Chapter 11

It looked like an ordinary tavern. Old, but the beams showed no signs of rot, and nothing seemed badly out of place. The main room held a bar and tables, with stairs leading up to a railed gallery that overlooked the floor below.

The wooden walls were covered in a bewildering jumble of blade marks, like an animal's territorial markings. They seemed to offer silent proof that this was no place to take lightly.

If anything set it apart from other slum taverns, it was the lack of noise. People talked quietly, played cards, sipped their drinks, threw daggers rather than darts at the walls, or burned something like mugwort and inhaled the smoke.

A little removed from those patrons, a group carrying light arms sat in a corner or leaned against the wall. One of the seated men had a rather menacing face, though a closer look suggested he was not particularly old. Eighteen to twenty, perhaps.

He was scowling fiercely, as though he had seen something he wished he hadn't. His head was half turned away, his eyes reluctantly fixed on the objects on the table: the severed heads of the Bilton brothers.

"That's them. Yeah. Now get these fucking things out of here."

At the menacing man's words, someone nearby grabbed the heads by the hair, one in each hand, and carried them away.

Looking nauseated, the man spat on the floor, took a swallow of strong liquor from a wooden cup, and looked across the table.

Arno and Ricard sat opposite him. One was plainly a greenhorn, and the other was far too young. They were an incongruous pair in a place like this, and the fact that they had brought the Bilton brothers' heads was stranger still. But he did not pry into their reasons or their story.

"They were such fucking scum that the pay's pretty good for an easy job. Thirty silver coins a head. Here, look."

He laid a document on the table. It bore sketches of the Bilton brothers, along with their distinguishing features and criminal records. A quick scan revealed words such as women and human trafficking. The seals of the imperial court and the sheriff were stamped at the bottom, beneath a notice offering one gold coin apiece if captured alive, or thirty silver coins for each head.

He then dropped a small purse onto the table.

"Sixty in all. Count them and sign."

Ricard silently pulled the purse toward him, loosened its drawstring, and stirred the contents three or four times with his fingers. Then he said at once,

"Two missing."

"What?"

"I said there are two missing."

He had counted them all in that brief instant? Without even taking them out—just a glance, and he had the exact number?

"Huh... You've got sharp eyes. Those two are our fee. Happy?"

"Fine."

Ricard accepted that readily and took twenty-nine silver coins from the purse.

"These are yours, Arno. Arno. Arno!"

"H-huh? Yes!?"

Arno had been looking around, plainly terrified. Only when Ricard called him did he come to his senses.

"These are yours. Twenty-nine. It's thirty a head, but they take two as a fee."

"Oh, yes..."

The courage Arno had gained from killing a few bandits seemed to have shriveled away already. He was so cowed he looked dazed. He offered no polite refusal, nor did he seem able to muster any joy at receiving the considerable sum of twenty-nine silver coins.

Understandably so: Arno felt he had walked into a tiger's den and wanted to leave at once. After the brief commotion outside, someone had told them to follow, and he had—but now he felt he had made a terrible mistake.

"By the way, is this really the Beringen Adventurers' Guild branch?"

Ricard asked the menacing man as he signed the document. The signature was simply his name, written in the graceful, willow-like hand he had inherited from his mother.

"No. This building belongs to the Eisen Brotherhood. A thieves' guild, in plain terms."

The man said it casually as he put the document away. Arno's eyes went wide at the words thieves' guild.

"Huh!?"

A thieves' guild was a criminal organization that ordinary bandits could not begin to compare with. It was organized, professional, disciplined, secretive, and certain to repay a grudge.

Besides, although Arno traveled widely for work, his home was in Rheinfurt. He had heard the rumors about the Eisen Brotherhood, which made the revelation all the more alarming. In fact, he could hardly have avoided hearing them. Anyone living in Rheinfurt who did not know the Eisen Brotherhood was already halfway to throwing their life away.

Ricard glanced at Arno as if to ask what was going on, then turned back to the man across the table.

"Aren't you an adventurer?"

"I am. But a profession's whatever you choose to call it, isn't it? The Nords raid and trade both."

"Then what about the branch? The Beringen Adventurers' Guild?"

"This fellow, this one, that one, and me. We're all Beringen Guild adventurers. The rest are out right now. As for why we're here, you could say they're putting us up for the time being. Though it's been quite a while. Whether it's work or money, getting along with the thieves' guild makes an adventurer's life easier."

Ricard wasn't sure that holing up in a thieves' guild building qualified as having a branch. Arno apparently hadn't known much either, and the whole operation seemed rather haphazard. Ricard could not readily understand why an adventurers' guild would be involved with a thieves' guild.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? You need information to get anything done."

"Is that how it works?"

"That's how it works. Now let me ask you something. How'd you kill them? The Bilton brothers, I mean."

"Well, I hid and ambushed them."

"Is it really that simple? I'm pretty sure I couldn't do anything like that when I was your age."

"Everyone's different."

"That's a pretty big difference, though. Anyway, do you need anything else from me?"

"I'm looking for a guide to take me to Beringen Academy."

"Why that chicken coop?"

"Chicken coop?"

