Chapter 44

Chapter 44: Chapter 44

The world was not filled solely with beautiful and fragrant things.

There were far more things that were filthy and hideous.

Then what if the world had contained nothing but beauty?

Humans probably would have found it unbearably dull.

In the end, they would have destroyed paradise with their own hands. Such was the wretched nature of the human animal.

Or perhaps that was precisely what made them human.

Half by choice and half through circumstances beyond her control, Marie had left the safety and protection of her former environment and entered a filthy, ugly world.

She had not set out with the naïve, dream-filled mindset of an immature girl. She had heard enough to understand that the world was dangerous and brutal.

But vaguely imagining something and experiencing it firsthand were as different as heaven and earth.

Some things proved less serious than she had feared.

Others, which she had considered insignificant, turned out to be far more dangerous and difficult than expected.

The helplessness of not knowing where to go.

Dangerous people whose intentions were impossible to discern.

Hunger.

Cold.

And death.

It was a world where death was never far away once one stepped beyond the front gate.

Naturally, she was afraid and wanted to avoid it.

But was it right to live while denying death’s existence?

Or did one have to accept it?

Then she had met two boys.

Rickart and Boribori.

When they spoke normally, they seemed like ordinary children her age. Yet in countless ways, beginning with the smallest details, they were profoundly different from her.

They kept track of the time, judged the weather, prepared the necessary supplies, and—most importantly—knew where they needed to go.

They chose their path and continued walking.

The boys possessed something Marie did not.

It was the distinctive composure and strength found only in those who had matured, along with the presence those qualities naturally exuded.

There was also the matter of how they behaved when confronted with danger.

"Y-you bastard!"

"Kill him!"

The thugs shouted.

Instead of retreating, Rickart hurled himself directly at them.

The grown men swarmed the lone boy, but the space was cramped.

Rickart lowered his stance, sliced through one man’s side, and darted into the narrow gap he had created.

He slipped past the thugs and, despite wearing armor, sprang lightly onto a table.

Then he bent his knees until he was practically crouching atop it and spun around as swiftly as a top.

Whoosh!

The instant the thugs turned toward Rickart, something pale flashed before their eyes with a sharp sound that sliced through the air.

The keen arc of his sword cut through the eyes, noses, cheeks, and throats of several men.

One man’s gums were severed, sending his teeth clattering to the floor.

"Aaaaaaargh!"

The screams of startled onlookers mingled with those of the men struck by the blade.

Several of the thugs lunged at Rickart atop the table.

But Rickart lightly leaped once more and descended from it, rapidly whipping his sword left and right while still in midair.

Two heads dropped to the floor.

Everyone watching except Boribori stared with their eyes opened as wide as possible.

They could not tell whether they felt terror or awe.

In the midst of it all, Rickart kicked the headless bodies into the path of those charging recklessly at him.

The corpses blocked them.

The men hurriedly shoved them aside and tried to attack Rickart—but he was no longer there.

From that point onward, they could not even tell where he was.

They heard only the sound of a sword cutting through the air.

Each time it rang out, someone sprayed blood and died.

Some staggered before collapsing.

Others died instantly.

What is happening?

Am I trapped in a nightmare?

Those were the thoughts running through the thugs’ minds.

Rickart was different from when he had last departed the tavern called Anna’s Loss.

Had he grown stronger?

No, it would be more accurate to say that his style had changed.

Once someone reached a certain level, techniques could no longer be judged simply as good or bad.

What mattered was the difference in style.

Without even realizing it, Rickart had come to resemble the Nameless Man.

But he was not merely imitating him.

He had made the Nameless Man’s style his own.

Rickart’s swordsmanship had once been characterized by his ability to seize the perfect moment and execute clean, precise lines.

Now he seemed less concerned with such things. He fought more freely, following his instincts with a somewhat rougher edge.

And there was no question that his body had grown slightly over the past few months, along with his physical strength.

He was gradually approaching the abilities he had possessed in his prime.

Meanwhile, Marie watched everything as though bewitched.

She barely noticed the thugs dying.

All she could see was Rickart.

He was like an artist painting with blood.

A master’s painting, its lines exceedingly rough.

It was shockingly beautiful.

She had never witnessed such skill before.

She had never even imagined it.

Thud! Crash!

The final thug collapsed across a table like laundry draped over a clothesline. Then both the man and the table crashed to the floor.

It had taken Rickart almost no time at all to dispatch six or seven thugs.

Not a single table or chair remained properly upright.

The entire tavern had become a sea of blood, and the thick, cloying smell was enough to make one dizzy.

The remaining patrons had crowded into a corner, trembling in fear.

Just as they had when the Nameless Man had come there.

Rickart swung his sword through the air, flinging off most of the blood.

Droplets splattered across the ceiling and walls.

Avoiding the overturned furniture and pools of blood, he approached Boribori and Marie.

Boribori held out a brown-stained towel.

It had been washed and reused many times, and the brown stains were old traces of blood.

Rickart wiped the sword clean, slid it into its scabbard, and returned it to its owner.

