The Warrior’s Ballad

Chapter 53

An inn powered by a waterwheel, turned by the flow of the valley stream, stood by the roadside. Since it couldn’t accommodate everyone, many people had set up tents outside to stay.

The reason why so many people had gathered here was to watch fights.

In an era when even public executions of criminals were treated as spectacle, no one would want to miss the rare sight of a duel between skilled fighters.

As people gathered, merchants who smelled money naturally followed, and, like a snowball rolling down a hill, even more people kept flocking to the area.

In one spot, which could be mistaken for a festival ground, someone had apparently brought a goat, skinned it, and was roasting it as a whole barbecue. A large crowd gathered around, listening to someone’s story.

The smell of roasting meat made their mouths water, and the loud story being told was equally enticing.

“I saw it! I really did! It’s true! I was there that day! When Red Cloak slaughtered dozens all by himself, it was like a demon had appeared!”

The storyteller spoke with conviction. His persuasiveness was so strong that he might have been better off switching careers to this instead of being an adventurer.

Some people listened to his words intently, while others half-dismissed them, chuckling. Demon? What demon?

“What did this demon look like?”

Someone asked.

“Red Cloak isn’t that tall, but his shadow, I swear—it grew as big as that mountain over there! If that’s not a demon, what is it?!”

Depending on the angle and intensity of the light, shadows could stretch long and appear large. It’s easy to perceive things like that if one is frightened and caught off guard.

Especially for people without scientific knowledge or formal education, such a sight could only seem supernatural.

“Anyway, how did Eberstein die? I mean the Second Sword of the Three Swords Clan. Tell us more about that.”

Another person asked, clearly uninterested in the talk of demons and such.

However, the storyteller hadn’t seen it clearly due to the darkness and didn’t have much to say on the matter.

But, feeling a sense of obligation from the curious gazes of the people around him, he started rambling on.

“I thought it was just a duel between the two of them, but someone else jumped in midway. And they seemed to throw something wrong and hit their own ally. So, well, Red Cloak ended up killing them both. Those Three Swords or whatever they’re called were nothing but cowards. I was shocked too, you know? I was like, ‘Huh? Is this really happening?’ I got all confused. And in that confusion, we got pushed back and all our supplies got burned! So, really, we lost that day all because of those Three Swords Clan bastards.”

There was one thing the storyteller got wrong. It wasn’t a mistaken throw that hit their own ally; it was Ricardt who had caught the thrown dagger mid-air and immediately hurled it at Eberstein.

However, he had been some distance away at the time, and it was dark, so he could have seen it that way. He wasn’t lying on purpose—just exaggerating and interpreting things in his own way.

The problem was that people like him didn’t care whether the Guild won or lost. Why? Because it didn’t affect them personally. And, remarkably, that’s exactly how they thought.

The storyteller was nothing more than a low-ranked adventurer, who wouldn’t gain anything if the Guild succeeded nor suffer a loss if it failed.

He had no intention of risking his life in a fight, and if it seemed like they were going to lose, he would simply flee.

On the other hand, those for whom the rise or fall of the Guild mattered were at least intermediate-level adventurers or higher.

Moreover, there were people whose reputations and fame were their livelihoods. For known clans, if rumors spread that they were cowards or incompetent, it could be fatal.

Not only would it affect their ability to make a living, but sometimes, pride, something more important than mere sustenance, wouldn’t allow it.

“That can’t be true.”

Someone sharply denied the storyteller’s words. Dressed in a cloak, it was hard to discern his exact appearance, but the bulge at his waist suggested he was armed with a sword.

“Uh, huh? Were you there that day too?”

“No. I just know. And let me give you a warning. I don’t care what nonsense you’re spouting, but you’d better watch what you say about the clan. Unless you want your tongue cut out.”

A murderous glint flickered in his eyes from beneath the shadow of his hood. The storyteller, taken aback, fell silent.

Naturally, people’s gazes turned toward the cloaked man, but he quickly left the spot and soon disappeared into the crowd.

The smell of roasting goat was gradually overtaken by other odors and grew fainter as he reached the path leading up to the highlands.

However, that path was blocked off by a makeshift fence, with people lined up in a long queue.

“The next duel will take place before the sun sets over the ridge! If you want to enter, do so now!”

A man shouted through a funnel-like megaphone, his voice echoing like a town crier’s.

Of course, it wasn’t free to enter; they had to pay. And the admission fee was getting more expensive by the day.

Those without money climbed the mountain on the opposite side to watch from a distance. Even now, people who had gone up early were peeking down from above.

Seeing this, it was clear that the Guild was no less shameless. Were they trying to wage war or put on a show?

But there was an unavoidable aspect to this arrangement, as it allowed them to filter out riffraff like the storyteller from before and maintain control over the scene. Plus, it was a nice way to make some extra money.

The man in the cloak and hood ignored the long line and walked straight toward the fence. People naturally watched him, but his unusual air kept anyone from trying to stop him.

The person guarding the fence noticed him and asked.

“Are you with a clan?”

“Three Swords Clan. First Sword, Gramschvitz.”

“Hmm. But there’s a duel in order, so you’ll just have to wait and see.”

The adventurer guarding the fence let him pass without charging an entrance fee. Those with verified skills, especially those who held a grudge against Red Cloak, were allowed to enter freely.

After passing through the fence and walking for a while, he could see the top of a watchtower above the highlands. The area around him still bore many scorch marks from recent battles.

Adventurers gathered in groups with people they knew, scattered around here and there, while the wealthy spectators who had paid for entry had already spread out mats and taken the best spots. They were friends or couples.

Gramschvitz looked around and noticed that there were a few people like himself who had come alone. Their serious, expressionless faces and intense atmosphere made them look dangerous even from a distance.

