WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 72
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The autumn wind was cold as two young swordsmen crossed mountains and rivers, walking west.
At some point, the mountains nearly vanished from view. They arrived in a land of rivers tangled like spiderwebs, where the wind never stopped blowing. It was the Kingdom of Netherlant.
Creak, creak. Windmills turned everywhere, and reed fields taller than a person were common.
The soil was poor and unsuitable for farming, so the people here mainly lived by raising sheep and cattle.
Ancient coastal cities had developed along the western shore, but the inland was not a good place to make a living.
The Banshtein estate stood in exactly such a place. Barren land thick with nothing but reeds.
It was noon, yet the sun shone dimly through what seemed like mist.
It was a strange day. Though it was midday, it felt like dawn and early evening at once.
Somewhere among the reeds, at an old, abandoned-looking ferry dock, an elderly boatman sat with a fishing rod lowered into the water. He looked like the last person left in the world, waiting for death to come.
The two young swordsmen made their way through the reeds toward him.
“Hello.”
Ricart greeted him. Seemingly not dead yet, the old man slightly raised his straw hat and glanced at Ricart and Ice before looking back at the river.
“May I ask something? Is this the Banshtein estate? There were no markers.”
Ricart and Ice had been asking for directions along the way, but people had become harder and harder to find.
Without a word, the old man raised his hand, wrinkled like an ancient tree, and pointed across the river.
“We’ll pay the fare. Could you take us to the other side?”
“It’s pointless.”
“Pardon?”
“Every so often, when you’ve nearly forgotten about them, heroes come here saying they’ll destroy the vampire count. But there’s nothing there.”
“...”
Ricart looked at the old man for a moment, then smiled faintly.
“We’re adventurers. We came to meet a client. Whether we kill the vampire count or not, we don’t know what will happen either.”
The old man gave Ricart and Ice another brief look, reeled in his fishing rod, and rose from his seat. Then he climbed into a small ferry boat.
“How much is the fare?”
“Just get in. It’s only something to pass the time.”
Ricart looked at Ice and shrugged. Then they climbed into the ferry together.
The old man sat in the rear of the boat and rowed. The boat moved slowly onward.
Then, in the middle of the river, mist suddenly began to form. It thickened until they could barely see an inch ahead.
It was strange.
The river was not that wide, yet the old man kept rowing for a long time.
Creak, creak, creak...
“Looks like he’s using magic.”
Ice spoke flatly. An ordinary person would have fallen over in shock.
Then, at some point, the mist cleared. The old man had vanished without a trace, and they had reached the other side of the river.
“Did we cross the river of the dead?”
Like Ice, Ricart did not seem particularly affected. A strange phenomenon, and two strange swordsmen.
Ricart pushed the oar hard and brought the boat close to shore, then he and Ice stepped off. It was a cool autumn noon, and the sun shone brightly overhead.
In the distance stood a hill, a rare sight in Netherlant. Atop it was a small castle surrounded by a wooden palisade. They headed straight for it.
Before long, they reached a village below the castle that looked more like a small manor. There was not even an ant in sight. Abandoned vegetable gardens, empty barns, and the doors of vacant houses creaking in the wind.
There were no signs of an army or bandits having come through to burn and slaughter everyone. It was simply a decaying village that everyone had left behind.
Ricart looked around the place, adjusted his sword, and headed for the castle on the hill.
“Let’s go.”
By now, the place should have felt eerie, but neither Ricart nor Ice showed the slightest sign of fear. Perhaps they had no sense of fear left. Or perhaps they were simply confident.
They climbed the hill and reached what seemed to be Banshtein Castle. Parts of the wooden palisade had rotted and collapsed. This place, too, looked as though it had been abandoned for a long time.
The castle gate had completely rotted away and lay scattered on the ground. Only the doors of the inner keep, where the count likely once lived, remained firmly shut.
Ricart crossed the courtyard, thick with weeds, reached the inner keep, and knocked on the doors. Surely it was not empty.
