Chapter 98

Chapter 98: Chapter 98

The Order of Judgment no longer existed.

There might still be believers somewhere in the Empire, clinging to their faith like wandering ghosts, but at the very least, the sanctuary was gone.

What happened inside the sanctuary that day never became widely known. Only a handful of people survived, and none of them spoke much about what had occurred.

What was known for certain was that Count Palatine Hellauman Kelbron, commander-in-chief of the subjugation force, had been killed in action. His corpse was so gruesomely mutilated that recovering it proved difficult.

Perhaps he deserved to be commemorated, but the circumstances did not allow it. The matter was handled quietly within his family.

Fifth Prince Bellator launched an extensive propaganda campaign, proclaiming that he had avenged the late Emperor and acting as though he had thereby secured his legitimacy as the next emperor.

It was less effective than he had anticipated.

Kings, dukes, margraves, and other great lords were not the sort of people to be easily swayed by symbolism.

They moved only when offered tangible, guaranteed benefits—or when faced with a power capable of inflicting serious losses upon them.

Besides, each of them was already preoccupied with keeping his own vassals under control.

Second Prince Lotharius was still alive.

He stood first in the line of succession.

Because the eldest son had died young and the Emperor’s grandson was supposed to become Crown Prince, Lotharius had been regarded as a threat and sent away from the Imperial Capital early in life to become a count.

Consequently, he had no political foundation within the Imperial Capital. Having lived in seclusion, he was hardly sociable, and the extent of his support among the vassals was unclear.

Little was known about the sort of person he was.

In short, he possessed very little beyond his lawful claim.

The Fifth Prince, by contrast, was second in the line of succession but commanded a definite political force within the Imperial Capital. Support for him among the vassals was no clearer than it was for Lotharius, but at least he actively sought it.

The emperor was elected by princes who possessed the right to vote.

Until now, barring exceptional circumstances, emperors had custoMarie ly been elected from House Nibelinger, the family of the founding emperor. In truth, however, any titled noble possessed the right to stand for election.

In other words, for a new emperor to be chosen, the prince-electors had to gather and hold an election.

But there was currently no Crown Prince, and the Second and Fifth Princes were locked in opposition. No one knew which of them would be elected.

Simply put, one of the two princes had to die.

Even if neither personally desired power, such was the fate of those born as sons of an emperor.

Outlaws still ran rampant throughout the Empire.

Some places remained utterly peaceful, while others witnessed atrocities every day.

The rebellion in the Kingdom of Adelorn had not been easily suppressed, and the war was becoming increasingly prolonged.

That was the nature of the world.

From a historical perspective, none of it was particularly unusual. It was merely another common period of turmoil, the sort that returned whenever people had nearly forgotten the last one.

But to those living through it, it was a tragedy.

A strange stability—neither quite peace nor outright chaos—continued for several years. The imperial throne could not remain vacant forever, but for the time being, that was how matters stood.

Meanwhile, Rickart and his friends went their separate ways after the operation against the Order.

It was not that they had grown apart emotionally. The paths they wished to follow had simply diverged.

Perhaps it was nothing unusual for friends’ paths to separate as they grew older.

Was that not how everyone lived?

Volka acquired an unclaimed territory somewhere in the east from the Imperial Family at a low price.

It was a region granted autonomy, much like the domain of a knightly order or a monastery.

Perhaps it could be called a clan domain.

In any event, the Imperial Family gave him nothing besides the land itself. Defending it and taming its rugged terrain were entirely Volka’s responsibility.

Several people continued following Volka to the very end.

Boribori went with him as well.

Boribori was finally able to shed the tiresome nickname "Five-Way Dismemberment." People now called him the "Calligraphy Sword."

As an undisputed Sword Master, he became known as the guardian of the Viola Clan and a master of the sword.

Drawing upon the connections he had made in Ernberg, Volka borrowed and purchased whatever he needed and laboriously began anew.

The work was difficult, dangerous, and demanding, but it was rewarding.

He no longer belonged to a guild. Everything there was entirely his own.

No—it belonged to all of them.

A new life was also born to Volka and Delphy.

