WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 82
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No one who had never fought a duel with their life on the line could understand it. The mindset, resolve, and feelings involved.
The decision to swing or thrust a cold blade and kill the other person, while accepting that you yourself might die, perhaps required a touch of madness.
Whether driven by noble justice or base greed, whatever the reason, all became equal before victory and defeat, life and death.
Ricart had fought more duels than he could count, yet he had never trembled like this.
Had it been because he had never had a particular reason before? Whenever he dueled, he had thought only of winning, surviving, and killing his opponent.
His heightened concentration made even the thunderous cheers sound muffled. Forgetting the place and time, I could hear only my own heartbeat and breathing with perfect clarity.
The only person he could see was the one dressed in blue. He could feel the tension and resolve in the man's eyes. His opponent was clearly determined to kill Ricart too.
Right. Then neither of us needs to feel guilty. Whatever the reason.
Holding his sword, Ricart felt every muscle in his body loosen, tense, and gather strength as he confidently walked forward. His opponent stepped back, trying to maintain the distance between them.
Then, at one point, Ricart suddenly took a large step forward, as though he were about to strike a decisive blow.
An ordinary opponent would have panicked and swung their sword, but this man never let his guard down. He did not fall for Ricart's provocation.
He quickly circled to Ricart's right to regain the distance. Ricart pursued him in quick steps. In an instant, a sword swung to cut off his path.
Ricart's sword flashed from left to right in a diagonal upward slash.
Whoosh! Screeech!
The blades collided at an angle and slid past each other. In that brief contact, they felt each other's skill.
What now? Counterattack? Retreat? Another exchange?
In an extremely short moment, a judgment close to instinct was made. Yet in that instant, Ricart sensed something strange from his opponent. The man had indeed accepted death, but something was different.
Whoosh! Thwack!
The swords crossed again. Ricart's heavy meteoric iron sword split his opponent's skull from the cheekbone to the brain.
Then the cord tying his opponent's sleeve came loose, scattering a white powder into the air.
The match was already over, but Ricart hurriedly held his breath, covered his mouth, and stepped back. Yet he had already inhaled a mouthful.
The thunderous cheers, which had sounded muffled until then, suddenly struck his ears. Ricart's mind reeled, and he fell onto his backside.
Waaaaah!
Thud.
“Cough! Cough!”
His opponent lay fallen with half his skull split open, blood streaming down his face. Ricart kept coughing, but the crowd cheered regardless.
“Winner! Ricaaaart!”
“Just as expected! Ricky won!”
The Crown Prince jumped up and down in delight. Bellator's eyes also gleamed as he watched the brief but meaningful clash between skilled fighters.
Long weapons really aren't easy to use.
Ricart tried to rise, but he could not put strength into his arms or legs.
Perhaps because the match was over, his concentration broke. Confusion swept over him, and he could not properly assess his own condition.
Sensing that something was wrong, Marie abruptly rose from her seat, rushed to the railing, leaned over it, and shouted.
“Ricky! Are you okay!?”
“Cough! Cough! Ack!”
With his head lowered, Ricart covered his mouth and nose with one hand as he looked at the ground. With the other, he raised a hand toward Marie as if to say he was fine. But his steps were already unsteady.
Something rose in his throat with a metallic smell. When he spat onto the ground, it was blood. Blood was also streaming from his nose.
He had been poisoned.
Damn it...
Who was it? Who could hate him enough to do this? Or did they simply want to win that badly?
There was no use thinking about it now. Ricart forced himself toward the waiting area. An official approached and asked him,
“Are you all right?”
Covering his nose and mouth, Ricart nodded. If he were eliminated, he could not compete anymore, and winning the tournament would be out of reach.
The world spun before his eyes. If he let his mind slip for even a moment, he felt as though he would collapse.
He barely made it back to the waiting area and dropped into his seat.
“A towel. Toweeel!”
Ricart shouted irritably, and the tournament staff hurried over with a towel. With trembling hands, Ricart covered his nose and mouth.
The others thought something was wrong, but they did not believe he was too injured to fight the next match.
Meanwhile, Ricart realized that the poison would spread faster every time he inhaled. But he could not simply stop breathing, leaving him unable to do anything.
