Chapter 41

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The Nameless walked. Toward Lindvale, toward home. Toward the place where he had been born and raised, the place he had loved.

Every step brought back those terrible memories. Memories he could not tell whether he wanted to forget or could never forget. Memories he had branded into his body so that he would not forget.

Trapped in the burning temple with the other villagers, he had peered outside through a gap. His wife had already been brutally murdered, and the marauders were dragging his little son away.

["Dad!"]

That voice, crying desperately for him like a little lamb. He had pounded the wall until his fists were breaking and howled like an animal, but his son had met a gruesome death all the same.

As the temple burned, one wall collapsed, and the Nameless barely managed to escape. But the tragedy had already unfolded.

Holding his son's body, he wept until his voice gave out, until he finally forgot even how to speak. He could not feel the pain of the burns covering his entire face.

The Nameless squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, they blazed with vengeance.

Far away beneath the dreary gray sky stood the ruins of an isolated village. To its north rose a majestic mountain range capped with eternal snow. Once, that village had been more peaceful than anywhere else.

His body was already a wreck, and the battle with the necromancer had left even his equipment in tatters. Everything was covered in scratches and gouges from the undead.

Yet why did those two boys keep flickering before his eyes now? He shook his head fiercely, forcing their images away.

How many years had he lived clinging to nothing but burning vengeance? At last, the time had come. He would kill his enemy without fail, and then he would die.

Whether steeling his resolve or driving himself onward with a whip, the Nameless walked toward the temple. To burn his final flame.

One side of the brick temple had collapsed, and unmistakable black scorch marks covered it.

Standing in the doorless entrance, he saw three people talking farther inside, some seated, some standing. Three of the Ehrenberg Five: Hanett the Iron Bulwark, Ghost the Phantom Sword, and Steiner the Mad Dog.

"Who are you? How did you find this place?"

Steiner asked. What answer was needed? Instead of answering, the Nameless drew a throwing axe.

His body was so broken that he looked ready to die at any moment, nearly all his equipment was ruined, and he faced three opponents, each a formidable fighter famous throughout the Empire.

But what of it? For years he had lived with vengeance alone, its flames consuming his entire body. He had lived for this moment. How could he retreat?

Not courage, not madness. Just vengeance. That, and nothing else.

WHIRRRRR! CLANG!

WHIRRRRR! CLANG!

The Nameless hurled his throwing axes in succession, but Steiner tracked each one precisely and dodged with slight movements. Then he picked up an axe from the ground and threw it back.

WHIRRRRR! CLANG!

The Nameless ducked slightly to avoid it as well, when suddenly a voice sounded behind him.

"Where are you looking?"

He twisted around urgently, but a searing pain tore through his side. At that moment, Steiner shouted in alarm. Instinct had warned him against approaching carelessly.

"Ghost! No!"

The Nameless was already burning himself alive. A stab in the side could not extinguish that flame. Pain? What did that matter?

With the blade still buried in his side, he turned, seized Ghost, and sank his teeth into his throat.

The cloth attached to his helmet covered his face, but he bit so hard that it made no difference. A great chunk of flesh came away.

"Aaaaargh!"

But he was not finished. The Nameless drew his helmeted head back, then drove it forward with all his might.

THUD!

Naturally, Ghost's face was crushed, but that was not what killed him. His neck had broken.

With his face smashed and his neck bent at an unnatural angle, Ghost died on the spot.

The Nameless pulled the sword from his side, and blood streamed out. Still he stood firm and unwavering, the flames of vengeance roaring within him. A sword in one hand, an axe in the other.

"Y-you..."

Stunned by Ghost's sudden, gruesome death, Hanett could only gape and stammer.

Then, losing all reason, he charged the Nameless without even taking up his wall-like shield. His body was so massive that every footfall shook the ground.

The Nameless withdrew outside, intending to use the narrow entrance to his advantage. Meanwhile, Steiner hurried to Ghost and examined his injuries.

If any life remained in him, Steiner meant to save him however he could, even with a potion. But Ghost was already dead.

Meanwhile, Hanett had pursued the Nameless and was swinging his enormous fists.

