Chapter 8

New buds dotted the bare branches like beads of dew. Before long, they would unfurl and blossom.

Someone had once said that simply avoiding rain and snow on a journey counted as good luck. It was not entirely wrong. Few things were as exhausting or as dangerous to one's health as getting caught in the rain on the road.

Only two days into his journey, Ricard had been lucky enough to avoid the rain. He was merely traveling through mountains infested with bandits.

The mornings and evenings were still cold, but beads of sweat gathered at his temples as he climbed the pass. The donkey-drawn carts rattled incessantly, and every so often, people had to push the carriage from behind.

Even sneaking past might not have been enough, yet here they were practically shouting their arrival to the bandits. They were moving so slowly that, if they did encounter any, their lives would be in danger unless they abandoned their possessions.

Heads drooped with exhaustion. The women carried bundles on their backs and babies in their arms. At least the older children could ride in the rattling carts or on the back of the carriage.

Tired though he was, Ricard kept his head up and studied the terrain around them. Danger had to be spotted well in advance.

Then a girl sitting on the back of a cart abruptly held something out to him. He had not even noticed her nearby. Looking closer, he saw a flower ring woven from plant stems.

"Is that for me?" Ricard asked.

The girl merely nodded.

Ricard himself was somewhat grubby after two days without a proper wash, but the girl's hair was a tangled mess, and streaks of grime ran down her face. She looked almost like a beggar. Yet the whites of her large eyes were as clean as a boiled egg, and her green irises shone like emeralds. They stood out all the more against her bedraggled appearance.

Boldly, she seized his hand and slipped the flower ring onto his finger.

"Now you and I are married," she said.

Ricard laughed in disbelief.

"But we don't even know each other's names."

"Then we can learn them now. What's yours?"

Just as Ricard was about to answer, Arno, walking beside him, abruptly interrupted.

"You filthy little girl! Do you know who you're talking to, spouting that nonsense?"

"I don't mind, Arno."

"No, Master. I'm a commoner myself, but you mustn't be kind to commoners. They'll get above themselves. Do you think marrying a noble is some fucking game? Know your place, you little bitch."

At the word "noble," everyone walking nearby turned to stare in surprise. The girl shrank back, cowed by Arno's scolding.

To their eyes, Ricard was a little dirty, but his clothes were fairly neat. His teeth were straight, his features unblemished, and he lacked the careworn, shadowed look of a commoner living a hard life. Now that they looked again, he really did seem like a noble family's young master. But what was someone like that doing here?

Along with their questions came fear. Crossing paths with the wrong noble could get a person flayed alive. His present traveling companions reacted particularly strongly.

Having lived in the countryside, Ricard knew little of how commoners generally regarded nobles. In his previous life, the only nobles he had met had been military commanders or enemies. In Stormhertz, commoner and noble children had all played together.

But life on an estate varied enormously from noble to noble, region to region. There were all sorts out there—perverts, lunatics, and worse.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

One of the women carrying a baby hurriedly yanked the girl away, so roughly that she nearly tumbled off the back of the cart. Ricard caught her by reflex.

"It's quite all right. Though I don't know why Arno is making such a fuss."

The woman looked dumbfounded at his courteous tone. The lord of her former home must have ruled with considerable terror.

"I'm telling you, they'll get above themselves..."

Arno grumbled disapprovingly. Ignoring him, Ricard spoke to the girl.

"Thank you for the ring."

"..."

Sadly, the once-bold girl could no longer muster an answer.

Whether because of Ricard or Arno, an uneasy mood settled over the procession. Then the carriage ahead caught on a protruding rock again, bringing everyone to a halt.

The carriage was loaded with the merchant's goods, yet for some reason, the ordinary men were pushing it from behind. The two armed men merely stood watching, their weight resting on one leg.

With the procession held up, Arno and Ricard paused to rest. That was when Ricard noticed people standing on the slope above them. Outwardly, they looked little different from the commoners traveling with him. They made no attempt to hide, simply standing there staring down.

"Those people are bandits, aren't they?"

"What?"

"Up there."

"Uh..."

At Ricard's words, Arno looked up the slope. He too saw a couple of people standing there watching them. No, not a couple. It looked more like four or five. Huh? More kept appearing. Wait a fucking minute.

They certainly seemed to be bandits. Not all of them, but several wore ill-fitting gambesons or helmets that were practically just balanced on their heads, the chinstraps unsecured. Anyone could see they were armed.

"Huh?"

The others soon noticed the bandits on the slope as well. At first, they were not even frightened. It was simply like coming across strangers on the road.

Then one of the people on the slope raised a bow as casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world, nocked an arrow, drew the string, and aimed at them.

"Whaaat?"

TWANG. THUNK.

At last, an arrow flew and buried itself in a nearby tree. Astonishingly, that single arrow stripped the ordinary men of all will to fight. No one had even been killed or injured.

"Eek!"

Some collapsed where they stood. Others hid beside the carriage. Still others abandoned their families and fled back the way they had come.

"Don't go that way!" Ricard shouted after them.

If the bandits were showing themselves this openly, it meant they had already blocked the escape route.

"Damn it!"

"Let's just go!"

"What are you talking about? I can't leave my goods!"

The merchant's party up ahead was faring little better. Both guards had drawn their swords, but neither seemed eager to risk his life fighting.

Meanwhile, several of the bandits watching from the slope came down with spears. Two approached one of the armed guards. All he did was stick his backside out awkwardly and swing his sword through empty air in an attempt to threaten them.

"S-stay back, you fucking bastards!"

The two bandits said nothing. They merely exchanged a glance, then thrust their spears simultaneously from either side. Their equipment might have been crude, but they had clearly done this more than once or twice.

Absurdly, the guard failed to block or dodge either thrust and let one spear sink into his belly.

