Chapter 50

Chapter 50: Chapter 50

One shouldn’t judge people solely by their appearance, but sometimes it was impossible to think of anything else.

Reinhardt, the leader of the Widowmakers Clan, looked like a bandit to anyone who saw him. He spoke and behaved like one too.

"Hey! We might be alive today and dead tomorrow, so just drink!"

The enormous, heavily bearded man spoke in a gravelly voice while sprawled across the floor inside the defensive tower. He appeared to be two meters tall, and the belly bulging through his clothes resembled a small hill.

The man-sized wooden club propped against the wall was particularly striking. Judging by its weight, it was questionable whether it could even be used as a weapon.

Nevertheless, dried blood, flesh, and hair were caked all over it.

"No, I don’t need a drink! I’m telling you, there are about a hundred enemies gathered down there!"

Volka shouted in frustration.

"We already know that, you bastard! So what? You want us to abandon this place and run? My orders were to defend it. Whether a hundred men come or a thousand, we defend it. What the hell do I care?"

With that, Reinhardt raised the entire bowl to his lips and gulped down the alcohol. He drained the enormous amount in one go, then unleashed a tremendous belch. It was strong enough to stir a breeze.

"Buuuuuurp! Grrrk. Hic."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake!"

Delphy grimaced and turned her head away. Rickart, Boribori, Marie, and Volka did the same.

They repeatedly fanned the air with their hands, but it did little good. The foul stench rising from the depths of Reinhardt’s stomach was overpowering.

Volka cursed under his breath.

Or rather, the curse that should have remained under his breath escaped his lips.

"Damn it."

Reinhardt paid him no mind. He grinned with a mouth so large it looked capable of swallowing a person whole. He seemed pleased to see the youngsters suffering because of his belch.

"Heh heh heh. You adorable little things can leave if you want. I won’t force you to stay. But unless we receive new orders, my brothers and I will die here."

Was it responsibility? Loyalty? Not even a noble knight would go this far. Anyone could see that retreat was the correct choice in the face of certain defeat.

However, the reason Reinhardt remained so stubborn was probably just as Delphy had described.

He was simply stupid.

Reinhardt didn’t consider anything else. Orders had come down from above. He had agreed to carry them out. Therefore, he would carry them out.

That was all.

Unlike Volka, Rickart looked at Reinhardt and thought the guild’s command had chosen the perfect person for this assignment.

Every military commander had a distinct disposition and personality. Some commanders were best suited for offense, while others were better suited for defense.

Of course, some were skilled at both, but regardless of their competence, such differences truly existed.

Commanders particularly adept at holding strategic positions tended to possess exceptional stubbornness, unusual tenacity, or unwavering resolve.

The Beringen Guild’s command seemed to have considered precisely that when placing Reinhardt here.

However, this was not a conventional war fought with armies. It was similar in some respects, yet clearly different in others.

Then Reinhardt noticed Rickart standing beside Volka, and his eyes gleamed.

"Hey, Red Cloak. Are you the genius swordsman who killed the Mad Dog?"

"Yes."

Rickart nodded in confirmation.

Volka, Delphy, and Marie hadn’t known about it. They turned toward Rickart and blinked in confusion.

Who was the Mad Dog?

Surely he didn’t mean that member of the Nine Swords of the Empire?

The fact that Rickart and Boribori had helped the Nameless Man eliminate the Five of Ernberg had initially been top secret, so the rumor hadn’t spread very far.

However, clan master–level figures and others in positions to know had all heard about it. Ironically, Volka and Delphy, who were close to Rickart, had remained unaware.

Reinhardt was not a clan master who commanded several clans, but he held comparable standing within the guild, so he had heard about it in passing.

"He wasn’t someone you could kill through sheer luck. Even with the Nameless Man helping you, it couldn’t have been easy. I know that much. I saw that terrifying rabid bastard myself once."

With the alcohol pleasantly clouding his mind, Reinhardt naturally recalled the powerful memory.

Steiner had stood with a burning village behind him, holding a sword glowing crimson. His eyes had glittered with madness like those of a rabid dog, and Reinhardt had felt his knees weaken at the thought that Steiner might charge at any moment.