"A chicken coop's a chicken coop. What do you want there?"

Rather than explain, Ricard took the admission letter out of his bag and showed it to him. This time, not only the menacing man but his companions nearby looked surprised.

"Whoa! What's this!? Those vicious bastards are making these now!?"

"What is it? Wow, why does it look so respectable?"

"Huh? Wait, you're a noble?"

The line wishing House Kaldebern fortune in battle brought another look of surprise to the man's face.

"Yes. Why?"

"Something's wrong here."

"What?"

"That place isn't for kids like you."

"What do you mean? Explain."

"More than half of them are bastards. The rest are commoners. I doubt there's a single proper noble like you."

That was rather surprising. Or perhaps unexpected was the better word. Without realizing it, Ricard had imagined a place filled with children in circumstances much like his own.

A bastard was a bastard. Neither noble nor commoner—simply a bastard. Born of an unblessed union, condemned to a troubled life. Nobles despised them openly, and commoners cursed them behind their backs. No class afforded them respect.

Of course, some were formally accepted into the family by the head of house, and others forged their own path despite their birth, but such cases were exceedingly rare.

But did that matter? Perhaps because of his upbringing, Ricard cared little for rank. In his previous life, he had killed them all without distinction anyway.

"That doesn't matter. I chose to become an adventurer myself."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because I want to know whether it was worth fighting a war over."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The eastern expeditionary front. There was a war there a hundred years ago. So many people suffered and died in agony. Isn't it natural to wonder whether it was worth all that?"

The man looked as though he had bitten into a bug, apparently unable to make any sense of this. What was this kid talking about? Why would he want to know that?

"Join a knightly order and you can at least earn some honor. Become a mercenary officer and you can make money. But you want to be an adventurer, of all things?"

"Then I can become an adventurer and get both. Honor and money."

The man shot Ricard a look, his face oddly contorted. This kid wasn't right in the head.

"Ahaha. That's right. You can have both. Who'd have thought we'd meet a junior of ours here? Let's go somewhere else. This place is too gloomy."

The speaker had been leaning against the wall. The hood had concealed it until now, but the voice was a woman's. The menacing man blinked a few times and nodded.

"Yeah. Let's move. I've spent so long in the shade my face is going to grow mold. Come along, Young Master Junior. Hust, hold the fort."

"Sure."

The menacing man stood and beckoned Ricard after him as he headed deeper into the building. Ricard started to follow without hesitation, then glanced back at Arno, who was lingering uncertainly.

"Thank you, Arno."

Then he simply left Arno behind and followed the man. Whether deliberate or not, it seemed rather cold. Arno could only blink. They were parting just like that?

The thieves' guild building was larger and more spacious than Ricard had expected. It connected to an underground passage with sewage running down the center and walkways on either side.

The passage branched into a complicated maze. It looked ancient, yet still remarkably sturdy. When had it been built? Had people really made this?

Following the menacing man and his two companions out, Ricard emerged onto a sunlit riverbank. Smuggling vessels traveled along the river, and cargo was being unloaded at a wharf. Smuggling meant bringing goods in secretly, but there was nothing remotely furtive or cautious about any of it.

A breeze blew off the river, sweeping away the city's stench and seeming to clear the stuffiness from his chest.

"Now I can breathe."

Reaching a spot surrounded by wooden crates and the like, the woman settled comfortably into a seat. She took off her hood, revealing a face prettier than expected in the sunlight. Her brown hair was pulled tightly back and tied, a style that suited the pleasing shape of her head.

After gazing for a moment at the sunlight shimmering on the river, she spoke to Ricard.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Sandy. The ugly one here is Blatter, and this is Boden."

The menacing man was Blatter, and the man who had said nothing all this time was Boden. Their names might seem carelessly chosen, but that was typical of bastards. They were named after things like leaves, soil, and sand.

Noble names such as Ricard, Abelich, and Bilter, on the other hand, carried meanings like mighty warrior, glorious wrath, and guardian. Even the roots of their names set them apart.

"So, you need someone to take you to the academy?"

"Yes."

"Want to come with me, then?"

"Sure."

Ricard readily agreed. Sandy kept smiling, apparently finding him adorable.

"Hey, shouldn't we at least tell him about the chicken coop first? Explain what life's going to be like?"

Blatter spoke as he pried open a crate and took out a bottle of liquor.

"Isn't Boden good at explaining things? You're our information man."

"... Do you need intelligence to explain the chicken coop?"

"But why do you call it a chicken coop?"

Ricard cut in just as they were about to start bickering. Boden answered.

"The beds are crammed together. Bunk beds. There's barely room for one person to walk between them, and a hundred and twenty people live there together. For two years."

Sandy and Blatter both shook their heads, their faces twisting as though the mere thought made them sick. Boden continued matter-of-factly.

"It's not too late, Young Master. You'd be better off going home. I don't know what you've heard about the place, but it's not as romantic as you think. Not remotely."

This was no attempt to frighten or test him, but sincere advice born of experience. Ricard's reply, however, was unexpected.

"If there's a roof to keep off the rain and I don't have to sleep on cold, bare ground, isn't that luxury enough?"

