Chapter 53

Under the warm sunshine, the area around the Kaitz heights bustled with people as though a late-spring festival were underway. A roadside inn had a waterwheel driven by the stream, but it could not accommodate everyone, and many people were living in tents outside.

What had brought so many people here? The chance to watch a fight. In an age when even a criminal’s beheading was a spectacle, no one wanted to miss the rare sight of skilled fighters dueling. The crowds naturally attracted merchants who smelled money, and the gathering kept growing like a snowball.

Somewhere amid the festival-like bustle, someone had caught a goat, skinned it, and set it roasting whole. A large circle of people had gathered there to listen to a man’s story. The smell of roasting meat made their mouths water, but the tale the lone, noisy speaker was telling was no less appetizing.

“I saw it! I tell you, I saw it! It’s true! I was there that day! Red Cloak butchered dozens of men all by himself, and then a demon appeared!”

The storyteller spoke with an imploring air. He was so compelling that he might have been better off giving up adventuring and making a career of this instead. Some listened intently, while others took his words with a generous pinch of salt and merely grinned. A demon? What demon?

“What did this demon look like?” someone asked.

“Red Cloak isn’t all that tall, but his shadow grew as big as that—that! That mountain over there! What else could it have been but a demon?”

The angle and strength of a light could make a shadow stretch and grow, and someone already frightened and startled might well see it that way. That was especially true of people with no education or scientific knowledge.

“Never mind that. How did Oeberstein die? The Second Sword of the Three Swords clan. Tell us about that in detail.”

Someone else had spoken. He apparently had no interest in all this talk of demons.

But it had been dark, and the storyteller had not seen clearly, so he had little to say about it. Still, the curiosity in his listeners’ eyes filled him with a needless sense of obligation, and he rattled off whatever came to mind.

“At first I thought the two of them were dueling, but then someone else jumped in. Looked like he threw something wrong and hit his own man. So, well, Red Cloak killed them both. Three Swords, Three Shovels, whatever they’re called—never seen such cowards. Even I was taken aback. Huh? What’s this? Is that allowed? That’s how confused I was. And while we were all confused, they pushed us back and burned every last bit of our supplies. So losing that day was all those Three Shovels bastards’ fault.”

There was one error in his account. The thrown weapon had not struck an ally by mistake: Ricard had caught a throwing knife and immediately hurled it at Oeberstein. But the storyteller had been some distance away, and in the darkness it could have looked that way. He was not deliberately lying. He merely exaggerated a little and interpreted things as he pleased.

The problem was that people like him did not care whether their guild lost. After all, it wasn’t their own defeat. Astonishingly, that was genuinely how they thought. The storyteller was only a lower-grade adventurer. His guild’s success brought him no gain, and its ruin would cause him no particular loss. He had never intended to risk his life fighting. If defeat looked likely, he simply ran.

By contrast, those who cared whether their guild prospered or fell were at least middle-grade adventurers. There were also people whose livelihoods depended on their reputations and fame. For an established clan, rumors that its members were cowardly or incompetent could be fatal. Not only would it affect their ability to earn a living, but their pride—sometimes more important than their livelihood—would not allow it.

“That cannot be true.”

Someone flatly rejected the storyteller’s account. His cloak concealed exactly how he was dressed, but the protrusion at his waist suggested a sword.

“H-huh? Were you there that day too?”

“No. I simply know. And let this be a warning. I don’t care what you babble about, but you had better watch what you say about the clan. Unless you want your tongue cut out.”

Murderous eyes gleamed in the shadows beneath his hood. Frightened, the storyteller shut his mouth. The crowd’s attention naturally turned to the cloaked man, but he moved away and soon vanished among the people.

By the time other smells had overtaken the scent of roasting goat and it had faded into the distance, the man had reached the path up to the heights. A makeshift fence blocked it, with a long line of people waiting outside.

“The next duel will take place before the sun reaches the ridgeline! Anyone wishing to enter should do so now!”

A man shouted through a funnel like a town crier.

Admission was not free, of course. People had to pay, and the price rose every day. Those without money climbed the mountain opposite to watch from afar. Even now, people who had gone up early were peering down from above.

Looking at this, the guilds were a ridiculous lot themselves. Were they waging a war or not? Still, some of it was unavoidable if they were to keep riffraff like that storyteller out and maintain control of the site. Making money in the process was a bonus.

The hooded man ignored the long line and walked straight toward the fence. Heads turned, but something about him was unusual enough that no one tried to stop him. The man guarding the fence looked at him and asked, “Clan?”

“Three Swords. First Sword, Gramschwitz.”

“Hmm. There’s a waiting list for duels, though. Just watch for now.”

