Chapter 41

Chapter 41: Chapter 41

The Nameless Man walked—toward Lindvale, toward home. Toward the place where he had been born, raised, and loved.

With every step, memories of that horrific day resurfaced. Memories he could not tell whether he wished to forget or could never forget. Memories he had branded into his own flesh so that he would never allow himself to forget.

Trapped inside the burning temple with the other villagers, he had peered outside through a crack. His wife had already been brutally murdered, and his young son was being dragged away in the hands of the fiends.

"Daddy!"

That desperate cry, like the bleating of a lamb.

He had pounded the wall until his fists broke and howled like a beast, yet in the end, his son had died a gruesome death.

As the temple burned, one of its walls collapsed, allowing the Nameless Man to barely escape—but the tragedy had already unfolded.

The burns covering his entire face had hurt so little by comparison that he had not even noticed the pain. Holding his son’s corpse in his arms, he had wept until his voice gave out—until he had forgotten how to speak altogether.

The Nameless Man squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, they burned with vengeance.

Far in the distance, beneath a gloomy gray sky, stood a remote village reduced to ruins. To its north stretched a majestic mountain range crowned with eternal snow.

It had once been more peaceful than anywhere else.

The Nameless Man’s entire body was already battered, and even the equipment he wore had been left in tatters from his battle with the necromancer. It was covered in scratches and gouges left by the undead.

And yet, for some reason, the faces of those two boys kept flickering before his eyes.

The Nameless Man shook his head violently, trying to drive them away.

How many years had he lived by clinging to nothing but the flames of vengeance?

At last, the time had come.

He would kill them, no matter what—and then he would die as well.

Whether steeling his resolve or whipping himself onward, the Nameless Man walked toward the temple, ready to burn away his final flame.

The brick temple had partially collapsed, and everywhere were clear traces of blackened scorch marks.

When he stopped at the doorway, whose doors had long since vanished, he saw three people sitting or standing inside, talking among themselves.

Three members of the Ernberg Five—the Iron Bulwark Hanett, Ghostblade Ghost, and Mad Dog Steiner.

"Who are you? How did you get here?"

Steiner asked the question, but what need was there for an answer?

Instead, the Nameless Man drew a throwing axe.

His body looked as though it might give out at any moment. Most of his equipment was already ruined. There were three opponents, and every one of them was a renowned powerhouse known throughout the Empire.

But what did any of that matter?

For years, he had lived while burning every part of himself in the flames of vengeance. He had lived for this very moment.

How could he possibly retreat now?

It was neither courage nor madness.

It was simply vengeance.

Nothing more.

Whir-whir-whir-whir! Clang!

Whir-whir-whir-whir! Clang!

The Nameless Man hurled throwing axes one after another, but Steiner accurately tracked each incoming weapon and dodged them with casual movements. Then he picked up one of the axes that had fallen to the ground and threw it back.

Whir-whir-whir! Clang!

The Nameless Man lowered his upper body slightly and dodged it, but a voice suddenly came from behind him.

"Where are you looking?"

The Nameless Man hurriedly twisted around, but a searing pain tore through his side.

Steiner shouted urgently.

An instinctive warning told him that Ghost must not approach the Nameless Man recklessly.

"Ghost! Don’t!"

But the Nameless Man was already burning himself alive.

A mere stab to the side could not extinguish those flames.

Pain?

What did that matter?

With the blade still buried in his side, the Nameless Man turned, seized Ghost, and bit into his throat.

A cloth attached to Ghost’s helmet concealed his face, but the Nameless Man bit down so hard that it made no difference. He tore away a whole mouthful of flesh.

"Aaaaargh!"

But he was not finished.

Still wearing his helmet, the Nameless Man pulled his head back and smashed it forward with all his strength.

Crunch!

Ghost’s face was crushed, naturally, but that alone was not what killed him.

His neck snapped.

His face shattered and his neck bent at an unnatural angle, Ghost died instantly.

The Nameless Man pulled the sword from his side, and blood gushed out. Even so, he stood firm without so much as wavering, the flames of vengeance blazing within him.

A sword in one hand.

An axe in the other.

"Y-you..."

Seeing Ghost die such a futile and gruesome death, Hanett’s eyes widened in shock, and he stammered helplessly.

Then he lost all reason and charged at the Nameless Man without even raising his bulwark-like shield. His body was so enormous that the ground boomed beneath each step.

The Nameless Man first retreated outside. He intended to use the narrow entrance to his advantage.

Meanwhile, Steiner hurried over to examine Ghost’s condition.

If there was even a breath of life left in him, Steiner intended to save him somehow, even if it meant using a potion.

