Chapter 54

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In any fight, the greatest difficulty of defending was the lack of initiative. Never knowing when the enemy might attack kept you on edge, and that was far more mentally exhausting than one might expect.

Ricard and his friends had no worries about food, but they had no walls they could rely on, either. There were not even trenches or stakes around the defensive tower. They lacked the most basic defenses.

Adventurers would sooner die than pick up a shovel. That was the biggest difference between them and a regular army. Real soldiers spent far more time holding shovels and pickaxes than weapons.

What was more, this was the third day since Volka and Delphi had left, and there was still no sign of their return. Worrying about his friends was another drain on his mental strength.

Everyone, not just Ricard, knew a serious attack was imminent. But when?

Below the heights, the festive mood continued day after day. It was rare for so many people to gather outside their village communities, and that alone seemed enough to excite them and lift their spirits.

Even after nightfall, they lit great fires, roasted meat, sang, and danced. Bards played their lutes, and jesters performed their antics. From above, everything below was plainly visible—including the men and women making love in secluded spots.

“Ha! You horny bastards! Have some of this!”

Apparently offended by the sight of lovemaking, members of the Widowmakers clan hurled excrement and stones at the couples. When the startled lovers hastily pulled their clothes into place and fled, the men snickered in amusement.

Reinhart, meanwhile, guzzled liquor and enjoyed the festive atmosphere. Ricard, Boribori, and Marie took turns guarding the suspension bridge, one at a time.

A round full moon hung in the sky, making this night brighter than most. With a little exaggeration, truly bright moonlight could make it seem almost like morning.

In the pleasantly cool air beneath that eerily bright moon, Ricard warmed himself beside a campfire with Marie.

But Marie kept edging closer, and Ricard discreetly moved away. She closed the gap again, and he shifted away again. This happened several times.

He was not entirely oblivious. By now, he had some idea of how she felt. Once or twice was one thing, but he could not have her doing this constantly.

As he continued deliberately avoiding her, Marie spoke, looking a little embarrassed.

“Um, Riki...”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you see...”

“We can’t let our guard down, Marie. We’re not here to have fun.”

Ricard was deliberately cold. Marie, who had been about to say something, shut her mouth and lowered her head.

A night with moonlight this bright ought to have felt special. Instead, it only felt cruel. Rather than soothing her heart, the light seemed to lay it bare.

If she had known this would happen, she would not have moved so close. She should never have tried to say anything. Such little things, yet they filled her with deep regret.

But just as Ricard had warned, something ominous really did happen.

Dozens of people, each carrying a torch, began climbing toward the defensive tower. Ricard sprang to his feet, startling Marie out of her downcast posture. A moment later, she too sensed that something was wrong.

“Hey!”

Ricard shouted toward the Widowmakers. He meant for them to stop amusing themselves watching the people below the cliff and keep a proper lookout.

At first they looked puzzled, but the sight of the dozens of torches brought them sharply to their senses. What was that?

The people approaching the tower were not civilians. Every one of them had a weapon at their waist. They were adventurers.

Strangely, they neither drew their weapons nor spoke, as though performing some religious ceremony. They simply stood at a distance. Why were they doing that? What were they up to?

Then, without warning, the man guarding the narrow approach to the tower screamed in a spray of blood.

“Aagh!”

Ricard’s head snapped around. Armed men were breaking through the entrance and racing uphill. Where on earth had they been hiding? The attack had begun.

Drawing his sword, Ricard told Marie,

“Stay with Bori. Cross the bridge if things go wrong.”

“R-Riki, what about you?”

Without answering, he ran toward the entrance. But the man who had killed the sentry took one look at him and bolted in another direction.

Five or six men advanced on Ricard shoulder to shoulder, each gripping a man-sized shield in both hands.

He hesitated. They had come prepared.

There was little even Ricard could do against an advancing shield wall. He tried to reposition quickly, but these attackers were not about to let him.

The shield wall surged toward him. In a flash, he realized they meant to shove him straight off the cliff.

All the while, the dozens of torchbearers merely watched without joining the fight.

They had been told they did not have to fight; they could join in on their own when victory looked likely. These lower-grade men were disobedient and useless anyway, so they might as well serve as a distraction.

And they had succeeded in drawing attention. Whoever had given the orders seemed quite clever.

But the attackers’ oversized shields blocked their view, and their tightly packed formation made turning difficult.

One of them peered over his shield. With uncanny speed, Ricard swung his sword. With a sharp crack, the man’s skull was cleanly sliced away from the eyes upward.

The remaining shield-bearers blindly kept shoving forward, catching an unfortunate Widowmakers member in their path. Unable to do anything to stop them, he was pushed straight off the cliff.

“Aaaaaaah!”

He flailed in midair as he fell toward the revelers gathered around the large fire below. One unlucky person was struck by his falling body. Both died instantly.

CRUNCH!

Shattered bones protruded through flesh in several places. The festive scene became pandemonium in an instant.

“Aieeeee!”

The clifftop was no less chaotic. Reinhart, who had noticed the attack while drinking, brought his enormous club down on the enemies, shields and all.

