Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Within a single empire were five kingdoms, four merchant republics, and hundreds of minor territories and noble houses.

Among those hundreds of noble houses, House Kaldevern traced its roots to the royal family of Adelorn. The heroic knight Kaldevert had founded its cadet branch, and the family name signified that its members were his descendants.

Kaldevert had distinguished himself on the Eastern Expeditionary Front and received a territory from the Emperor.

A hundred years had passed since then.

That also meant it had been a hundred years since the Empire’s first Sword Master appeared.

What was the saying?

Kill a few people, and you were merely a murderer. Kill hundreds, and you became a hero. Kill thousands, and you became a conqueror. Kill more than that, and you became a god.

In an age when people believed that thunder and lightning in the heavens and floods that destroyed their homes were manifestations of divine will, the first Sword Master was regarded as a kind of natural disaster—or perhaps a warning from some god.

That was how people remembered his past of steel and blood.

God’s judgment, punishment, and condemnation upon sinners, regardless of their rank.

And the people believed that he would one day return.

Whether he would bring salvation or destruction upon his return, no one knew.

Unlike the ignorant commoners, however, those in power—the Emperor and the kings—seemed to interpret that past somewhat differently.

They did not regard the first Sword Master as a herald of salvation or the end of the world.

They saw him as a strategic weapon.

If only they could obtain that overwhelming power.

If only they could make it theirs....

Some things had to change with the times, but there were also values that had to be preserved.

Heavy cavalry remained powerful on the battlefield, and the duty of knights had yet to end.

Nobles were required to defend their territories and fulfill the military obligations stipulated in their contracts with their liege lords.

To preserve one’s honor as a noble meant never avoiding a fight. A noble must never yield to unjust threats and must regard courage as the highest virtue—even if upholding it meant risking his life.

Many still lived according to those values.

It was an age in which the word noble also implied warrior.

House Kaldevern’s lands had been divided with each passing generation, as partible inheritance had been customary law at the time.

Eventually, there was not even the smallest scrap of land left to divide.

One branch of House Kaldevern now made its home in a small manor called Stormherz.

It was the time of year when the sweltering summer had passed and the weather was beginning to grow chilly. The harvested fields lay fallow, with enormous piles of dry straw standing here and there.

But Lord Abelich still had work to do.

The Kaldevern estate in Stormherz had been bustling since early morning, making the chilly air seem almost irrelevant.

The lord’s attendants hurried around gathering various pieces of equipment. Judging by what they carried, they were evidently preparing for a hunt.

Nets, crossbows, excited hunting dogs panting eagerly, and spears meant for hunting wild boars.

Abelich, the lord of Stormherz, sat astride a splendid brown warhorse—the most valuable possession of his family—and watched his attendants gather their equipment.

Then he realized that something important was missing.

"Where is Ricky? Where has Ricky gone?"

"He’s probably holed up somewhere quiet, staring into space again."

His eldest son, dressed in armor made of tough leather, stood beside his father and answered indifferently.

"Hunting wild boars is both our family’s duty and an important event. Ricky is ten years old now, so he must participate. Find him."

Hunting was not merely a leisure activity for nobles.

Wild boars, in particular, destroyed fields and dug up graves, so they had to be exterminated.

Any robust adult man could chase away a stray goblin that had become separated from its pack, while wolves possessed enough sense to flee if sufficiently frightened.

Wild boars were different.

Once they charged, nothing short of death would stop them.

And in a noble household, turning ten meant that boys and girls would begin to be raised differently in earnest.

Before that age, they were all raised simply as children. From the age of ten onward, however, even their hair and clothing began to differ according to their sex. Boys participated in hunts and trained in martial arts.

It was an age in which people believed that a boy was raised by his mother, a man by his father, and a warrior by fate.

After receiving their father’s order, the eldest son naturally looked at the second son.

His gaze carried a silent command.

You go find him.

The younger brother deliberately avoided his gaze and pretended not to notice. Displeased by his behavior, Graut, the eldest son, twitched an eyebrow.

"Hey."

"Father gave the order to you."

"And I’m giving the order to you."

"Why should I obey you?"

"Because I’m the eldest son, and you’re the second."

Whether one was born first or second was not something effort could change.

Nor was it something anyone chose for themselves.

Yet neither could they escape the rigid fetters imposed by that order.