Unlike those who had once abandoned them, they loved and blessed the new generation.

Although Ice remained the monastery’s only warrior monk for the time being, he taught the children swordsmanship.

Ice became known as the "Sword of Purity," or the "White Sword." It was said that he and Boribori, the Calligraphy Sword, stood as equal rivals.

"Praise God, and be courageous before love."

That was the monastic order’s motto, and its members considered it their duty to protect the weak—especially children.

They also struggled to make ends meet because of insufficient funds, but every day was worthwhile.

Watching the children’s innocent smiles and seeing them grow with each passing year filled their hearts.

Those who had once been abandoned had all created—or were still creating—families and faith in their own ways.

And Rickart...

Ice purchased a long-abandoned monastery with Daisy, the Sisters of Prophecy, and the surviving children, and together they established an orphanage.

It was named the Michela Order of the Sword. Rather than being merely a place where people worshipped God, it was a kind of armed monastery.

Silence was the language of God, so there was no need to announce the changing of the seasons with words.

The melting snow, the sprouting shoots, the animals awakening from hibernation, and the warm sunlight were more than enough to make it known.

God showed humanity everything.

Humans simply refused to see.

But some people could not afford the leisure to look around and appreciate the freshness of spring.

Life was simply too harsh and exhausting.

That was particularly true for those who had been practically driven from their homes by tyrannical lords, corrupt priests, and outlaws.

Unless they had relatives elsewhere, settling in a foreign land was not easy. It was an age especially hostile toward outsiders.

Yet one particular rumor began circulating among those who had nowhere to go and were rejected wherever they went.

The Eastern Frontier.

According to the rumor, those who went there would receive free land. There were no tyrannical lords, and it was a place where every person could find salvation through their own faith.

More and more people began making the journey based solely on that story.

A particular gathering place consequently formed for such people, and there were even guides who offered to lead them to the Eastern Frontier.

It was difficult to determine whether those guides were legitimate or swindlers.

Even if they were swindlers, their victims had no means of seeking justice and nowhere to voice their grievances.

Near the boundary between the central and southern regions of the Empire stood a settlement that was neither a village nor a city. It had simply formed as more and more people gathered there.

It had no name.

People merely called it the Crossroads.

There were several shabby buildings and a spacious stable, but most people lived in makeshift huts or tents.

A cemetery lay nearby, and undertaking appeared to be the most profitable occupation in the settlement.

The sick gathered around the cemetery and waited to die.

One day, a family arrived there.

There was a broad, heavily bearded father; a mother who appeared considerably younger than her husband; an elder daughter; and a younger son who looked seven or eight years old.

They were a family of four.

They clearly had a story behind them, but that was nothing unusual here.

Stories tragic enough to bring tears to one’s eyes were as common as the rubbish littering the roadside.

The father carried a logging axe with its blade wrapped in cloth.

A large bundle of household belongings was strapped to his back. His wife and young daughter also carried bundles of their own. Only the youngest son carried nothing.

The man surveyed the miserable, barren settlement before heading toward a building called the Lilylily.

It looked like a decrepit inn, but despite not being a government office, it performed the work of one.

It recruited people wishing to travel to the Eastern Frontier and sent them on their way once a sufficiently large group had gathered.

As soon as the family entered, a revolting stench of unwashed bodies struck them.

The people inside were nothing but thugs, criminals, and prostitutes.

The father walked directly to the bartender.

"I want to go to the Eastern Frontier."

The bartender was wiping a wooden cup with a filthy rag. He glanced up at the man, then continued cleaning the cup as though dismissing him.

"Name."

"Hartmann."

"Were you a member of the Order of Judgment?"

"No."

"A criminal?"

"Yes."

"What crime did you commit?"

"I killed a priest."

"...So you’re an outlaw."

"No."

The bartender set the cup down with a thud.

Then he looked at Hartmann and the family accompanying him.

His wife carried a bundle on her back, while their young daughter and son clutched either side of her skirt and stared up at him.

"Three adults and one child. Three silver coins and one copper."

"We have two children."

"Once they’re over ten, they’re no longer considered children here."

