WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 26

──────

When people spoke of distance, they usually measured it by the walking pace of an ordinary adult. A day's journey, half a day's journey, and so on.

That meant there was bound to be some variation from person to person. You especially had to take locals' descriptions with a grain of salt. This was even more true in terrain like forests and mountains.

So Ricart estimated it would take about two days to get out of the forest. With one injured person among them, they could not move quickly.

The forest path was uneven, rising and falling. Thick tree roots jutted out everywhere. There was no way a carriage or cart could travel along it.

Molty insisted on walking alone, but when Ricart firmly refused, Volka supported Molty instead.

And so, the group spent another night in the forest. Owls hooted, and the moon was mostly hidden behind the branches. In the pitch-black darkness, two campfires burned.

It was the kind of night when some unknown terror seemed to lurk beyond the darkness untouched by the firelight.

They sliced up the salted meat they had received in the village and shared it. It was so heavily salted that they had to eat only small bites with hard bread.

The students tried not to show it, but their anxiety was obvious. Funnily enough, they steadied themselves by watching Ricart remain calm. How could he be so composed? It was strange enough that they still could not get used to it.

“The enemy will probably come from the way we came.”

Ricart began as he wiped the dagger he had used to cut the meat. He had not told anyone to pay attention, but everyone looked at him and listened.

“If they had gone ahead and waited for us, we would have met them near the village already. It is too far for them to wait at the end of this path. So they will probably inspect the scene first, then be late coming after us. That means we have to fight.”

Ricart stated it clearly. Not that they should run, or that there was another choice. They had to fight.

“There are three groups of us, so three people take on one enemy at a time. You know you won't remember the training anyway, right? Just think about stabbing and cutting the moment you see an opening. If three people fight one person, there will definitely be an opening.”

It might have been humiliating, but pride meant nothing when their lives were at stake. The students understood that well after experiencing it once. But still.

“There are more enemies than us. There are nine of us, and one of us is injured. There must be at least thirty of them. How can three of us fight each one?”

One of the female students spoke. Perhaps because they had grown somewhat more comfortable talking to one another, she voiced her opinion without hesitation.

“That is why the first clash matters. If we ambush them and take down a few at once, they will think there are more of us. It is momentum. We win with momentum. Do not think about anything else. Just think about killing one at a time. We sweep through them like that. I will handle anyone strong.”

Even if Ricart was right, and even though they trusted him as their leader, the students seemed uncertain because they lacked real combat experience.

Ricart tapped the bandage wrapped around his left hand.

“The wound on my palm has not healed yet.”

Only a day had passed since they swore they would not run, and that if anyone died in the fight, they would take revenge.

The sting in his palm was still vivid, and that pain reminded him of the oath.

But the human heart was fickle. Once they truly entered the situation, there was no telling what would happen.

Ricart looked back at Ice. Ice's silver hair looked unreal, and those perfectly proportioned features still seemed to shine despite going three days without washing properly.

Yet those eyes, always cold and indifferent, looked somehow melancholy now. Or perhaps afraid.

Ricart thought he still did not understand him. He had left to complete the commission? Was that truly how he felt, or merely a cowardly excuse? Ricart did not know.

“Fighting is better. Running away becomes a habit too. Then you really become miserable...”

Ricart murmured, as if speaking to himself, or as if he wanted everyone to hear.

The campfires crackled, and the students remained silent. Whether they were gathering their resolve or simply trembling, he could not tell.

Ricart might have been used to fighting, but he could not force the students to risk their lives just because he could.

And in a way, he felt that he and the students were in similar circumstances. He had been thrown onto a battlefield in his previous life when he was around fifteen or sixteen.

When he lifted his head and carefully looked over their faces, the thoughts, trembling, worries, and unease from that time seemed to return.

That was why he could never say something like, “If you run, I will kill you.” Even if they ran, all he could do was embrace them again and tell them it was all right.

But he could not actively encourage them to flee either, so Ricart thought he had done all he could.

As the night deepened, Ricart felt inexplicably gloomy.

Because nothing had changed.

The next day, after walking a little farther along the forest path, Ricart decided they would set an ambush midway through. It was much better to prepare and fight than to keep walking defenselessly and suddenly be forced into battle.

The students wondered whether they might leave the forest if they went just a little farther, whether they might meet adventurers from the guild if they reached Thorweil. Still, they trusted Ricart's judgment and followed him.

