it was still the easier one. Attacking first and breaking the sword of an enemy trying to defend, as Ricart had just done, was on another level. It was a technique close to divine skill.

But the enemies were not skilled enough to recognize that. They had simply gone blank at the shocking sight before them. Their leader was kneeling, upper body bent backward, with no head. Blood spurted out in streams.

“Boo!”

“Eek!”

Ricart suddenly shouted as though he were about to charge them, and they flinched before running away. The person who would have scolded or punished them had lost his head while standing, so they fled without a single concern holding them back.

Ricart went to the battlefield and looked around for his scabbard. Fortunately, it was not far away.

Among the many bodies, he found five corpses of Beringen Academy students. There was no time to collect spoils or recover their bodies. He only closed their wide-open eyes.

Then it happened.

“Cough. Ngh. Urgh...”

Someone was alive.

But it was an enemy. One arm had been smashed to pieces and hung limp, while his abdomen had been slashed open along the side, his entrails spilling out.

In that state, he might suffer for as long as three days. Worse still, he might be eaten alive by wild animals.

Ricart approached him. Whether he was begging to be spared or asking to be finished, the nameless enemy looked up at Ricart and reached out a trembling hand.

Ricart sat beside him, covered his eyes with one hand, and spoke.

“Just as you had no personal feelings toward me, I have none toward you. Living is suffering, so I hope you find rest after death.”

Rather than ask why the man had tried to kill him or resent him, Ricart simply spoke calmly. Then he stabbed and cut the man's neck with a dagger, ending his life in one stroke.

“Cough! Ghk! Urgh!”

The enemy convulsed briefly, but Ricart's hand covered his eyes and pressed down firmly. Before long, the convulsions subsided.

In the end, Ricart closed the eyes of every dead enemy as well.

They were dead now, after all...

Ricart wiped the blood from his blade on an enemy corpse, sheathed it, gathered several ownerless swords scattered across the ground, and returned to Volka and Molty.

But Volka's expression was even worse than the enemies' had been. His mouth hung open as he stared at Ricart like he had lost his mind.

“I got lucky,” Ricart said.

“...You got lucky? I don't think that was a matter of luck.”

Volka spoke as though dumbfounded. Ricart simply ignored him.

“There isn't time. I'll carry the bags, so you carry Molty, Volka.”

“Huh? Uh... But where do we go?”

“The rendezvous point is probably safest for now.”

“Yeah...”

They had spent a night on the way here, so returning to the Academy would be more dangerous in their current situation.

Molty was asleep, breathing softly. It was natural for a potion to rapidly heal injuries and make the user overwhelmingly sleepy.

Ricart rose with the bags on his back. Since they held the belongings of three people, they weighed almost as much as a person. He hung his heavy sword around his neck and carried it in front of him.

Volka handed as much of his own baggage as possible to Ricart and hoisted Molty onto his back. Carrying weights that were difficult to bear, the two set off for the rendezvous point.

Even each step was difficult. After walking for hours, sweat poured from them like rain.

One good thing was that physical exhaustion erased every anxious, frightening thought. They were simply tired. All they desperately wanted was to sit down and rest.

Then they encountered the group that had gone on ahead. Ice, two of Ice's friends, two female students, and one male student.

They stared at Ricart and Volka in astonishment. They had survived? How?

Even Ice, whose expression rarely changed, widened their eyes in considerable surprise.

“You fucking bastards...”

Volka growled, glaring at them as though he would kill them.

But Ricart coolly let it pass.

“Enough, Volka. Hey, someone help us.”

One of the male students approached and took Molty onto his back. At a glance from Ice, one of Ice's companions came over and took Ricart's bags.

The moment Ricart handed them over, relief flowed through his neck and shoulders, and he wanted to collapse right there. But he put a hand against a nearby tree and leaned on it, somehow managing not to sit down.

Then Volka rushed at Ice and roughly grabbed them by the collar.

“You fucking bastard. I knew it from the start, but a bastard like you isn't even human. You know that? You heretic bastard. Why don't you quit pretending to be an adventurer and sell that pretty face of yours as a male whore? You piece of trash.”

A stream of abuse poured from him. He seemed truly furious. Ice merely looked at Volka while being held by the collar.

Unexpectedly, Ricart stopped him.

“Don't, Volka. It could happen. Who wants to die? You were honestly conflicted too.”

“Ricky!”

Volka shouted as though he could not believe Ricart would say that. But Ricart only quietly shook his head.

Honestly, Ricart did resent Ice and the students who had followed Ice for leaving first. But he knew that confronting them emotionally now would do nothing to overcome the current situation, so he stopped Volka.

Volka roughly released Ice's collar. Other than staggering back one step, Ice was not pushed far.

Then, surprisingly, Ice spoke.

“It wasn't because I feared death. It was to complete the request. That was all.”

Was the request really that important? Ricart could not quite understand it. But he had nothing in particular to say.

“Sure. The request matters. That's what fixers do. Adventurers. Let's move for now. We can rest once we reach the rendezvous point.”

It seemed the role of leader had naturally passed to Ricart. In an emergency like this, Ricart was the only one still thinking clearly.

Ice always had little expression, but seemed somewhat shaken too. Otherwise, Ice would not have felt the need to make an excuse like that.

“By the way, who do you think the people who attacked us were? Do you know?”

Ricart looked at Volka as he asked.

“Either the Bravant Guild or the Rubens Guild.”

The two guilds were major rivals of the Beringen Guild. In the end, Arno had been right. Students were being mobilized and killed in fights between guilds.

But this time was somewhat different. They had been attacked while carrying out a request.

No, more precisely, they had been on their way to support adventurers carrying out a request. It was not even their request.

“Let's move,” Ricart said.

Securing their safety came first for now. After that, they could decide whether to continue or give up.

The nine Beringen Academy students headed toward the rendezvous point. Students whose weapons had broken or been lost received the swords Ricart had picked up.

What would have happened without Ricart? By now, they might all have scattered and fled, request or no request.

Then they would have gotten lost in the forest and been captured by the enemy, eaten by beasts or monsters, or starved to death.

The students understood this. Rather, having experienced it firsthand, they understood it better than anyone. Ricart seemed newly remarkable to them.

He was more than simply good at fighting. He had the ability to push through desperate situations.

The sense of responsibility that refused to abandon allies to the end, accurate judgment amid chaos, the nerve to accept danger, the boldness to stake everything on a fight, and the cool-headedness not to react emotionally.

They knew he was remarkable, but they could not help wondering what kind of person he was. He was only eleven. Was this not a bit excessive? Were these the qualities of a hero?

In any case, the students found themselves drawn to Ricart without realizing it. They felt ashamed that they had run away. Even if they were not close to Ricart, they were beginning to feel certain they could trust him.

The group was nearly at Griffinswald and searched the nearby forest for the guild's hideout. Since it was unfamiliar territory, they wandered around quite a bit. They could hardly go into the village and ask where their hideout was.

The sun began to set, and just as they were starting to worry they might never find it, they discovered a cabin hidden behind trees in a secluded place.

It was the Beringen Guild's Griffinswald hideout.

The students finally felt some relief as they approached the cabin, only to be immediately forced into despair.

The adventurers who were supposed to guide them lay scattered around as corpses.

“This is so fucking fucked...”

Volka muttered.

This time, Ricart agreed, as did the other students.

They had not even seen a deserter, yet it looked like rival guild adventurers were going to kill them all.

Join our discord at https://dsc.gg/wetried