WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 90

──────

The mad autumn passed, and winter came. It had not even been a year of famine, yet starved corpses lay scattered along the roads.

Among them, the frozen body of a baby was especially heartbreaking. What sin had this baby committed? Could even a god answer that?

Yet those plagued by a constant sense that something was wrong looked upon it all without feeling.

Outlaws. Those who had killed the lords of the lands where they lived had lost their way. Their aimless anger had eventually driven even them into a dead end.

There was no class struggle, no ideological background. They had merely been swept up by the mood and committed the deed, only to have no idea what to do next.

Spilled water could not be gathered again. Those who had murdered nobles went into the mountains. There, they banded together with their own kind and became bandits.

As though the world had grown moldy, such outlaws were everywhere.

Even if a small fief gathered an army, it would barely amount to ten people. In truth, it was not much of an army. They were simply grown men wearing unsuitable battle gear.

People said a heavily armed knight could take on a hundred men, but many knightly families had traded swords for hoes in their grandfathers' generation.

Some locked themselves inside their castles to save only themselves. Others were dragged out by outlaws, their entire families slaughtered and their villages ruined.

Who would punish them? No, before that, whose fault was it?

Sadly, there was no point asking such questions. When a robber held a blade before your eyes, law and justice became helpless with surprising ease.

Winter passed. Around the time the swallows returned, deep purple violets bloomed in the fields.

Even so, things did not improve.

It was early spring, and the weather was cool, but the sunlight felt unusually harsh.

The man in the round-brimmed helmet already had sweat-soaked hair. Panting in the heat, he wore an even deeper scowl on his already wrinkled face.

Dressed in a gambeson stuffed with cotton and holding a billhook, he stood at the foot of a mountain path and looked upward.

Bandits stared down at them from a crudely woven bandit stronghold above.

“Those fucking bastards...”

The man hated the bandits so much that he did not simply curse. He spoke as though grinding each word between his teeth.

“Is everyone down?”

“Where’s the leader?”

“No one’s hurt, right?”

Voices checked on various things around the helmeted man. They were his companions.

There were seven of them. Their equipment was of a similar quality, but no two sets quite matched.

Some wore helmets, while others did not. Some simply wore tightly fitted leather or cloth coifs. Their weapons varied as well, from spears and swords to axes.

That was because they were adventurers, not soldiers.

But they had a serious problem. There were fifty bandits. Seven people were supposed to subjugate fifty bandits? Was this a joke?

Of course, if they fought on level ground, killing fifty poorly equipped bandits was possible. The problem was that the bandits would not come down from their stronghold.

There were too few of them to surround the place, while the bandits openly moved around under cover of night.

The hard part of battle was not the fighting itself. Every activity, eating, relieving oneself, sleeping, standing watch by the roadside, wore them down mentally and physically.

It was even worse when there was no answer. All they did was rush up the mountain once a day, then flee back down under a shower of stones thrown from above.

Thrown stones were nothing to laugh at. If a stone from a sling struck someone badly, it could crush their skull and kill them in one blow.

No one knew why they had to keep doing this, but according to their leader, they had to do something to make the enemy nervous.

“Hey, is the crossbow still not fixed?”

The clan leader pulled out and tossed away an arrow smeared with shit and piss. That was a poison arrow. If it lodged in flesh, the wound would rot from infection.

Fortunately, the bandits’ bows were so crude that they could not pierce armor and reach flesh.

But there was no helping the smell, so the leader grabbed a handful of dirt and casually rubbed it over the spot.

“Boss, I think we need to take this to a bowyer. The gear won’t stay fixed.”

The only person in the clan who handled the crossbow spoke. Fucking hell, it had broken after only five shots. And it had not hit a single person. Was the crossbowman incompetent, or was the crossbow simply junk?

“Can’t you just pull it back by force?”

“I said it won’t stay fixed.”

“No, you hold it, then let go.”

“Does that even make sense?”

“Ah, fuck it. Guys, let’s eat first.”

At the clan leader’s order, several people dragged over a large cauldron with their tired bodies. They filled it with water and tossed in whatever ingredients they had before boiling it.

Once the nameless soup, or perhaps stew, began to bubble furiously, the adventurers ladled it into wooden bowls that probably were not washed properly.

They set down their weapons, took off their helmets, sprawled on the ground, and drank or ate with their hands. Naturally, they did not wash their hands.

Spices were out of the question. At best, they added herbs gathered from nature or salt they carried themselves.

For these exhausted people, one small blessing was that it was early spring, so they could cool down quickly. When the cool wind blew away their sweat, it tasted sweeter than honey.