That was Ricart's intention. Not only because it would give them an advantage in battle, but because lying in wait changed their mindset. Psychologically, it made people accept that they were truly going to fight.

Like a genuinely capable field commander, Ricart knew how to choose the time and place of battle himself.

“But wouldn't it be better to attack from both sides?”

Volka asked. At the moment, all the students were hiding on only one side of the path.

“That only works if we can coordinate properly. You know from experience that once swords start flying, you cannot tell what is what. You might hurt an ally coming from the other side.”

“True...”

When people were under extreme tension in a place where lives hung in the balance, they did not have the presence of mind to distinguish friend from foe.

That was why armies valued formation in battle. You only had to stab whoever stood in front of you.

The larger the group, the harder it was to command. The soldiers doing the actual fighting only had to repeat simple actions, but in small-scale battles, the ability of the people actually fighting mattered more.

Ricart and the students drew their weapons in advance, hid by the roadside, and waited. But it was more boring than expected. All sorts of thoughts came to them while they waited, from useless worries to thoughts meant to strengthen their resolve.

Then, around midday, screams rose from far down the path they had already traveled.

Aaaaargh!

Everyone's eyes widened. What was that?

And once more.

Aaaaargh!

The group flinched once more. Even Ricart was baffled. What was happening?

The screams continued intermittently.

“Don't leave me behind!”

“Help me!”

“I was wrong...!”

Then, at some point, the faint wind carried the smell of something burning.

Was there a fire? What was going on?

“Hey, you fucking bastards! Do you think I'm some fucking joke?!”

They did not know what was happening, but it was clearly serious. And the screams were getting closer.

“Pant! Pant! Pant! Pant!”

Someone came running toward them empty-handed, without even a weapon. Judging by the appearance, it was an adventurer, likely an enemy, with two arrows lodged in their back. Huh?

They ran in a panic, looking as though they had seen a ghost.

Ricart immediately understood. The enemy had clashed with the locals, and a fight had broken out. They were being utterly overwhelmed.

In an unfamiliar place, especially difficult terrain such as a forest or mountain, you could never overcome the locals. If they were rangers skilled at hiding and shooting bows, it was best not to provoke them, like poison frogs.

The students tensed. Should they run out now? What should they do?

But Ricart raised an arm to stop them. They had to watch first.

The students gripped their weapons tightly. Blood seeped through the bandages wrapped around someone's hand. The tension reached its peak.

The screams drew closer, and before long, another group of people came running frantically toward them. Arrows were stuck in their arms and bodies. One person with an arrow embedded in their thigh limped away in a desperate hurry.

Ricart suddenly lunged at the one who looked the least injured. The man, who had been running for his life, startled and flailed his arms.

Crack!

Ricart's sword came down hard and split his head open. That was the signal for the students to rush out all at once.

“Revenge!”

Someone shouted. Then, without being told, every student shouted.

“Revenge!”

The enemies had no momentum from the start, and they did not even have their weapons properly equipped, so it became a nearly one-sided slaughter.

“W-Wait!”

“I surrender!”

The enemies begged for one last mercy, but the students spared no one. They hacked every one of them to death. Ricart even had to stop one student, who kept swinging a sword at a corpse in excitement.

“Pant! Pant! Pant! Pant!”

It was unclear what they had done to be breathing so hard, but adrenaline was surging through them, and they were half out of their minds.

More people came running in a panic. When they saw Ricart's group and the bodies of their allies scattered around them, they were so shocked that they fled into the pathless forest.

Meanwhile, the smell of burning grew stronger. In the distance, dark gray smoke rose into the air.

“Let's go. The fire might spread faster than we think. Molty, take the lead. I will bring up the rear.”

Ricart deliberately placed the injured person at the front. He wanted every one of them to survive. The students understood his intention, and now that they had gained confidence, they nodded in agreement.

Ricart slung his scabbard over his shoulder and walked at the very rear of the line with his sword drawn.

About an hour after they started moving, while they were driving away fugitives rather than being pursued, thick gray smoke suddenly engulfed them. They had not even felt the heat of the flames yet.

The smoke swept past them for only a moment. Their eyes stung from the acrid smoke, and as they coughed, the companions walking directly ahead vanished from sight as if by magic. It was the same for Ricart and the other students.

“Cough! Cough!”