The bartender gestured toward the girl with his chin.

Arguing here would not lower the price.

It was by no means a small sum, but perhaps it was a reasonable price to pay for the pursuit of their final hope.

Hartmann placed three silver coins and one copper coin on the bar. They were nicked and slightly misshapen.

The bartender pocketed the money, then indicated a section of the room with his eyes.

"Those two over there. Riemann and Jaff will be departing soon. As for the old man in the far corner, Bremen, you’ll have to wait a little longer. The choice is yours."

Hartmann looked toward the people seated by the wall.

The men called Riemann and Jaff were young and reasonably well armed. Judging by the people sharing their table, they appeared to have companions as well.

The old man called Bremen, on the other hand, occupied a table alone. He wore a coif and sat with his head lowered. It was impossible to tell whether he was sleeping.

A short sword hung from his waist.

Guides did more than merely show people the way. They needed enough martial strength to provide a certain degree of protection during the journey to the Eastern Frontier.

From that perspective, the old man Bremen seemed the least reliable choice.

Nevertheless, Hartmann approached him.

There was no special reason for his decision. He simply knew that if Riemann and Jaff ever turned their swords against him, he would be unable to fight them both.

Hartmann would protect his own family.

All he needed was someone to show them the way.

When Hartmann reached his table, the old man slowly raised his bowed head and looked up at him.

His thick white mustache was striking.

Bremen glanced over Hartmann’s family before speaking.

"Do you know how to handle that axe?"

"I’ve swung an axe all my life."

"I’m not asking whether you can cut down trees. I’m asking whether you can bury it in a man."

"That’s why I came all the way here."

"...Understood. Your name?"

"Hartmann."

"I’m Bremen. I needed an extra pair of hands, so you can help me. There’s quite a bit that needs to be loaded."

"Before that, how am I supposed to trust you?"

Bremen was not someone officially appointed by a lord, nor did he belong to even a minimally reputable organization such as an Adventurers’ Guild.

He was merely a guide.

Bremen gazed at Hartmann after hearing his question.

"You seek trust in this day and age? Well, there are only two things you can do here. Trust me or don’t. You must choose one or the other."

Hartmann did not answer.

This time, Bremen asked him a question.

"Then let me ask you something. Nine out of every ten people who set out for the Eastern Frontier die along the way. Do you still intend to go?"

Hartmann thought of his family.

Because of them, he could not answer easily.

But he had no choice except to nod.

Bremen slowly rose from his seat.

He did not seem infirm, but his movements possessed the slow, creaking quality peculiar to the elderly.

Hartmann expected to remain there for a day or two, so he rented a room.

There were no vacancies, but the bartender made one available by throwing out someone who had failed to pay for his lodging.

The room was dirty and disordered from its previous occupant.

Hartmann’s wife, Elia, cleaned it roughly and sighed in relief as she set down her heavy burden.

Hartmann followed the old man outside and met the people living in tents.

They were all planning to follow Bremen to the Eastern Frontier.

In other words, they would be traveling together.

There was another man with several children, like Hartmann. The rest consisted of three young men who looked like thugs and one unmarried mother.

Including the children, there were fourteen people in total.

No one knew what any of them had once done or what circumstances had brought them here.

They shared only one thing in common.

They all wanted a new life.

The travelers felt awkward around one another.

They were also wary.

Even so, they helped one another organize their luggage and purchase supplies for the journey. Whenever someone seemed to need something, another person would quietly offer it.

A man named Geiser was around Hartmann’s age. He had lost his wife and was raising three daughters and one son.

Surprisingly, he owned two cows and three calves.

Considering that livestock was the greatest form of wealth most commoners could possess, he was a rich man.

What circumstances had driven someone like him to seek the Eastern Frontier remained unknown.

Dalia, a former prostitute, carried a newborn baby in her arms.

She had no husband. And although it was impossible to tell whether her behavior was an act, she seemed shy and uncomfortable around men.

By the time Hartmann had familiarized himself with the others, organized his belongings, and learned what duties he would be expected to perform during the journey, evening had arrived.

Exhausted by the arduous journey, his wife Elia fell asleep while holding the children close.