CLANG.

"Fuuuck...! You son of a..."

His sword fell limply to the ground. All he could do was clutch the shaft buried in his stomach and force curses through his involuntarily clenched teeth.

One bandit quickly picked up the fallen sword and drove it through its owner's throat, killing him.

Seeing someone die so easily—an armed man they had at least been counting on for reassurance—sent the rest into outright panic.

"Aaaaaaah!"

A woman's piercing scream rang out. From that moment, everyone scattered in every direction. Faced with death, they forgot household possessions, merchandise, even their own children.

The carriage horse panicked and thrashed wildly too, but its harness and the trapped wheels kept it from fleeing. In an instant, the scene descended into chaos.

Yet Ricard simply stood watching the bandits, whether from fearlessness or shock, it was hard to tell.

Two remained on the slope, looking down. They were probably some sort of leaders. The other bandits began seizing people. Goods were fine, but in this day and age, people were the most valuable plunder of all. They could collect the possessions later. They went for the women first.

Then someone snatched Ricard's arm. It was Arno. Rather than running forward or back, he plunged off the road into the trackless terrain.

"Help!"

They had only just started fleeing when the young girl's voice struck Ricard's ears. The flower ring, still fresh, remained on his finger.

Ricard tore his arm free of Arno's grip. Startled, Arno turned and shouted, "Master!"

The adults had all fled. Not knowing what to do, the girl could only crouch beside the cart with her hands over her head. Ricard hurried to her.

"Can you stand?"

But she was too shocked and frightened to answer or move. She merely trembled.

Ricard smiled gently and made a joke to help her relax.

"I'm Riki. What's your name? We're married, aren't we? Shouldn't we at least know each other's names?"

Even in her terror, the girl stared at him as though entranced before finally managing an answer.

"... Daisy."

"Like the flower?"

"Yes."

Strangely, as her trembling subsided, everything else in the world seemed to fall away. All she could see was the boy's face. All she could hear was his voice.

Just then, the two men who appeared to be the bandits' leaders finally descended the slope and walked toward them. They were certain they had heard a little girl's voice nearby.

These two had somewhat better equipment than the other bandits. Their breastplates were made from multiple layers of leather, tough enough to stop most blades.

Perhaps that was why they approached the back of the cart without taking any precautions. Suddenly, a child darted out and collided with one of them.

The bandit reached out to grab the boy, but the child swiftly pulled away, slipping beyond his grasp. Then the man felt a burning in his lower belly. Looking down, he saw his guts spilling out through a gap in his armor.

"Huh...?"

He could not immediately comprehend what had happened. By the time he realized that the intestines falling to the ground were his own, an emptiness quite unlike hunger filled his abdomen. His legs gave way, and he slumped down.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

The bandit following behind him asked in confusion. His companion had apparently bumped into a boy who had suddenly appeared, then collapsed without strength.

His eyes widened as he finally noticed the entrails spilling from his companion's stomach. In a daze, the wounded man was gathering them up and stuffing them back into his belly.

The shocking sight held his attention. It was a fatal mistake.

Just as he was about to raise his head to see who had done this, Ricard's dagger sliced deep into his inner thigh through a gap in his armor.

"Aaaaagh!"

He collapsed with his eyes squeezed shut, not even understanding what had happened. Ridiculously, the pain and shock left him flailing at empty air, unable even to draw the sword at his waist.

Meanwhile, Ricard stepped behind the bandit gathering up his intestines, grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat. The dagger was so sharp that it slid smoothly even through the cartilage.

Indifferently, Ricard pushed the man's head forward. Blood poured from the bandit's throat as his face struck the ground, sinking into his own blood.

"Guh. Kgh. Grrrgh..."

The man with the slashed thigh lay thrashing on the ground, horrified as he watched his companion die. He tried to stand, but with the tendons in one thigh severed, his body could hardly obey. Again and again, he rose a little, only to collapse.

Ricard kicked him hard in the chest. Taking the dagger in a reverse grip, he raised it high above his head, then all but fell forward, driving it into the bandit's eye. It sank to the hilt in a single thrust.

THUD!

As the blade passed through his eye and reached his brain, the bandit's body flopped like a fish out of water.

Ricard wrenched the dagger free and rose, wiping the blood and grease on the bandit's clothes as he surveyed his surroundings. With everyone fleeing or giving chase, there was no one nearby.

Only Arno remained. He had stopped running and was sitting on the ground, staring at Ricard with his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

To him, Ricard looked inhumanly calm. He was not forcing himself to act unafraid. It was as though he lacked something essential to being human. Or perhaps he was possessed by an evil spirit and needed an exorcism. There was simply no way to see him as an ordinary ten-year-old boy.

Even harder to believe was the sight of Ricard calmly searching the bandit's clothes, then cutting off a finger to take a gold ring.

A mountain breeze cooled Arno's sweat, but he felt no pleasant relief. Terror chilled him to the bone, raising gooseflesh all over his body.

Ricard wiped a few flecks of blood from his face with his sleeve. Then, smiling as he always did, he spoke to Arno.

"I didn't expect them to be stupid enough to just walk up to me. That was lucky."

Hadn't Ricard said before they began climbing that luck was something you made? Meeting bandits on the road might have been bad luck, but being able to save the girl in time might have been good luck.

Good luck and bad, happiness and misery—they were like roads crossing one another. Or perhaps they were bound together like the two sides of a coin.

In the end, it was up to each person to choose which road to take at the crossroads, which side of the coin to look at.

So there was no need to despair merely because misfortune struck. It only meant that the moment to choose had arrived, and that choice was his to make. That was how Ricard saw it.

Perhaps that was why his comrades in his previous life had once given him that nickname.

Chapter 2 – Lucky Riki. End.