Chapter 50

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You should never judge people by their appearance alone, but sometimes no other description came to mind.

Reinhart, the Clan Leader of the Widowmakers, looked like a bandit no matter how you looked at him. He talked and acted like one, too.

“Hey! Alive today, dead tomorrow, maybe. Just drink!”

The huge, thickly bearded man spoke in a gravelly voice, sprawled on the floor inside the defensive tower. He looked to be a full two meters tall, and the belly bulging out of his clothes resembled a hillside.

A wooden club as tall as a man leaned impressively against the wall. Judging by its weight, it was questionable whether anyone could actually use it as a weapon.

Still, it was caked with dried blood, flesh, and hair.

“Forget the booze! I’m telling you there are about a hundred enemies down there!” Volka shouted in frustration.

“We know, you little shit! So what? You want us to abandon this place and run? My orders were to hold it. Whether a hundred come or a thousand, I hold it. What do I care!”

Reinhart gulped down his liquor by the bowlful. After draining that enormous helping in one go, he let out a tremendous belch. It practically stirred a breeze.

BUUUURP! GURGLE. URP.

“Ugh, shit!”

Delphi grimaced and turned away. Ricard, Boribori, Marie, and Volka did the same.

They fanned the air furiously with their hands, to little effect. The stench issuing from the depths of his stomach was horrendous.

Volka cursed inwardly. Or rather, the curse that should have stayed inside slipped out.

“Goddammit.”

Unperturbed, Reinhart grinned with a mouth so large it looked capable of swallowing a person whole. He seemed pleased to see the youngsters suffering from his belch.

“Heh heh heh. You cute little things. Leave if you want. I won’t force you. But unless new orders come, my brothers and I will die here.”

Was it a sense of duty? Loyalty? Even a noble knight would not go this far. When defeat was plain for anyone to see, retreat was the right choice.

But the reason for his stubbornness seemed to be precisely what Delphi had said. He was simply stupid.

Reinhart considered nothing else. Orders had come from above, he had agreed to carry them out, and so he would. That was all.

Unlike Volka, Ricard looked at Reinhart and thought the guild’s leadership had chosen the right man for the job.

Every military commander had a distinct temperament and personality. Some were suited to attacking, while others were suited to defense.

Of course, some excelled at both, but these inclinations existed independently of competence.

Among them, the commanders who held strongpoints well were those with exceptional stubbornness, unusual ferocity, or sheer grit.

The Beringen Guild’s leadership seemed to have stationed Reinhart here with that in mind.

But this was not a conventional war fought with armies. There were similarities, certainly, but also clear differences.

Just then, Reinhart’s eyes lit up at the sight of Ricard beside Volka.

“Hey, red cloak. You the sword prodigy who killed the Mad Dog?”

“That’s right.”

Ricard nodded in confirmation.

Volka, Delphi, and Marie turned to blink at him. This was news to them. Who was the Mad Dog? Surely not that man, one of the Nine Swords of the Empire?

Ricard and Boribori’s destruction of the Ehrenberg Five alongside the Nameless had initially been top secret, so word had not spread very far.

But the Clan Masters and everyone else in the know had heard. It was Volka and Delphi, his close friends, who remained in the dark.

Reinhart was not a Clan Master overseeing multiple clans, but his standing within the guild was comparable, and he had picked up the news here and there.

“He’s not someone you can kill on dumb luck alone. Even with the Nameless helping, that’s no easy feat. I know that much. I’ve seen that terrifying rabid bastard in person.”

Pleasantly tipsy, Reinhart found the vivid memory rising unbidden.

Steiner, standing before a burning village, holding a sword that glowed crimson. His eyes had gleamed with madness like a rabid dog’s, and Reinhart’s knees had gone weak at the thought that he might charge at any moment.

He had merely crossed paths with him while passing through on a commission. He had counted himself incredibly fortunate not to have met him as an enemy.

A Sword Master was someone who had transcended the bounds of humanity. Ever since that day, Reinhart had believed it impossible for a human to kill one.

Yet Steiner was dead. At the hands of a young sword prodigy. Naturally, it must have been possible thanks to a powerful ally like the Nameless, but impressive was impressive. Reinhart certainly could not have done it at that age.

“To catch a tiger, you need the guts to enter its den. Whatever the circumstances, you’ve done something extraordinary. But remember this. Fame is a double-edged sword. It looks like it’ll lead you to success, but it’s really a rope stretched over a precipice. You could fall at any moment. And more and more bastards will try to kill you and steal that fame.”

Hearing that, Ricard decided the man was not merely an ignorant brute. He answered with a faint smile.

“I didn’t kill him to get ahead. He was a rabid dog, so I put him down. And I’m already used to people coming at me for fame.”

Ten years as a shepherd, ten on the battlefield, ten as an infamous killer. In his previous life, he had spent ten years killing people who came after him seeking fame.

During that time, Ricard had faced every kind of opponent, experienced every kind of trick, and fought his way through every kind of crisis.

“What, have you lived twice? Nothing cute about this kid.”

Reinhart looked as though he could not believe a child like this existed. Ricard merely smiled at the unexpectedly perceptive remark.

Then he left the tower. Outside, the sunset was just beginning.

“By the Mad Dog, you don’t mean Steiner the Mad Dog, one of the Nine Swords of the Empire, do you?”

Still bewildered, Volka hurried over to ask.

“Ask Bori.”

Ricard answered as though it were nothing and began by inspecting the tower’s surroundings.

The cylindrical defensive tower was built of brick, but its top had collapsed, leaving large stones strewn around it. Long-grown underbrush covered the rubble, as though bearing witness to the ravages of time.

In short, the tower had lost its defensive function and was only suitable as a temporary shelter.

