Chapter 44

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The world was not made up solely of beautiful, fragrant things. Filth and ugliness were far more abundant.

What if the world had been filled with beauty alone? Humans would probably have found the boredom unbearable.

And so, in the end, they would destroy paradise with their own hands. Such was the nasty habit of the human animal. Or perhaps that was precisely what made them human.

Half by choice and half by circumstance, Marie had left her safe, sheltered surroundings for a filthy, ugly world.

She had not set out as a foolish girl with a head full of dreams. She had heard enough to know that the world was dangerous and brutal.

But vague expectations and firsthand experience were worlds apart. Some things proved less daunting than she had feared; others, which she had thought nothing of, proved more dangerous and difficult than expected.

The helplessness of not knowing where to go. Dangerous people whose intentions she could not fathom. Hunger, cold, and death.

In this world, death was never far once you stepped beyond your gate. Naturally, she feared it and wanted to avoid it. But was it right to live forgetting that fact, or should she accept it?

Then she had met two boys: Ricard and Boribori. In ordinary conversation, they were simply children her own age, yet in so many ways, starting with the smallest things, they were different.

Keeping track of the time, judging the weather, gathering necessary supplies, and above all, knowing where to go. Choosing a path and walking it.

The boys possessed something she lacked: the distinctive composure and resilience of people who had grown, and the air those qualities lent them.

And they knew how to act in the face of danger.

“Y-you bastard!”

“Kill him!”

The thugs shouted. Rather than retreat, Ricard launched himself at them.

Grown men surged at a single boy, but the space was cramped. Ricard ducked low, slashed one man across the side and brought him down, then darted through a narrow gap.

Slipping past the thugs, he sprang lightly onto a table despite his armor. Then he bent his knees into an almost full crouch and spun once, swiftly as a top.

WHISH!

The instant the thugs turned toward Ricard, something pale flashed before their eyes with a keen whistle through the air.

The sharp arc of his sword sliced through eyes, noses, cheeks, and throats. Teeth pattered down from the mouth of a man whose gums had been cut through.

“Aaaaaaagh!”

Cries of shock mingled with the screams of those cut by the blade. Even so, several men lunged at Ricard atop the table.

But he sprang lightly off it, whipping his sword left and right in midair. Two heads dropped.

Everyone watching except Boribori stared wide-eyed at this near-miraculous display. They themselves could not tell whether they felt terror or awe.

Ricard kicked a headless body into the men recklessly charging him, blocking their path. They frantically shoved the corpse aside to attack, but he was no longer there.

From that point on, they could not even tell where he was. All they heard was the sound of his sword swinging. With every stroke, someone died in a spray of blood. Some staggered and fell; others died at once.

'What is this? Am I having a nightmare?' That was what the thugs on the receiving end were thinking.

Ricard had changed since leaving this tavern, Anna's Loss. Had he grown? No—to be precise, it was a change in style.

Once a person reached a certain level, the distinction was often one of style rather than better or worse. Without realizing it, Ricard had come to resemble the Nameless.

Yet he was not merely imitating the man. He had made it his own.

His hallmarks had been timing that seized the perfect instant and clean lines of movement. Now he seemed to fight more roughly, following his impulses without concerning himself with such things.

And certainly, over the past few months, his body had grown a little, and his strength had increased. He was drawing ever closer to the prowess of his prime.

Meanwhile, Marie watched it all as though spellbound. She did not see the thugs dying. She saw only Ricard.

He was like an artist painting with blood. A master's painting rendered in bold, rough strokes. It was shockingly beautiful—a display of skill unlike anything she had ever seen or even imagined.

THUD. CRASH.

The last thug fell across a table like laundry draped over a line, then toppled to the floor along with it. Dispatching six or seven thugs had taken scarcely any time.

Not a table or chair in the immediate area remained upright, and blood covered everything. Its heavy smell was enough to make one's head spin.

The other patrons huddled in the corners, trembling with fear. Just as they had when the Nameless came here.

Ricard flicked the sword through the air to shake off most of the blood. Droplets spattered the ceiling and walls. Skirting the wreckage and pools of blood, he approached Boribori and Marie.

Boribori held out a brown-stained towel. It had been washed and reused many times; the brown stains were blood.

Ricard wiped the blade, sheathed it, and returned it to its owner. Then he addressed Marie.

“I tried not to scratch your armor. But some blood splashed on the surcoat here.”

He pointed to the purple surcoat over his armor.

