Chapter 25

The forest had a freshness to its air found nowhere else. The scents of trees, earth, moss, grass, and tiny unseen things mingled to offer a sense of peace.

The breath of trees both old and young seemed to cleanse the lungs. The forest was a place where one could feel life—a place that itself lived and breathed.

That vitality was especially palpable at dawn. It felt as though it washed the murk from the mind and soul.

Yet a distinct, unsettling metallic smell drifted through that fine air. Blood.

Corpses lay scattered along a stretch of the winding forest path. A group of people wandered among them.

A man with chin-length brown hair and a rather coarse beard covering his lower face gazed down at the bodies.

Their many stab wounds and cuts made it obvious that a fight had taken place. And though it was difficult to notice at a glance, every corpse had its eyes closed. As though someone had paid their respects.

"Clan Master. Over here."

Someone called to the brown-haired man from off the forest path. His name was Lorenz, and he was the clan master of the Rubens clan.

A clan master was someone who managed several clans within a guild. Guild master, advisory council, clan masters, clan leaders, and adventurers: that was the general organizational structure of an adventurers' guild.

Though personal fighting ability mattered, a clan master's position required considerable expertise. Adventurers were free spirits who thought nothing of disobeying orders, and managing them was no easy task. It demanded a delicate touch, neither holding the reins too tightly nor letting them run too loose.

Commanding operations involving multiple clans also required a broad range of complex knowledge and extensive field experience.

At the call, Lorenz trudged over.

Not far away lay a corpse in a grotesque position. It was on its knees, its upper body bent backward—and, most notably, it had no head.

It looked terribly uncomfortable. Did that no longer matter now that the man was dead?

Still, it offered a clue to how he had died. His head had been cut off while he was standing. That was Lorenz's conclusion.

The cut suggested a single stroke rather than repeated hacking. But unless someone deliberately extended their neck like a condemned prisoner, beheading a standing person in one stroke was no easy feat.

More importantly, there were no other visible wounds. He had been finished in a single blow.

The severed head lay nearby. Lorenz nudged it with his foot to check the face, then muttered under his breath.

"Unbelievable..."

His expression barely changed, but he truly was dumbfounded. The beheaded man had been someone the guild prized.

There were several stages on the path to becoming a Sword Master. Every guild classified them differently, but the Rubens Guild called them the Petal stage and the Bloom stage.

At the Petal stage, petal-like shapes of mana rippled from a blade when it struck something. At the Bloom stage, swinging a sword left an afterimage of mana along its path. Finally, upon reaching the level of Sword Master, light shone from the blade.

No one knew exactly how to become a Sword Master. Practicing Mana Drive alone was not enough, nor was practicing swordsmanship alone.

One thing all guilds agreed on was that actual combat experience was essential. They believed that the state of mind or mental processes involved in killing someone or fighting for one's life served as a kind of ignition point.

The beheaded man before him had reached the Petal stage. He was a precious talent, the sort Rubens Academy produced only once every few years.

His death was unbelievable, and as clan master, Lorenz would have a hard time escaping responsibility.

Neither reaching the Petal stage nor becoming a Sword Master made a person immortal. They were still human beings of flesh and bone. They could slip and fall to their deaths climbing a mountain, die from an arrow, or succumb to poison.

But they did not die easily—especially in a sword fight. Yet this one had. Why? How? Who could kill a swordsman who had reached the Petal stage?

"Did they catch on...? Strange... That shouldn't be possible..."

Lorenz muttered as he took his foot off the head.

He could not understand it. The primary objective of this operation had been to kill the Beringen Guild's adventurers, and that had already been accomplished with the raid on their hideout.

During that raid, they had learned that academy students were coming as reinforcements, so he had ordered his men to hide along the road and ambush them for an additional success.

It had not actually been necessary. But ultimately, wiping out rival guilds was the only way for their own guild to survive and draw closer to power. If they could do it, all the better.

But now he was dead. A talent the guild had prized. Did that make this a loss or a gain? Lorenz weighed the costs and benefits in his head.

Twelve active adventurers against one promising talent with the potential to become a Sword Master. Which was worth more?

The difference was not great, but however he considered it, the balance tipped toward a loss. That meant he had to make up for it. How?

Lorenz stroked his beard in thought. If an academy student had killed their promising talent, surely that student had reached a similar level? Then killing the student would make up for their loss.