“You sons of bitches! Just as I was getting restless!”

CRASH!

His blows were so heavy that they simply smashed the shields apart. When an enemy came within reach, he grabbed at whatever he could and tore at the man’s face.

With the troublesome shield-bearers neutralized, Ricard quickly scanned the battlefield.

The torchbearers were hesitating, unsure whether to join in, while the enemies of middle grade and above began drawing their weapons and fighting in earnest.

First, Ricard shouted at the lower-grade adventurers holding the torches.

“Come any closer and you die!”

Hearing that threat from Ricard of all people made them falter. At the same time, the enemies of middle grade and above turned on him together.

CLANG! THUD! CLINK!

At last Ricard swung his sword, and moonlight flashed brilliantly along its blade. As ever, he shattered enemy swords, cut throats, and severed arms.

His characteristically economical, lethal swordsmanship felled two men, each with a single stroke.

At the sight of that fearsome swordsmanship they knew so well, someone shouted,

“Fall back! Bring the nets! Drive him toward the cliff!”

Ricard recognized the bastard as their leader. Having someone who knew how to command a group made them an infuriating nuisance.

Wolfgen, Clan Master of the Hagen Guild, had kept well clear of Ricard from the outset as he directed the battle. Under his orders, the adventurers of middle grade and above were managing to corner Ricard, even if they fell short of a trained army.

They hurled throwing weapons from afar and cast nets whenever they saw an opening, never engaging him directly. Like a tiger being hunted, Ricard could do nothing but keep moving and dodging.

They had been outnumbered from the beginning. Now, in these circumstances, the terrain worked against him too.

Then he instinctively realized something. These men had come to kill him, not to capture the tower.

The moment he understood that, he decided their only chance lay in luring the enemy away. Almost simultaneously, he leaped down the rise and ran straight at the lower-grade adventurers with the torches.

“Whoa!”

Startled, the lower-grade adventurers scrambled out of his way.

“What are you doing, you bastards? Stop him!”

Wolfgen shouted in disbelief, beside himself with fury. The lower-grade adventurers merely nursed their resentment. Hadn’t he said they didn’t have to fight?

Ricard raced down the heights. The upper-grade adventurers, who had been waiting to deliver the finishing blow, hurried after him.

His tactical judgment proved correct. A gaping hole opened in the enemy force around the tower, and the Widowmakers began to counterattack.

His force had suddenly split in two, and all the upper-grade adventurers—its core strength—had gone after Ricard. For a moment, even Wolfgen panicked. How had this happened? They had nearly won!

The lower-grade adventurers still stood watching blankly with their torches. What was this? It looked as though they were losing. They would only have endangered themselves by joining in. Whew, what a relief.

The upper-grade adventurers, for their part, wanted Ricard dead to settle personal grudges or restore their clans’ tarnished honor. They had never cared about taking the tower.

Only the unfortunate middle-grade adventurers were caught in the middle, unable to advance or retreat. And just then, Boribori finished dealing with the situation at the suspension bridge and joined the fighting in earnest. Middle-grade adventurers stood no chance against him.

“Fuuuck...”

Wolfgen stood in stunned despair, swearing. Then Boribori’s sword swung toward him, and his consciousness swiftly went dark.

Meanwhile, Ricard ran down the heights, drawing the upper-grade adventurers after him, then turned toward an area clear of civilians and kept running.

He was so breathless his vision reeled. Some ten swordsmen pursued him relentlessly, spreading out to surround him. When one came close, he broke off his run to counterattack.

But upper-grade adventurers had reflexes and athletic abilities approaching the limits of humanity. They would not easily let him close the distance.

They truly seemed determined tonight. Abandoning any pretense of an honorable duel, they concentrated on surrounding him while staying just on the edge of his reach.

Their faces plainly showed their resolve to kill him by any means necessary. Sweat beaded on Ricard’s face and theirs alike, their eyes burning with utter focus as they fought to preserve their concentration.

Ricard could tell at a glance. They meant to take him with them, even if they suffered fatal wounds themselves. And there were not merely one or two such men, but ten.

Was it finally time to die? Was this as far as he went? The thought crossed his mind. But he was not afraid. That would simply be that.

Then, with everyone stretched as taut as a drawn thread, someone suddenly addressed Ricard in a calm voice. It was Gramschwitz.

“Do you have brothers? Losing a brother is like losing a limb. The pain and grief, I mean.”

Ricard did not know who he was, but he had siblings too, and understood. He could imagine the depth of the man’s hatred for him.

But this was no time for mutual understanding. Bonds forged from hatred could only be severed by the sword.

“Hya!”

Someone shouted behind him. Rather than looking back, Ricard charged the enemy before him. With a man attacking from behind, the one in front would have to attack too if they wanted to coordinate.

Sure enough, this time the man before him stopped measuring his distance and thrust his sword at Ricard, prepared to die. The men on either side attacked a fraction later.

Ricard twisted his upper body halfway around, bent his knees deeply, and raised his arms to bring the flat of his blade against his body. From that position, he pulled hard on his sword, sending it rotating horizontally to knock several blades aside at once.

