WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 29
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A bonfire burned in an abandoned house by the roadside, with nine people seated in a circle around it. It was Ricart’s group, on their way back to Beringen.
They had no desire to even look at the forest for a while, so instead of retracing their route, they were taking a somewhat longer way back to the Academy.
As they camped for the night, the students settled in wherever they pleased.
Perhaps Molty and Lara had started seeing each other in the meantime, because they were pressed tightly together. A few students maintained their weapons, while others roasted sweet potatoes and potatoes over the bonfire for a snack.
Ricart sat with his knees drawn up against the wall, staring at a slice of night sky through a crack in the abandoned house.
“First, feel mana. Second, apply mana to physical activity. Third, use mana in actual combat. Fourth, infuse mana into a weapon, beyond your body. Fifth, become a Sword Master and kill everything with a sword that can cut anything. Is that right?”
Volka’s last remark was a joke, but those five stages were the Beringen Guild’s classification system for becoming a Sword Master.
It was dry compared to the somewhat poetic system used by the Rubens Guild, but it was also more detailed.
“Yeah.”
Jerome answered as he poked at a potato in the fire with a stick to see whether it was done. He was one of the students who had once always hung around with Ice.
Perhaps because they had survived a near-death experience together, they now seemed willing to share things they had once carefully kept hidden and refused to teach.
Though when explained like this, it did not seem like anything worth hiding. Knowing it in theory did not mean one could do it. That was why the professors only taught students who could feel mana.
“You can somehow practice on your own until the second stage, but from the third stage on, I think it gets really difficult.”
Lara, her short hair tied back, spoke. By then, she was practically tucked into Molty’s huge embrace.
“That’s true. When you’re fighting, you can’t focus on anything, mana or otherwise.”
Handling mana required intense concentration. With blades whipping around before one’s eyes and life hanging in the balance, it was truly difficult to focus on mana.
That was why, apart from Ice, no one here had reached the third stage. Ice, however, had reached the fourth.
Even he had nearly died in actual combat, so walking the path of the sword was truly difficult and dangerous.
“But Ricky’s strong even though he can’t handle mana. If you aren’t going to become a Sword Master, does mana really matter that much?”
Molty said.
Everyone looked at Ricart. Ricart, who had been lost in thought, belatedly snapped back to attention.
“Huh?”
“No, I mean you’re good at fighting.”
“Uh...”
“So which is more important, mana or swordsmanship? It’s hard to say...”
Both were important. It could not be that only one mattered. Still, it was a matter of choice and focus. Did Volka even have a choice? He could not feel mana, yet he worried over things like that.
“I think if you master swordsmanship to its absolute limit, mana doesn’t matter all that much. One well-honed sword should be enough to kill an opponent.”
“But they say the Sword of Light can cut through anything. Armor, shields, everything. Then even if you mastered swordsmanship to its limit, I don’t think you could beat a Sword Master. It doesn’t seem like a real contest could even happen.”
“That depends on how you define that limit. If you evade every attack from the Sword Master and land only your own attacks, wouldn’t swordsmanship win?”
“But if they became a Sword Master, it’s not as though they know nothing about swordsmanship.”
“That’s true, but I’m talking about mastering swordsmanship to its absolute limit.”
“So what exactly is that limit?”
Volka and Delphi traded words as though they were debating. Watching them, Molty thought, No wonder they can’t get dates.
Still, they were all Adventurer Guild students, so it was an interesting topic.
When the conversation between the two began to grow heated, Molty pulled Ricart back into it. Despite Molty’s enormous build, Molty was surprisingly sensitive and inclined to mediate conflicts between people.
“What do you think, Ricky?”
“...Huh?”
“I mean a fight between someone who can’t handle mana but has mastered swordsmanship to its limit, and a Sword Master. Who do you think would win?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t it meaningless either way? It sounds like wordplay.”
The first Sword Master, the legendary murderer who had shocked the world, a one-man army. That had been Ricart in his previous life, but Ricart himself had never given much thought to swordsmanship or Sword Masters.
After all, even he did not know where the golden flames that burned along his blade came from, and he had never properly learned the sword from anyone.
Compared to his skill in his previous life, he was barely at the level of an ant now. Still, he had attained a certain level of mastery, so whether he was weak or hampered, he could always display the best sword he could at that moment. That was why he had yet to meet an equal.
That was why Ricart thought other people were somewhat foolish when he watched them. Why did they practice things like that? Did they really need to practice to do it? Couldn’t they just do it?
From that perspective, Volka, who had gained some understanding after getting beaten up by Ricart, was remarkable. Ricart had absolutely no talent for teaching anyone.
In any case, Ricart had no room to care about such things right now. Since the deserter incident, he had been swallowing down the frustration and bitterness that had gathered inside him like poison.
Perhaps disappointed by Ricart’s bland answer, Molty sought out another target. Ice.
By coincidence, Ricart and Ice were first and second in the pecking order. One could not feel mana, while the other had mastered Mana Drive to a considerable degree.
“Ice, what do you think?”
“The Sword Master wins.”
Ice answered decisively without even thinking.