But then the doors opened by themselves with a clatter. Ricart cautiously stepped inside. There were worn carpets, dust-covered furniture, and cobwebs in the corners.
The castle clearly looked abandoned, but an unfamiliar sound reached his ears.
Grrrgle. Grrgle. Grrrrgle. Grrgle.
The sound came and went.
What was that?
Just as Ricart wondered, the torches mounted on the walls lit themselves.
Fwoosh! Fwoosh! Fwoosh!
They led down the corridor as if guiding them somewhere. Ricart and Ice looked at each other, then followed the path together.
At the end of it was a vast hall, more spacious than a dining room. A fire burned in the fireplace, and aside from a long dining table, there was nothing else. It felt like a waste of space.
The table was set with all kinds of fresh delicacies, entirely out of place in an abandoned castle. And seated at the head of the table was the old boatman they had seen earlier.
Unlike before, his white hair was neatly combed back, and he wore fine black silk clothes. His appearance was exceptionally tidy.
He rose and spoke in a composed voice.
“Welcome, adventurers. Please enjoy the feast.”
Had a ghost bewitched me? Was I under a spell?
Yet Ricart’s sharp, blade-like senses told him that this was real.
Ricart and Ice sat in the chairs prepared near the middle of the table, facing each other.
Ricart first looked over the dishes spread across the table. A freshly roasted suckling pig and fresh fruit, out of season, caught his eye.
Where had these ingredients come from? How had they been prepared at exactly the right time?
It was strange.
“I cannot eat human food. So do not stand on ceremony for your host. Eat comfortably.”
Ricart looked at the impeccably dressed old man.
“Are you Count Leman?”
“I am.”
“The vampire count?”
“Heh heh heh. I am.”
“Is this some kind of trap? Because you want the fresh blood of young people?”
Count Leman smiled and shook his head. Then the strange sound they had heard earlier came again.
Grrrgle. Grrgle.
“My apologies. That was my stomach. It has been over fifty years since I drank blood.”
“...”
Ricart blinked.
Nothing about this situation made sense. What was he supposed to say? Should he be polite? He was too bewildered to know how to respond.
“Time is relative. What is a lifetime to one person may be as brief as an instant to another. I believe we have plenty of time to speak. So there is no need to be so startled.”
“Why do you not drink blood?”
Ice asked bluntly.
“Penance is not exclusive to humans. I want a long death.”
“Why?”
Ricart asked.
“There are two paths to ending one’s own life. One is to flee quickly. The other is to carry through one’s will. I do not wish to flee.”
In short, he intended to starve himself to death.
What kind of situation was this? Ricart wondered whether this ancient vampire was trying to deceive him.
High vampires were half-immortal. To starve to death, one would need to go without blood for at least a hundred years, perhaps much longer.
It was impossible for a human to understand, and even harder to imagine such a length of endurance.
“Leaving aside the method, why do you want to die?”
“It began with my father. At first, I also found it difficult to understand. But now I do. It is our final resistance against God. Turning the curse laid upon us into a blessing.”
Each question seemed to bring more questions, branching out like limbs. It was hard to tell whether he was being philosophical or merely obscure, but there seemed to be a certain depth to his words.
“What curse?”
Ice asked again.
“Humans often forget this, but we were all once human. The first vampire was human as well. He was the first murderer. That is why he was cursed never to die.”
“But they die when you cut off their heads.”
“That is not death. It is an accident.”
Ricart’s eyes shifted as he thought. Were the two really different? Vampires could keep living as long as they drank blood, so perhaps they were different from humans, who died when their time came.
These were questions that could not be accepted or answered lightly. Leman seemed to have reached his own answer and put it into practice, but Ricart remembered why they had come.
“I would like to ask about the request. Before that, why did you give it to us? The mist earlier, these dishes... You seem quite capable.”