“Boss, how much longer do we have to keep doing this shit?”

“Ricky said he’s coming, so hold on a little longer.”

“I know he’s an amazing swordsman, but will that change anything? It’s not like those bastards will agree to a duel.”

“I don’t know. He’ll have a way.”

“What if he comes and doesn’t have one?”

“Then it’ll be a fight to see who gets tired first.”

“Damn it...”

“Hey, no giving up. Our reputation is our life. And do you want to lose to scum like them?”

As expected of a clan leader, he seemed to have a better head on his shoulders than the ordinary adventurers who only grumbled.

The clan leader understood why his companions complained. Though he did not show it, he was just as frustrated inside.

Even so, a leader was someone who soothed them at times, yelled at them at others, and somehow kept them moving.

But battle could be fought for exactly that reason too. To get under the enemy’s skin.

“Hey! You there!”

Someone shouted from the not-so-distant bandit stronghold. The adventurers, who had been gulping down their food, turned to look up.

“How about you just leave? We’ll give you one gold coin per head!”

Negotiations were common in such drawn-out fights. But the adventurers of the Beringen Guild’s Ernberg branch were different. They had pride, or perhaps self-respect.

One person sprang to their feet and shouted.

“Fuck off, you bastard!”

“Hey! How much money do you people make? Why not join us!?”

“Is that bastard insane?”

“Last winter, we made gold coins, gold coins, how many was it, a whole damn lot!”

“Then we’ll kill you and take it all!”

“Hey, you fucking bastards! Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Your mothers, your wives...!”

Perhaps because things were not going as planned, the bandit hurled curses too vile to repeat.

“You son of a bitch! I’ll remember your face!”

“What’ll you do if you remember it? Come up here! Go on, come up!”

“Fuck!”

They ground their teeth, but there was nothing they could do.

Then someone spoke beside the adventurers.

“What are you all doing?”

They turned to see a blond young man in a red cape standing there blankly. A sword hung at his waist, and plate armor could be glimpsed beneath his cape.

It was a breastplate gained as spoils when the Rubens Guild surrendered. A kind of ancient relic, it was thin and light, yet possessed absurd defensive power.

It was also made of jin silver. Not merely mixed with it, but entirely made of jin silver. It was armor that could not be made with the technology of people in the current age.

Making iron thin yet strong required highly developed metallurgy. On top of that, only a handful of smiths in the entire Empire possessed the skill to work jin silver.

Most knights wore chainmail, including high-ranking nobles. That was why the breastplate Ricart wore was practically an inexplicable ancient magic item.

People called it “Ruben’s Last Pride,” partly to mock the Rubens Guild. Ruben was the founder of the Rubens Guild, and he had originally found the armor in ancient ruins.

Still, Ricart said shiny armor was embarrassing, so he covered it somewhat with a surcoat. Purple violets were embroidered on the surcoat.

The red cape, plate armor, and violets had become Ricart’s visual symbols.

It was ironic that the people who ruined his lungs had offered him something that could perfectly protect his torso.

“Ricky?”

“When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“Uh... As you can see, this is the situation.”

The clan leader spoke. The other adventurers were still sitting on the ground in the middle of their meal, staring blankly up at Ricart.

“Do you have a way?”

“Wait a moment.”

Ricart silently looked up at the bandit stronghold. After seeming to inspect it for a moment, he borrowed a heater-shaped shield from one of the adventurers. He adjusted the leather straps, fastening it firmly to his forearm, then spoke.

“I think I can break a gate that weak. Once I break it, come up together. You need to get up here fast.”

“Break it? That? Without a log?”

No matter how crudely built the gate was, it was not flimsy enough for one person to break through by force.

They would need several people to ram it with a log sharpened at one end, but they did not have enough people.

“Once you’re done here, gather in Ernberg. A notice came from the Imperial Guild Office. In the name of the Count Palatine of Kelbron.”

Kelbron was the fief of Hellawman, the Emperor’s Champion. High-ranking lords were generally called by their title rather than their name.

“What notice?”

“Ask Volka for the details. It sounds like it’s about subjugating the Church.”

“How much are they paying?”

“I don’t know. Finish eating and get ready.”

Then Ricart climbed toward the bandit stronghold alone. The bandits, who had been swearing at them, stared down blankly before starting to provoke Ricart.

“What are you going to do? What are you going to do?”

“Red Cape? Don’t tell me you’re Ricky? So what are you going to do?”

Like a bunch of monkeys, they began throwing stones. Ricart did not cower. He kept his back straight, calmly looking up as he dodged here and there.