"What?"

"Living itself is suffering anyway. Isn't it?"

Those were not words one expected from a child. And though they sounded cynical at first, his face held neither resignation nor despair. People unfamiliar with Ricard were often startled by this side of him. Boden was no exception.

"... What sort of life have you lived?"

Unlike Boden, Blatter took a drink, exhaled a warm breath, and readily agreed.

"Hah. He's right, though."

"It feels strange hearing that from our young noble junior. I knew there was a reason I liked you."

Sandy smiled gently as she spoke. Having lived as bastards, they knew more than most about sorrow and heartbreak.

"By the way, I heard on the way here that most academy students end up crippled or dead. Is that true?"

"Yes, it is."

"Why? What kind of academy is that? Isn't imperial sponsorship a great honor? Yet the academy itself does dishonorable things?"

"Honor? Haha, you even know how to use a stuffy word like that. You really are a noble. But that's the problem. The imperial household gives us money. That's why we fight each other so bloodily. If another guild disappears, we get a bigger share."

Sandy threw back her head and laughed incredulously at the word honor before offering her explanation.

"I don't quite understand."

"Look, the imperial household provides a fixed sum. But there are several guilds, so it gets split between them. That means if another guild disappears, there's more for us. I hear the ones with royal sponsorship are even more vicious, maybe because they have less territory. Best leave them alone. They're always angry."

Even Ricard, who was rarely shaken, found this absurd. They killed and died like that over money? Though going to war was much the same, he supposed.

"After two years of being worked to the bone in the chicken coop, if you survive, they send you into fights for another three years of hell. Along the way, you're sorted into upper, middle, and lower grades. After that, you can take the final exam, or sign a contract and become an adventurer like us. As for the work we mainly do... You're the clever one. You explain."

Sandy turned to Boden, who answered as though it were nothing special.

"Hunt down and deal with bad people. Exterminate dangerous beasts and monsters. Transport cargo. Escort caravans. Whatever the higher-ups order, whatever clients request. Official jobs, unofficial jobs. Unofficial means things like assassination."

"So whatever comes your way."

"That's right."

"You don't go to the eastern expeditionary front? Fernland, I mean?"

"I think that's where the final exam takes place. That's for the special-grade ones, above upper grade. Monsters in both skill and nerve. As you can see, we're not special grade, so we don't know much. They say passing the final exam makes you a champion of the Emperor."

A champion was a proxy fighter. By an ancient tradition, someone who had honor to defend but lacked the skill, or was too old, could have another person fight a duel in their place.

Usually, a close relative or friend would step forward. The higher the standing of the person represented, the greater the honor of serving as their champion. Many heroic poems told such stories—the so-called ballads of champions.

In practice, however, kings and emperors had no occasion to duel. Thus, champion of the Emperor was an honorary title that in reality meant a troubleshooter serving directly under the Emperor. It was not the same as belonging to the personal guard charged with protecting him.

"By the way, what was your name again?"

Sandy asked as she smoothed her already immaculate hair.

"Ricard."

"That certainly puts some distance between us. Don't you have a nickname?"

Ricard was a name anyone would recognize as noble.

"Riki."

"Wow. Now that's a fierce name."

"Why? Isn't it a common nickname?"

"Still. It's the same name as Riki the Undying."

Just when he thought he could forget, his previous life came up again. Ricard felt a pang of bitterness.

"By coincidence, yes. But surely he wasn't undying?"

"No one could kill him, and no one ever saw him dead. Some people worship him as a god, apparently. The Church of Judgment, was it? And he's special to us too. All that hell we went through in the chicken coop was to become like him."

"... Like him in what way?"

"He's the legendary Sword Master. Light poured from his blade, and he could cleave even rock. With his superhuman physical abilities and stamina, he could fight an army single-handed. All those children die trying to come even a little closer to him."

What was she saying? Ricard was dumbfounded. He felt the deep shadow of his previous life falling over him. Or was it his own shadow now—the shadow he could never escape, however far he ran?

"That's not all there is to it."

Ricard was still reeling from the shock when Blatter spoke.

"The whole Sword Master thing sounds like a pipe dream. But at least for me, that time was worthwhile."

"I didn't know you were that much of a pervert."

"That's not what I mean. We went through a lot together. I think of us as family. Without that chicken coop, would we have met and been here together now? I don't think so. If I'd never become an adventurer, if I'd spent my whole life as just a bastard... What would I have become?"

The drink had loosened Blatter's tongue, and his heartfelt confession silenced his friends. They merely turned away to watch the river flowing like time itself.

"Yeah. A lot happened..."

Boden murmured to himself. The words seemed to hold a wealth of events, years, and meaning. Ricard could not yet understand it all.

But these people neither looked up to him for being a noble nor looked down on him for being young. They tried to see Ricard as he was.

And while they were open-minded as people, the lives they led were somewhat insular. They did not chase only money like mercenaries, pursue only honor like knights, or live solely in the shadows like a thieves' guild.

They were simply people who trusted and relied on one another, living with a sliver of hope in their hearts. That was Ricard's first impression of adventurers.