WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 3

──────

* * *

Being reincarnated was like having faded memories of a distant past from the moment your consciousness awoke as a very young child.

As I gained a new life and new experiences, those memories of the past grew ever fainter and more distant. The thick smell of iron and burning was replaced by fragrant things.

Mother smiling when she saw me do something silly. Running through the forest laughing with my brothers. The fresh feeling of wearing new shoes. Promises kept with friends. Special treats on special days.

And Father, who had always been impassive, looking startled as he pulled me into his arms.

Things like starlight gathered piece by piece and filled the emptiness inside me. Every morning when I woke up, I found myself wondering what might happen that day.

What should I call these things? I could not think of the right word. I only thought this: I had incurred a great debt. Childhood memories that could not be bought with money or earned through any effort.

It was quite ironic that my nickname was Ricky. Ricart had always found the idea of fate abhorrent, yet he did not think it was entirely bad.

“How are you feeling now?”

Abelich asked as he wiped the meat grease from his hands with a towel. Graut, his wife, and Bilter all looked at Ricart from around the table.

Ricart’s hands, whose muscles had torn from gripping the spear shaft so tightly, were no longer bandaged. A month had passed since that incident.

With food still in his mouth, Ricart covered it as he answered.

“I’m fine. I was fine then, and I’m fine now. Don’t worry.”

“...”

A silence fell as they watched Ricart answer as if nothing had happened.

When people witnessed something shocking, they initially struggled to accept it. Then they inevitably found some reason that made it easier to accept.

The reason they found was that heaven-sent luck must have been on his side. Many strokes of fortune had overlapped. Otherwise, how could a ten-year-old kill such a huge boar in a single blow?

Still, the fact that he had neither frozen nor fled, but faced down the charging boar, clearly meant he had been born with uncommon character.

The way people looked at Ricart had changed. So had the way they treated him, even if only subtly. He felt it too.

“Would you like to learn swordsmanship?”

“...I’m not sure.”

Ricart answered as if he lacked confidence.

He had not run from a charging boar, yet he was afraid to hold a sword? His family thought that, after all, he was still a child.

But Ricart had no such reason. He simply did not want to pick up a sword again after wielding one to exhaustion in his previous life.

“I can’t figure you out. When I was your age and got to learn swordsmanship, I was thrilled.”

Bilter spoke.

Like most boys, being taught the sword seemed cool, so they liked the idea at first.

But once they realized they had no talent, and tedious practice went on and on, they quickly lost interest.

Still, learning it for the first time should have made him happy. Bilter thought his little brother was certainly a bit strange.

Watching Ricart’s somewhat cowed appearance, Graut spoke as though lecturing him.

“As a man, there are things you must do even if you do not want to. Especially learning swordsmanship. You must not neglect it for your whole life. You cannot simply refuse because you do not want to.”

For a noble, learning the sword was a basic accomplishment beyond merely training in martial arts. There was no need to achieve anything exceptional, but one still had to learn the basics.

Yet Ricart did not answer even his eldest brother, who was eight years older. A brief silence followed.

“Answer me.”

“...All right.”

Ricart answered reluctantly.

Bilter had been snapping at his eldest brother lately, perhaps because of adolescence. But in truth, Graut had been deliberately keeping his distance from his younger brothers.

When had that begun? Probably after his marriage, when he had begun proper training as the heir. Ricart had clearly felt the change as well.

When he was young, simply running through the fields with his eldest brother had made him burst into laughter. Graut had helped him up when he fell and dusted off his clothes. When they came home around sunset after playing outside, he had even carried him on his shoulders.

Now he was old enough to say goodbye to such things. Neither sadness nor happiness lasted forever. Ricart realized that.

After the meal, Ricart left the manor. He wore the thick gambeson his brothers had worn at his age, along with mitten-like gloves, and carried a blunted practice sword.

There was no separate training ground, so his first lesson was held in the courtyard. Naturally, the stable hands and the people who cared for the hunting dogs gathered to watch.

Father and Bilter watched from a short distance away, while Graut held a practice sword and rolled his wrist.

“Proper strength comes from proper form. It may feel awkward at first, but through constant practice, you must be able to do it in any situation as naturally as breathing. Ultimately, you must wield a sword as though it were one of your own limbs. It is simple, but not easy.”