They had merely encountered each other while Reinhardt was traveling on a commission. He had considered himself extraordinarily fortunate that they had not met as enemies.

A Sword Master was someone who had transcended the limits of humanity. From that day onward, Reinhardt had believed it impossible for a human to kill one.

Yet Steiner had died.

He had died at the hands of a young genius swordsman.

Of course, it had only been possible because Rickart had possessed a powerful ally in the Nameless Man. Even so, the feat remained impressive. Reinhardt certainly couldn’t have done such a thing at that age.

"To catch a tiger, you need the courage to enter its den. Whatever the circumstances, you accomplished something extraordinary. But remember this: fame is a double-edged sword. It may seem like a rope that’ll pull you toward success, but it’s actually hanging over the edge of a cliff. You could fall at any moment. And more people will come after you, hoping to kill you and steal that fame."

After hearing Reinhardt’s words, Rickart realized the man wasn’t entirely ignorant. He smiled faintly and replied.

"I didn’t kill him to get ahead. I merely put down a rabid dog. And I’m already accustomed to people coming after me for fame."

Ten years as a shepherd, ten years on the battlefield, and ten years as an infamous murderer.

In his previous life, Rickart had spent ten years killing those who challenged him in pursuit of fame.

He had faced every kind of person, experienced every sort of scheme, and survived every manner of crisis.

"Have you lived two lives or something? You’re not cute at all for a kid."

Reinhardt stared at him as though wondering what kind of child he was dealing with.

Rickart merely laughed at the man’s unexpectedly perceptive remark.

Then he left the defensive tower. The sun was just beginning to set outside.

"The Mad Dog he mentioned wasn’t Steiner, the Mad Dog of the Nine Swords of the Empire, was it?"

Still bewildered, Volka hurried over and asked him.

"Ask Bori."

Rickart answered as though it were nothing important, then began by examining the area around the defensive tower.

The cylindrical tower was built of brick, but its upper portion had collapsed, leaving large stones scattered around it. Vegetation that had grown over many years covered the piles of rubble, seemingly illustrating the transience of time.

In other words, the tower had lost its defensive function and was now useful only as temporary shelter.

Members of the Widowmakers Clan lived in tents around the tower. There were only around fifteen of them. Together with Rickart’s Viola Clan, they numbered roughly twenty.

Rickart walked to the southern side of the defensive tower to inspect it. A sheer rock face dropped away below, making it appear impossible for the enemy to approach from that direction.

A stream ran from east to west beneath the rocky cliff, with a road beside it. Farther west, the road split into northern and southern routes.

That road was extremely important to the enemy. They needed to travel along it to reach the Siegfringer region in the central north of the Empire.

A short walk west of the defensive tower brought one to a suspension bridge stretching across to the opposite mountain. Its old ropes still appeared sturdy, but half the wooden planks were rotten and looked unsafe.

That meant the enemy could only attack through the gently sloping terrain to the north and east. Even there, the approaches narrowed near the tower.

The position could be defended, but if a large force surrounded the entrance, those inside would be perfectly situated to starve to death.

Rickart reached a conclusion.

The tower itself had become practically useless, but its location unquestionably remained a strategic point. The surrounding terrain was clearly visible, and they even had an escape route of sorts.

"What are you going to do?"

Marie, who had been following close behind Rickart, asked him.

"Hmm?"

"Like Mr. Volka said, staying here doesn’t seem like a very good idea."

"What do you mean, ’Mr. Volka’? Just call me Volka."

"Fine. So what are you going to do?"

"It looks defensible to me. Even if it weren’t, I don’t think we should simply hand this place over. If we surrender everything whenever the enemy comes swarming in, what will we have left? We need to inflict at least some damage. What do you think, Marie?"

"How about requesting reinforcements?"

Rickart shook his head. The guild was probably committing almost all its manpower merely to securing the newly acquired territory.

Things there were likely just as difficult as they were here, if not worse.

That did not mean Volka’s reaction or Marie’s suggestion was wrong. Both were perfectly understandable and reasonable.

"Ricky, aren’t you afraid of dying? Or are you that confident in your abilities?"

"I don’t know. I’m not sure myself. What do you think?"

"I don’t think it’s simply because you’re brave."