“... Huh?”

“Is that all right?”

“Y-yeah...”

“Well, so much for staying here.”

Boribori surveyed the wreckage as he spoke. When he turned toward the bartender, the man was breathing hard despite having done nothing but stand there. He was also trembling like a leaf.

As Ricard approached, the bartender's legs gave way and he sank to the floor. His mouth opened and closed without producing a word. Ricard spoke to him.

“This wasn't our fault. You know that, right?”

The bartender nodded frantically. Leaving him behind, Ricard and Boribori headed out of the tavern.

Their former innocence was nowhere to be seen. They had experienced plenty of incidents like this over the winter, and they were capable of dealing with the consequences of their actions.

“What are you doing? Come on, Marie.”

“Oh, right.”

Marie still felt slightly dazed, but she managed to collect herself and follow them.

Outside the tavern, the warmth vanished and cold air enveloped their faces once more. But freed from the stench and reek of blood, their heads seemed to clear.

In the end, the three had no choice but to sleep outdoors. Was it better to sleep with the smell of blood or endure the cold? Experience told Ricard and Boribori that the latter was preferable.

They built a fire in a suitable spot, and Ricard took off the armor again. He was remarkably adept at removing it without help, as though he had years of experience handling combat gear.

“You should be able to wear it again tomorrow,” he told Marie.

“Yeah...”

“Still, you're less shaken than I expected,” Boribori remarked.

“Huh?”

“People usually freeze the first time they see someone die. Have you seen it before?”

“Oh, well, I've seen executions now and then. Beheadings, hangings, burnings, drownings, quarterings... Was that better than those? Anyway.”

There were many forms of capital punishment. In an age that placed great importance on honor, even the method of putting a criminal to death varied. It depended on both the crime and the criminal's status.

Noble criminals were generally beheaded, but there was a distinction between execution by sword and by axe. Beheading by axe was dishonorable.

Witches and mages were often, though not always, burned at the stake. The idea was to burn even their souls, lest they cast a curse after death.

In the countryside, lords sometimes performed beheadings themselves, while cities might have professional executioners.

And many executions were public. With entertainment scarce, public executions were a kind of popular spectacle.

One of the most gruesome methods involved climbing a ladder to bind the condemned high above the ground, where a skilled torturer would slice off their flesh over the course of days. The longer the victim was kept alive, the more the torturer was paid.

“That makes sense.”

Boribori readily accepted her explanation. Innocent though he was, the age he lived in had given him a certain immunity to cruelty.

“But, Riki, where do you rank? Are all the academy students as good as you?”

“He's number one.”

Boribori answered for Ricard, who was roasting sweet potatoes, potatoes, and the like. Marie became visibly flustered.

“Huh? Oh...”

“Why? Was he a bit disappointing for number one?”

“Huh? Oh, n-no. No, no, that's not it.”

Neither boy understood why she was so flustered, but they paid it little mind.

“Marie, have you ever killed anyone?”

Ricard asked without taking his eyes off the potatoes roasting in the fire. The reflected firelight tinged his hazel eyes red.

“No. Not yet.”

“Then you'd better steel yourself.”

“I'm preparing myself.”

“For what?”

“So I won't hesitate.”

For some reason, Ricard and Boribori grinned. Not understanding what was funny, Marie merely blinked.

“Not that. I mean, cutting people up and killing them—it's strangely addictive, you know? Don't get too caught up in it.”

“...”

It was a shocking, chilling remark, unlike anything she had ever heard from her swordsmanship instructor. Marie was speechless. What kind of children were these...?

Boribori spoke as he rolled a hot potato between his palms to cool it. With the weather still cold, the warmth felt rather pleasant.

“Riki and I talked about what makes bad people bad. Most of them seem to be like that. They've developed a taste for killing. And they enjoy the way other people look at them in fear. They get drunk on it and do even worse things, until they can't turn back anymore. They forget who they used to be.”

“That's why I said principles matter the other day.”

Ricard split a sweet potato in half and held it out. Its golden flesh gave off an appetizing aroma.

Feeling somehow overwhelmed, Marie had nothing to say. She simply held her half, blowing on it and taking small bites.

“Training hard and growing stronger are just part of the process. They can't be an end in themselves. I think it's more important to make good friends and face hardships together.”

“Exactly.”

Ricard spoke, and Boribori agreed.

But perhaps they could say such things only because they had reached the level they had. This was a world where the weak could accomplish nothing.