As he finished speaking, Graut swung the practice sword hard through the air. A threatening whoosh! followed, and the way his body did not sway from the force of his own strike looked disciplined.

Ricart merely stood there blankly, gripping the sword in both hands and holding it upright against his shoulder.

“Stand with your legs apart like this. Your left foot is the pivot. Keep your center of gravity a little forward. Left foot. Right. When moving forward from this position, take a large step with your right foot. When moving sideways, move like this. Footwork is important. If your feet are unsteady, you cannot strike properly.”

Graut taught his youngest brother the very basics. But he did not teach carelessly. He put thought into teaching him properly.

Ricart did everything his brother told him to do. Still, to Ricart, who remembered his previous life, movements that were too basic only restrained his own skill.

In truth, it did not matter. Graut was not wrong.

“Rather than thinking of it as a swing, think of it as pushing through your strike. Like this. This lets you defend and attack at the same time. In real combat, you pull it back and cut with all your strength. There are many variations, but that is enough for today. For now, try only what I taught you.”

Ricart did as his brother instructed. He spread his legs front and back, bent his knees slightly, shifted his center of gravity further forward, then took a large step with his rear foot and thrust his sword.

Once, twice, three times, four times...

The sword cut through the air with a whoosh, whoosh, and the onlookers felt a slight sense of unease. Though he was clearly learning swordsmanship for the first time that day, he had none of a beginner’s usual awkwardness. Beginners normally stagger under the force of their own strikes.

It was not merely his stance. There was discipline in his movements. He was not simply copying what his eldest brother did on the surface. He had grasped its essence and made it his own.

He was certainly extraordinary. Unbelievably so. At this level, he did not merely have talent. Was he not a genius?

Perhaps that was why Abelich felt conflicted as he watched his youngest son. He felt immense pride, but also unease.

Talent that was too exceptional was not always a good thing, especially if it could threaten the future he envisioned.

“Graut, spar with him.”

Abelich spoke from where he had been watching.

Graut turned toward his father. He understood his father’s words to mean that he should give Ricart a harsh lesson.

Ricart had heard his father as well, so he stopped swinging at the air. His body was still that of an ordinary child, and he was slightly out of breath.

Graut looked at his younger brother. Hesitation filled his eyes.

Ricart quietly met his brother’s gaze, then lowered his head.

Graut hardened his heart as he looked at his little brother.

“You remember what I just taught you? Try it on me. You should stop worrying that you might hurt me.”

Yet Ricart said nothing. He simply stood there with his head lowered.

After a moment of silence, he spoke.

“...No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no. I don’t want to.”

It was the first time it had ever happened. Gentle, obedient Ricart was defying them.

Graut turned toward his father. The impassive middle-aged man was watching them steadily. Graut looked back at Ricart.

“Are you talking back like Billy now?”

“It’s not that...”

Graut poked Ricart in the chest with the blunt practice sword. Ricart stumbled backward.

“Then what are these words and actions? I clearly told you to swing your sword as I taught you. Hurry up.”

“...No.”

“You little!”

Graut suddenly struck Ricart’s upper arm. Even through the thick gambeson, it could not have failed to hurt.

“Ow!”

Ricart squeezed his eyes shut, hunched his shoulders, and trembled in pain.

“I’ll say it once more. Swing your sword.”

“No.”

“You think I’m a joke.”

This time Graut struck his other arm. A thwack sounded, and he struck him again and again. His thighs, his shoulders, everywhere.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack...

Even so, Ricart only stood hunched over, holding the sword tightly in both hands as he took the blows. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his face twisted with pain.

The onlookers might have felt troubled inside, but they watched with calm faces. They knew that nobles could be even harsher, precisely because they were nobles.

It was unthinkable to refuse an order from an elder of the household, especially the head of the family.

“I’ll give you one last chance. Swing your sword. If you refuse again, I will strike your head.”

Even though it was a practice sword, it was made of metal. A blow to the head could cause serious injury.

“No. I won’t.”

Ricart spoke firmly. Graut’s hand trembled around the sword. He had said it, so he had to strike Ricart’s head, but that seemed too cruel to do.

So he turned toward his father again, almost pleadingly. Beside him, Bilter fidgeted anxiously.

Despairingly, Abelich nodded. It was permission to strike Ricart’s head. No, it was an order.

Graut looked back at his younger brother and spoke softly enough that no one else could hear.

