Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Chapter 34

In winter, horrific tales too dreadful to put into words crawled across the snowy plains—stories of mothers driven by hunger to eat their babies, or people digging up graves to devour the corpses.

There was little need to worry about wild beasts while traveling in winter.

It was the season when humans became beasts themselves.

Wheel tracks and footprints crisscrossed the road through the snow-covered plain. The mud had frozen into sharp, jagged ridges.

Farther along the roadside stood a half-destroyed carriage, tilted to one side. Corpses lay scattered around it. One body some distance away was missing its head.

The snow had briefly stopped. In the cold morning sunlight, Rickart and Boribori stood silently and stared at the scene left behind by whatever had swept through the area. The vast snowfield glittered beneath the sunlight, and white clouds of breath billowed from the two boys’ mouths with every exhalation.

Anyone who spent even a single night outdoors would freeze to death, so there was no chance of finding survivors. Here and there, the snow had melted into holes beneath pools of blood.

If there was one fortunate thing, it was that no one had carved flesh from the corpses.

Though Rickart was not sure whether it was right to feel relieved merely because no one had fallen that far.

What puzzled him was that if the attackers had been after food or money, they would have stripped the corpses of their equipment. Instead, every body remained fully armed. Even selling all that as scrap metal would have brought in a considerable sum.

But there was something even more remarkable than that mystery.

"This is rather impressive."

Rickart spoke while examining the area.

"Huh?"

"There was only one attacker. You can tell from the scabbard marks and footprints."

Rickart ran a hand over a deep, sharp gouge in the carriage.

He had always possessed uncanny powers of observation. Thanks to the experiences of his previous life, he was particularly skilled at examining a scene and deducing the enemy’s capabilities.

It was this ability that had allowed him to gain a tactical advantage during a previous commission, despite being ambushed unexpectedly.

This scene in particular was so clear that he could reconstruct exactly how that single attacker had killed everyone.

It was almost as though the chaotic sounds of the massacre were brushing past his ears—the clash of blades, desperate screams, terror, and anguished cries.

Some had died before taking more than a few steps. Others had been dragged back while trying to flee. Some had had their heads split in half....

The dead bore almost no other wounds. That meant each person had been killed with a single blow. Most of their heads had been split open. The attacker appeared to have used something like a battle-axe rather than a sword.

"Uh... But there are more than ten bodies. And most of them were armed."

"That’s what makes it impressive."

"Then isn’t this area dangerous?"

"Probably not. This looks more like a beast’s hunt. It caught the prey it wanted, so it won’t return."

Rickart looked toward the headless corpse in the distance as he spoke. It seemed that the attacker had not been after money, but that one particular head.

If robbery had been the motive, the attacker likely would not have come alone or left so many valuables behind. Perhaps it had been an act of vengeance.

Of course, Rickart could not know that for certain.

He inspected the interior of the broken, tilted carriage. Inside was the body of an unknown noblewoman. Her clothing had not been removed, and there were no signs that she had been violated.

Unlike the other corpses, however, a dagger had been driven into her chest. She had died from a stab through the heart. Since such a strike had to slip between the ribs, it was not easy to perform cleanly with a single thrust.

It almost seemed as though the attacker had respected her dignity, even while killing her.

Either that, or the manner of her death held some other special meaning.

Who could have done this, and for what reason?

As Rickart considered the question, he felt an inexplicable sense of déjà vu.

In any case, they had a destination to reach and could not linger. Rickart and Boribori searched the carriage and corpses.

They managed to recover a few coins, several pieces of hard bread, and some dried meat.

Could this be considered good fortune?

After wrapping the items in paper and placing them inside their bags, they left the gruesome scene behind and resumed their journey. If they failed to reach their destination before sunset, they would find themselves in serious trouble.

They had departed Beringen in the dim light before dawn, so if they hurried, they could reach the place called Anna’s Loss by early evening. Fortunately, the snow had stopped, allowing them to walk more quickly.

Boribori kept pace better than Rickart had expected. Then again, the boy had once traveled a great distance alone to reach the academy. He might have been somewhat innocent, but he also possessed a surprising tenacity.

Even his supposed lack of strength was relative. As his Mana Drive technique improved, he was gradually becoming extraordinarily strong.

Clad in dark brown and red cloaks, the two boys followed the southwestern road across the snowy plain.

As sunset approached, a blizzard began to rage once more. Fortunately, they managed to reach a large building beside the road.