It was fortunate that he had reacted quickly. If he had inhaled even a little more poison, he might already have been dead. It was truly vicious poison.
Yet strangely, Ricart did not resent his opponent.
He did not blame the world or fate, asking why this had happened now. He did not even consider giving up the match.
What had happened had happened. All he could think of was holding onto his mind and fighting in the final.
The winner of the previous match had also been badly injured, so Ricart had received a bye and needed to fight only one more match to win the tournament. How could he collapse or give up now?
“Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup!”
Ricart stared at the ground and focused everything on taking short breaths. Thankfully, his nosebleed had stopped, but his vision was still spinning.
The tournament continued. The people kept cheering, and the noise around him felt as if it had grabbed his mind by the collar and was violently shaking it.
Ricart struggled not to waste his mental strength on a single useless thought when someone called him. The moment he heard that voice, his head reeled.
“Ricky.”
It was Marie. When she entered the waiting area, the others stared at her with wide eyes.
“G-Go. I'm fine.”
“You were poisoned, weren't you?”
“I'm saying this because I can fight. Go.”
Marie crouched before Ricart and looked up at him as he stared only at the floor. Traces of wiped blood were clear around his nose and mouth. In Ricart's eyes, Marie's eyes shone like blue stars.
“Should we just leave?”
Marie said.
“No. I can fight.”
“You can fight. But what if you die?”
“I won't die.”
“You're really a child when you're being stubborn. Then I can't do anything either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'll kill them all, then die too.”
Even in this urgent situation, Ricart let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Don't do that.”
“Do you know how cruel that sounds to me?”
“I said I won't die.”
Marie watched Ricart silently, looking somewhat angry, then spoke to the anxious attendant.
“Bring me my sword.”
“Pardon?”
“Now!”
Marie shouted with her eyes blazing. The attendant flinched and hurried off to fetch the sword. Marie looked back at Ricart.
“You say you won't run. Fine, I understand. But don't die. If you die, I'll die, and everyone will die. Understand?”
Ricart could not tell whether it was a request, warning, or threat.
So this is what you meant by a female Ricky, Boribori. Your insight was right on target.
Since Marie herself had decided that, Ricart could not say anything more. He nodded.
“Okay.”
Only after hearing his answer did Marie rise. Her heart must have been tearing apart, but Marie was unlike other women. She was a warrior. As Boribori had judged, she was braver than Ricart.
Marie snatched the sword from the attendant and left the waiting area without looking back. A dress and a sword.
Perhaps Ricart had not saved her when the Crown Prince and imperial princes tormented her. Perhaps Marie would have killed them instead, and he had only ended up stopping her.
In any case, the tournament continued. Some fights began decently enough, only to turn into brawls like dogs fighting. With lives at stake, no one had time to care whether it looked noble or ugly.
In the end, only three of the eight contestants remained whole after their matches. Two of them would fight, and the winner would face Ricart.
If the winner of that match suffered a major injury, Ricart would automatically win the tournament after fighting only once.
But perhaps even lucky Ricky's luck had run out. Ricart had to enter the final match.
Moreover, his opponent was a Sword Master.
Their swordsmanship might be similar, or only slightly different, but a Sword Master's blade could easily cut iron. Ricart was at an absolute disadvantage.
But being disadvantaged did not necessarily mean defeat. He had already proven that when he fought Steiner.
The herald called Ricart's name, but Ricart did not hear it. His sharp senses, once his greatest strength, had dulled.
“Sir Swordsman, you need to go out.”
The other contestants were gone, either receiving urgent treatment or dead. An official spoke to Ricart, who was alone in the waiting area.
Ricart picked up his sword and rose. The ground seemed to spin like a roulette wheel beneath him.
But he clenched his teeth until his jaw felt as though it would break, steadied himself, pushed aside the tent flap, and walked out with confidence.
The crowd's cheers seemed to reach him not through his ears, but through vibrations. It truly felt as though the ground were shaking. Ricart spread his feet and stood firmly in the center of the arena.
No one noticed that he was unwell. No, only a very few skilled people realized he was not himself.
Marie sat in her seat, gripping her sword, Ricky, tightly. This was an important moment for her as well.
Would she become a mad sword demon, or a noble swordswoman?