Then he looked at Marie.

"I fought as carefully as I could so your armor wouldn’t get scratched. But some blood splashed onto the surcoat."

Rickart pointed to the purple surcoat worn over the armor.

"...Huh?"

"I’m asking if that’s all right."

"Oh... Yes..."

"Looks like we won’t be staying here after all," Boribori said, surveying the devastated tavern.

When they turned toward the bartender, they saw that although he had done nothing but stand there, he was breathing heavily.

He was also trembling like a leaf.

When Rickart approached, the strength left the bartender’s legs, and he sank to the floor.

The man merely opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak.

Rickart addressed him.

"This wasn’t our fault. You know that, right?"

The bartender nodded frantically.

Leaving him behind, Rickart and Boribori walked out of the tavern.

The innocence they had displayed during their previous visit was nowhere to be found.

They had experienced many incidents like this over the winter.

More importantly, they now possessed the ability to deal with the consequences of their own actions.

"What are you doing? Come on, Marie."

"Oh—right."

Marie’s mind was still somewhat dazed, but she managed to collect herself and follow Rickart and Boribori.

Once they left the tavern, its warmth vanished, and cold air once again wrapped around their faces.

In return, they were freed from the foul odor and stench of blood, leaving their heads feeling clearer.

Ultimately, the three had no choice but to sleep outdoors.

Would they rather sleep while breathing in the smell of blood, or endure the cold?

From experience, Rickart and Boribori considered the latter preferable.

They found a suitable location and built a campfire.

Rickart removed the armor again.

Even without anyone’s assistance, he took it off with remarkable ease, as though he had spent many years handling combat equipment.

"You should be able to wear it again by tomorrow," Rickart told Marie.

"Okay..."

"By the way, you weren’t as shocked as I expected," Boribori said to her.

"Huh?"

"Most people freeze the first time they see someone die. Have you seen it before?"

"Oh, well... I’ve witnessed executions fairly often. Beheadings, hangings, burnings, drownings, dismemberments... What happened just now was better than those. I think. Anyway..."

There were many forms of execution.

Because this was an age in which honor carried tremendous importance, even condemned criminals were executed through different methods.

The manner of execution varied according to the crime and the criminal’s social standing.

When the condemned person was a noble, they were generally beheaded.

Even then, there was a distinction between being executed with a sword and being executed with an axe.

Beheading by axe was considered dishonorable.

Witches and mages were not always burned at the stake, but that was their sentence in many cases.

The flames were meant to consume even their souls, preventing them from casting curses after death.

In rural territories, the lord sometimes carried out beheadings personally, while cities often employed professional executioners.

In many cases, executions were performed publicly. Since entertainment was scarce, a public execution also served as a popular spectacle.

One of the most gruesome methods involved taking the condemned up a ladder, binding them at a great height, and having a professional torturer slowly flay them over several days.

The longer the torturer kept the victim alive, the more he was paid.

"That makes sense."

Boribori immediately understood.

Although he was innocent in his own way, the brutality of the era had given him a certain immunity to cruelty.

"By the way, how highly ranked are you, Ricky? Are all the academy students as strong as you?"

"He’s number one."

Boribori answered in Rickart’s place while Rickart roasted potatoes and sweet potatoes over the fire.

Marie became visibly flustered.

"Huh? Oh..."

"Why? Did his skills seem too poor for the top-ranked student?"

"What? N-no. No, no—that isn’t it."

Rickart and Boribori could not understand why she was so flustered, but they did not pay it much attention.

"Marie, have you ever killed anyone?" Rickart asked.

His gaze remained fixed on the potato roasting in the campfire. The flames gave his hazel eyes a reddish glow.

"No. Not yet."

"Then you should prepare yourself."

"I’ve already resolved myself."

"For what?"

"Not to hesitate."

For some reason, Rickart and Boribori began snickering.

Marie merely blinked, unable to understand what they found so amusing.

"Not that sort of resolve. I mean cutting people down and killing them. It’s strangely addictive, you know? Don’t lose yourself in it."

It was a shocking and chilling statement, unlike anything even her swordsmanship instructor had ever told her.

Marie was left speechless.

What sort of children were they?

Boribori rolled a hot potato between his palms to cool it. Since the weather was still cold, the warmth felt unexpectedly pleasant.

"Ricky and I talked about why bad people become bad. Most of them are like that. They develop a taste for killing people. Then they start enjoying how everyone looks at them in fear. They become intoxicated by it, do increasingly horrible things, and eventually reach a point where they can’t turn back. They forget what kind of person they originally were."

"That’s why I told you that principles are important."

Rickart broke a sweet potato in half and held one piece out to her.

A delicious aroma spread from its golden flesh.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed, Marie could not think of anything to say.

She simply accepted the half and ate it little by little, blowing on it to cool it first.

"Training hard and becoming stronger are only parts of the process. They can’t be the purpose themselves. I think making good friends and overcoming hardships together are more important."

"Right, right."

Rickart spoke, and Boribori enthusiastically agreed.