Rickart didn’t answer and merely smiled faintly. In truth, even he didn’t fully understand that part of himself.

Looking back on Rickart’s actions thus far, he had risked himself so freely that it bordered on recklessness. Yet even he felt it wasn’t simply because he was extraordinarily brave.

Rickart resumed walking and went to inspect the enemies positioned below the eastern highlands. From here, a hundred people didn’t look like that many, but it was unquestionably a large force.

To Rickart, however, they looked disorganized, as though they had merely gathered a large number of people in one place. They hadn’t dug trenches, driven stakes into the ground, or constructed any kind of defensive position.

It appeared that groups operating independently by clan had merely gathered until they numbered a hundred.

Most importantly, they had no separate supply unit. There was no system or organization for procuring food. They depended entirely on whatever each person had brought, so their provisions would likely run out quickly.

Their complacent belief that everything would somehow work out if they gathered enough people was painfully obvious. They resembled a horde of beggars living in tents, though their actual appearance wasn’t quite that shabby.

Perhaps they didn’t even have a commander.

Otherwise, they wouldn’t have remained gathered below, wasting time. They could have spread out and surrounded the tower instead.

Of course, even if they had a commander, it would mean nothing if they refused to obey orders. Adventurers possessed strong individual personalities and were difficult to handle like ordinary soldiers.

Their individual combat abilities were excellent but wildly inconsistent, making it difficult for them to wield their strength collectively.

As the sunset deepened, several groups separated from the mass of enemies and began walking up toward the defensive tower.

Judging by the weapons they carried, they appeared to be coming to fight. But if that was their intention, why approach separately instead of attacking together?

The answer soon became clear.

A man with a longsword at his waist came halfway up the slope by himself and shouted toward them.

"Hey! Red Cloak! Red-Cloaked Ricky! Come out! Let’s see who’s stronger!"

This was precisely what distinguished a guild war from a conventional war.

Individual ambitions mattered more than the collective objective.

They wanted fame.

Rickart stared silently at the man who had stepped forward. Then, holding his sword in one hand, he began walking steadily down the slope.

"R-Ricky."

"Ricky!"

Marie called after him in alarm. Volka, who had been talking with Boribori, also shouted in surprise.

There was no reason for Rickart to accept this fight.

But Rickart didn’t even look back. He continued descending the gentle slope covered in short grass. The scattered rocks jutting from the ground had turned red beneath the sunset.

Holding his sword in his left hand, Rickart calmly walked down and stopped a short distance from his opponent. Rickart stood on slightly higher ground.

"I am Eberstein, Second Sword of the Three Swords Clan."

Rickart had never heard of the clan before. It might have been famous elsewhere, but this was the first time he had encountered its name.

Eberstein’s beard covered his lower face. He studied Rickart intently before continuing.

"You’re even younger than I expected, Red Cloak. I bear you no personal grudge."

Without saying anything further, Eberstein drew his sword. He adopted a stable stance and pointed the tip of his blade at Rickart. Judging by his eyes, there was no room for carelessness.

In truth, Rickart had ended most of his fights with a single stroke by taking advantage of his opponent’s complacency.

The Bilton brothers had approached him defenselessly. Other powerful opponents had underestimated his youth and attacked him rashly.

Rickart’s ability to seize upon that single instant of carelessness without missing the opportunity was one reason he had continued winning.

But now that his reputation had spread widely, no one lowered their guard around him. They no longer underestimated him because of his age.

Regardless of his mastery of the sword, increasingly difficult battles awaited him.

Yet even if Rickart had won by exploiting his opponents’ complacency, that was not the full extent of his ability.

Nor did he depend solely upon it.

The Beringen Guild’s members stood scattered across the highland field, looking down from above, while the enemies watched from below.

Not only Rickart’s friends but even Reinhardt had stopped drinking and come outside to watch. Everyone’s attention was focused on Rickart and his opponent.

Every renowned person in the world had to prove that their ability was worthy of their reputation.

The closer a swordsman came to becoming the strongest—or even if he had already achieved it and now gazed beyond—he was destined to continue proving himself until the day he died.

Without introducing himself or saying a word, Rickart drew his sword.

He had no interest in proving himself.

Even so, proof was not given through words.

His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, and the setting sun stained his blade red.

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