Chapter 25

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

Unlike other places, the forest possessed a distinct freshness in its air. The scents of trees, moss, grass, and countless tiny, unseen things mingled together, bringing a sense of tranquility.

The breaths exhaled by ancient trees and young saplings alike seemed to cleanse a person’s lungs.

The forest was a place where life could be felt—a place that lived and breathed in its own right.

That vitality was especially palpable at dawn. It felt as though it washed away all the grime clouding one’s mind and soul.

Yet amid that pleasant air, an incongruous metallic odor brushed past the tip of the nose.

It was the smell of blood.

Corpses lay scattered along a winding forest path. A group of people wandered among them.

A man with a rough beard covering the lower half of his face and chin-length brown hair silently looked down at the bodies.

Judging from their condition, they had clearly died fighting. Their bodies bore numerous sword and spear wounds. There was something else that was difficult to notice at first glance: every corpse’s eyes had been closed, as though someone had mourned their deaths.

"Clan Master. Over here."

Someone called to the brown-haired man from beyond the forest path.

The man’s name was Lorenz, and he was a clan master of the Rubens Guild.

A clan master was someone responsible for overseeing several clans within a guild. Most adventurers’ guilds had an organizational structure consisting of the guild master, the advisory council, clan masters, clan leaders, and ordinary adventurers.

A clan master’s personal fighting ability was important, but the position also demanded a high degree of professional expertise.

Adventurers tended to be free-spirited and habitually disobedient, so managing them was no easy task. One could neither restrain them too tightly nor give them too much freedom. It required a delicate sense of balance.

Furthermore, commanding operations involving several clans required a wide range of knowledge and considerable field experience.

Hearing the call, Lorenz strode over.

Not far away lay a corpse arranged in a grotesque posture. It was kneeling, its upper body bent backward—and, most strikingly, it had no head.

It looked profoundly uncomfortable.

Though now that the man was dead, perhaps that no longer mattered.

Still, the posture allowed Lorenz to infer how he had died. His neck had been severed while he was standing.

The cut suggested that the head had not been hacked off with several blows. It had been taken in a single stroke. Unless the victim deliberately stretched out his neck like a condemned prisoner, decapitating a standing man with one blow was no easy feat.

More importantly, there were no other visible wounds.

That meant the killer had finished him with a single strike.

The severed head lay nearby. Lorenz nudged it with his foot, turning its face toward him. Then he muttered under his breath.

"This is ridiculous..."

His expression barely changed, but Lorenz was genuinely dumbfounded.

The decapitated man had been someone the guild valued greatly.

There were several stages on the path to becoming a Sword Master. Each guild classified them differently, but the Rubens Guild divided them into the Petal Stage and the Blooming Stage.

At the Petal Stage, striking with the blade caused petal-like forms of mana to ripple across it. At the Blooming Stage, swinging one’s sword left an afterimage of mana along its path. Finally, upon becoming a Sword Master, the blade itself emitted light.

No one knew the precise method of becoming a Sword Master. Training one’s Mana Drive alone was insufficient, as was merely practicing swordsmanship.

The one thing every guild agreed upon was that genuine combat experience was indispensable.

It was believed that the state of mind and psychological response experienced when killing another person—or when entering a battle in which one’s life was at stake—acted as a kind of ignition point.

The decapitated man before Lorenz had reached the Petal Stage.

He had been a precious talent, the sort produced by the Rubens Academy only once every several years.

His death was absurd, and Lorenz would have difficulty escaping responsibility as a clan master.

Neither reaching the Petal Stage nor becoming a Sword Master made someone immortal. They were still human beings made of flesh and bone. They could lose their footing and fall to their deaths while climbing a mountain, be killed by an arrow, or succumb to poison.

But under normal circumstances, they did not die easily—especially not in a sword fight.

And yet this man had died.

Why? How?

Who could have killed a swordsman who had reached the Petal Stage?

"Did they realize what was happening...? Strange... That shouldn’t have been possible..."

Lorenz removed his foot from the severed head and muttered to himself.

He could not understand it.

The primary objective of this operation had been to kill the adventurers of the Beringen Guild, and that objective had already been accomplished when they attacked their hideout.

During the attack, they had learned that academy students were coming to provide support. Hoping to secure an additional victory, Lorenz had ordered his men to hide along the road and ambush them.

It had not been strictly necessary.

Ultimately, however, the only way for the Rubens Guild to survive and move closer to power was to annihilate its rival guild. If another blow could be dealt, there was no reason not to do so.

But now someone had died—a talent highly valued by the guild.

Did this make the operation a loss or a gain?

Lorenz began calculating the costs and benefits in his head.

Twelve active adventurers on one side, and a single prodigy with the potential to become a Sword Master on the other.

Which was more valuable?

The difference was not overwhelming, but no matter how he considered it, the scales tilted toward a loss.

Then that loss would have to be recouped.

How could he make up for it?

Lorenz stroked his beard and sank into thought.