But Ghost was already dead.

While Steiner checked on him, Hanett pursued the Nameless Man and swung his enormous fists.

Boom! Thud! Boom!

Whoosh! Thud!

"Rrgh!"

The Nameless Man narrowly dodged, hacking and slashing at Hanett’s forearms, but the man’s body was so massive that the wounds were not fatal.

"You bastard!"

Hanett roared and raised both fists high.

Steiner also drew his sword and prepared to join the fight—only for a young voice to ring out from somewhere.

"Mister!"

"Misteeer!"

Rickart and Boribori were running toward them from a distance.

The Nameless Man’s eyes wavered, and he faltered.

He felt the flames of vengeance beginning to die.

No.

No...

At that moment, Steiner rapidly turned his head, glancing back and forth between the Nameless Man and the two approaching boys.

A vile and cunning thought crossed his mind, and he raced toward them.

Even amid the urgency of the situation, Rickart realized who the man charging at them had to be.

So that was Steiner.

"I’ll handle him. You go to Mister."

Rickart drew his sword, while Boribori veered around Steiner and continued running.

Steiner pulled a longsword from his waist. Crimson light began blazing along its blade.

He was what they called a Swordmaster.

In an instant, Rickart instinctively sensed that if his own sword met that blade, it would be cut clean through.

The two raced toward each other. Without slowing down, they switched positions and exchanged strikes as they passed.

Whoosh! Swish!

Their swords cut through empty air.

It had been only a single exchange, yet Steiner instinctively understood.

This was no ordinary brat.

A chill crawled down his spine.

But Steiner was desperate as well. Ghost was already dead, and if he did not rejoin the fight, even Hanett might be in danger.

So he deliberately ignored the ominous sense of unease.

With his sword of light held before him, Steiner boldly stepped forward.

It was a movement no ordinary swordsman could perform, possible only for a Swordmaster wielding a blade said to cut through anything.

Offense and defense unified as one.

The light-like sword descended diagonally.

In that brief instant, Steiner realized that Rickart’s hands were empty.

He had released his sword.

Something is wrong.

The thought flashed through Steiner’s mind, but it was too late to take the attack back.

At the exact point where the sword reached its greatest speed and carried its greatest force, Rickart caught the flat of the blade between his palms as though snatching a bolt of lightning from the air, then sharply twisted it sideways.

The force Steiner had directed at Rickart was turned completely against him.

At this rate, his wrist would undoubtedly snap.

So Steiner simply released his sword.

It was an extraordinary display of reflexes, but it meant nothing now that his weapon had been taken from him.

Holding the blade after its light had faded, Rickart tossed it upward, caught it cleanly by the hilt, and pointed it at Steiner.

Steiner’s heart sank at the sight.

"...You little bastard. You’re a mage."

Having fallen victim to such an absurd technique—one he had never seen or heard of before—Steiner could reach no other conclusion.

People naturally feared what they could not understand. Now that even his sword had been taken from him, Steiner simply turned and fled alone.

He discarded the comrades who had been like family to him for years without a second thought.

No one knew how a man like him had become a Swordmaster.

He was truly a despicable coward.

No matter how advanced his swordsmanship might have been, Rickart could never lose to a man who had forgotten the very essence of being a swordsman.

Rickart raised the sword high until its blade reached behind his back. Tensing his abdomen, he hurled it with all his strength.

Every movement was flawless.

The sword shot forward in a straight line and pierced Steiner squarely through the back.

Thud!

"Ghk!"

Rickart swiftly retrieved his meteorite-iron sword and gave chase, swinging it at Steiner as the man collapsed to the ground.

Steiner hurriedly turned his head and shouted.

"Wait!"

But Rickart severed his neck without the slightest hesitation.

Whoosh! Thud!

Steiner’s headless corpse collapsed limply to the ground.

It was the death of a man who had once desperately wished for divine punishment, abandoned that wish along the way, and rejected it at the very end.

It was a pathetic end for one of the Nine Swords of the Empire, a man infamous throughout the land.

Had it been carelessness, or simply a difference in skill?

Whatever the case, in a battle to the death, nothing demonstrated victory and defeat more clearly than the living and the dead.

Perhaps Steiner had lost because he had lived despicably and acted despicably to the very end.

Though he could have confronted the Nameless Man himself, he had instead charged at the two boys. Then he had tried to run away alone to save his own skin.

He had lived like a piece of shit, so he died like one.

That was all his life had amounted to.

That was all his death amounted to.

Meanwhile, the Nameless Man found himself cornered when the flames of his vengeance began to waver.

No longer knowing what he was supposed to do, his feet became tangled, and Hanett’s fist struck him in the head.

