WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 53
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Under the warm sunlight, the area around the Kaits Highlands was packed with people, as if a late spring festival were being held.
An inn stood beside the road, its waterwheel driven by valley water. It could not house everyone, so many people had pitched tents outside and were living there.
Why had so many people gathered?
They had come to watch fights.
In an age when even the beheading of criminals was made into a spectacle, no one wanted to miss the rare sight of skilled fighters dueling.
Where people gathered, merchants naturally followed the scent of money. Like a snowball rolling downhill, the crowd kept growing.
Somewhere amid the festival-like scene, someone had apparently brought in a goat, skinned it, and was roasting it whole over a fire. A large crowd had gathered around, listening to someone tell a story.
The smell of roasting meat made their mouths water, but the loud person talking alone was no less attention-grabbing.
“I saw it! I swear I did! It’s true! I was there that day! The Red Cape slaughtered dozens of people by himself, and then a demon appeared!”
The storyteller spoke as though making a heartfelt appeal. He was so persuasive that he might have been better off giving up adventuring and doing this instead.
Some listened intently, while others only half listened and smirked. A demon? What nonsense.
“What did this demon look like?”
Someone asked.
“The Red Cape isn’t that tall, but his shadow became as huge as, as huge as that mountain over there! If that wasn’t a demon, then what was it!?”
Depending on the angle and intensity of the light, a shadow could stretch long and grow large. In the middle of panic and fear, it was easy enough to see it that way.
Especially for people without scientific knowledge or an education.
“Putting that aside, how did Eberstein die? The Second Sword of the Three Swords clan. Tell us about that in detail.”
Someone else asked. They seemed uninterested in talk of demons.
But the storyteller had been too far away, and it had been dark. There was not much he could say about it.
Still, faced with the crowd’s curious eyes, he felt some pointless sense of duty and began talking anyway.
“At first, I thought the two were dueling, but someone else barged in halfway through. Then they must have thrown something wrong and hit one of their own. So the Red Cape killed them both. Three Swords or Three Shovels, those bastards were as cowardly as they come. Even I was startled for a moment. I thought, What is this? Can they do that? I was completely confused. Weren’t we driven back in that confusion and all our supplies burned up? That means we lost that day because of those Three Shovels bastards.”
There was one thing wrong with the storyteller’s account. It was not that someone had thrown something badly and hit an ally. Ricart had caught a throwing dagger and immediately thrown it at Eberstein.
Still, the storyteller had been some distance away, and it had been dark. He could have seen it that way. He was not deliberately lying.
He simply exaggerated and interpreted things however he pleased.
The problem was that people like him did not care whether the guild won or lost. Because, in their minds, they were not the ones losing. Amazingly, that was truly how they thought.
The storyteller was only a low-ranking adventurer. He gained nothing if the guild prospered, and lost nothing in particular if it fell apart.
So he had never intended to risk his life fighting. If it looked like they would lose, he would simply run away.
On the other hand, the people for whom the guild’s success or failure mattered were at least intermediate-rank adventurers.
There were also those whose livelihood depended on their reputation and fame. If word spread that a famous clan was cowardly or incompetent, it could be devastating.
It would not only affect their ability to make a living. Sometimes their pride, which mattered even more than making a living, would not allow it.
“That cannot be true.”
Someone flatly denied the storyteller’s words. The cloak concealed their appearance, but the bulge at their waist suggested they carried a sword.
“Uh, were you there that day too?”
“No. I simply know. And I warn you. I don’t care what nonsense you spout, but you should watch your mouth when speaking of the clan. Unless you want your tongue cut out.”
A murderous gaze gleamed from the shadow beneath the hood. The storyteller was frightened enough to close his mouth.
People naturally turned to look at the cloaked figure, but the person avoided them and soon vanished into the crowd.
When the smell of roasting goat was swallowed by other scents and faded into the distance, the man reached the entrance to the road leading up to the highlands.
A temporary fence blocked the way, and people stood in a long line before it.
“The next duel will take place before the sun rests on the ridge! Enter now if you wish to see it!”
Someone shouted through a funnel like a town crier.
Entry was not free, of course. People had to pay, and the fee rose every day.
Those without money climbed the mountain on the opposite side to watch from afar. Even now, people could be seen peering down from above after climbing up early.
Looking at this, the guild really seemed absurd. Were they planning to fight a war or not?
Still, there was an unavoidable need to filter out riffraff like the storyteller and keep the area under control. Making money while doing so was not a bad thing either.
The hooded man ignored the long line and walked to the fence. Eyes naturally turned toward him, but no one stopped him because of his unusual air.
The person guarding the fence looked at him and asked,
“A clan?”
“Three Swords. First Sword Gramshwitz.”