It was a two-story structure equipped with everything one might expect, including a separate stable, though it currently stood empty. White smoke curled from its chimney.

A conspicuous gouge resembling graffiti had been carved deeply into one wall.

It read: Anna’s Loss.

With his sword resting on one shoulder, Rickart opened the door and entered the tavern. Cozy warmth washed over him, accompanied by a terrible stench.

The tavern was filled with people who looked disreputable at a glance. It was as though every criminal in the Northeast had been gathered beneath one roof.

One man had a cloudy white eye that looked stricken with cataracts. Others had only a few yellow teeth remaining, wild and unkempt beards, missing fingers, filthy faces, and scars everywhere.

Each seemed to express, in his own distinctive fashion, the absolute worst appearance a human being could achieve.

Those inside turned toward Rickart and Boribori when the door opened. Not everyone did, however. Several were already dead drunk and sprawled carelessly across the tavern’s filthy floor.

"Close the door. It’s cold."

Someone spoke. The man’s foul breath seemed to reach Rickart from across the room, making him squeeze his eyes shut.

Still, he had business here. He closed the door and stepped farther into the unpleasant establishment.

The patrons found it curious that such young boys had come to a place like this. But the two were armed, and since no one was permitted to cause trouble here, the patrons paid them little further attention.

The tavern was managed by the Arisen Brotherhood, a thieves’ guild, and served as a kind of neutral territory.

Causing trouble here was equivalent to making an enemy of the thieves’ guild. Even hardened criminals knew better than to shit where they slept. If they wanted to fight, they took it outside.

Rickart walked over to the bar. The bartender, however, seemed far more interested in drinking than serving his customers. He occasionally raised an entire bottle to his lips while flirting with a cheap prostitute.

Rickart placed his golden cloak clasp on the bar.

"Dunkel sent me."

The bartender, who had been ignoring Rickart while he flirted, stared down at the golden clasp.

The delicately crafted item was not something that could easily be forged. Only then did the bartender properly look at Rickart.

His gaze moved several times between the clasp and Rickart’s face. Then he snapped at the prostitute, who had continued chattering without reading the mood.

"Hey, you’re being noisy. Get lost."

"Tch! Asshole."

The prostitute pouted and glared at him, but the bartender ignored her and addressed Rickart.

"What’s this about?"

"The Ernberg Five—"

"Shut your fucking mouth."

The bartender cut Rickart off the instant he began speaking. He put down his bottle, shook his head vigorously, and slapped himself across both cheeks.

Then, as though trying to calm his startled heart, he exhaled several hot breaths.

"Where’s the one who’ll be ’handling the job’?"

The bartender apparently assumed Rickart was merely an errand boy.

"I’m the one handling it."

"...What? Don’t mess with me. Do I look like some fucking idiot?"

"You do look like a fucking loser."

Since the man insisted on speaking crudely, Rickart answered in kind. The bartender bristled, but something in Rickart’s unruffled gaze made him realize the boy was no ordinary child.

Then something suddenly occurred to him.

"Is it you? Ricky the Severer?"

"That’s right."

The bartender once again examined Rickart from head to toe. He had blond hair that did not quite cover his ears and hazel eyes. He wore a winter gambeson and a red cloak, with nothing more than a longsword resting across one shoulder.

His not-yet-fully-grown build bothered the bartender.

"...Even so, this is ridiculous. That bastard Dunkel really... Listen, I’ve heard that you’re an exceptionally gifted swordsman. But this job isn’t for you. Go back."

Rickart blinked. He had not expected things to turn out this way.

Since Dunkel had agreed, he had naturally assumed he would be permitted to carry out the commission. Apparently not.

Had Dunkel sent him here deliberately, knowing this would happen? Had he never intended to let Rickart take the commission in the first place?

There was no way to know without returning and confronting him.

But Rickart had walked all day to reach this place.

Unsure what to do, he turned toward Boribori. The boy merely shrugged. It was not as though he had a solution either.

"I was told that capable adventurers couldn’t do it because their faces are known, and that using a student would be better."

"I understand the reasoning, but no means no. It’s already night, so spend the night quietly and—"

The bartender, who was also a member of the thieves’ guild, could not finish his sentence.

The tavern door flew violently open.

Bang!

Everyone, including Rickart, turned toward it.

A huge man stood in the entrance as the blizzard outside came pouring into the tavern.