If an academy student had been capable of killing such a prodigy, perhaps that student had reached a similar level.

In that case, killing the student would offset the loss.

The student had to die.

This was no longer a battle fought merely to secure an incidental victory. If Lorenz’s side had suffered a major loss, the enemy would have to suffer one as well.

Having reached a tentative conclusion, Lorenz looked to the side.

Six or seven young men stood there as though they were criminals awaiting judgment.

"What did he look like?"

"H-He was wearing a red cloak, and he was short. He looked rather young, too, but he carried an oversized sword that didn’t suit his build. It was a longsword with leather wrapped around the ricasso."

"If he was that young, then he couldn’t have been an active adventurer."

"Yes... He definitely appeared to be a student... That was what we’d been told as well..."

Lorenz became certain of it.

There was someone at the Beringen Guild Academy who had reached the Petal Stage—or perhaps even surpassed it.

That person had to be killed.

Once his objective became clear, everything he needed to do next naturally fell into place.

"Search the surrounding area and block every escape route. Don’t let even one of them get away. If word reaches Beringen, the entire operation will have to be called off. If that happens, you can forget about being rewarded. I’ll be screwed, and so will all of you. Do you understand?"

The original purpose of this operation had been to inflict unilateral damage on the Beringen Guild through a surprise attack.

If the Beringen Guild caught on, even belatedly, and deployed its forces, both sides would begin taking casualties. That would defeat the entire purpose of the operation.

Lorenz assumed that the students would flee for Beringen and would not go anywhere near the hideout or Griffinswald.

What he failed to anticipate was that a handful of academy students would decide to continue their assignment instead of fleeing.

***

Griffinswald meant "the forest where griffins dwell."

However, griffins were mystical creatures and so rarely seen that the village’s name seemed somewhat incongruous. Perhaps there had once been many of them in the area.

For defensive purposes, the village stood atop a fairly steep hill whose surrounding terrain had been cut away. A sturdy wooden palisade encircled the hill.

A single temple dedicated to the gods stood at the village’s center, while every other building was a cottage.

The population was not particularly large. Most of the residents survived by gathering herbs, hunting, and foraging.

It would have been difficult for a large population to survive there, but it was a reasonably comfortable place for a small one—much like Stormherz.

There was one story concerning the village that, although not confirmed, was widely believed to be true.

An Imperial Ranger had once stayed and worked there. After marrying an elf, he settled permanently in the village, and his descendants eventually established themselves there as well.

They no longer had any ties to the Imperial Family.

Nevertheless, most of the village’s men were rangers.

It was therefore wise not to behave recklessly there—unless one wanted an arrow lodged between one’s eyes without ever knowing where it had come from.

Outsiders rarely visited the village, yet nine of them were now wandering through it. All wore cloaks, but the weapons hanging from their waists were plainly visible.

Among them, one stood out like a target even from a distance. He wore a brilliant red cloak and carried a sword over one shoulder.

The villagers stared blankly at the group. Children watched with sparkling, curious eyes.

Meanwhile, a man standing guard atop a watchtower silently looked down at Rickart’s party, a bow in his hand.

As Rickart surveyed his surroundings, one particular house caught his attention.

An unfinished crossbow had been hung out to dry in the yard like laundry. The owner appeared to be a bowyer. Crossbows were, after all, one of the region’s specialties.

An old man was scraping away at a piece of wood with a plane.

Rickart approached him.

"May I ask you something?"

"..."

The old man stopped planing and raised his head, quietly studying Rickart and his companions. Most people would have been frightened at the sight of an armed group, but he showed no such reaction.

"My name is Ricky. I’m a student at the Beringen Guild Academy. Do you know the Beringen Adventurers’ Guild? They had a hideout nearby, and there should have been some adventurers who mainly operated in this area."

"...I heard those idiots were killed."

"We know that as well. I was wondering if you might know who killed them."

"You expect me to interfere in a feud between adventurers? If I tell you, I’ll be helping your side, won’t I? Then the people on the other side will bear a grudge against us."

"Hmm. I hadn’t thought it through. In that case, have you heard anything about deserters?"

The old man silently studied the boy who had so readily admitted his mistake, then replied.

"...Wouldn’t you need to go to a city to learn about that? Fugitives tend to disappear into cities. They don’t hide in places like this."

"I see. Then which city is closest to here?"

"Torvail. A day’s journey south. If you leave now, you should make it out of the forest around sunset."

"Understood. By the way, could we obtain some herbs and food here? I’ll speak to the guild and have them pay you later."

Several of the students had lost their belongings during their frantic escape. Since they had been sharing what remained, they were now running short of food.

They needed to resupply here, but they had no money.

Rickart had spent all of his money before coming, while the other students had lost what little they possessed.

The old man frowned slightly.

"And what makes you think I’d trust you enough to give you food?"

"Your instincts, sir."

"What?"

"Look me in the eyes and decide whether I’m trustworthy."

Apparently finding the suggestion absurd, the old man’s frown relaxed into a snort of laughter. He stared at Rickart for a while, then shouted toward the house.