“Oh? Why? What’s your reason?”
“Only one who can feel mana and has reached the limits of swordsmanship can become a Sword Master.”
“That’s clear enough. Well, you heard him, right?”
Molty looked at Volka and Delphi. By Ice’s answer, Volka had lost.
“I was just curious.”
“So was I.”
A slightly awkward air settled between Volka and Delphi.
Regardless, Ice spoke again to Ricart, who was once more blankly staring through the crack in the abandoned house.
“Are you okay?”
“...Huh?”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong.”
“You know, Ricky.”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“I don’t know what happened to you in the past, but I won’t ask. Just as you don’t ask about my past. I only want you to keep your spirits up.”
Ricart had been dazed ever since the deserter incident, but he finally gave a faint smile.
“I didn’t know you could talk so well.”
Ice was not usually one for long speeches, so he merely answered with a smile.
But he was so handsome that when his normally cold face smiled, he was truly more beautiful than moonlight. The two female students unknowingly drew in sharp breaths.
“Fucking broken.”
Volka grumbled, and students burst into laughter all around them.
The next day, Ricart’s group resumed their journey toward Beringen. Since there were no cities along the way, they spent nights borrowing village barns or receiving the hospitality of rural lords.
There was no special reason for it. A rural lord had sometimes entrusted requests to the Beringen Adventurer Guild and had been satisfied with the results. The students were bewildered, but they did not mind it. Honey wine, freshly roasted meat, and soft bread eased much of their fatigue from the journey.
As a group of nine heavily armed people, they could pass even poorly policed roads without incident. They did not encounter highwaymen, and bandits only watched from afar.
It was not merely because they were well armed or numerous.
There was an indescribable air about them, an aura.
The students were completely different from when they had first left to support the request. Their eyes, composure, breathing, mindset, everything. It was clear from the way they calmly watched thugs without fear or looking away.
They might not yet have been lions or tigers, but they had the air of wolves that could overwhelm most lesser creatures.
And adventurers were not really all that different from private detectives or private police. Just passing through an area had a certain stabilizing effect on public safety.
The world really did have its upsides and downsides. Students dying was clearly its dark side, but seeing things like this, there were positive aspects as well.
After walking for five days, they finally arrived in Beringen. When they entered the headquarters building below the hill, the adventurers there all looked at them with curiosity. They had become famous without meaning to.
“Are this year’s students exceptional, or have our standards gone up? Either way, you all did well. When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it. You killed that jackal Lorenz.”
Dunkel spoke.
For some reason, he was not dressed as a bartender, but sat at a table in light gear. He wore a leather vest and a dark brown hooded cloak.
“He made the fatal mistake of laying a hand on the ranger village.”
“He probably didn’t know the details there. It was meant to be a surprise attack. Anyway, when things go wrong, you should just call it off. If you drag it out for no reason, that’s how you end up like him. He must have been desperate too. Still, you made it back safely. But Ricky, what happened to your hair?”
“It got singed in a fire.”
Ricart’s hair had grown a little by now, making it look even more like broccoli than before. He should just shave it all off.
“But aren’t you tending bar today?”
Volka asked.
“Ah, I have something to take care of.”
Dunkel looked meaningfully at Ice, then turned his gaze to Ricart.
“The Master wants to see you, Ricky.”
“Me? Why?”
“Why do you think? You were the biggest contributor in this matter. The rest of you should rest in the city for a while and take your time heading back to the dormitory. Don’t spend too much money on brothels or gambling. And it’s too early for expensive equipment, too. Ricky, follow me.”
Dunkel rose from his seat.
He left the building with Ricart alone and headed up the hill. It was Ricart’s first time entering the central city.
Beyond the gate stood many neat old buildings. The buildings close to the city walls were normally used for lodging, but in wartime they served as defensive structures.
When they arrived at the real Beringen Guild headquarters, it was not as grand a building as Ricart had imagined. In fact, the plaster had peeled from parts of the outer walls, leaving the bricks exposed.
“Young Master.”
Before they entered, Dunkel addressed Ricart differently than usual.
“...Huh?”
“An elder is inside. He is also a noble, so please take particular care with your words and actions. Above all, do not evade his questions or lie. No matter what you do, you will never be able to deceive him.”
An elder? Not the Guild Master?
“I can’t lie anyway.”
“That is fortunate. Then please go inside.”
Dunkel opened the door for him.
He did not enter himself. Ricart stepped inside alone, and it felt as though he had entered a temple with all the chairs removed. It was a place where every sound echoed loudly.
Clunk.
The door closed.
Being left alone in a place like this gave him a feeling that was difficult to describe.
Step. Step. Step...
Ricart walked slowly, looking around as he examined his surroundings. There were no lights inside. Only the light from outside illuminated the interior, giving it a subdued atmosphere.
“You are smaller than I expected, Young Master.”
From far away, someone with his upper body hidden in shadow spoke with his hands behind his back. A sword hung at his waist. His voice sounded somewhat old. Since the place echoed so much, even his quiet voice came through clearly.
“Hello. I am Ricart of the Calderbern family.”