He continued climbing toward the stronghold. His lungs were bad, so he could not run.

“Hey! Your girlfriend was delicious! I had her yesterday! She loved it so much she was dying for more!”

“You little brat, just because you can swing a sword, you think you’re all that!”

The insults were vile, but Ricart did not get angry. He knew all manner of curses came out on the battlefield. If he reacted to every one, the stress would keep him from fighting.

Still, he remembered their faces clearly.

Most of the bandits threw stones by hand. Some did not even come close, while others were fairly accurate and vicious. Some were thrown with slings.

Ricart dodged what he could and blocked the rest with his shield.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Since he either dodged or blocked them all, he never stopped as he climbed the mountain. At last, he reached the gate of the bandit stronghold. While the bandits watched from above, Ricart drew upon Ilya’s strength and kicked the gate with all his might.

Bang!

“Hey, you idiot! What do you think that’ll do!?”

Baaang!

“Hey, bring a spear!”

The bandit stronghold was not as high as a castle wall, so they could reach him with spears from above.

But before they could bring one, an unsettling sound rang out.

Bang! Craaack!

They had clearly heard wood splintering. The gate had not broken in one strike. A wooden bar fastened behind it had only cracked slightly.

For a moment, the bandits thought, Could it be? Then they convinced themselves, No, it can’t be.

But Ricart drew his sword and sliced through the ropes that tightly bound the logs together. After cutting several, he gave the weakened gate one final kick with all his might.

Bang! Craaash!

One half-broken gate leaf swung open in tatters. The other gate leaf’s bar had broken completely, so he simply pushed it open.

Ricart turned back and shouted to the adventurers.

“Now! Come up!”

But the adventurers, who had watched everything from below, were as shocked as the bandits. They could only blink with wide eyes.

At least the clan leader came to his senses first. Hastily grabbing his equipment, he rushed up the mountain.

“Let’s go!”

Ricart steadied his slightly roughened breath, then slowly entered the bandit stronghold. Looking at the bandits still clinging to the fence, he spoke to one of them.

“What did you say about my girlfriend?”

“I heard she was beautiful... I was just saying it...”

Ricart let out a hollow laugh. It was too late for excuses. Not only had the bandit brought up Marie, Ricart knew what these bandits had done during the previous autumn and winter.

They had laid villages to waste and slaughtered even innocent children of nobles. They had not merely killed them either. They had committed acts too horrible to put into words without hesitation.

So they had to die. It was also his job.

Ricart crooked a finger at the one who had cursed him. Perhaps the bandit had decided escape was impossible, because they came forward more willingly than expected.

“H-ha, how could someone like me ever do anything to milord...”

Before the bandit could make another excuse, the sword in Ricart’s right hand slashed sharply from left to right in a horizontal line.

The bandit flinched, then their cleanly severed head slowly tilted to the side.

Only then did the other bandits feel their hair stand on end. At that moment, the adventurers arrived, furious beyond measure.

A massacre began.

Once the eight of them, including Ricart, had stabbed and cut down around thirty people, the rest fled. The bandit stronghold became a sea of blood.

Killing people one-sidedly was physically exhausting too. Once things settled, the adventurers took off their helmets and wiped their faces, stained with sweat and blood. Then they sat down and panted for breath.

After recovering for a while, they searched the bandit stronghold. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were no prisoners. There was only food beginning to rot, along with valuables like silver tableware.

They could make a decent amount by selling it, but split among all of them, it would not be much.

The clan leader turned to ask Ricart how he wanted to divide the spoils, but Ricart was nowhere to be seen.

“Where did Ricky go?”

“He left a while ago.”

The clan leader blinked, then climbed onto the fence and looked down. Ricart had already descended the mountain and was strolling away alone. His cape fluttered slightly whenever the wind blew.

Something about that calm, cool sight gave the clan leader an inexplicable thrill.

Perhaps the source of the pride he and his companions felt was that they belonged to the same branch as Ricart.

When someone acted differently and it looked cool from the outside, people naturally wanted to imitate them.

Ricart did not cry out for justice. But he had a basic sense of decency. Even when the world went mad, that decency did not waver.

Above all, he was strong. When they were with him, they did not feel like they could lose. No matter how difficult things became, they could hold on with the hope that things would somehow work out.

Whether Ricart intended it or not, that was how his fellow adventurers felt. And they believed in him.

Because, just like now, it truly worked out that way.

The Ernberg branch had the highest participation rate in the operation to subjugate the Church of Judgment.

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