The adventurer opened the fence without charging admission. Middle- and upper-grade adventurers of proven ability—particularly those with a grudge against Red Cloak—were allowed straight through.

As Gramschwitz continued past the fence, the top of the defensive tower eventually came into view high above. Numerous scorch marks still remained around where he now stood. Adventurers were scattered about in groups of acquaintances, while wealthy spectators who had paid admission had already spread mats on the best spots. They were friends or couples.

Looking around, he spotted a few others who, like him, had come alone. Their blank faces and grim air made them seem dangerous even from a distance. Broadly speaking, the people here fell into three groups: those who had come for the spectacle, those who had come to kill Red Cloak and make a name for themselves, and those whose purpose was simply to kill him, regardless of fame. They all had one thing in common: the guild war was a secondary concern, and Red Cloak was the focus of their interest.

The rumor that Red Cloak had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire was already widespread. At first, opinions had differed. Was it true or false? If true, was it mere luck, or had the story been exaggerated?

But as time passed, people went beyond saying he had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire. Now they were suggesting that he deserved a place among them. Red Cloak Riki. The name carried ever greater weight. People were even calling him the greatest prodigy of all time: a genius who had killed one of the Nine Swords of the Empire at twelve and taken his place.

At first hearing, it sounded utterly unbelievable. Yet he was proving it. Not once, but again and again, over several days. Today marked one week since the first battle.

“Gramschwitz the Hawk’s Talon? Is that you?”

Someone addressed him from behind. He turned to find a middle-aged man with short hair and a brown beard, accompanied by three or four others.

“It is you. I’m Wolfgen, a Clan Master of the Hagen Guild. Here for revenge?”

A Clan Master oversaw several clans under the Guild Master. It was the same rank held by Lorenzo, whom Ricard had killed previously.

The Three Swords clan had exactly three members, all brothers: First Sword Gramschwitz the Hawk’s Talon, Second Sword Oeberstein the Hawk’s Wing, and Third Sword Ellich the Flying Blade. Their secret technique, in fact, was for the eldest and second brothers to draw an opponent’s attention while the youngest finished the target with throwing knives.

The method was so cunning and artful that no one subjected to it had survived. Consequently, it remained almost unknown, and they were famous for completing every commission they accepted. But two of the brothers had died in a single day, leaving only the eldest. The clan was effectively dissolved.

“...”

“If revenge is what you want, join us. You won’t stand a chance in a duel. Red Cloak is the real thing. Watch him later and give it some thought.”

With that, Wolfgen moved away. Gramschwitz remained silent. Time passed. The sun reached its zenith, then gradually sank toward the mountain ridge.

A group came down from the heights. Among them, a boy in a red cloak particularly caught Gramschwitz’s eye. He was blond, his face still full of youth. He was tall and well built for his age, but he had yet to finish growing, and his frame was not fully developed.

Conversation died away as Ricard appeared. The day’s main event was about to begin. There was one duel a day, sometimes two. Now, a week in, this would be the twelfth. Sixteen people had died, because Ricard accepted duels regardless of how many opponents he faced.

The results spoke for themselves. Young as he was, he had done enough to deserve a place among the Nine Swords of the Empire. More astonishing still was that he dueled in public. Most people fought privately, with as few witnesses as possible, for fear of exposing their secret techniques or allowing others to devise counters to their swordsmanship. Was he arrogant or bold? Watching would tell.

Ricard took off his cloak and handed it to a young swordswoman nearby. Carrying only a sword, he stepped into the dueling ground. His opponent was a bare-chested man armed with a round shield and a sword. People from the Beringen Guild and the alliance cleared a space for the duel and kept the spectators back.

In the warm sunlight, the bare-chested man rolled his shoulders and deliberately took deep breaths. Then he let out a series of spirited cries.

“Hup! Hup! Hah! Hah! Hah-hah!”

With his life on the line, he seemed to be trying to shed as much tension as possible. Ricard, meanwhile, appeared neither particularly agitated nor brimming with confidence. He simply drew his sword as he normally would. His opponent spread his sword and shield arms wide and shouted.

“I am Rischlen the Heart-Gouger of Moorheim! Today I will defeat you and become one of the Nine Swords of the Empire!”

His rough voice rang out loudly, but his tension remained plain to see. Ricard drew his sword, tossed the scabbard toward his companions, and answered, “Riki. Viola clan.”

With the introductions finished, the duel began. The spectators held their breath. Those who had already watched several duels felt no real suspense about the outcome. They merely looked forward to seeing what Ricard would do this time.