Crack!

His helmet flew off, revealing a face covered in burn scars.

The impact left the Nameless Man’s mind reeling, and he collapsed to the ground.

Then he heard that young voice once again, and his senses instantly sharpened.

"Dad!"

Dad.

Dad.

Dad...

Until now, Boribori had called him that half in jest, using the word simply as an expression of affection.

But at that moment, he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

Boribori had never received a father’s attention or affection. To him, the Nameless Man truly was no different from a father.

Those loving hands that had quietly cared for him while pretending otherwise.

It did not matter that the man could not speak.

Boribori had felt everything through the touch of those hands.

When Hanett saw Boribori, he thought the boy’s arrival was fortunate.

A cruel idea immediately entered his mind. Abandoning the Nameless Man, he tried to seize the approaching boy instead.

At the sight, something began boiling in the deepest part of the Nameless Man’s heart.

At last, the words he had lost burst from his lips.

"Child! Get back!"

But Boribori drew upon all his mana and thrust out his fist with all his strength.

The giant hand reaching for him was violently knocked aside.

Bam!

Hanett was so startled by the unexpected force that he froze in confusion.

Seizing the opening, the Nameless Man used Ghost’s razor-sharp sword to sever the tendon at the back of Hanett’s heel.

"Aaaaaaargh!"

A fatal opening had appeared, and Boribori was about to join the fight in earnest and finish Hanett off.

But then the Nameless Man abruptly scooped Boribori into his arms and began running without any regard for where he was going.

He threw vengeance and everything else aside, fleeing for the sole purpose of saving Boribori.

There was no need for him to do so.

They could have killed Hanett.

Yet in that moment, the Nameless Man could act in no other way.

No.

He had to do it.

No matter what.

No matter what happened, even if his body were torn apart and burned to ash...

Perhaps it was precisely because the action was meaningless that its meaning became so clear.

Blood poured from his side. Whether it was blood flowing into his throat or his breath failing him, all that emerged from his mouth were ragged, choking gasps.

And yet, even then, he continued to murmur the words that had been buried deeper than his agonizing thirst for vengeance.

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me..."

Boribori felt, with his entire soul, the desperate love of that grief-stricken father.

Tears streamed down his face.

"D-Dad..."

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me..."

The Nameless Man did not use the last flame of his life to take the revenge he had longed for so desperately.

He burned it all to save Boribori instead.

As a result, he did not make it far.

His knees struck the ground, and he collapsed.

Startled, Boribori took off his bag and pulled out a potion with trembling hands.

He hurriedly removed the Nameless Man’s tattered equipment and tried to treat him, but the man’s condition was already horrific.

It was not something a potion could heal.

"I-I forgive you. I’ll forgive you. So please, please don’t die..."

Boribori’s tears would not stop. His throat was so tight that he could barely speak.

His hands trembled continuously as he poured the potion over the wounds.

They would not obey him.

Boribori pressed his lips together and forcibly swallowed back his tears.

Even so, they continued pouring from his eyes uncontrollably.

The Nameless Man lay there watching him.

In his final moment, he reached out and wiped away Boribori’s tears.

Then, with a gentle smile, he spoke.

"Do not cry, child..."

He released one long breath.

His arm fell limp.

His unfocused blue eyes stared beyond the gloomy sky.

Rickart had already finished off Hanett and come running over. Holding his bloodstained sword, he watched everything in silence, his eyes trembling.

Even though the Nameless Man was unmistakably dead, Boribori did not stop treating him.

He kept calling out, "Dad, Dad," over and over again.

His jaw shook so violently from sobbing that he could not properly chew the herbs, so he used his hands to force his mouth closed and make himself chew.

His heart felt as though it were being torn apart by uncontrollable sorrow and unbearable pain.

When Rickart closed his own eyes, his eyelids trembled.

Tears wet his eyelashes and rolled down his face, as though the bitterness he had once harbored toward the world were melting away.

Rickart thought:

He must have been saved.

He had to have been.

And I am certain that he was...

The cruel shackles of fate placed upon mankind dictated that those wounded by other human beings could only be saved by human beings as well.

Every tragedy and every comedy began with humanity and ended with humanity.

Therefore, humans were the saddest beasts of all—creatures trapped in the snare called fate.

Yet in his final moments, the Nameless Man had cast aside the vengeance that had consumed him for so long, transcending fate itself.

In doing so, he became a father to Boribori and a teacher in life to Rickart.

He became the person those two boys had desperately needed.

He had been a truly noble and magnificent human being.

The wind was cold.

But the winter they had so desperately wished would end was almost over.

Chapter 8: The Ballad of the Nameless Beast — End

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