Ricart's opponent looked extraordinary at a glance. He seemed like an old soldier who had seen every hardship, and whether Ricart was in poor condition or not, determination to fight with everything he had filled the man's eyes.
“Let the match begiiiiin!”
At the herald's cry, the opponent drew his sword. He threw the scabbard far away.
When he gripped the longsword with both hands, the blade gave off a white light. It became faint, almost blending into the surroundings.
As the Sword Master's sword shone, even the thunderous cheers fell quiet. It was strange and wondrous, as though they were seeing a legend before their eyes.
“I hold no personal grudge. I only wish to have a match in which we both give our all. Even if I win, I will set the imperial princess free.”
The nameless opponent spoke to Ricart.
Was he already extending a victor's mercy? Or was this a tactic to unsettle him?
Whatever the case, Ricart drew his sword and threw his scabbard far away. Then he thought,
In my current state, I can't move violently. My head will come off in an instant if I do. One or two steps are my limit. I'll decide the match within that distance.
Right now, his opponent looked distorted, wavering like heat haze. So Ricart planned to judge the distance the moment their swords met and stake everything on that.
But would it work? His opponent was no amateur. Still, he could think of no other way.
Ricart had never been someone who planned his fights beforehand.
Perhaps that was why anxiety rushed over him. Then Armand's words suddenly came to mind.
What will happen, happens. Like the past that has already passed, the future is no different from something that has already happened.
Then why hesitate? If it would happen anyway, all he could do was stand proudly before fate. There was nothing to be anxious about, nothing to fear.
His head was spinning, his vision continued to warp, and his stomach churned as if he might vomit. But strangely, his mind and heart did not waver.
Because Ricart's gaze did not shake, his opponent gave everything he had. One foot left the ground.
Would it end in an instant, or turn into a desperate brawl? Even a true sword fight between skilled warriors did not always make for a beautiful scene.
His opponent's sword had already become a flash of light as it came diagonally for Ricart's neck. Ricart moved to meet it by reflex, but the distance was wrong. It was a strange move, neither a counterattack nor a defense.
When their swords met, the meteoric iron sword that had been with Ricart for so long was cut apart without resistance.
Yet Ricart felt his sword being severed in that extremely brief moment, as if he had sensed its death cry. From that, he measured the distance exactly.
He twisted his body to avoid the blade, reached out, and grabbed his opponent's wrist. Even through the dizziness, Ilya's monstrous strength burst forth and crushed the man's wrist in Ricart's grip.
But his opponent displayed astonishing concentration. Ignoring the pain, he let go of his sword and smoothly drew his secondary weapon, a dagger. Ricart also drew his own dagger.
They were now so close that distance no longer meant anything. His opponent aimed for Ricart's abdomen, while Ricart aimed for the man's heart.
At the final moment, his opponent used a technique ingrained in his body. Ricart did not.
A blade that ordinarily would have been stopped by ribs cut through bone at once and pierced the heart.
The moment his opponent drove the dagger into Ricart's abdomen, his muscles stiffened and convulsed. He needed to stab and slash for Ricart's intestines to spill out, but he could not get that far.
Ricart clenched his teeth and used every bit of strength he had. The match was already all but decided, but he shoved his opponent down and fell with him, driving his dagger in even deeper.
His hand nearly entered the man's body. The blade passed through his heart and severed even his spine.
“Gasp!”
The opponent pinned beneath Ricart drew in a sharp breath and trembled. Then he left his final words.
“A good match...”
Only then did Ricart pull out the dagger buried deep within the body and rise. Blood streamed from his stabbed abdomen, but he forced himself to stand on both feet and clearly showed the thousands watching who the winner was.
The arena fell silent.
Among the crowd, Hellawman felt a strange sense of familiarity.
It was like he calculated the distance when his sword was cut. Had he planned it in advance, or reacted in the moment?
It resembled a question he had once had. The same feeling he had when he first saw Ricky, the first Sword Master, over a hundred years ago.
Whether Hellawman found it strange or not, the herald shouted.
“Champion! Ricart!”
Then the cheers should have erupted like an exploding volcano.
They should have, but just before the crowd could erupt, a deeply ominous cry crossed the silent arena.