“As I said, it began with my father. He has not drunk blood for nearly six hundred years. But my younger sister, Remania, defied his will and abducted him. She is trying to steal his noble death. I may have a few tricks, but I have grown greatly weakened. I cannot defeat my sister. That is why I made the request.”
“If we kill him ourselves, would that not be an accident?”
“An accident is better than having it stolen.”
Ricart met Ice’s eyes across the table and told him with his eyes that this would not be easy.
High vampires were far more complex beings than he had expected. Ricart had thought they were simply powerful monsters, but Leman possessed an understanding that humans could hardly reach. Perhaps they did not live so long for nothing.
But Ice hesitated.
To become a Sword Master, he had to take the final examination, and only Special Rank adventurers qualified to take it. It would not be easy for him to turn back now.
Leman looked steadily at Ice and spoke.
“Do you know the true nature of the curse placed upon the first murderer, the first vampire?”
“...”
“Guilt. A prison without bars, from which one cannot escape. Yet you have laid a curse upon yourself. Even if you achieve your goal, your younger sibling will not return alive. Only emptiness will remain.”
In an instant, Leman saw through the nature of Ice, which even Ricart did not know. Ice looked stunned, unable to speak.
“Salvation may not be as far away as you think. It may be right beside you. Is that not so? Murderer among murderers, demon among demons.”
Leman turned his gaze to Ricart.
Ricart looked at him silently, then gave a short laugh. Considering the years Leman had lived, even Ricart’s previous life and the blank years combined were far shorter.
“I do not know much about salvation. I am not particularly interested in theology.”
“But you have seen one who was saved.”
He seemed to mean the Nameless One.
“I have. But I also learned that it is not something just anyone can do. I am not confident.”
“The purer the soul, the deeper its wounds. Love is a curse. Yet it is also a blessing. You seem afraid that tragedy will repeat itself. But what can you do? Even if your heart is torn to pieces, you have no choice but to accept it. That is where your salvation lies. That is the blessing given to humankind. Acceptance. Is that not easier than starving yourself for hundreds or thousands of years?”
Leman smiled faintly, as though his last words were a joke.
It was truly strange. Ricart could not fully understand Leman’s words, but he knew they made sense. But they came from a vampire.
As if he understood why Ricart still could not let go of his suspicion, Leman quietly placed a small vial on the table. It held a little yellow oil.
“This is the holy oil that restored the dragon-slayer Ilya. The pilgrim was none other than the first vampire, Cain. My father received it from him, so it is unquestionably genuine.”
“What does it do? Will it give us immense strength, as in the legend?”
“Perhaps it will, perhaps it will not. Every medicine is also poison. Every poison is also medicine. Cain is said to have spoken of how Ilya’s cheerful heart, without a single shadow, reminded him of sunlight he had forgotten long ago.”
Though they had not yet completed the request, Leman left the vial behind and rose from his seat.
“Go to Harlen. My beloved father, Armand, is being held by the Rose Acrobatic Troupe there. If necessary, kill my sister and give my father an imperfect death. I do not think I could bear it if my father were tempted by my sister.”
Leman walked out of the hall. Ricart and Ice were left alone.
The food on the table had grown cold. Ricart grabbed a bright red apple and took a bite.
Crunch, crunch.
He savored the taste. It was wonderfully sweet.
“This will not turn out to be human flesh or something, right?”
Ice seemed burdened by many thoughts, but he laughed at Ricart. He took out his dagger, sliced off a piece of the roasted suckling pig, and ate it.
Though it had cooled, the flavor was remarkable.
Apparently unbothered, the two friends ate and drank their fill of the food prepared by a vampire. Once they had stuffed themselves, sleepiness came over them.
They took Illya’s Holy Oil and went up to the second floor. The rest of the castle was in ruins, but the bedrooms were clean.
The two took an afternoon nap there.
But when they woke after sleeping deeply, they were back by the river.
The moon hung in the sky, surrounded by a hazy, rainbow-colored halo.
It felt like a dream.
But the question Leman had raised still lingered in their hearts.
Like that faint lunar halo.
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