The second son, Vilter, was fourteen years old and would become an adult the following year. Like most boys approaching adulthood, he had grown increasingly rebellious with time.

The three brothers had once been close, but no one knew when or why their relationship had begun to sour.

"I swear I’m going to leave this damned house on my own two feet."

Vilter said it loudly enough for his father and brother to hear, then stalked away.

His taciturn father ignored him as though he had heard nothing. His brother frowned, while the other attendants merely smiled as though they found his behavior endearing.

Vilter searched the watchtower attached to the manor, the barn, and everywhere else he could think of, but he could not find his youngest brother.

He even asked his sister-in-law, whom he did not particularly wish to see, but she did not know either.

"Could he be in the family crypt? He may still miss Mother."

His sister-in-law spoke while embroidering the edge of a cloak with the help of a young maid.

The lady of the house had died of a fever two years ago.

"If he isn’t there, then he must have followed Mother to the grave."

"Please don’t say things like that. He’s only ten. You should take good care of your younger brother. I’ll help as well. By the way, are you certain I don’t need to join the hunt?"

"Father told you to remain somewhere warm. But he isn’t worried about you. He only cares about the baby in your belly."

Even if something was true, there were some things one simply should not say.

Vilter always spoke this way—cynically, with thorns in every word.

Despite not being much older herself, his sister-in-law merely laughed it off.

That was exactly what Vilter hated.

Everyone treated him like a child.

Or perhaps the source of the resentment that even Vilter himself did not understand was the fear that his home was being taken away from him.

This house—his family—would belong to his elder brother.

There was no place in it for the second son.

Vilter left the room that had once been his mother’s bedchamber and now belonged to his sister-in-law.

Then, as she had suggested, he descended into the family crypt.

From the moment he began descending the stairs, the distinctive chill of the underground brushed against the nape of his neck.

When he reached the bottom, he found himself surrounded by impenetrable darkness.

Yet far in the distance was a faintly illuminated place, like a frail candle burning in the heart of the underworld.

Beneath a torch mounted on the wall stood his youngest brother.

The boy was gazing at something.

He seemed to be standing on the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead.

"Ricky!"

Vilter’s shout echoed through the crypt.

His younger brother, whose face still retained its childish roundness, turned toward him.

He was Rickart, the third son of House Kaldevern, with blond hair and hazel eyes.

Ricky was his nickname.

Vilter approached his brother.

As Ricky stared up at him, his eyes appeared green, blue, or brown depending on how the light struck them. Under the reddish torchlight, they currently looked blue.

"What are you doing down here? Don’t you know we’re hunting today?"

"I just felt like coming down here. Today is the anniversary of Mother’s death."

Before Rickart stood a stone sarcophagus, its lid carved in the likeness of the deceased.

It was their mother’s coffin.

"You remember things like that? You’re ten now. Shouldn’t you learn to accept it with some dignity? And shouldn’t you start thinking about your future?"

Ten was not an age at which one could remain a carefree child.

It was the age when nobles began receiving proper instruction as knights and were expected to assume the responsibilities of a full person.

For commoners, the expectations were even harsher.

At his brother’s scolding, Rickart lowered his eyes and fell silent.

Vilter immediately felt guilty, and his heart softened.

Rickart spoke.

"Growing up in Mother’s arms felt as if I already possessed everything. That’s why I’m not particularly worried about my future."

Vilter could not understand what his younger brother was talking about.

"...I can never tell whether you’re an old man trapped in a child’s body or simply a fool. Everyone is waiting outside. Let’s go."

Vilter roughly tousled his brother’s hair and took his hand.

"Okay."

Led by his brother’s hand, Rickart left the underground crypt as though crossing back over the boundary from the underworld.

When they climbed the stairs, the deep indigo light of early morning enveloped them.

Upon emerging into the courtyard, they found everyone waiting with their preparations already complete.

"It took you that long to find one little kid?"

Their eldest brother, Graut, made an obnoxious remark.

"Then you should’ve gone to find him yourself."

"You little... I’ve been letting you get away with too much lately."

These days, the eldest and second sons bickered whenever their eyes met.

Abelich quickly brought both sons under control.

"Enough. Ricky, remain beside Villy. This is your first hunt, so you’re only to watch from a distance. Butch, you look after the two boys."

"Yes, my lord."

After issuing those simple instructions, Abelich spurred his horse and galloped out of the courtyard alone.