CLAAANG!

That created a priceless opening. Gritting his teeth, Ricard swung again.

WHOOSH! THWACK!

THUD.

When he deflected their combined attacks and cut halfway through one man’s waist, the others trembled, though each ranked among the strongest in his own region.

“Y-you monster...!”

Even swordsmen prepared for death were overwhelmed.

But once Ricard seized an opportunity, he never relinquished it. He knew how to maintain his momentum. He swiftly closed on the men whose footwork had faltered for an instant, cutting left and right and striking downward in a flawless display of offense and defense.

CLANG! CLANK! THUD!

This was no mere swordplay, but art. If there was only one true swordsmanship in the world, surely this was it.

Two men fell, spraying blood. Blood streamed from Ricard’s upper arm as well.

As death’s shadow fell over him, Ricard felt ever more exhilarated. He pressed his enemies fiercely, just like the Nameless.

He was like a rushing torrent, like a raging blaze. Yet at the same time, precise and delicate.

The swordsmen facing him also lived and died by the sword, and they were entranced. How could it be so beautiful?

But this could only end with his death, or with all of theirs. Three of the ten had fallen in an instant. The others widened the distance again and regrouped, breathing in sharp bursts as they tried to steady themselves.

Their encirclement was no longer complete, however. Ricard broke through a gap and raced across the heights once more. Naturally, they pursued him.

That was when it happened.

“Riki!”

Startled, Ricard looked uphill. Marie was running toward him. His eyes went wide at the sight. What? Why?

The seven remaining swordsmen were also taken aback by the new arrival. Still, they apparently were not villains like the Ehrenberg Five; it did not immediately occur to them to take Marie hostage. Not that she would have let them capture her without a fight.

Ricard kept running and eventually met her halfway as she came down the slope. Neither said a word. They simply ran side by side, looking in the same direction. In a way, the situation was utterly absurd.

Then, as they rounded the mountainside, a field of early-blooming buckwheat spread out before them. It looked as though a dusting of snow had fallen. The light of the round full moon settled languidly over it, creating a breathtaking sight.

Ricard and Marie ran through the flowers. For an instant, they ran without knowing how they had ended up here, or why they even had to run. The swishing of the waist-high plants brushing against them tickled their ears.

But they could not run for long. A precipice lay ahead.

Why was it, then—perhaps because of the strange madness mingled with the moonlight—that the fleeting thought came to them that it might be all right to take each other’s hand and leap?

Ricard stopped and turned. The seven swordsmen were standing in the buckwheat field too. His meteoric-iron sword, Marie’s mithril sword, and seven other blades reflected the moonlight.

Everyone was panting heavily. Ricard spoke.

“I’ll break right. Marie, put some distance between us. They’ll come after me. Join the fight then.”

Even now, he was making tactical decisions.

“No, I...”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say this if I don’t say it now.”

Ricard turned to her, and she looked at him. Sweat-soaked blond hair clung to both their faces.

His mysterious eyes, shifting between green and brown, and her jewel-blue eyes were incomparably beautiful. They stood close enough that either could have leaned in for a kiss.

After their earlier conversation, Marie had feared it would be their last. But now she could say it. Her heart pounded.

“I think I’m in love with you...”\n“...”

It was hardly the right time for a confession. Yet the moonlit buckwheat field was so beautiful that she wondered when else she could reveal these pure feelings, the first she had ever known.

Ricard was silent for a while. Then he smiled bitterly and spoke gently.

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe in love. But I could die for you.”

The boy could understand his enemies’ hatred, but not the girl’s pure love. No—to be precise, he could not accept it.

Because he still believed love was another name for the cruelest curse, the seed of misery. Hatred and love resembled each other.

For a moment, Marie’s mind went blank. Wait, what did that mean? Had she just been rejected?

Without another word, Ricard hurled himself to the right. As he had expected, the enemies moved after him, though they remained wary of Marie.

The plants rustled as they brushed through them. Then Ricard and the seven swordsmen clashed.

Metal rang intermittently through the moonlit night, and red blood spattered the snow-white buckwheat flowers.

One or two at a time, men fell, making the flower field their grave. Gramschwitz fell too. One by one, their grudges fell with them, like fading blossoms.

To Marie, Ricard had never looked more beautiful, more desperate, or more magnificent than he did wielding his sword now. The bastard...

But as wounds multiplied across his body, she found herself running to him in a half-daze, fighting for his sake.

What sort of situation was this? A boy and girl whose love had just come to grief were fighting with their lives in each other’s hands. Yet entrusting someone with your life was something you could only do with the person you trusted most.

Not one of the swordsmen fled, even to the last man. In the end, all of them lay fallen in the buckwheat field.

But bodies were not the only things that had fallen there. Unfulfilled vengeance and a rejected first love lay fallen alongside them.

The round full moon seemed to hold its breath as it watched the two of them. They, too, were silent.

The quiet moonlight, the modest buckwheat flowers, the blood and sweat flowing down the boy’s body, and a single tear running down the girl’s cheek spoke in their place.

Chapter 10 — Unfulfilled Feelings. End.