He had to die. This was no longer a fight for an incidental gain. If their side had suffered a major loss, the other side had to suffer one too.

Having reached a tentative conclusion, Lorenz glanced to his side. Six or seven young people stood there looking guilty.

"What did you say he looked like?"

"H-he wore a red cloak, and he was short. He looked rather young, too, but he used a sword much too big for him. A longsword with leather wrapped around the ricasso."

"If he's young, that means he isn't an active adventurer?"

"Yes... He definitely seemed to be a student... That's what we'd been told, too..."

Lorenz was certain now. Beringen Guild Academy had a talent who had reached the Petal stage, or perhaps even higher. He had to kill the boy.

With his objective clear, the next steps came to him automatically.

"Search the area and block their escape routes. Don't let a single one get away alive. If word reaches Beringen, the whole operation is off. Then you can forget about getting paid. I'll be fucked, and so will you. Do you understand?"

The original purpose of this operation had been to use a surprise attack to inflict losses on the Beringen Guild without suffering any themselves.

But if the Beringen Guild caught on, even belatedly, and committed its forces, both sides would start taking losses, defeating the purpose of the operation.

Those orders, however, were precisely what Ricard had anticipated. The enemy would try to block the road to Beringen, rather than loiter around Griffinswald or the hideout they had already raided.

Lorenz, on the other hand, had not anticipated that mere academy students would decide to continue the commission instead of fleeing.

Griffinswald meant a forest inhabited by griffins. Yet griffins, creatures bordering on the divine, were so rarely seen that the village hardly lived up to its name. Had there been many of them in the past?

The village stood atop a fairly steep hill, the surrounding terrain cut away for defense. A sturdy wooden palisade encircled it.

A single temple to God stood at its center; all the other buildings were cottages. The population was small, and most people lived by gathering medicinal herbs, hunting, and foraging.

It was a difficult environment for a large population to live off, but a reasonably good one for a small community. Much like Stormhertz.

There was one story about the village that, while unconfirmed, was probably true.

An imperial ranger had once been stationed here, married an elf, and settled down. His descendants had then made the place their home.

The village no longer had ties to the imperial household. Most of its men, however, were rangers. It was best to mind one's manners here—unless one wanted an arrow between the eyes before even realizing what had happened.

Outsiders rarely visited this village, yet nine of them were wandering through it now. They all wore cloaks, but the weapons at their waists were plainly visible.

One of them wore a bright-red cloak and carried a sword over one shoulder, standing out like a target even from a distance.

The villagers watched the group impassively. Children looked on with eyes bright with curiosity.

Up in a watchtower, a sentry quietly looked down at Ricard and his companions, a bow in his hand.

As Ricard looked around, one house caught his eye. Unfinished crossbows hung drying in the yard as though on a clothesline. It appeared to belong to a bowyer. Crossbows were indeed a famous local specialty.

An old man was shaving a piece of wood with a plane. Ricard approached him.

"May I ask you something, sir?"

"..."

The old man stopped planing and raised his head to gaze at Ricard and his companions. He might have been expected to fear a group of armed strangers, but he showed no sign of it.

"My name is Riki, a student at Beringen Guild Academy. Are you familiar with the Beringen adventurers' guild? They have a hideout nearby, and there should have been some adventurers who worked mainly around here."

"... I heard those fools were dead."

"We know that as well. We were just wondering whether you knew who killed them."

"You want me to get involved in adventurers' bloodshed? If I tell you, I'd be helping you. Then the people on the other side would hold a grudge against us."

"Hmm. I didn't think that through. In that case, have you heard anything about deserters?"

The old man gazed at the boy, who had conceded so readily, before answering.

"... Wouldn't you need to go to a city for that? Fugitives blend into cities. They don't stay in places like this."

"I see. Then which city is closest?"

"Torweil. A day's journey south. If you leave now, you should be out of the forest by sunset."

"Understood. Also, could we possibly have some medicinal herbs or food? I'll ask the guild to pay you afterward."

Several students had lost their packs in their frantic flight. Sharing what remained had left them short of food. They needed to resupply here, but they had no money either.

Ricard had spent all his money before coming. The others had lost what little they had possessed.

The old man frowned slightly.

"And what am I supposed to trust you on when I hand over my food?"

"Your instincts, sir."

"What?"

"Look me in the eyes and decide whether you can trust me."

