Chapter 77

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Time passed after Ricard completed his Special-Grade Commission and returned to Ehrenberg.

The withering grass grew drier still, every last leaf fell from the trees, and snow covered all that lay bare.

The wind lashed like a whip. In the harsh, merciless winter, every human seemed reduced to a miserable slave.

But the movements of the heavens were not indifferent to humans alone. Slowly and surely, they brought an end to winter itself.

Before long, rain fell instead of snow. Spring had come. The snow accumulated over winter gathered in the rivers like prisoners of war and was driven out to sea.

As the weather eased, people began to stir, little by little, like sprouting shoots. Once again, they found the strength to go on living. Such was life, and the living of it.

But a swordsman with nothing to do sharpens his sword. While others nurture life, he makes his living from death. Winter had hardly meant an uninterrupted rest.

Of course, there were ordinary tasks—clearing snow from the roof, splitting firewood, repairing and maintaining the building—but in the end, swinging a sword was what primarily put food on the table.

Even so, the Ehrenberg branch of the Beringen Adventurers' Guild was not an object of fear. If anything, people regarded it with familiarity and trust.

Advertising swift, precise, high-quality work, it also enjoyed an excellent reputation throughout the surrounding region. A commission completion rate close to one hundred percent, with a full refund in the event of failure.

In particular, Ricard, Ice, and Boribori, with Ricard at their head, were known as the Three Swordsmen of the Violets. They had no equals in the entire Siegfringer region.

Naturally, commissions specifically requesting those three commanded a high price.

Yet Ricard's life had not changed dramatically. Completing a Special-Grade Commission and becoming a swordsman with few equals did not mean living an extraordinary daily life.

Like everyone else, he lived by the seasons. In the broader scheme of things, nothing had changed. He simply carried on quietly, or savored everyday pleasures with his friends.

Was that really true? It did not seem so.

Outwardly, nothing might have changed, but deep in his heart lay a seed Armand had planted. Face yourself. Even if it tears your heart to pieces.

Ice smiled more often now. Volka told him to go back to his old self, arguing that a handsome man had no business having a pleasant personality too.

Ricard, on the other hand, spoke less and smiled less than before. He was not depressed. Nor was he in a bad mood.

Even he did not know why. Boribori said Riki must be growing up.

Well, the answer must ultimately lie within me, but I could not find it. Or perhaps I was unconsciously looking away.

In any case, rain always accompanied the changing seasons. Winter into spring, spring into summer.

Green barley and wheat fields spread across the outskirts of Ehrenberg, though the ears had yet to emerge fully. Little by little, they were ripening to yellow.

Around that time, documents arrived from guild headquarters. Ricard assumed they were the usual wanted notices, but one unusual document was tucked among them.

The Imperial Swordsmanship Tournament would be held in the autumn. The winner, it said, would receive an enormous cash prize, land, and the honor of joining the imperial household.

Joining the imperial household meant nothing other than betrothal to the thirty-second imperial princess.

Martellia von Nibelinger.

At the sight of that name, the seed planted in Ricard's heart slowly began to sprout.

"Whaaat? Marie was an imperial princess?"

Boribori's eyes went wide as he rode along the embankment on the donkey listed as the clan's number-one asset.

Ricard, who had grown considerably taller, walked beside him. The two were returning to the branch after completing a commission together.

"You didn't know? You were there too, weren't you?"

"When?"

"At graduation."

"Oh, then? But I was too far away to hear what you were saying."

"Well, that's how it is."

"Then you're entering the tournament, right, Riki?"

"... I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? Poor Marie."

An ordinary commoner would never have felt sorry for an imperial princess. But Boribori had watched her anguish firsthand. He was different.

"Maybe this is where it ends."

"Where what ends? You and Marie?"

"Yeah."

"You really can be heartless, Riki. I know how stubborn you are, but this isn't right. You'll only make both yourself and Marie miserable."

"Life is miserable to begin with. You get a brief moment of happiness every now and then. Struggling to be happy only makes you more miserable."

"No. I don't think so. Look at me. Do I seem miserable? Or do I seem happy?"

Having endured a past more miserable than anyone's, Boribori understood very well that happiness and unhappiness depended on one's state of mind.

"You just don't think."

"W-what? That's cruel, Riki. I'll have you know I've studied a lot."

Boribori did, in fact, read a great deal and had studied quite extensively. He was actually more knowledgeable than Ricard.

"So you're not going?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Hmm, I see. You need a little push."

"Hahaha! Do I look like someone you can push around? Me?"