But perhaps they could only say such things because they were already as strong as they were.

This was a world where the weak could accomplish nothing at all.

Still, that could not be helped.

Whether their starting points had been different or they simply stood upon higher ground, the two boys viewed the world from an entirely different perspective than ordinary people.

There were the paths they had followed, the experiences they had survived, and the ways they had grown.

So much had happened over the past year.

And they still had another year ahead of them.

The three departed for Beringen early in the morning.

The journey normally took about a day at an ordinary walking pace, so they hurried somewhat.

However, the return journey was more difficult than when the boys had first departed.

The melting snow had turned the road into mud.

Their feet sank as deep as their ankles, so they walked through the grassy fields instead. The roots held the earth firmly together, making the footing somewhat better.

Marie wore her armor again and seemed to struggle beneath its weight.

Despite the cold weather, sweat poured from her like rain.

Still, she appeared to have trained in mana to some extent, because even while exhausted, she managed to keep pace reasonably well.

Rickart and Boribori did not accommodate her more than necessary.

They neither carried her on their backs nor offered to carry her helmet or sword.

They merely gauged the time by looking at the sun, walked ahead, and waited whenever she fell behind.

"S-sorry."

"You don’t need to apologize. We’re not tired."

"...Huh?"

The two boys clearly did not think like ordinary people.

In any event, by walking diligently and taking brief rests, they managed to reach Beringen around evening.

By then, Rickart and Boribori felt as though they had returned home.

In an unfamiliar place, one’s nerves remained unconsciously tense.

That was immensely exhausting in its own way.

The two boys entered the guild headquarters at the foot of the hill first.

Dunkel was there, resting his chin on one hand with his elbow propped against the bar.

The instant he saw Rickart, his eyes widened like saucers.

Then he sucked in a sharp breath as though he had seen a ghost.

"Gasp!"

"What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen someone come back from the dead."

"...N-no."

Ignoring Dunkel’s reaction, Rickart reached into Boribori’s bag and placed Erze’s ears, Reto’s crystal ball and magic wand, and his grotesque nose on the bar.

"We completed the commission. Are the children doing well?"

Dunkel looked at the objects on the counter.

His already wide eyes opened even farther, and he appeared on the verge of fainting.

"You didn’t assume we’d fail and stop sending food, did you? Because that wouldn’t be amusing."

Rickart spoke politely, but his tone was unmistakably threatening.

Dunkel remained dazed for a while, apparently unable to collect his thoughts, before hurriedly shaking his head.

"The ch-children—the children never went hungry. I swear. You sent plenty of money along the way."

"Really? That’s a relief."

"N-no, that isn’t the point. Did you really...?"

"We had someone helping us. Both Bori and I learned a great deal from him."

Rickart spoke calmly.

But regardless of the boy’s composure, what he had accomplished was truly difficult to believe.

"Has anything happened at the academy? Other than the food problem."

"...Well, the thing is..."

Dunkel appeared to need a moment to gather his thoughts.

He rolled his eyes as he considered his answer, swallowed once, and spoke.

"I think you’ll need to restore some discipline. A few rather uncontrollable students enrolled recently. If there’s any problem, that would be it. But it isn’t anything too serious. Anyway, welcome back. Honestly, I never expected you to return."

Rickart merely smiled faintly.

"Please prepare some hot water. I’m exhausted. It feels like I’ve returned home."

"Of course. Rest for now, and we can talk about everything else later. You’ve been through a lot. We’ll discuss your compensation in detail tomorrow."

The commission had involved killing two members of the Ernberg Five.

It was not something that could be settled simply by handing over a few coins.

Furthermore, it was not only those two who had died.

Every member of the Ernberg Five was dead, and two of the Nine Swords of the Empire had perished at once.

Rickart did not know what kind of repercussions the incident might create.

He did not know how the guild would have to respond or whether other powerful figures throughout the world would take an interest.

In any case, what Rickart and Boribori needed now was rest.

No—the number of people who needed rest was three.

"Oh, right. Please prepare enough bathwater for three. We have a companion. She’s also an academy student. We met her on the way here."

Rickart pointed at Marie with his thumb.

She remained wrapped in Rickart’s red cloak with the hood pulled low, hiding most of her face.

It was hardly a difficult request, so Dunkel nodded.

He caught a glimpse of the purple surcoat beneath her cloak, but he was too astonished by everything else to pay it any attention.

Rickart unloaded his belongings in his room, removed his clothes, and lowered himself into a warm bath.

A wave of exhaustion washed over him so intensely that he nearly lost consciousness.

Boribori felt the same.

So did Marie, who was unaccustomed to traveling.

After all, they had spent two consecutive nights outdoors.

People who endured hardship together naturally grew closer.

It was because they developed a sense of kinship.

Having that sense of kinship meant the range of things they could understand about one another had broadened.

As that bond continued to grow, they would eventually become precious to one another.

Thus, winter passed, and spring slowly approached.

A new relationship had begun to sprout as well, like the first shoots of spring.

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