The smoke moved in every direction, disrupting their sense of direction. They could not even see the path beneath their feet. From then on, the students could only walk straight ahead.

Then someone burst through the smoke and attacked Volka. A chilling sound passed by his ear.

Whoosh!

Volka twisted away on instinct. But his leg caught on a tree root, and he fell. The blade seemed to graze his cheek, and blood streamed down his face.

Firelight shone through the thick smoke. Someone stared at Volka with two eyes glinting with madness.

With ragged clothes and wildly disheveled short hair, he looked like a demon that had crawled up from hell. Arrows stuck out of his back like quills, leaving the leather armor that had given its life for its owner in tatters.

He growled like a beast.

“You little bastards really think I'm some fucking joke...!”

It was Lorenz. After foolishly provoking a hornet's nest and suffering terribly at the hands of the rangers, he seemed to have lost his mind and become completely consumed by venomous rage. He looked ready to kill whoever crossed his path.

He was also the one who had set the fire. As his subordinates died helplessly against the rangers, he had lit it in a final desperate act.

Volka scrambled to his feet and tried to get away. His sword had slipped from his hand when he fell, so he could not fight.

He had strayed from the path and did not know where he was. The terrifying killer quickly approached, about to stab Volka in the back.

Clang!

Volka fell again and turned around.

A black cloak fluttered.

It was Ice.

He could not believe it. Why...?

“That way. Go.”

Ice spoke indifferently, then stepped in front of Lorenz.

Thick smoke still swirled around them, stinging their noses, and the approaching flames seemed close enough for them to feel the heat.

Without exchanging a word, Lorenz and Ice swung their swords.

As Ice's blade traced through the air, snowflake-like white crystals blossomed in its wake.

For a moment, there was a genuine chill in the air. By the Rubens Guild's classification, it was clearly the Sword of Blooming.

Startled, Lorenz deliberately avoided meeting blades. He tilted his body and quickly widened the distance between them.

“So it was you! You made this happen! Heh heh heh... Yes, if I kill you, I can make up for all of this! You son of a bitch! I will kill you!”

He had clearly received a report that a child in a red cloak had killed a promising member of the guild. But the moment he saw the Sword of Blooming before his eyes, he seemed unable to think of anything else.

Regardless, Ice focused entirely on his opponent.

Lorenz's sword flew at him again. Ice thrust out his sword, intending to block with his guard. He had already pictured his next move, but there was a difference in real combat experience.

There was no sensation when the swords should have met. Lorenz spun his sword away with a twist of his wrist, then suddenly flung dirt at him.

Ice quickly turned his head, but that brief opening was dangerous in a fight between skilled opponents.

His side burned. He seemed to have been cut deeply. Even so, Ice clenched his teeth and counterattacked. He knocked aside the sword strike aimed to cut off his breath.

But once again, he only cut empty air.

For a moment, the thought crossed Ice's mind.

This is the end.

In a battle where lives were on the line, the outcome could not be determined by swordsmanship alone.

Unless it was a formal duel between knights, what fool would fight fairly? And there were too many variables depending on the place. Acrid smoke stung his nose, his eyes burned, heat pressed against him, the ground was uneven, and his vision was blurred.

If they had competed purely in swordsmanship, Ice might have defeated him easily. But this was a place where life and death were decided, where every means and method had to be used.

Snowflake-like mana beautifully bloomed around Ice's sword as it cut only empty air. But that was all.

Lorenz had already shifted slightly to the side, holding his sword overhead like an executioner.

Ice dropped to the ground and braced himself with one hand. He hurriedly twisted around and looked up at Lorenz, but it seemed that all that remained was for Lorenz's sword to fall on his neck, head, or chest.

Then someone flew through the firelight.

To Ice, it looked like an angel with wings made of flame.

Ricart raised his sword over his head and brought it down. But Lorenz was no ordinary man, and his reflexes were nearly animalistic.

He hurriedly widened the distance between himself and Ricart. But Ricart, having seized the momentum, gave Lorenz no chance to regain his stance. A series of sword strikes followed.

Whish! Whoom! Whish!

The sword was neither fast nor slow. At first glance, it even appeared ordinary.

Yet for some reason, Lorenz kept getting forced back and could scarcely find a chance to counterattack. A sense of wrongness crawled down his spine.