Whoooooosh!

The man wore a Nordic helmet with a nasal guard. Black cloth had been attached to the helmet, completely concealing the lower half of his face.

Over his scale armor, he wore something resembling a thick apron. Tough leather gloves covered his hands, and leather belts crossed his waist and chest. A coil of rope hung at his left hip and a one-handed battle-axe at his right.

He also carried a heavy bundle stained with dried blood.

The scale armor extended only to his elbows, leaving part of his forearms exposed. They were as thick as logs and covered in scars.

He breathed with a harsh, rasping sound, as though struggling for air, and slowly surveyed the tavern. Beyond the eyeholes of his helmet, blue eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast.

"It’s cold. Close the door."

Someone spoke.

The newcomer ignored him and strode into the tavern.

He held a badly crumpled sheet of paper. After appearing to compare the image on it to someone in the room, he tossed it aside.

It was a wanted poster.

At that moment, one of the rough-looking men in the tavern, trembling with fear, suddenly shouted.

That was how it began.

"...Fuck!"

Shing! Crunch!

The newcomer immediately drew his axe and swung, splitting the man’s head open in an instant. The victim’s body convulsed with the axe embedded in his skull, then collapsed.

The others recoiled in horror and surged to their feet. The drunks sprawled across the floor were trampled, and more than a few people tripped over them and fell.

Tables and chairs overturned. Gambling pieces, coins, cups, and everything else resting upon them spilled to the floor.

The tavern descended into chaos in an instant.

"You son of a bitch!"

There were plenty of seasoned fighters in the tavern. They drew their weapons and charged at the man.

The man fought like a true wild beast.

Clang! Crack! Whoosh! Crash! Crunch! Clang!

He ignored superficial slashes and allowed his armor to absorb them. His ironlike fists smashed men’s faces apart, while every heavy swing of his axe split a skull. He kicked, stomped, and drove his knees into people without restraint.

Bones were crushed and broken. Limbs were severed. Great chunks of torn flesh landed on the floor with wet slaps.

The battle ended almost as quickly as it had begun.

Blood covered the floor, and twisted corpses lay scattered everywhere.

The man stood in the middle of it all, his shoulders heaving as he rasped for breath.

"Ugh...."

Shing! Thud!

He brought his axe down on the neck of a man who lay moaning on the floor.

Then he grabbed the severed head by the hair and strode toward Rickart. Bloody footprints appeared beneath every step, and blood streamed from the stump of the head in his hand.

The cheap prostitute stood near Rickart. She could do nothing but tremble, unable even to scream. Urine ran down her legs and spread across the floor.

As the man approached, the bartender who had been speaking with Rickart collapsed onto the floor and shook with terror.

Hadn’t they said that causing trouble inside the tavern was equivalent to making an enemy of the thieves’ guild?

The man seemed utterly unconcerned with such an unwritten rule.

Rickart simply stared at him.

The man glanced at Rickart, then immediately looked away as though he were of no interest. As he drew closer, his harsh, rasping breaths grew louder.

He seized a bottle from the bar and poured the liquor liberally over the cuts and scratches covering his forearms.

Then he tossed the bottle onto the floor.

Crash!

The man placed the severed head inside his empty bundle and walked out of the tavern. Most of the patrons had crowded into the corners and watched him leave while trembling.

"N-Nameless... Nameless X...."

The bartender muttered from where he sat on the floor.

Nameless X was a famous bounty hunter—and one of the Nine Swords of the Empire.

What was he doing here?

"It must be cold outside...."

Boribori murmured to himself.

Rickart was certain that this was the man who had attacked the carriage they had seen earlier that day.

There was something about him that strangely overlapped with Rickart’s former self. Perhaps that was why Rickart felt inexplicably drawn toward him, as though pulled by a magnet.

"Let’s follow him."

"Huh?"

"I said, let’s follow him. It doesn’t look like they’re going to give us any information if we stay here anyway."

"But it’s cold outside."

"We don’t have a choice."

"Then let’s go."

"Grab a lantern before you come."

"Okay."

Boribori helped himself to one of the tavern’s lanterns.

The two boys then walked toward the entrance, through which the blizzard was still raging. When they stepped outside, they at least closed the door behind them.

Clunk.

The tavern fell silent once more, though it had already been reduced to a scene of carnage.

No one dared make a sound.

Only the slow dripping of blood from the edge of a table could be heard.

Drip.

Drip.