Then the door rattled open.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. From the sound, she could tell that it was a man, and she assumed it was her husband.

The man lay down with their daughter and son between them.

A moment later, the girl called out to her mother in a voice trembling with fear.

"M-Mother..."

Only then did Elia open her eyes.

In the darkened room, a filthy stranger was grinning at her.

His hand was groping her daughter.

A chill raced through Elia’s entire body.

"Eek!"

The man immediately covered Elia’s mouth.

He was the lodger who had been thrown out for failing to pay.

"Keep quiet, you fucking bitch. Unless you want to die."

He drew a rusty knife.

Elia was so terrified that she could not make a sound.

At that moment, her daughter tore herself free and screamed.

"Father! Father!"

"You little bitch!"

The man seized the young girl just as she was about to open the door and hurled her aside.

She struck the floor with a crash.

Undoing the belt around his waist, he said,

"Children who don’t listen need to be beaten."

At that moment, the door flew open.

The instant the man turned around, a heavy sound sliced through the air.

Whoosh! Crunch!

An axe blade buried itself squarely in his head.

The man collapsed limply to the floor.

The heavily bearded Hartmann stood there with his teeth clenched, consumed by rage.

Only then did his young daughter burst into tears and throw herself into her father’s arms.

The corpse lay sprawled across the floor, blood streaming from its head.

"Father... Father..."

Hartmann held his daughter tightly for a long time.

Then he grabbed the dead man by the back of the neck and dragged him out.

The corpse was not small, yet Hartmann pulled it along with one hand.

His thick forearm resembled a rough log.

The building was hardly soundproof. When the occupants of the neighboring rooms heard the commotion, they opened their doors and peered outside.

Ignoring them, Hartmann dragged the body to the stairs and threw it down.

The corpse tumbled noisily down the steps.

Everyone in the dining hall looked up at the sound.

Hartmann raised his booming voice.

"Any other motherfucker here want to touch my family?!"

The people looked from the corpse to Hartmann.

They did not appear frightened. Perhaps such incidents were commonplace to them, for their expressions barely changed.

Bremen was among them.

He silently stared at the body.

Still carrying his bloodstained axe, Hartmann returned to the room.

His wife was wiping away the long streak of blood across the floor.

Hartmann held his shaken daughter and son close until they managed to fall asleep again.

He did not sleep for even a moment.

He guarded his family throughout the night.

The following day, Hartmann’s family left the Crossroads with Bremen.

Their departure felt somewhat rushed.

The wheels of the ox cart clattered as they rolled onward.

Unlike the other parties traveling north, however, Bremen headed east.

Finding this strange, Geiser asked him about it.

"Why are we going east?"

"The road is rougher in this direction, but it’s safer. We’ll stop in Wertheim for supplies."

"Safer? Is there really a difference?"

"The man who died last night belonged to a nearby bandit gang. If they seek revenge, we’ll have no choice but to find protection."

Geiser glanced toward Hartmann.

Hartmann’s killing had been justified.

Nevertheless, it had now placed them all in potential danger.

"Who will protect us? If anyone around here were capable of doing that, this place wouldn’t be so lawless."

"I don’t know what his reasons are. Perhaps he merely wants to live quietly."

"Who exactly is supposed to protect us?"

"A young shepherd and his wife. It isn’t so much that they’ll protect us. If things go wrong, we’ll flee toward them."

"What?"

"They started raising sheep about four years ago. Not a single sheep has been stolen from them in all that time. They’re no ordinary shepherds."

"You chose this road solely because of that?"

Geiser frowned.

A shepherd?

It was not as though Bremen were speaking of some retired mercenary.

He clearly disliked the idea.

The reason Geiser had avoided choosing one of the other guides was precisely because he possessed cattle. If the guides suddenly turned against him, he feared he would be unable to protect his livestock.

Now, however, he was beginning to regret his choice.

"What is the shepherd’s name?"

Dalia, who rarely let her baby leave her arms, was the one who asked.

Knowing that these people would not believe him regardless of what he said, Bremen released a deep sigh.

"Ricky..."