The old man's frown eased, and he gave a disbelieving chuckle. He studied Ricard for a moment, then called into the house.

"Lester! Lester!"

"Yes, Grandfather!"

There was a scurrying sound inside the cottage, and a sturdy young man emerged at once. The old man addressed him.

"We've still got a few chunks of meat from that deer we caught and salted last winter. Give these people all of it. And a few sprigs of herbs, too."

"Yes, Grandfather."

The young man obeyed without a word of complaint. He went inside and soon returned with salted meat and several bundles of herbs used to treat wounds.

Ricard accepted them, passed them to the other students, and spoke to the old man again.

"I won't forget your kindness."

"It's not kindness if I'm not giving it away for free. I have work to do, so be on your way if you're finished here."

Ricard bowed to the old man and turned away. They left the village and headed south.

"Weren't you being a bit too humble? He's just some old man in a backwater village," Volka asked.

"In an unfamiliar place, getting help from the locals is best. But if you can't do that, you must at least avoid making enemies of them. The locals can be scarier than the enemy. Someone once told me he'd kneel even to a commoner if it meant getting the locals' help. The man who said that was royalty."

Chaldebert had said it. His one true friend in his previous life, and now his ancestor. Chaldebert the Breaker.

Originally from the royal house of Adelorn, Chaldebert had distinguished himself on the eastern expeditionary front and founded a cadet house—the family Ricard now belonged to.

"You're lying."

"It's true. Struggling to stay alive on a battlefield changes the way you think. Those who don't change usually die."

"... And how would you know that?"

"Let's say I heard it from my father."

Volka furrowed his brow slightly, looking unconvinced.

"The villagers didn't look all that strong."

"Anyway, we got some meat, and we know where we're headed. Let's get moving. There might be a guild branch in this Torweil place."

"Yeah, well, that's true."

Volka nodded readily. And so the nine students walked toward a new city rather than returning to their academy.

Meanwhile, after searching the forest and blocking the escape routes without finding Ricard's group, Lorenz returned to the hideout his men had raided.

What he sought had been right under his nose: he found traces of the students there. Once again, he was dumbfounded. As far as he was concerned, the ignorant students must have lost all sense of fear to come here.

In any case, he assumed that the Beringen Academy students had visited the village and entered it with a force of roughly thirty adventurers and students. A full day had passed since Ricard's departure.

Lorenz, too, spotted the old man Ricard had spoken to.

"Hey, old man."

Lorenz called to him with a hand planted on the hilt of the sword at his waist. The old man, once again carefully planing wood, looked up.

"Some strange young pups passed through here, didn't they? We already know, so don't give me any nonsense. Where did they go?"

"... I have no intention of getting involved in adventurers' bloodshed. Telling you would mean helping you, and then the other side would hold a grudge against us."

The old man told Lorenz exactly what he had told Ricard the day before. The response, however, was the complete opposite.

Lorenz narrowed his eyes at him.

"You people really are unbelievable... Do you not understand your position, old man? There are thirty of us, and we're well armed. Burning down a backwater dump no one gives a damn about and killing everyone in it would be nothing. Do you understand what I'm saying? Where did those bastards go? Shall I start by killing your grandson right in front of you? Huh?"

The old man quietly looked up at Lorenz with something of a glare.

"... Torweil. Yesterday."

"If that's bullshit, I'll come back and kill every last one of you. Let's go."

Lorenz took his men straight out of the village and headed for Torweil.

The old man watched him leave, then called into the cottage.

"Lester! Lester!"

"Yes, Grandfather!"

The young man dashed out just as he had the day before. But the old man's orders were entirely different this time.

"Gather the boys. Follow those bastards and kill them all."

"Yes, Grandfather."

Lester replied without batting an eye, as though he had been asked to run a simple errand.

Then he went around the village gathering the men. Every one of them was a ranger armed with a bow or crossbow.

There was a saying that a single seasoned ranger could halt an army's advance. It sounded like an exaggeration, but there was some truth to it.

Moving an army through a forest was difficult to begin with. After stumbling into trap after trap and being picked off from afar, soldiers would grow frightened and refuse to go any farther.

Perhaps it was thanks to the rangers of Griffinswald that the forest was so peaceful, with so few dangerous beasts or monsters appearing.

They were, after all, the apex predators of this territory.

Now those predators quietly pursued Lorenz and his men. Their quivers were full.