BOOM! THUD! BOOM!

WHOOSH! THUD!

The Nameless barely dodged, hacking and slashing at Hanett's forearms, but his opponent was so huge that the wounds were not fatal.

"You bastard!"

Hanett roared and raised both fists high. Steiner had also drawn his sword and was about to join the fight when a young voice rang out from somewhere.

"Mister!"

"Misteeer!"

Ricard and Boribori were running toward them from afar. The Nameless faltered, his gaze wavering. He felt the flames of vengeance dying away. No, no...

At that moment, Steiner's head whipped back and forth between the Nameless and the two approaching boys. Then, struck by a sly, vicious idea, he ran toward them.

As Ricard raced breathlessly through the urgency of it all, he realized that the man coming toward them must be Steiner.

"I'll take him. You hurry over to our friend."

"Right!"

Ricard drew his sword, while Boribori veered around Steiner and kept running.

But when Steiner drew the longsword at his waist, a vivid red light began pouring from its blade. A so-called Sword Master.

Instantly, instinctively, Ricard knew that meeting that weapon would mean his own sword being cut in two.

Charging toward each other, neither slowed as they traded strokes and passed one another.

WHOOSH! SWISH!

Both swords sliced through empty air. It was only a single exchange, but Steiner, too, understood instinctively. This was no ordinary brat. A chill ran down his spine.

But Steiner was in a hurry himself. Ghost was already dead, and unless he joined the fight, Hanett might be in danger too. So he forced himself to ignore that chilling sense that something was wrong.

Leading with his sword of light, Steiner stepped boldly forward. It was a movement no other swordsman could make, one possible only for a Sword Master with a luminous blade that could cut through anything. Attack and defense truly became one.

As the sword slashed diagonally downward like a ray of light, he realized, in a fleeting instant, that Ricard's hands were empty. The boy had let go of his sword.

Something was wrong. The thought flashed through Steiner's mind. But he could not take the strike back.

At the very point where the blade reached its greatest speed and carried its greatest force, Ricard caught its flat between his palms as though snatching lightning, then wrenched it sideways.

All the force Steiner had put into his attack turned back against him. His wrist would certainly break if he held on. So he simply released the sword.

His reflexes were truly remarkable, but meaningless now that his weapon had been taken.

Holding the now-dark blade, Ricard tossed the sword upward, caught its hilt neatly, and pointed it at Steiner.

At the sight, Steiner's heart lurched.

"... You're a mage, you bastard."

Having fallen victim to an unheard-of, utterly absurd trick, he could think of no other explanation.

People naturally fear what they do not understand. With his sword stolen as well, Steiner simply turned and fled alone, abandoning the companions who had been like family to him for so many years.

However he had become a Sword Master, he was a truly vile coward.

No matter how high his swordsmanship had risen, Ricard could never lose to someone like him, someone who had forgotten the very essence of being a swordsman.

Ricard raised the sword high until its blade hung behind his back, tightened his abdominal muscles, and hurled it with every ounce of his strength. Every movement was perfect.

The sword flew straight and fast, piercing Steiner squarely through the back.

THUNK!

"Urgh!"

Ricard swiftly retrieved his meteoric-iron sword, gave chase, and swung at the falling man. Steiner hastily looked back and shouted.

"Wait!"

But without the slightest hesitation, Ricard cut off his head.

WHOOSH! THUD!

Steiner's headless corpse slumped limply to the ground. Thus died a man who had once desperately wished for divine punishment, then given up on it, and finally rejected it.

It was a hollow end for someone so infamous, one of the Nine Swords of the Empire. Had he been careless, or was it a difference in skill? Either way, in a contest of life and death, nothing made victory and defeat clearer than who lived and who died.

Perhaps Steiner had lost because he had lived vilely and remained vile to the very end. He could have faced the Nameless, yet he had charged the two boys instead. Then he had fled to save his own skin.

He had lived like shit, and died like shit. That was all his life amounted to, and all his death amounted to.

Meanwhile, as the Nameless's burning vengeance faltered, he was driven into a corner. Unsure what to do, he tangled his feet and took Hanett's fist to the head.