"It won't just be me. If I tell the others, they'll all tell you to go."

"... Was everyone that interested in me and Marie?"

"Of course. You make a good couple. The way I see it, Marie is like a female Riki. You're incredibly alike."

"What? A female Riki?"

"Yes. She doesn't bully the weak, but she stands up to the strong. She seems a little naive, but she's actually clever. She's warmhearted, yet coolheaded when she needs to be. And above all, you're brave, but Marie is even braver."

"..."

Was that how they looked to other people? Ricard found himself thinking about Marie anew. The image of her shy smile hovered before his eyes.

"Besides, isn't this awful? A trophy for the winner? Is Marie a thing? You know she doesn't deserve to be treated like that, Riki."

In truth, giving one's daughter to an accomplished wanderer and taking him as a son-in-law was an old tradition dating back to ancient tribal societies. It was a way to protect one's family, and beyond that, the village.

The tradition had survived, and princesses were sometimes married off to the winners of jousting tournaments.

For a knight, it was an opportunity to rise in status; for a king, a means of acquiring martial strength. It was not simply romance. There were mutual interests at work. Perhaps it was a characteristic of warrior culture.

Thus, for the imperial household to hold a swordsmanship tournament and betroth an imperial princess to the winner was unconventional, but perfectly plausible.

People were not fools, however. They knew the Emperor was a philanderer with countless bastards, merely tossing them a princess far down the ranks as though doing them a favor. The thirty-second, no less.

Even so, it was undeniably an honor. Marie's pedigree was impeccable even on her mother's side, and the land included in the prize was appealing.

Of course, Ricard cared nothing for any of that. Boribori's words had simply struck him like a hammer to the head.

Why should Marie be treated that way? The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

"You're right, Bori. I hadn't thought that far."

"Hehe, see? I do think!"

Smiling, Ricard gave Boribori's hair a vigorous, affectionate ruffle.

"Yes. You're better than me now."

Boribori, whom Ricard had practically picked up off the street and raised, could now think for himself and even offer Ricard counsel and advice.

He was also a swordsman of genuine renown throughout the north-central Empire. Though, unintentionally, he had also acquired a reputation as a crazed dismemberer.

When they returned, the branch was bustling with adventurers. It was the most successful branch in the Siegfringer region, and its star adventurers—Ricard, Ice, and Boribori—drew plenty of people.

Another of Volka's challenges was separating the wheat from the chaff when recruiting for the Viola clan, while also managing the other clans. He was now both branch head and Clan Master.

Without intending to be, Ricard was somewhat closed off in his relationships. He was not unfriendly, but he rarely had meaningful conversations with anyone besides his friends.

As a result, he often encountered members of his own Viola clan whose names he did not know, or whom he had never seen before. He merely accepted it and moved on.

Surprisingly many people followed Boribori. He was kind and freely shared his swordsmanship knowledge and combat experience.

Ricard, by contrast, had an unapproachable air that kept people from coming near him.

Ice, though better than before, was still just as cold toward strangers, so he rarely had anyone around him either.

And so life at the Ehrenberg branch continued smoothly enough. The world overflowed with problems, which meant commissions never stopped coming. It was a business that could hardly fail.

At any rate, Ricard reported to Volka and told him about the swordsmanship tournament and Marie. His friends responded with one voice.

"Why aren't you going?"

Just as Boribori had predicted, Ricard was pushed into going—practically thrown out.

Still bewildered, he gathered his equipment and belongings and boarded a merchant ship. Looking back at Ehrenberg from the departing vessel, he saw a small city brimming with life.

But the ship was heading into greater waters. Waters so turbulent that a single mistake could mean death.

The Imperial Swordsmanship Tournament was to be held in autumn. Though autumn had yet to arrive, Nibelungen was already packed with visitors from all over the Empire. Most of those visitors were swordsmen.

As a result, incidents broke out every day. Fistfights were routine, and outside taverns, duels were constantly being fought over pride more precious than life.

Imperial knights were sent to keep order, but in practice they did little policing.

It was simply tidier to let one side die. Breaking up a fight only for the combatants to cause trouble elsewhere was more of a headache.

So the knights and soldiers limited themselves to protecting the locals. Outsiders effectively received no protection and were left to survive on their own.

Only the undertakers, priests, and grave robbers enjoyed an unexpected boom. Meanwhile, more and more outsiders kept pouring in, beyond what the city could accommodate.

