WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈

Chapter 97

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Faith. Faith in gods. Faith in people. And faith in oneself. Whatever form it took, humans were creatures who ultimately lived by faith.

And faith was always tested and shaken.

Ice had been subjected to brainwashing-style education almost from birth, so escaping those chain-like restraints was far from easy.

What was true faith, and what was false faith? Anxiety and doubt seemed to infest his mind like parasites.

Four years had already passed since they met at the Academy. At first, they had been awkward around each other. Then, at some point, they had begun fighting back-to-back and sharing peaceful everyday moments.

Not long ago, they had overcome hardship and adversity together, eased one another's sorrow, and shared each other's joy.

Now, the blades Boribori and Ice pointed at each other trembled like aspen leaves. Could they truly stab each other? Could they kill? Was this why they had honed their swords?

It was a terribly painful moment.

Then the priest of the Church spoke.

"To you, what we do must look horrific and cruel. But do you know where it all came from? It was all the work of that old monster, the Count Palatine of Kelbron."

"That's a lie."

Marie denied it. She did not like her fifth-generation ancestor on her mother's side, but she did not want to slander him either.

"He's over a hundred years old. He'd been doing all kinds of things long before any of you were born. He only stopped because it was inefficient. It cost too much and did not produce the results he wanted. He barely cared when we took his techniques. He's cruelly indifferent to anything he has discarded. Avenging the late Emperor? It's all just an excuse."

The priest's words were exceedingly crafty. Even if they were true, saying them now was clearly meant to sow doubt and division. As expected of a brainwashing expert, it was as if a devil were working its tongue.

Fortunately, neither Boribori nor Marie was the kind of person to be swayed by such words. They had not come here out of loyalty in the first place.

They had simply come to do a job.

Even then, Boribori and Ice remained locked in confrontation. Clenching his teeth as he held Ghost Sword in one hand, Boribori attacked first.

He shifted his weight onto his left foot and swept his distinctive stroke from left to right. Ice stepped back to avoid it, and Boribori pursued him, drawing another stroke.

Clang!

Black and white mana intertwined and scattered like splashed paint.

Would he continue the stroke, or write a new character? As though he had seized the initiative, Boribori pressed forward boldly.

Just as soft and rough strokes differed depending on the script, Boribori's attacks were soft one moment and rough the next, then rough one moment and soft the next. Those subtleties did not stand apart but blended together, displaying the skill of a true master.

But was such swordsmanship also advantageous in defense?

Ice moved with extreme precision, as if measured by a ruler.

He retreated and evaded, occasionally launching sharp counterattacks. Then, at one moment, he slipped through Boribori's opening, exploiting the limits imposed by his strokes and dots with ghostly accuracy.

Clang!

When Boribori staggered back, Ice drove his attack harder, swinging his sword with lethal force.

Clang! Clang! Screeech! Whoosh!

The lightning-fast assault was almost blinding. Black and white afterimages lashed through the air, as though painting a single picture.

They were evenly matched, yet as Marie watched anxiously, she realized neither of them was aiming for the other's vital points.

It was closer to a sparring match that was not a sparring match, fought with real blades.

Feeling their hearts, Marie began to cry.

But Boribori and Ice understood that better than anyone.

Did they truly have to swing their blades to kill? Really? Why did it have to be this way? Why did they have to do this?

Life and death. The desire to kill and the desire for the other to live.

Standing at that boundary, Boribori cried out.

"Get a hold of yourself!"

Clang!

Ice's sword was severed, and the severed piece flew away. With a clatter, it fell to the floor.

Boribori's blade surged with black mana that resembled the cosmos itself.

Tragically, at that very moment, he had awakened as a Sword Master.

With his defeat certain, Ice released the broken sword and closed his eyes.

I lost. Good. This is enough. Thank goodness I lost.

"Huff, huff, huff, huff..."

Only the final strike seemed to remain, but Boribori could not bring himself to hurt him.

"Get a hold of yourself... Please..."

Even though he had become a Sword Master, he was not happy at all. He could only twist his face and let tears stream down when Ricart's voice came from where he had seemed asleep.

"What are you guys doing?"

Everyone there hurriedly turned toward Ricart.