CRACK!

His helmet flew off, exposing his burn-covered face.

The impact sent his senses reeling, and he fell to the ground. But once again, a young voice rang out and snapped him awake.

"Dad!"

Dad. Dad. Dad...

Until now, Boribori had used that word half in jest, simply out of affection. But in this moment he meant it with all his heart. He had never known a father's attention or love, and the Nameless truly was a father to him.

Those loving hands that cared for him with such apparent indifference. It did not matter that he could not speak. Boribori could feel it all in his touch.

At the sight of Boribori, Hanett thought his luck had turned. A cruel idea immediately sprang to mind, and he left the Nameless alone to seize the approaching boy.

Seeing this, the Nameless felt something boil up from deep within his chest, until the words he had lost finally burst forth.

"My child! Stay back!"

But Boribori summoned all his mana and drove his fist forward, knocking the enormous reaching hand sharply back.

THWACK!

Startled by that unexpected strength, Hanett faltered for an instant. The Nameless seized the opening to slice through the tendon at Hanett's heel with Ghost's keen sword.

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

A fatal opening had appeared, and Boribori was about to join the fight in earnest and finish Hanett off. Suddenly, however, the Nameless scooped him into his arms and began running blindly away.

He had abandoned vengeance and everything else, fleeing to save Boribori. There was no need. He could have killed Hanett. Yet at this moment, the Nameless could do nothing else.

No, he had to do this. Whatever it took. Whatever it took. No matter what happened, even if his body was torn apart and burned...

Perhaps it was precisely because the act was pointless that its meaning was so clear.

Blood streamed from his side. Whether it was blood spilling down his throat or his breath catching as life slipped away, all that came out were choking gasps.

Yet even then he kept murmuring. Words that had lain buried deeper than that desperate thirst for vengeance.

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me..."

Boribori received that grieving father's desperate love with his whole soul, tears streaming down his face.

"D-Dad..."

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me..."

The Nameless spent the last flame of his life not on the vengeance he had yearned for so fiercely, but on saving Boribori. He had not gone far before his knees struck the ground and he collapsed.

Startled, Boribori took off his bag and pulled out a potion with trembling hands. He hurriedly stripped away the Nameless's tattered equipment and tried to treat him, but his body was already in a terrible state. No potion could fix this.

"F-forgive... I forgive you. So, so please, please don't die..."

Boribori's tears would not stop. His throat was so tight that he could barely speak. His hands kept shaking as he poured the potion over the wound.

They would not obey him. He pressed his lips together and desperately tried to swallow his tears. Still they poured out, beyond his control.

Lying there watching him, the Nameless reached out in his final moment and wiped Boribori's tears away. With a gentle smile, he said,

"Don't cry, my child..."

Then he let out a long breath, and his arm fell limp. His unfocused blue eyes gazed beyond the gloomy sky.

Ricard had finished Hanett off and run over before anyone noticed. He watched it all, his bloodstained sword still in hand. His gaze wavered.

Though the Nameless was clearly already dead, Boribori would not stop treating him. He kept saying, "Dad, Dad."

His jaw trembled so badly from crying that he could not chew the herbs properly, so he used his hand to force it shut and chew.

Uncontrollable grief and unbearable pain seemed to tear his heart apart.

Ricard, too, closed his eyes, his eyelids trembling. Tears spilled through his lashes, as though the bitterness he had once harbored toward the world were melting away.

He thought: Surely, this man had found salvation. He had to have found it. Of that, I am certain...

The cruel bonds of fate imposed upon humanity were these: people were wounded by other people, and could find salvation only through other people.

Every tragedy and comedy began with human beings and ended with them. Thus humans were the saddest beasts of all, caught in the trap called fate.

But in his final moment, the Nameless cast aside the vengeance that had consumed him so completely and transcended his fate.

Thus he became a father to Boribori, and a teacher of life to Ricard. He became the very person each boy so desperately needed.

He was a truly noble and great human being.

The wind is cold. But the winter they had so longed to see end would soon be over.

Part 8 – Ballad of the Nameless Beast. End.