That was the place Ricard stepped into when he disembarked. He had only his modest luggage, a meteoric-iron sword, and a dagger tucked inside his clothes.

Surveying the city in the river breeze, he found it beautiful and full of old-world charm. A forest stood across the river, and the paved roads were broad.

With no city walls, the wind moved freely. There were even water and sewer pipes, sparing the city the usual urban stench.

The Emperor's castle stood on a hill and was smaller than he had expected. The imperial family, however, actually lived in a palace some distance from the city.

They had lived in the castle in earlier times, but it was hardly comfortable as a residence. These days, it functioned essentially as a barracks.

Ricard started by strolling down the main thoroughfare. As might be expected of the imperial capital, there seemed to be plenty of wealthy residents; carriages passed from time to time. Consequently, horse dung dotted the road.

Someone was collecting it in a sack—not a street cleaner, but a man intending to sell it as fertilizer. In any case, that helped keep the city reasonably pleasant.

Once he had a rough sense of the city's layout, Ricard went looking for lodgings. The moment he left the main road, however, he felt eyes on him from every direction.

They were not quite the looks of thieves coveting his money and equipment. They were simply challenging stares.

There was one way to survive a situation like this unscathed: walk with your eyes lowered.

Ricard did no such thing. He merely stared back blankly. What? What are you going to do about it?

Fortunately, the locals did not seem particularly bothered. It was easy to tell locals from outsiders at a glance, whether by their clothes or some subtle air about them.

Ricard approached a man moving oak barrels.

"Excuse me. Could you tell me where I can find a decent inn?"

"An inn? They're probably all full."

"Pardon?"

"The famous swordsmen have taken all the expensive inns near the imperial palace. As for the rest, well, I'm sure people have already paid extra to squeeze in. If you head that way out of the city, you'll find a tent camp, but I'll warn you now: it's dangerous. With blades coming out all the time, how could anyone get a proper night's sleep?"

The people of the imperial capital, Nibelungen, were fairly kind. But kindness could not solve every problem.

"Ah... I see. Thank you."

"Fortune in battle to you. I hope you do well."

Ricard bid the citizen farewell and turned away.

This was quite a predicament. Where was he supposed to go? Should he take a ship back and return when the tournament was due to begin?

Since he was here, he decided he might as well register. He approached an imperial knight standing by the roadside, trading idle jokes with some soldiers. The man wore a white surcoat over chain mail.

"Good day, sir."

The knight, who had been talking with a lazy grin, turned toward Ricard, his expression hardening.

"I'd like to register for the tournament. Where should I go?"

The knight looked him up and down, then jerked his chin without a word toward the castle on the hill.

Ricard was about to thank him and leave when the knight asked,

"What's your name? You look rather young."

"Riki. I'm an adventurer."

"... Riki? Surely you don't mean Red Cloak Riki?"

"That seems to be what they call me."

The knight looked a little surprised, then grinned.

"An honor to meet you in person. Follow me."

He set off toward the imperial palace with Ricard.

"We've been ordered to make separate arrangements for distinguished guests. You should have sent word ahead."

"Really? I didn't know."

"Best use the palace only for sleeping at night. Hang around during the day, and you might find yourself pestered by that fucker's offspring."

"Th-that fucker's offspring?"

The sudden profanity caught Ricard off guard. An ominous feeling came over him.

"You've heard the rumors, surely? About our debauched Emperor. Even a bastard like him has a proper wife. The Empress's children are the fuckers I'm talking about."

Ricard could hardly believe his ears. Wh-what was this man saying? By those fuckers, did he mean the imperial princes?

The knight did not appear to possess the slightest loyalty to the Emperor or the imperial household. He was plainly doing this job for the money.

There was a limit to how pathetic a man could be. The person who had diminished the Emperor's authority was none other than the Emperor himself. Who else was there to blame?

He had spent not one or two years but decades doing nothing but disgraceful things. No wonder his subordinates thought, Ugh, that idiot.

"Be careful of the Empress Dowager. Better yet, stay out of sight of the entire imperial family. Nothing good comes of getting mixed up with them. If you do win, sell your fief immediately, take the money, and leave. That's the best bargain, if you ask me. Imperial princess or not, what claim to succession could the thirty-second possibly have? They'll only use it as an excuse to drag you from one battlefield to another."

It was very, very cynical advice.

"..."

Ricard was speechless. He could not think of anything to say in reply. Perhaps that was why Marie was the only person on his mind.

Wasn't the Emperor supposed to stand at the pinnacle of humanity? Just what sort of wretched family was this imperial household?