Ricart used the sword he had taken from an enemy to brace himself against the ground and barely managed to stand. Staggering over to Ice, he put the sword in his hand and said with a smile,

"I told you, even if you abandon me, I won't abandon you. Is this the third time I've said it? You choose. Choose God, or choose me. I won't resent you. Oh, and killing yourself isn't an option. That's running away. You know that, right?"

Ricart alone was smiling in this tragic moment.

As Ice looked at his face, it felt as if his heart were collapsing.

Escaping brainwashing was terribly difficult. Those who had never gone through it could not understand.

Breaking free of brainwashing came with pain like cutting off one's own limbs.

It meant throwing away and trampling on what one had believed in without question.

Ice squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth, and gripped the hilt so tightly that he trembled.

Right. Rather than kill Ricky, I can cut off my own limbs as many times as it takes.

Once he resolved that he could never kill Ricky, even if he had to punish himself with eternal suffering, Ice opened his eyes and swung his sword.

Marie and Boribori, watching in dread, flinched. But the priest of the Church shuddered, and his head slowly slid from his neck.

White light like snowflakes now shone from Ice's sword as well.

Beautiful afterimages drifted like falling snow.

"If there's a god, they'll compensate you for all you've suffered, I tell you."

When Ricart repeated the joke he had made before, Ice laughed through his tears.

Ricart was struggling to stand. Sleep was washing over him, the wound in his side had not fully healed, and his lungs were in poor condition.

As he barely remained upright by holding Ice's shoulder, Marie and Boribori came over and supported him from either side.

"I'm in terrible shape, but let's go now. Let's finish this. If we sleep first, that god or whatever it is might come back to life."

As they walked through the grand corridor, Daisy, who had been watching anxiously from the corner all along, spoke.

"If you go, you'll die..."

Ricart stopped for a moment and looked back.

Daisy hiccuped through her tears as she spoke.

"It's okay if you don't love me. But I don't want Ricky to die... You all like Ricky, don't you? Then you have to save him..."

After thinking for a moment, Ricart spoke sincerely.

"If what's going to happen will happen anyway, what good would running away do? We're not those kinds of people, Daisy."

Then the four of them moved forward together.

For the first time, Daisy prayed to God. She asked for forgiveness. Forgiveness for not believing until now.

Please, just let Ricky live.

Then, perhaps wishing to share their end, she staggered after them.

At the end of the grand corridor, they saw light. It was like a door leading to heaven.

But when they finally reached it, the reality was far from heaven.

The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly. Atop a tall square pyramid stood a dark, murky sword embedded in the stone, with hatred and resentment clinging to it like layers of bark.

Around it were dried, hardened sculptures shaped like people.

No. Were they not sculptures at all? Were they actual people who had dried to death?

Ricart had wondered where all the Church's followers had gone, only to find them bowing toward the altar.

"Please close your eyes. Please close your eyes," they chanted.

And prophetic nuns wearing white veils sang a single-toned aria. Their voices were so beautiful that listening to them made one feel holy.

Yet a grotesque and terrible scene was unfolding as well.

Hellawman and the adventurers following him had already arrived. Carrying weapons, they walked among those bowing in prayer and stabbed them again and again.

Even as people died beside them, the followers only continued bowing toward the altar.

What in the world were they doing?

Ricart pulled free from the arms supporting him and walked toward Hellawman.

Hellawman widened his eyes when he saw Ricart's group.

"Oh? You got here quickly. No, should I say, as expected?"

"Your Excellency, I don't think this is right."

"Hm? What do you mean? The operation was a complete extermination from the beginning, was it not?"

Ricart had nothing to say.

As Hellawman said, he had known that when he joined the operation. He understood. They had to kill them all.

But he still could not accept it.

"There are children here who haven't even learned to speak yet."

"Young Master Ricart, it was that soft thinking that led to this. If we hesitate, these cockroach-like things will lay more eggs. Then we may have to kill even more later. What we need now is not mercy, but resolve."

"But this is something you brought on yourself!"

Marie suddenly stepped forward and shouted.

Her face was red, as though something were boiling inside her.

Hellawman glanced at his fifth-generation descendant. When their eyes met, Marie trembled like an aspen leaf.

But she had to say what she needed to say.