“Hm. There is an order for duels too. For now, just watch.”
The adventurer opened the fence without charging him an entry fee. Proven intermediate and upper-rank adventurers, especially those who held grudges against the Red Cape, were allowed through freely.
After walking farther in, he eventually saw the top of the defense tower high above. The area where he stood still bore many scorch marks.
Adventurers gathered in groups with people they knew, scattered throughout the area. Wealthy people who had paid to enter had claimed good spots early and laid out mats. They were friends or lovers.
As Gramshwitz looked around, he saw others who had come alone like him. Their expressionless faces and grim air made them seem dangerous even from a distance.
The people seemed to fall into three groups. Those who had come only for a spectacle, those who wanted to kill the Red Cape and earn fame, and those who simply wanted to kill the Red Cape, fame aside.
What they all had in common was that the guild war was secondary to them. Their attention was fixed on the Red Cape.
The rumor that the Red Cape had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire had already spread far and wide.
At first, opinions had been divided. Was the rumor true or false? If true, had it simply been luck? Was it exaggerated?
But as time passed, people went beyond saying he had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire. Now they said he might deserve a place among them himself.
Red Cape Ricky. That name was gaining weight by the day. He was even being called the greatest genius in history. A genius who killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire at twelve and took that place.
At a glance, it sounded impossible to believe.
Yet he was proving it. Not once, but several times over several days. Today marked one week since the first battle.
“Gramshwitz, the Hawk’s Talon? Is that right?”
Someone spoke from behind him. When Gramshwitz turned, he saw a middle-aged man with short hair and a brown beard, accompanied by three or four others.
“That is right. I am Wolfgen, clan master of the Heigen Guild. Have you come for revenge?”
A clan master was someone beneath the guild master who oversaw several clans. It was the same rank as Lorenzo, whom Ricart had killed before.
The Three Swords clan had only three members, and the three were brothers. First Sword Gramshwitz, the Hawk’s Talon. Second Sword Eberstein, the Hawk’s Wing. Third Sword Elrich, the Flying Dagger.
In truth, their special technique was for the eldest and second brother to draw attention while the youngest threw a dagger to finish the opponent.
The method was so subtle and artful that no one who had fallen for it survived. Few knew of it, and the brothers had become famous for always succeeding whenever they accepted a request.
But two of the brothers had died in a single day. Now only the eldest remained.
The clan was effectively disbanded.
“...”
“If revenge is your purpose, join us. You will have no chance in a duel. The Red Cape is the real thing. Watch him for now, then decide.”
Wolfgen left those words behind and walked away. Gramshwitz remained silent.
Time passed. The sun reached its peak, then gradually sank closer to the mountain ridge.
A group came down from the highlands. Among them, a boy in a red cape caught Gramshwitz’s eye. He had blond hair and a face full of youthful innocence.
He was tall and well-built for his age. But he had not finished growing, and his frame had not fully matured.
As Ricart appeared, the chatter died down all around. Today’s main event would begin soon.
There was one duel a day, sometimes two. This was the twelfth duel in a week.
Sixteen people had died in all. Ricart had accepted duels regardless of how many opponents stood against him.
The results spoke for themselves. No matter how young he was, he deserved a place among the Nine Swords of the Empire.
What was even more surprising was that he dueled openly. Most people held duels in private with only the minimum witnesses, afraid their secret techniques would be exposed or their swordsmanship countered.
Was he arrogant, or bold?
They would see.
Ricart took off his cape and handed it to a young swordswoman nearby. He stepped into the dueling ground with only one sword. His opponent was bare-chested and carried a round shield and a sword.
People from the Beringen Guild and the alliance cleared a space for the duel and kept the crowd from approaching.
Under the warm sunlight, the bare-chested man rolled his shoulders and deliberately drew deep breaths in and out. Then he let out a battle cry.
“Hup! Hup! Aja! Aja! Ajaja!”
It seemed he was trying to ease his tension before a fight that would decide his life. Ricart was neither shaken nor overflowing with confidence. He simply drew his sword.
Ricart’s opponent spread wide the arms holding his sword and shield, then shouted,
“I am Rishlen, the Heart Carver of Muorheim! Today, I will defeat you and become one of the Nine Swords of the Empire!”
He shouted in a rough voice, but it was obvious that he was still nervous. Ricart drew his sword, tossed the sheath toward his allies, and answered.
“Ricky of the Viola Clan.”
Once they had introduced themselves, the duel began. The crowd watched while holding its breath.
Those who had already watched several duels had no expectations for the result. They only wondered what move Ricart would show this time.
Rishlen advanced with his shield held forward, as cautiously as if hunting a wild beast. He moved in hesitant steps, barely lifting the soles of his feet from the ground so he could react at any moment.