“Just swing once. Please. I don’t want to do this either.”

“That’s why I can’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“...”

Graut could not understand why Ricart was going this far. It was the first time he had ever struck his younger brother like this, and the first time Ricart had ever defied him.

Ricart would not swing his sword at his eldest brother because the swordsmanship he knew was not meant for sparring. It was a sword tempered solely in blood on desperate battlefields.

Knowing that only pure killing intent would fill its point, Ricart could not turn it on his eldest brother.

Their relationship had grown distant lately, but he could not raise a blade against the memories they had shared or his brother’s tender feelings for him. That would be far worse than wounding himself.

And he did not know how to put on a clumsy act, swing poorly on purpose, and lose. So all he could do was nothing.

But to those watching, it only looked as though Ricart was defying them for no reason. He had always been gentle and obedient. Had he learned it from Billy?

Graut grew visibly flustered at Ricart’s defiance. No matter how small the matter was, once Father had given an order, it had to be carried out.

Why did this have to happen on the day of his first sword lesson? Should he strike while holding back? Or pretend to hit his head and strike his shoulder instead? Would Father see it from where he stood?

Many thoughts went through Graut’s mind. Then he decided that striking Ricart’s head was simply not an option.

So he gripped his sword and struck Ricart hard on the shoulder. From the side or behind, it would look exactly as if he had struck his head.

Thwack!

“Ugh!”

Ricart collapsed.

He had remained standing through every blow until then, but he finally fell. He tried to rise, but strength would not come into his body.

Graut’s eyes shook wildly as he looked at his fallen brother. By this point, he did not know what to do. He kept looking back and forth between his father and his brother. Graut was not yet fully grown either.

Then Abelich strode over. Looking down at Ricart, he spoke indifferently.

“Get up. Swing your sword.”

At his father’s absolute command, Ricart only trembled like a bird caught in the rain.

Then he opened his tightly shut eyes. Looking up at his father, Ricart clenched his teeth and spoke.

“I won’t. Not even if I die.”

He did not say it casually. His distinctive hazel eyes burned as though on fire.

His gaze was so intense that Abelich felt a sudden chill at the nape of his neck. Coldness ran down his spine, and the hairs on his body seemed to rise.

Silence stretched on for quite some time. Graut lowered his head, his sword hanging at his side. He seemed ashamed before his father and sorry toward his younger brother.

Ricart lowered his head again and began to cry. Dark drops fell onto the dry ground.

Abelich felt something he could not name. Yet he did not show it, speaking in the same impassive manner as always.

“...The lesson is over.”

Bilter hurried over, helped Ricart to his feet, and supported him back to his room.

Ricart’s entire body ached so badly that even lying down in bed was difficult.

“You idiot...”

Bilter rebuked him for no reason, overcome with concern. Ricart said nothing as he lay in bed. He only wore an inscrutable smile.

A little while later, there was a knock, and someone entered. It was his sister-in-law. Though pregnant, she had brought ointment, bandages, and other supplies herself.

She seemed to have seen what had happened through the window. Bilter quietly left, and his sister-in-law spoke.

“I’ll put some medicine on you.”

Ricart endured the pain and raised his upper body. Then he took off his shirt and lowered his trousers.

Both arms and the outer sides of his thighs were already covered in blue bruises. His shoulder was a mix of red and blue, nearly black.

His sister-in-law seemed shocked by the sight. As she applied the ointment, her hands trembled slightly.

She had come to say that Graut had not done it deliberately, that he had no choice, and that Ricart should not resent him too much. But she could not bring herself to speak.

Still, Ricart could fully feel her complicated, apologetic heart through her trembling touch.

“It’s all right. I’m rather used to pain. It is closer to an old friend.”

“...What?”

“I think I have already enjoyed more happiness than I deserve. I do not know whether it is a mirage, as some say. I am more worried that Eldest Brother may feel terrible. He pretends otherwise, but he is still soft-hearted. So please tell him this. I understand everything. My heart has not been wounded. I still love him.”

His sister-in-law’s hand stopped as she applied the ointment. Her eyes widened, and she looked as though she could not immediately understand what she had just heard.

There was a limit to how mature someone could be. She had never imagined Ricart would say such things, or that he would hold thoughts this deep.

His sister-in-law only blinked at him in bewilderment, while Ricart endured the pain in his battered body and gave her a faint smile.

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