For the first time since leaving home, Ricart introduced himself formally. He was neither intimidated nor forcing himself to appear confident.
“I am Hellawman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and Emperor’s Champion. Please, speak freely.”
A Count Palatine ranked above a count and administered the Emperor’s territory in the Emperor’s stead. In other words, Hellawman was a higher-ranking noble than Ricart’s father, and even the Calderbern main house.
But regardless of rank, nobles had the right to speak to one another as equals. Any noble with common sense behaved that way. Only royalty or the imperial family could distinguish themselves from nobles.
Besides, an Emperor’s Champion meant he was a Sword Master.
Anyone else would have fainted and immediately fallen prostrate upon hearing that, but Ricart remained calm.
“I heard you wanted to see me.”
“Yes. I wished to see with my own eyes the promising talent who cut off the head of a powerful opponent at the age of eleven.”
Ricart had heard it often on the way here, but Lorenz seemed to have been quite infamous.
“I was lucky.”
“Luck is also skill.”
“If you say so, then I suppose it is.”
At Ricart’s answer, Hellawman fell silent for a moment. Then he slowly emerged from the shadows.
His pure white hair was neatly swept back. His appearance was rather strange. He clearly looked old, yet his skin was as flawless as porcelain, making him difficult to describe.
His eyes were blue, and he naturally held back an aura that put pressure on others.
He approached Ricart, then stood a short distance away and silently looked him over.
“How peculiar. Even an ordinary person possesses at least a tiny amount of mana, yet you do not have a single drop of it, Young Master.”
“Yes... I see...”
To be honest, Ricart did not understand what he was supposed to do about that.
“It is only natural that a seedless thing cannot sprout. If you cannot handle mana, you cannot become a Sword Master. Is that not regrettable?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Hm...”
To Hellawman, Ricart did not appear to possess ambition or any pure desire to grow stronger.
He looked like a young boy who simply had a natural talent for wielding a sword.
A trace of disappointment crossed Hellawman’s face. As he himself had said, Ricart could not become a Sword Master if he could not handle mana.
Still, it was rare for a noble to enter the Academy, and Ricart had accomplished something worthy of praise. Hellawman thought they should at least have a light conversation.
Smiling as though looking at a young grandson, Hellawman spoke.
“Do you know how old I am, Young Master?”
“To be honest, you’re hard to guess.”
“Ha ha ha. The Empress Dowager says the same thing from time to time. I am one hundred and twenty-two this year.”
Ricart could not help but be surprised by that. Could a person live that long? And remain so healthy? He wondered if Hellawman was joking.
Seeing Ricart’s reaction, Hellawman smiled with even greater satisfaction. How adorable.
“It is difficult to believe, but it is true. I have lived almost as a recluse, so most people think my son is the Count Palatine. Or is it my grandson now? My great-grandson? I do not know. I have no interest in such things. In any case, while I was alive, I saw that legendary Sword Master, Ricky, with my own eyes. Is that not astonishing?”
What?
Ricart carefully looked Hellawman over again. No matter how hard he searched his memories, he could not remember him at all.
“...It is astonishing.”
“I was born the son of a swordsmanship guild in the Hillsen region. There, I trained in martial arts with my brothers under my father’s guidance. Then one day, that Ricky came and killed my parents, brothers, and relatives. I hid inside a wardrobe and watched it all.”
Ricart had nothing to say.
But what Hellawman said next was even more remarkable.
“Yet I feel grateful to him. Do you know why? Because I was able to witness his perfect swordsmanship. The golden flames burning along the blade, the blood scattering through the air. It was so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes. Ah, even now, I sometimes tremble when I think of it.”
To Ricart, Hellawman seemed slightly out of his mind. He was so obsessed with swords that he did not care whether his own family died. Perhaps it was because he was too old.
Hellawman continued.
“Every strike was something I had never seen and could never have imagined, even in my dreams. They were creative, yet not a single one was bizarre or out of place. More than that, from beginning to end, it felt like a single poem. That is why I still wonder whether he had considered the ending from the very start, or whether it had simply been improvised moment by moment. For a hundred years, I have still not found the answer.”
Listening to him, Ricart finally remembered something.
The Hillsen swordsmanship guild. They had pursued me to kill me and make a name for themselves, so I had eventually stormed their headquarters and killed them all.
At the time, he thought he had killed everyone, but apparently he had not. So someone had been hiding. He had not exactly searched every corner.
Still, meeting someone who had been alive in his previous life left him unsure whether he should be glad, apologize, or say something else.
But with a feeling of guilt, he wanted to give Hellawman an answer. In truth, it was hardly an answer at all. He only had to recall that time.
“Um, perhaps... both?”
“Hm?”
“When he first entered the training hall, perhaps he could see it all. How the fight would unfold, what variables there would be, how he would kill everyone... So really, he wasn’t thinking about anything. It just happened that way, and perhaps that was how it looked to you.”
Ricart answered while trying to recall that memory as clearly as possible.
At that, Hellawman’s body suddenly stiffened, and he trembled as though struck by lightning.
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