Lorenz only sensed that wrongness because he was skilled. If he had been weaker, he would have met Ricart's sword before he could even feel anything was wrong, had his blade broken, and died long ago.

Then Ricart's cloak caught Lorenz's eye.

A red cloak...

Wait. Something was strange. That bastard had just used the Sword of Blooming.

Ricart claimed the space around his opponent with his steps, what swordsmen called an angle. By the time Lorenz realized it, there was nowhere left to retreat.

So he used the same tactic he had used against Ice. He pretended to counterattack while striking first, hoping to lure Ricart into making a mistake.

But Ricart's hot yet cold eyes saw through the trick completely.

Whoosh!

Thwack!

Lorenz twisted his wrist and avoided having his sword meet Ricart's. But the distance between them had already closed. Unable to block, half of his head was cut away.

The portion of his head above the lower jaw had been cleanly severed.

Thud.

The body, missing its head, fell to the ground. Its cut surface exposed the tongue and teeth. The severed head twitched one eye for a brief moment, and the body, separated from its brain, writhed for a while.

Soon, both halves of the divided body lost all life.

Ricart immediately sheathed his sword, slung it over his shoulder, and approached Ice.

“Can you move?”

Ice could not answer. He looked at Ricart like someone who had witnessed something unbelievable.

Or perhaps someone who had experienced a miracle.

Ice felt as if time had stopped. In the forest overflowing with thick smoke and firelight, as though the entire world was ending, it felt as if a being who had descended from the sky was looking down at him.

Ice blanked out for a moment, then suddenly came to his senses and spoke. Blood gushed from his side.

“J-Just go...”

Just go? Was it because of his injury, or because he felt ashamed for abandoning Ricart before?

Ricart looked quietly at him, then spoke firmly.

“You may abandon me, but I will not abandon you. That is the difference between you and me.”

Ice lowered his head and spoke in a tone that seemed pleading, almost desperate.

“...Even you cannot save me... Just let me die...”

“If you keep talking that bullshit, I will knock you out and carry you. Come on, get on my back. And put this over yourself. Unless you want that handsome face ruined.”

Ricart spoke as he removed his cloak, as though there was no time to waste. The cloak was already soaked through.

Ricart grabbed Ice's arm and forced him onto his back. Then, covering him with the wet cloak, he ran into the flames.

Ice buried his face against the boy's shoulder.

After running for who knew how long, they emerged from that hell and found an unbelievably cool field spread before them. Clear sunlight and a refreshing breeze greeted the two boys.

He could hardly believe heaven and hell had stood so close together.

They had finally reached the end of the forest.

The students had already made it out, along with adventurers from the Beringen Guild who had received the news late and come to meet them.

The students had waited in anxious worry. When Ricart finally emerged after saving Ice, they cheered without realizing it and ran over.

Overwhelmed with relief, Volka's expression crumpled, and he collapsed where he stood.

All nine had survived.

On top of that, they had killed the clan master of a rival guild.

Nothing like this had happened since the Academy was founded. They had been ambushed first, yet fought back, killed the leader, and survived.

The students had accomplished something that even experienced and capable adventurers would have struggled to do.

The active adventurers of Beringen were left at a loss over how to report such an absurd result.

But for now, none of that mattered. It was time to rest and enjoy the sunlight and wind.

The boys and girls had more than earned it.

In any case, Ricart laid Ice down and tried to give him first aid. The adventurers stepped in and took care of it. They washed the wound, used potions without restraint, and stitched it with a needle.

Outside the forest was peaceful, as though everything that had just happened were a lie.

Ice lay on Ricart's cloak, watching white clouds drift slowly through the blue sky. The potion made sleepiness wash over him.

Nearby, the students chatted excitedly. There was no longer any awkwardness or wariness between them. They were all one.

Ice felt as if he had been left alone in a distant place. As he watched the clear sky and prepared to sleep, Ricart's face suddenly popped into view and blocked his sight.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything else?”

Ricart asked.

But Ricart looked ridiculous. His skin had reddened from running through the flames, and his burnt hair had curled up like broccoli.

“Heh heh heh... Heh...”

Despite the pain, Ice began to laugh.

Ricart's eyes widened when the boy who never laughed began laughing. Then he realized why and started grinning too.

Cool weather, warm sunlight, a pleasant nap drifting in, and a comfortable friend.

He needed nothing else.

Chapter 6: When a Frozen Heart Thaws. End.

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