"Lester! Lester!"

"Yes, Grandfather!"

A hurried commotion came from inside the cottage, and a sturdily built young man soon emerged.

The old man spoke to him.

"You remember the deer we caught and salted last winter? There are still a few chunks of meat left. Give them all to these people. Give them a few bundles of herbs for treating wounds as well."

"Yes, Grandfather."

The young man obeyed without a word of complaint. He went back into the cottage and soon returned carrying salted meat and several bundles of medicinal herbs.

Rickart accepted them, passed them to the other students, and addressed the old man again.

"I won’t forget this kindness."

"I’m not giving them away for free, so it isn’t kindness. I have work to do. If you’re finished here, be on your way."

Rickart bowed deeply to the old man and turned away.

The group left the village and headed south.

"Weren’t you being a little too humble?" Volka asked. "He was just some old man from a backwater village."

"It’s always best to get help from the locals when you’re somewhere unfamiliar. If you can’t do that, you should at least avoid making enemies of them. The locals can be even more frightening than your enemies. Someone once said that if gaining the locals’ help required him to kneel before a commoner, then he would kneel without hesitation. And the man who said that was royalty."

Those were words once spoken by Kaldevert—the only true friend Rickart had possessed in his previous life and now one of his ancestors.

Kaldevert the Breaker.

Kaldevert had originally belonged to the Adelorn Royal Family. After distinguishing himself during the Eastern Expedition, he had founded the cadet branch that eventually became Rickart’s family.

"You’re lying."

"It’s true. When you’ve struggled on a battlefield with death constantly at your heels, it changes the way you think. Those who don’t change usually end up dead."

"...But how would you know that?"

"Let’s just say my father told me."

Volka furrowed his brow slightly, looking as though he knew something did not add up.

"The villagers didn’t look particularly strong."

"Either way, we got some meat and decided where we’re going next, so let’s keep moving. There may be a guild branch in Torvail."

"Yeah, well... I suppose you’re right."

Volka nodded readily.

And so, instead of returning to their academy, the nine students set off for a new city.

***

Meanwhile, despite searching the forest and blocking every apparent escape route, Lorenz had failed to find Rickart’s group.

Eventually, he returned to the hideout his people had attacked.

As the saying went, the darkest place was directly beneath the lamp. There, he discovered traces left by the students.

Lorenz was dumbfounded once again. As far as he was concerned, the clueless students must have lost all sense of fear to come to a place like this.

Concluding that the Beringen Academy students had probably visited the village, Lorenz gathered a force of roughly thirty adventurers and students and entered Griffinswald.

By then, an entire day had passed since Rickart’s departure.

Lorenz soon found the same old man with whom Rickart had spoken.

"Hey, old man."

Lorenz rested one hand conspicuously on the hilt of the sword at his waist as he called out.

Just as he had the previous day, the old man was carefully shaving a piece of wood with his plane. He stopped and looked up at Lorenz.

"A group of unfamiliar brats passed through here, didn’t they? I already know they did, so don’t bother spouting any nonsense. Where did they go?"

"...I have no intention of involving myself in a feud between adventurers. If I tell you, I’ll be helping your side. Then the people on the other side will bear a grudge against us, won’t they?"

The old man gave Lorenz exactly the same answer he had given Rickart the day before.

Lorenz’s reaction, however, was entirely different.

Narrowing his eyes at the old man, he said, "You people really are unbelievable... Do you not understand the position you’re in, old man? There are thirty of us, and we’re well armed. Burning down some backwater village no one cares about and killing everyone in it would be child’s play. Do you understand what I’m saying? Where did those bastards go? Do I need to kill your grandson in front of you first? Huh?"

The old man stared up at Lorenz with what appeared to be a slight glare.

"...Torvail. Yesterday."

"If you’re lying, we’ll come back and kill every last one of you for real. Let’s go."

Lorenz immediately led his men out of the village and headed for Torvail.

The old man silently watched them leave.

Then he shouted toward the cottage.

"Lester! Lester!"

"Yes, Grandfather!"

Just as he had the day before, the young man came rushing outside.

This time, however, the old man’s order was entirely different.

"Gather the boys. Then follow those bastards and kill every last one of them."

"Yes, Grandfather."

Lester answered as casually as though he had been told to run a simple errand.

He went around the village and gathered the men.

Every one of them was a ranger armed with a bow or crossbow.

There was a saying that a single experienced ranger could halt an entire army’s advance. It sounded like an exaggeration, but there was a measure of truth to it.

Marching an army through a forest was never easy. Once soldiers began stumbling into traps and being picked off by distant arrows, fear would spread through the ranks until they could no longer bring themselves to advance.

Perhaps the reason wild beasts and monsters rarely appeared in this forest—and why it remained so peaceful—was entirely due to the rangers of Griffinswald.

After all, they were the apex predators of this territory.

And now those predators silently pursued Lorenz and his men, their quivers packed full of arrows.

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