Ricart stood still with his sword hanging low. Rishlen startled himself and hurriedly backed away, then crept forward again.
He repeated this five times.
“Huff! Huff! Huff!”
They had not exchanged even one attack, yet Rishlen was sweating and breathing heavily with tension.
Just as Ricart tilted his head, seemingly bored, Rishlen charged fiercely with his shield forward, as though he would not miss that instant of opening.
But Ricart slipped to the side. Despite his nerves, Rishlen reacted with great flexibility. He slammed his shield toward the direction Ricart had dodged, then swung his sword.
Whoosh! Swish!
Ricart merely widened the distance and leaned his body slightly back to avoid the attacks. Rishlen hurriedly retreated again, placing his shield before him.
Then Rishlen suddenly felt a blow to the head and lost consciousness.
Ricart had kicked him in the head.
Rishlen’s own shield blocked his view, and Ricart used that moment to deliver a high kick from his blind spot.
Crack!
Rishlen collapsed helplessly and drove his head into the ground. He had apparently lost consciousness completely from that single blow. He lay limp and unmoving.
Ricart looked down at him for a moment, then turned and simply left.
He had not even swung his sword once.
Then he went up to the defense tower with the Beringen Guild members.
With today’s duel over, those who had paid to watch began voicing their complaints.
“That was it?”
“Bring out a proper opponent!”
“You charge three silver coins for this garbage?”
“Since we’re at it, behead the loser or hang him!”
But the adventurers of the guild alliance did not care about their complaints and drove them out.
“Hey, sir, talk to me.”
“N-no, that’s not what I mean. Honestly, this is too much.”
“Ladies and gentlemen! The duel is over! Get out! Move!”
The adventurers herded the ordinary people out of the highlands as though driving sheep. The displeased spectators continued to grumble as they left. They said they had been cheated, that the Heigen Guild and the other guilds were pathetic.
Rishlen had barely regained consciousness, but he could not support himself. His companions helped him away.
Gramshwitz silently watched it all when Wolfgen approached again.
“What do you think?”
“...It is too soon to judge, but he has no mannerisms or habits. He is not bound by anything. There is no trace of him having learned from anyone. Honestly, it is hard to believe. To reach that level at his age.”
It was an impressive observation. Even after watching a duel that had been nearly pathetic in its emptiness, he had seen something close to the truth.
“Hm...”
Wolfgen nodded grimly in agreement.
“All the worthwhile people among those who entered duels died three days ago. Only people like that are left now. The rest of the capable ones do not care about duels. What will you do? If you wish to duel, I can arrange one as early as tomorrow.”
In short, the only capable people left were those who wanted to kill Ricart for revenge rather than fame.
No matter the means.
Whether to recover lost honor, settle a personal grudge, or turn the war in their favor, their separate purposes were finally converging into one.
After thinking for a moment, Gramshwitz asked in a half-agreeable tone,
“What is the plan?”
“Follow me.”
Gramshwitz followed Wolfgen, the clan master of the Heigen Guild, to a secluded place.
Ricart watched them closely from above.
The defense tower also served as a kind of observation post, so he could see the entire surrounding area.
The crowd was thick as clouds, making it difficult to tell who was who. But Ricart’s uncanny eye could easily distinguish ordinary riffraff from those who radiated an unsettling air.
Ricart knew as well. The capable people worth killing in duels had all died around three days ago, and the others were planning something.
He would have to think carefully to figure out what they were planning, but one thing was certain.
The real ones, prepared to die, were about to make their move.
Ricart instinctively understood that he had to stop them to defend the tower to the end.
And Ricart knew that people with unusual resolve were more difficult to face than those who had merely reached a high level with the sword.
To face such people, he needed that same resolve himself, more than skill or ability.
But what did Ricart have in his hands now?
He did not have the burning resentment and anger toward the world from his previous life. Nor did he have that vicious self-loathing.
Loyalty to the guild? Just as others did not have it, neither did Ricart.
Only Volka’s words had settled in one corner of his heart.
‘We’ll clear some empty land and build an estate of our own. I’m going to live there with Delphi. Until we grow old and die.’
Yes. Someday, I will too.
Ricart also had a modest dream, however vague it was. He pictured his aged friends smiling in his mind.
For that, he could risk his life.
Resentment and dreams crossed paths in the Kaits Highlands.
Even if it was only a spectacle to someone else.
Who was right, and who was wrong? Who was justified, and who was at fault?
There was no need to think about such things.
Everyone had their own story, and there was especially no room for excuses in a swordsman’s death.
So there was no need to indulge in sentiment.
Even if he lost and died, he would hold neither resentment nor regret.
That was Ricart’s resolve.
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