Rischlen approached very cautiously behind his shield, as though hunting a wild beast. His steps were hesitant, his feet barely leaving the ground so that he could react at any moment. Ricard stood still with his sword hanging at his side, yet Rischlen suddenly startled all on his own, hastily backed away, and then crept forward again. He repeated this five times.

“Huff! Huff! Huff!”

They had not exchanged a single blow, but Rischlen was sweating and breathing hard with tension.

Just as Ricard tilted his head, apparently growing bored, Rischlen charged fiercely behind his shield as though determined to seize that fleeting opening. Ricard darted aside, but Rischlen responded remarkably smoothly for someone so tense. He swung his shield in the direction Ricard had dodged and slashed with his sword.

WHOOSH! SWISH!

Ricard merely widened the distance and leaned back slightly to evade it. Rischlen hastily retreated again, raising his shield. Then something struck his head, and his consciousness cut out. Ricard had kicked him. Rischlen’s own shield had blocked his view, allowing Ricard to land a high kick from his blind spot.

CRACK!

Rischlen crumpled anticlimactically, hitting the ground headfirst. The single blow seemed to have knocked him out completely. He lay limp and motionless.

Ricard looked down at him for a moment, then simply turned and left. He had not swung his sword even once. He headed back up to the tower with the Beringen Guild members. With that, the day’s duel was over, and the paying spectators erupted in complaints.

“That’s it?”

“Give him a proper opponent!”

“You charge us three fucking silver coins for this?”

“At least behead the loser or hang him!”

But the guild alliance’s adventurers paid no attention to the complaints and drove the spectators out.

“Hey, mister. Say that to me.”

“N-no, that’s not what I meant. But honestly, this is too much.”

“Ladies! Gentlemen! The duel’s over! Out! Get out!”

The adventurers herded the civilians off the heights like sheep. The disgruntled spectators kept grumbling as they left, saying they had been swindled and that Hagen and the other guilds were worthless.

Rischlen finally regained consciousness, but he could not support himself, and his companions helped him up. As Gramschwitz quietly watched it all, Wolfgen approached again.

“Well?”

“... It’s too early to be certain, but he has no tics or habits. Nothing constrains him. There’s no trace of anyone’s teaching. Frankly, it’s hard to believe. To have reached that level at his age.”

He had a remarkable eye. Even from a duel so anticlimactic it barely qualified as a fight, he had discerned much of what mattered.

“Hmm...”

Wolfgen nodded his agreement, looking gloomy.

“All the worthwhile fighters who stepped forward to duel were dead three days ago. Now only men like that are left. The capable ones still here have no interest in dueling. What will you do? If you want a duel, I can arrange one as early as tomorrow.”

In other words, the only skilled fighters remaining were those who intended to kill Ricard for revenge rather than fame, by any means necessary. Whether they meant to restore their tarnished honor, settle a personal grudge, or turn the war in their favor, their individual aims were finally converging.

After a moment’s thought, Gramschwitz asked in a tone of partial agreement, “What’s the plan?”

“Come with me.”

Gramschwitz followed Wolfgen, the Hagen Guild’s Clan Master, to a secluded spot. Ricard watched them intently from above. The tower’s position was itself a kind of observation post, affording a view of the entire surrounding area.

Though the vast crowds made it difficult to tell people apart, Ricard’s uncanny eye easily distinguished the rabble from those who gave off a distinctly unsettling air. He knew it too. The skilled opponents worth killing in duels had all died about three days ago. The remaining capable fighters were plotting something.

He would have to think to work out what they were planning, but one thing was certain: the real fighters, those prepared to die, were about to make a serious move. He knew instinctively that he would have to stop them to hold the tower to the end.

He also knew that people with extraordinary resolve were harder to face than mere mastery of the sword. Against people like that, what he needed was not technique or skill so much as an equal resolve of his own.

But what did Ricard have in his hands now? He no longer possessed the burning resentment and rage toward the world, or the terrible self-loathing, of his previous life. Loyalty to the guild? He had no more of that than anyone else. All he had were Volka’s words, lodged in a corner of his heart.

[“I’ll clear some unused land and build a manor of our own. I’m going to live there with Delphi. Until we’re old and drop dead.”]

Yes. Someday, he would too.

Vague though it was, Ricard had a modest dream of his own. He pictured his friends, grown old and smiling. For that, he could risk his life.

Grudges and dreams crossed paths on the Kaitz heights, even if some saw it as nothing more than a spectacle. Who was right and who was wrong? Who was justified and who was at fault? There was no need to consider such things. Everyone in the world had a story, and a swordsman’s death, above all, left no room for excuses.

There was no need to grow sentimental, then. Even if he lost and died, he would hold neither resentment nor regret. If Ricard had a resolve, that was it.