The brilliant feather tucked into his hunting hat thrashed wildly in the wind.

The clatter of hooves quickly faded into the distance.

The others followed him on foot.

Abelich soon vanished beyond the hill, but it did not matter because they all knew where they were supposed to gather.

The hunting party consisted of ten or fifteen able-bodied men from the village and several people who were something like retainers.

They were only something like retainers because they received no separate wages. Instead, they were exempted from paying taxes.

In essence, they were independent farmers.

One of their families had served the Kaldeverns since the time of Abelich’s great-grandfather, while the others had maintained ties with the family since his grandfather’s generation.

It was an impoverished territory, so its people relied more on loyalty than money.

Several families were united around the lord’s household.

On a larger scale, it was a miniature version of feudal society, with the Emperor at its pinnacle.

When war broke out, the lord served as both knight and officer, the retainers acted as noncommissioned officers, and everyone else became ordinary soldiers.

In other words, this group formed the smallest fundamental unit of warfare.

The hunt was also a form of combat training.

After all, prey could not be caught simply by having a large crowd rush after it.

They had to move in an organized manner, and to do that, they needed to practice working together regularly.

Tracking the prey, driving it into position, and finishing it off all took place across a wide area where the hunters could not always see one another. They had to judge by the direction of sounds and think, If it were the man I know, this is how he would act.

It was not something that could be learned in a day or two. The knowledge was passed down through generations, from father to son, and then from son to grandson.

In other words, hunting was both combat training and practical education.

This was Rickart’s first time participating in such practical training. Even so, the boy showed no sign of excitement or fear. He remained as impassive as ever.

The men carrying the various pieces of equipment walked ahead, while Rickart and Vilter followed Butch.

It was the agricultural off-season. The air was somewhat chilly, and the grass in both the fields and the meadows was drying to a yellowish brown. The trees were covered in brilliant autumn foliage.

"You’ve seen a wild boar before, haven’t you, Ricky?"

Butch asked the question.

He was the son of one of the men who were "something like retainers" and had grown up in the same village as the lord’s sons. They had been close since childhood.

Several boar spears rested on his shoulder. Their long, broad spearheads were almost the size of a human face.

Anything smaller would fail to penetrate a boar’s tough hide.

"I’m not sure. Have I?"

"Didn’t you see one about two years ago? Weren’t you there?"

"He stayed beside Mother because she was ill."

Vilter corrected Butch’s inaccurate memory.

"Oh, that’s right. You don’t need to be so nervous, Ricky. We’ll set up camp and live there for a while. Four days if it’s quick, maybe two weeks if it takes longer. You’ll probably only see the boar after it’s dead. It won’t be dangerous."

At the assurance that he need not be nervous, Rickart merely smiled faintly.

"It seemed docile enough when I saw it. I don’t know why the adults try to frighten us by saying they’re dangerous."

Vilter swept the stick in his hand needlessly through the grass as he spoke in his usual grumbling tone.

"They really are dangerous. Even beasts value their own lives. Once a boar begins to rampage, it becomes extremely dangerous."

"Butch, have you ever seen a boar rampage?" Vilter asked.

"No, I haven’t. But Rian’s father was gored to death by one. I was little at the time, so you two probably wouldn’t know about it."

"Well, people die from all sorts of things. I will too, someday."

Their mother, Rian’s father....

It was a world in which death was always close at hand.

Disease, unforeseen accidents, war, and starvation.

Stormherz was at least relatively fortunate when it came to food. It was by no means prosperous, but it produced just enough for its current population to scrape by.

"By the way, have you been practicing with the sword, Villy?"

"No. I don’t want to go off and fight in battles. I’m not the eldest son anyway, so why should I bother?"

"Wouldn’t it still be better to practice? Swordsmanship isn’t something everyone can learn just because they want to. Even if it’s only for self-defense—"

"I know. Stop nagging me."

"Fine. Then do you at least have some sort of plan? Once the young master becomes lord...."

"What happens when my brother becomes lord? Are you saying he’ll drive me out of here?"

"Well, these days, families don’t divide their property equally anymore. Why don’t you swallow your pride and ask for some support now?"

"I don’t want to beg my brother for anything."

"...Honestly, you."

In the past, the principle had been to divide land and property equally among one’s children.

That was no longer the case.