"You captured people and experimented on them. You controlled them from behind the scenes, then discarded them and pretended not to know anything when things did not work out. That's why this happened. You brought this on yourself. You did it to me too!"

"...So?"

Hellawman spoke without emotion.

Marie might have been less shocked if he had scolded her instead. Instead, she found herself speechless.

"The calculation was made long ago. To raise one Sword Master, you must gather and train a thousand talented children. Of those, about ten will be geniuses. Gather a thousand such geniuses again, and perhaps one will succeed. Do you think that is realistically possible? Naturally, you seek a more efficient method. If you gather children of ordinary ability and castrate their hearts, they can at least make their blades shine. I simply did not know they would break that badly. Then they were useless, were they not? So I disposed of them. Mad Dog Steiner was probably the last one. Young Master Ricart, thank you for dealing with him. He was troublesome."

His way of thinking was so different that it was difficult even to guess where or when his common sense had gone wrong.

He was a monster who created monsters.

Hellawman looked at Marie again.

"Secure greater military strength and use it to protect the Empire. Protect our family as well. Do you think that is wrong? Enough whining. You may not be needed now, but you must become an obedient dog too, Martelia."

Marie stared blankly at the being who was terror itself to her, who had weighed down her entire life.

Then she understood one thing.

As long as this person lived, there would be no freedom.

So she drew her sword.

"Sorry, Ricky."

When she did, Boribori and Ice also drew their swords as one. Purple, black, and white light burst forth.

Hellawman unexpectedly looked impressed, then broke into a broad, childlike smile.

"It is a shame, but a dog that bites its master must be put down. I have never violated that principle."

But Ricart had no sword now.

He only had a dagger.

He was confident in hand-to-hand combat, but he could not use it against that old man. Ricart knew exactly that he would die before it came to that.

Besides, his body was in no condition to fight. Sleep overwhelmed him, his side wound was still far from healed, and his lungs were growing more short of breath.

Even so, Hellawman smiled cruelly and drew his sword.

A deep blue glow flowed along its blade.

Without the slightest hesitation, he attacked first.

He was facing three Sword Masters alone.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Ricart, whose eye for combat was sharper than anyone's, knew this fight was impossible.

Boribori, Ice, and Marie tried a coordinated attack, but they were pushed back instead. All they could do was interfere to keep their friends from being injured or killed.

It was impossible to believe a person could be so strong.

A real fight could be decided at any moment. In the blink of an eye, a head could fly off or limbs could be severed. And these were Sword Masters.

Ricart looked around for a weapon on the ground, but naturally there was nothing. He wanted to borrow one from the other adventurers, but they only stood at a distance and watched.

So, in his desperation, he climbed the altar.

He had to do something.

His body was battered beyond measure, and he could barely climb with all his strength.

The evil aura that had accumulated around the sword for so long descended on Ricart as though crushing him from all sides.

It was not that breathing was difficult.

It was simply impossible to breathe.

It felt like entering thick, sticky water.

The closer he came to the sword, the more his skin felt as if it were being sliced. Blood actually flowed from his flesh.

Still, Ricart reached out and gripped the hilt.

Then a round shadow began to cover the sun from above.

Daisy saw it and froze in shock.

No. No way!

The adventurers also looked toward Ricart at his sudden action. The followers paused their prayers and stared at him from their knees.

The shadow covered more and more of the sun.

Then, when more than half of it was hidden, darkness suddenly fell.

Only then did Hellawman and the three others stop fighting and look up at the altar.

At the center of where friendship crossed friendship, love crossed love, and resentment crossed resentment, stood Ricart.

Time seemed to stop.

Within that frozen time, Ricart felt every sound in the world abruptly vanish. He could not even hear his own breathing or heartbeat.

In that dark silence, someone spoke to him.

It was the voice of the boy who had herded sheep in the fields of Haiden.

The purest voice.

'I've waited a long time, Ricky.'

'For me?'

'Yeah. Going out to happily carve people up again?'

'Happily carve people up?'

'Why? You enjoyed it so much. Killing people.'

'...That can't be true.'

'Did you forget? How else could you have shown such talent without enjoying it? You're a born killer.'

'...'

'Just as people define and judge you as they please, then use you as an excuse, you're the same, Ricky.'