Adventurers from the Widowmakers clan were living in tents around it. There were only fifteen or so. Together with Ricard’s Viola clan, they numbered about twenty.

Ricard walked over to inspect the southern side. A sheer rock face dropped away below, making an enemy approach from that direction look impossible.

Beneath the rocky cliff, a stream ran east to west through the valley, with a road alongside it. Farther west, the road branched north and south.

This road was vital to the enemy. They had to pass through here to reach Siegfringer in the central north of the Empire.

A short walk west of the tower lay a suspension bridge to the mountain opposite. Its old ropes still looked sturdy, but the half-rotten planks were unsettling.

That left the gentle slopes to the north and east as possible enemy approaches. Even there, the paths narrowed near the tower.

They could hold the position if they had to, but if enough enemies came and blocked the entrances, it looked like an excellent place to starve to death.

Ricard reached his conclusion. The defensive tower was now a tower in name only, but its location was unquestionably strategic. The terrain afforded clear views in every direction, and it even had an escape route of sorts.

“What are you going to do?” asked Marie, who had been trailing after him.

“Hmm?”

“Like Mr. Volka said, staying here doesn’t seem like a very good idea.”

“What do you mean, ‘Mr. Volka’? Just call him Volka.”

“Fine, but what are you going to do?”

“I think we can hold it. Even if we can’t, we shouldn’t just hand this place over. If we give up everything whenever a crowd of enemies shows up, what will we have left? We should at least inflict some losses. What do you think, Marie?”

“What about requesting reinforcements?”

Ricard shook his head. The guild was probably committing almost all its manpower just to consolidating its newly acquired territory. They would likely be as hard-pressed there as here, if not more so.

That did not mean Volka’s reaction or Marie’s suggestion was wrong. Both were perfectly understandable and sensible.

“Aren’t you afraid of dying, Riki? Is it confidence in your skills?”

“I don’t know, honestly. What do you think?”

“I don’t think it’s just bravery.”

Ricard only smiled faintly without answering. In truth, he did not quite understand that part of himself either.

Looking back at his actions, he had put himself at risk to the point of recklessness. Yet even he felt that simple bravery was not the reason.

He set off again to examine the enemy at the foot of the eastern heights. From here, a hundred or so people did not look all that numerous, but it was certainly a large force.

To Ricard’s eye, though, they were merely a crowd, and a sloppy one at that. They had not dug trenches or driven in stakes to fortify their position.

It looked as though separate clans had simply gathered to make up a hundred people, each doing its own thing.

More importantly, they had no separate supply unit. There was no system or organization for procuring food. They relied solely on what each had brought, and those supplies looked likely to run out soon.

Their complacent assumption was plain to see: gather enough people and things would work out somehow. They resembled a horde of beggars living in tents. Not that their actual appearance was quite so shabby.

Perhaps they did not even have a commander. Otherwise, they would not have gathered down there to waste time doing nothing. They could at least spread out and surround the place.

Of course, even a commander was useless if the bastards would not listen. Adventurers had strong individual personalities and were difficult to handle like ordinary soldiers.

Their individual combat abilities were excellent but uneven, which made it difficult to bring their collective strength to bear.

As the sunset deepened, several groups broke away from the milling crowd below. They began walking uphill toward the tower.

They were armed, so they seemed to be coming to fight. But if so, why come separately instead of attacking together?

The answer came soon enough.

A man with a longsword at his waist came alone about halfway up and shouted toward them.

“Hey! Red Cloak! Red Cloak Riki! Come out! Let’s settle who’s stronger!”

This was precisely what set this apart from an ordinary war. Individual aims mattered more than the collective objective. The pursuit of fame, in other words.

Ricard gazed at the man who had stepped forward, then started downhill with his sword in one hand.

“R-Riki.”

“Riki!”

Marie called after him in alarm, and Volka, who had been deep in conversation with Boribori, shouted in surprise. There was no need to accept this fight.

But Ricard continued down the gentle, short-grassed slope without so much as a backward glance. The rocks jutting from the ground were stained red by the sunset.

Sword in his left hand, he walked down casually and stopped some distance from his opponent. Ricard stood on slightly higher ground.

“I am Oeberstein, Second Sword of the Three Swords clan.”

Ricard had never heard of the clan. Perhaps it was famous elsewhere, but this was his first time hearing its name.

The man, whose beard covering his lower face was particularly striking, studied Ricard before continuing.

“You’re even younger than I expected, Red Cloak. Nothing personal.”

Without further preamble, Oeberstein drew his sword. He took a steady stance and aimed its point at Ricard. The look in his eyes left no room for carelessness.

In truth, Ricard had ended most of his fights thus far with a single stroke by exploiting his opponents’ carelessness. The Bilton brothers, who had walked up unguarded. Powerful fighters who had underestimated his youth and rushed in rashly.

If there was a reason for his unbroken run of victories, it was his ability to seize that instant of carelessness without missing the opportunity.

But now his name had spread widely enough that people no longer let their guard down. They did not underestimate him for being young.

Whatever his mastery of the sword, increasingly difficult battles lay ahead.

Yet even if exploiting carelessness had won him victories, that was not all there was to Ricard. Nor was it all he relied upon.

Scattered across the highland fields, the Beringen Guild’s people watched from above while the enemy looked up from below.

Not only Ricard’s friends, but even Reinhart had put down his drink and come out to watch. Every eye was on Ricard and his opponent.

Everyone of renown in this world had to prove they possessed the skill to match their reputation.

All the more so for those striving to become the strongest. Even those who had already achieved it, even those looking beyond it, had to keep proving themselves until they died. That was a swordsman’s fate.

Without introducing himself, without a word, Ricard drew his sword. He had no interest in proving himself, but proof was not offered in words anyway.

His cloak fluttered gently in the breeze, and the sunset seeped into his blade, staining it red.