“God of Judgment! Open your eyes!”
What was that supposed to mean?
The people were confused. But whether they were confused or not, servants and maids scattered throughout the audience suddenly began stabbing their masters wildly with daggers.
“God of Judgment! Open your eyes!”
“Punish all oppressors!”
It happened everywhere at once, so quickly that no screams could even emerge.
As Hellawman and the other Emperor's Champion were briefly distracted, Daisy's mother, standing beside the Emperor, somehow produced a dagger and plunged it into the Emperor's stomach. Then she slashed upward.
“Gasp!”
The Emperor drew in empty air as burning pain tore through his abdomen.
But another of his consorts stabbed him in the neck.
Only then did screams finally erupt from the stands.
“Eeeeeek!”
The assassins who had killed the nobles did not flee. Instead, they ran wild, trying to kill even one more person. It was as if they considered themselves dead already.
The arena instantly became a scene of utter chaos. Nobles poured down from the elevated seating into the arena, pushing and trampling one another in panic.
Then, with a Thwack!, Daisy's mother's head and the heads of the Emperor's consorts fell away as easily as if they had been cut by some horrible magic.
The Emperor's Champion killed them all in an instant with a technique close to the divine, but the Emperor had already passed beyond this world. His mouth hung open, blood streaming from his neck and stomach.
“Uh...?”
The Emperor's Champion's mind went blank at the unbelievable sight before his eyes. Amid it all, the assassins rushed the imperial family.
“You idiot! Protect the Crown Prince!”
Hellawman shouted urgently as he drew his sword. With a single swing, he cut down everyone before him, assassins and ordinary nobles alike. Blood sprayed everywhere, and severed bodies collapsed.
“Don't come near!”
He roared like a tiger.
But that only worsened the confusion, and the Emperor's Champion could not find the Crown Prince.
Where is he?
Regardless, Marie tore the skirt of her dress straight up, sword in hand, and leaped down. She slung the barely standing Ricart over her shoulder and ran from the arena.
But amid the chaos, there were assassins who were not part of the religious order and were targeting only Ricart. They were the ones who had entered the tournament and scattered the poison.
Even they did not understand what was happening, but it was still an opportunity.
“Stop right there, Red Cape!”
“Do you remember Lorenz? Rubens never forgets a grudge!”
But Marie was seeing red. She set the unconscious Ricart against a wall and stood guard in front of him.
“Do you think I stayed quiet because I can't fight!?”
All the emotions Marie had suppressed until now burst forth.
Bastard? Imperial family? I don't care anymore. No one can stop me now. I've endured enough! Anyone who stands in my way will die!
Marie was prepared to pay any price to protect Ricart. At that moment, violet light burst from the blade of Ricky, the Famed Sword.
It was light forged by fate, yet it was also light created by severing fate's chains. It was truly contradictory and ironic.
But such was the work of God. Sacrificing countless lives, yet loving without limit.
Marie had finally gained the freedom she had longed for, not by cutting away human compassion, but as a Sword Master in the truest sense.
The assassins from the Rubens Guild were both baffled by what they were seeing and overwhelmed by the sense that something had gone terribly wrong.
But there was no mercy at all in Marie's sword now. Everything caught by its blade, weapons and human bodies alike, was cut apart.
The assassins died, spraying blood, and Marie was drenched in it.
Standing before the bodies with the Sword of Light in hand, her loose hair flying wildly, she looked no different from a witch or evil spirit.
But the scene was so chaotic, with people shoving each other as they fled, that she could not tell whether she had killed all the assassins.
So Marie killed everyone who approached her. She had swung her sword only a few times, yet corpses were already piled up to her waist.
The people recoiled in terror. Only then did she sling Ricart over her shoulder again and hurried away.
Her torn skirt exposed her long, pale legs, but this was no time to worry about modesty.
Still, even if Ricart and Marie had achieved what they wanted, a great hole was opening in the world.
A vacuum of power.
There had been such upheaval even when Mad Dog Steiner died. If the Emperor was dead...
Perhaps the powerless and weak, too, had erupted after being oppressed as much as Marie had, or even more so.
Thus, an age of fire, steel, blood, and death began to descend upon the Empire.
Chapter 16: What Will Happen. End.
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