'What do you mean?'

'Hatred and anger. They're just excuses, aren't they?'

The truth buried in the deepest abyss, a truth Ricart himself had not known, finally came to light.

He only wanted a reason that would allow him to kill people.

Hatred or anything else did not matter.

It was shameful and devastating.

But he could not turn away from the truth he had faced, nor could he run from it.

'Not anymore...'

'Why not?'

'I've learned things I didn't know then.'

Ricart remembered.

Memories of childhood. His family's love. The Nameless One's salvation. The vampire's ordeal. His friends' friendship. And his lover.

People.

He did not need to say more. It was conveyed as it was.

'I see... You've met a lot of good people. I'm jealous. But you still kill sometimes, right?'

'If there is a fight I have to fight.'

'Good. That's enough. There will be plenty of fights anyway.'

The Ricky of his purest days answered brightly.

Ricart closed his eyes.

Tears flowed.

Whether they were tears of repentance or merely sadness, a quiet tear flowed like a prayer, like white mourning clothes instead of black, like the morning sun rising at the dawn of anguish.

At last, his past life and present life became not two, but one.

Wind blew within his body.

Not something like water flowing through his veins.

It was simply wind.

It lightly swept away the poisonous energy built up in his lungs and sent his drowsiness flying away.

At last, the sun was completely covered.

It was midday, yet the world had become night.

Ricart was completely black beneath the shadow, while a ring of radiance flashed behind his head like a halo.

The bark-like resentment clinging to the sword cracked apart.

Crack. Crack.

Golden flames rose through the gaps.

They burned fiercely in the darkness created by the eclipse.

Like a star shining alone in the universe.

Ricart slowly pulled out the sword that had been embedded there for a hundred years.

The shells of resentment fell away in a shower.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Golden flames burned in them as well.

When he slowly turned his head and looked below the altar, people of every kind stared up at him with blank faces.

Daisy trembled so violently from the shock that she could barely stand.

Oh God. If only I had accepted the prophecy as it was! If only I had simply believed in God! If only I had obeyed!

A sacred realization that tore at her heart struck Daisy.

Though I saw the future, I saw nothing.

At last, she understood.

She was destined never to be chosen.

Even after being shown everything, she had refused to see.

Hellawman shuddered.

He was finally witnessing once again the ultimate sword he had pursued throughout his life of more than a hundred years.

Behold.

The one who raced across the infinite horizon.

Only now did he understand the source of the familiarity he had felt whenever he looked at Ricart.

How it could be possible did not matter.

Now, he could fight him.

As if possessed, he climbed the altar toward Ricart.

But even the man said to be the strongest in the Empire looked no more than a firefly beneath the sun.

He faced Ricart for a moment, then thrust out a single killing blow containing the strength of his entire life.

But Ricart's movement was neither slow nor fast, as though he were drifting through frozen time.

But Ricart's decisive strike came like lightning.

Clang!

A strange sound, like a ringing bell or a hammer striking an anvil, echoed through the darkness of the eclipse.

Before the sound arrived, a straight golden line cut through Hellawman.

His sword broke, and his body split in two like firewood.

An enormous amount of blood and organs spilled across the altar.

Those watching felt as though their breath had stopped at the overwhelming sight.

It was enough to understand why someone might worship a mere human as a god.

Ricart slowly turned his head.

It was not over yet.

Now was the time to break this chain of evil.

And now was the time for people to face the truth.

The god they wanted had never existed from the beginning.

Or perhaps judgment in its true sense was about to descend, though not in the way they wanted.

Those who met his burning gaze looked as though they might faint from that alone.

But it was impossible to know whether what they felt was utter terror or ecstasy.

If one could cut people down with rage and hatred, could one also cut people down with compassion?

Perhaps that was a heart truly resembling a god's.

This was not a realm one could reach through training.

It was a single masterpiece forged by two destinies over the course of two lives.

No one knew by what standard he selected them, but almost no one in the holy sanctuary survived.

Thus, every prophecy was fulfilled.

They had seen, yet failed to see.

The sun, as though it had closed its eyes, slowly began to open them again.

Its sacred gaze fell upon the holy sanctuary soaked in blood.

Chapter 19: The Brightest Star. End.

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