Still, that could not be helped. Whether their starting lines had been different or the ground they now stood upon was higher, the two boys' very field of vision differed from that of ordinary people.

The journeys they had been through, their experiences, their growth... So much had happened in the past year.

And they had another year ahead of them.

The three set off for Beringen early the next morning. It was about a day's journey at an ordinary walking pace, so they hurried a little.

Yet the return trip was harder than the journey out. The snow had begun to melt, leaving the road muddy.

Their feet sank ankle-deep into the mud, so they walked through grassy fields instead. The grass roots held the earth together, providing somewhat firmer footing.

Back in her armor, Marie seemed to struggle with the walk. Sweat poured off her despite the cold. Still, she must have had some training with mana, for she managed to keep up reasonably well even when exhausted.

Ricard and Boribori did not go out of their way to accommodate her. They neither carried her on their backs nor offered to take her helmet or sword.

They simply judged the time by the sun, walked ahead, and waited for her.

“S-sorry.”

“No need to apologize. We're not having a hard time.”

“... Huh?”

The two boys certainly did not think like ordinary people.

In any case, by walking steadily with occasional rests, they reached Beringen toward evening.

Even Ricard and Boribori felt as though they had come home. Unfamiliar surroundings kept one unconsciously on edge, and that was mentally exhausting.

The two boys entered the guild headquarters at the foot of the hill first. Dunkel was there, leaning on the bar with his chin propped on his hand. The instant he saw Ricard, his eyes went wide.

Then he sucked in a breath as though he had seen a ghost.

“Ah!”

“What's wrong? You look like you've seen a dead man.”

“... N-no.”

Ignoring Dunkel's reaction, Ricard took Erze's ear, Reto's crystal ball and wand, and his grotesque nose out of Boribori's pack and set them on the bar.

“We completed the job. How are the others doing?”

Dunkel stared at the items on the bar. His already wide eyes opened wider still, and he looked ready to faint from shock.

“You didn't withhold the food because you thought we wouldn't finish the job, did you? That wouldn't end well.”

Ricard's wording was polite, but his tone was unmistakably threatening. Apparently too bewildered to respond, Dunkel stood blankly for a while before hastily shaking his head.

“Th-the children... None of them starved to death. I swear. You sent back plenty of money along the way.”

“Did we? That's a relief.”

“N-no, that's not what I meant. Did you really...”

“We had someone helping us. We learned a lot. Both Bori and I.”

Ricard spoke calmly. Yet despite the boy's composure, what he had accomplished was truly difficult to believe.

“Has anything happened at the academy? Apart from the food problem.”

“... Well, it's...”

Dunkel seemed to need a moment to gather his wits. His eyes shifted as he thought, then he swallowed and spoke.

“I think you'll need to restore some discipline. We've had some new arrivals lately who are a little out of control. If anything's a problem, that's it. But it's nothing major. Anyway, it's good to have you back. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it.”

Ricard merely gave a small smile.

“Just have some hot water prepared, please. I'm quite tired. It feels like coming home.”

“Of course. Rest first, and we can talk later. You've done well. We'll discuss the payment in detail tomorrow.”

The job had been to kill no fewer than two members of the Ehrenberg Five. It was not something that could be settled simply by handing over a few coins.

Moreover, it was not only those two who had died. All of the Ehrenberg Five were dead, and two of the Nine Swords of the Empire had perished in the same incident.

Ricard knew little of what repercussions that might have. How would the guild need to respond? Would it draw the attention of other great figures in the world?

In any case, Ricard and Boribori needed rest now. No—there were three people who needed rest.

“Oh, right. Please prepare baths for three. We have someone with us. She's an academy student too. We met on the way here.”

Ricard gestured toward Marie with his thumb. Wrapped in his red cloak with the hood pulled low, her face was difficult to see.

That was no great trouble, so Dunkel nodded. He caught a glimpse of a purple surcoat between the folds of the cloak, but he was too astonished to spare it any thought just then.

Ricard unpacked in his room, undressed, and sank into the warm bath. A languor so deep it nearly robbed him of consciousness washed over him.

The same was true of Boribori, and of Marie, who was unaccustomed to travel. She had spent two nights sleeping outdoors, after all.

People who endured hardship together grew close, because it gave them a sense of kinship.

That kinship widened the scope of their mutual understanding. As it grew, their relationship became something special.

And so winter passed, and spring slowly approached. New bonds, too, began to sprout like the fresh shoots of spring.