Since dividing an inheritance weakened the family, a culture of leaving everything to the eldest son was becoming firmly established.

Consequently, life could become rather difficult for any son who was not the legitimate heir. Noble families often sent their other sons to monasteries or knightly orders at an early age.

After all, brothers within a noble family could become either the strongest allies or the most dangerous political enemies.

If the line of succession was unstable, the family’s retainers and vassals would become unsettled. Factions competing for supreme authority had to be prevented at all costs.

Still, some second sons worked hard, rose through the ranks, and became bishops or abbots.

Joining a knightly order was honorable, but it was also dangerous and grueling in many ways. There was strict communal living, exhausting training, and battle. Most importantly, nobles received no special treatment there.

In short, anyone who was not born the legitimate eldest son had to find his own way to make a living.

Kaldevert, the founder of House Kaldevern, had also risen to prominence through his own efforts.

Vilter had remained with the family for quite a long time, considering that he was already fourteen. But his elder brother had taken a wife and would soon have a child, so the time had come for Vilter to begin finding his own path.

Perhaps he could remain at home a little longer if the child were a girl.

Or if it died immediately after being born....

They were all pointless thoughts.

He was already old enough, so he would have to leave soon regardless.

It was only natural that Vilter’s emotions had become complicated lately. He had to prepare himself to survive on his own.

There was someone else in a similar position.

His younger brother, Rickart.

Perhaps Rickart was still too young to understand. When Vilter looked back at him, the boy wore the same indifferent expression as always.

His younger brother sometimes seemed like an old man in a child’s body. He was peculiar, gentle, and kind.

Rickart looked down at the ground as he walked, then raised his gaze toward the clear blue sky, then stared into the distance....

He simply appeared to be thinking about nothing at all.

It would hurt, but perhaps Vilter needed to teach him the harsh realities of life.

As Vilter was considering this, Rickart continued looking into the distance and raised a hand to point.

"Isn’t that a wild boar?"

Butch and Vilter simultaneously turned toward the direction Rickart was indicating.

Far away, near the edge of the forest, a wild boar was running at full speed.

"Oh. It is."

Lord Abelich was pursuing it on horseback.

Something was wrong, however.

The boar gradually changed direction and began charging toward them.

At first, the three boys merely stared because it was still far away. But the moment Butch and Vilter realized it was coming directly toward them, their hair stood on end and their minds went blank.

The situation suddenly became urgent.

The hunting dogs, released from their handlers, began barking frantically.

"Woof! Woof!"

"Butch! Butch! Protect the young masters!"

Butch’s father, who had been among the men walking ahead, hurriedly turned back and shouted.

Protect them?

How was he supposed to do that?

"Uh...."

The wild boar drew closer and closer.

They had not realized it from a distance, but it was no ordinary size. Its shoulders alone appeared taller than Rickart.

It was fast as well.

The startled adults hurled their spears from afar, but the weapons merely whistled uselessly through empty air.

"Butch! Butch!"

His father’s voice sounded muffled in Butch’s ears.

He simply froze where he stood.

Vilter did the same.

Then someone snatched one of the spears from Butch’s back and shoved him forcefully aside.

Butch toppled into the dry grass.

Ricky entered his field of vision.

The young child, whose face had not yet lost its baby fat, held the spear backward and rested its shaft against his shoulder. He aimed its point at the charging boar.

He spread his legs wide, one in front and one behind, and shifted his weight onto his front foot as though he were about to fall forward.

Before anyone could say a word, the enormous boar crashed into the child.

Thud-thud-thud-thud!

Bam!

Rickart was hurled far backward and rolled across the grass.

Butch and Vilter, who had been standing beside him, could not even understand what had just happened. They merely stood there with vacant expressions.

"Ricky! Ricky!"

Lord Abelich rushed desperately toward the fallen Rickart.

He hurriedly dismounted and examined his third son.

Astonishingly, the young boy had not lost consciousness. He lay among the dry yellow grass, gazing up at the sky.

His palms had been torn open and were bleeding.

Abelich’s heart had nearly stopped. Without realizing it, he pulled Rickart into his arms.

"M-My lord. My lord."

Someone called to him from behind.

Abelich instinctively turned his head.

There lay the boar’s carcass, dead with the spear driven cleanly through the space between its eyes.

What?

No one said a word.

Across the field, the only sounds were the blowing wind and the barking of dogs.