The people seemed to fall into three main categories: those who had come just to watch the spectacle, those who had come to kill Red Cloak and make a name for themselves, and finally, those who had come solely to kill Red Cloak, with fame being a secondary concern.

The common thread among all of them was that the Guild War was of little importance, and their interest centered solely on Red Cloak.

The rumor that Red Cloak had killed one of the Empire’s Nine Swords had already spread widely.

Initially, opinions were divided. Was the rumor true or false? If it was true, was it merely luck, or had it been exaggerated?

But as time passed, people began to say that not only had he indeed killed one of the Empire’s Nine Swords, but that he might even be worthy of taking one of those esteemed positions himself.

Red Cloak, Ricky. His name was gaining weight with each passing day. Moreover, he was now being hailed as the greatest genius of all time. The genius who, at the age of twelve, killed one of the Empire’s Nine Swords and took that position.

To a casual listener, it sounded unbelievable. Yet he was proving it, not just once, but multiple times over the past few days. Today marked a week since the first battle had taken place.

“Hawk Claw Gramschvitz? Is that you?”

Someone called out from behind. When Gramschvitz turned around, he saw a middle-aged man with short hair and a brown beard, accompanied by three or four others.

“So it’s you. I am Wolfgang, Clan Master of the Heigen Guild. Are you here for revenge?”

A Clan Master was someone who managed multiple clans under the Guild Master, much like Lorenz, whom Ricardt had previously killed.

The Three Swords Clan had only three members, who were all brothers: First Sword, Hawk Claw Gramschvitz, Second Sword, Hawk Wing Eberstein, and Third Sword, Hidden Blade Elrich.

Their unique technique involved the two older brothers drawing attention while the youngest would finish off the opponent with throwing daggers. This method was almost like a secret art known only to them.

Their tactic was so clever and refined that no one who faced it had ever survived. Because of this, the technique was little known, and they had a reputation for always succeeding in their assignments.

However, with two brothers killed overnight, only the eldest remained. With this, the clan was essentially disbanded.

“……”

“If revenge is your goal, join us. You won’t have a chance in a duel. Red Cloak is the real deal. Watch him later, and think about it.”

With that, Wolfgang moved away. Gramschvitz remained silent.

As time passed, the sun reached its peak and then slowly began to sink, drawing closer to the mountain ridge.

A group of people descended from the highlands. Among them, a boy in a red cloak caught Gramschvitz’s eye. He had a young face filled with an air of youth and innocence, with blonde hair.

For his age, he was tall and had a well-built physique, though it was clear his growth wasn’t yet fully complete, and his frame hadn’t fully matured.

When Ricardt appeared, the murmurs in the crowd fell silent. The main event of the day was about to begin.

There had been one duel per day, sometimes even two. Today marked the twelfth duel since the battles had started a week ago.

Sixteen people had died so far because Ricardt fought without regard for the number of opponents.

The results spoke for themselves. Despite his young age, he was proving himself worthy of a place among the Empire’s Nine Swords.

What was even more surprising was that he fought these duels publicly. Most warriors preferred private duels with minimal witnesses to avoid exposing their secret techniques or risking their swordsmanship being analyzed.

Was he arrogant or simply fearless? They would soon find out.

Ricardt took off his cloak and handed it to a young female swordsman nearby. Carrying only a single sword, he stepped into the dueling ground, where his opponent, bare-chested and wielding a round shield and sword, awaited him.

Members from the Beringen Guild and the allied faction had set up the dueling area and prevented people from approaching.

Under the warm sunlight, the bare-chested man rotated his shoulders, taking exaggerated deep breaths. Then he let out a battle cry.

“Hup! Hup! Ah-ja! Ah-ja! Ah-jaja!”

It seemed like he was trying to release as much tension as possible for this life-or-death fight. Meanwhile, Ricardt showed no particular reaction—neither overly confident nor especially tense. He simply drew his sword in a calm manner.

Ricardt’s opponent spread his arms wide, brandishing his sword and shield, and shouted loudly.

“I am Rischlen, the Heart Ripper of Muerheim! Today, I’ll defeat you and claim my place among the Empire’s Nine Swords!”

Though he shouted with a gruff voice, his nervousness was still obvious. Ricardt drew his sword and casually tossed the empty scabbard back toward his allies, then responded.

“Viola Clan, Ricky.”

With the introductions complete, the duel began. The crowd watched with bated breath.

Those who had already seen multiple duels held no particular anticipation for the outcome. They were merely curious to see what new techniques Ricardt might display this time.

Rischlen approached carefully, using his shield to lead, as if he were hunting a wild beast. His steps were tentative, almost shuffling, with his feet barely leaving the ground to be ready to react at any moment.

Ricardt stood still, letting his sword hang loosely at his side. Rischlen, seemingly startled for no reason, quickly backed off, then resumed his cautious approach. He repeated this five times.

“Huff! Huff! Huff!”

They hadn’t exchanged a single blow, yet Rischlen was already sweating and breathing heavily, his tension apparent.

Just as Ricardt tilted his head slightly, as if bored, Rischlen seized the opportunity, charging fiercely with his shield up, determined not to miss that single moment.

However, Ricardt smoothly dodged to the side. Despite his tension, Rischlen adapted with surprising agility, swinging his shield toward Ricardt’s new position and slashing with his sword.

Whoosh! Swish!

Ricardt simply widened the gap, leaning back slightly to avoid the attacks. Rischlen quickly pulled back again, holding his shield in front.

Then, suddenly, a jolt of pain struck Rischlen’s head, and he lost consciousness. Ricardt had kicked him in the head.

Rischlen’s vision had been obscured by his own shield, allowing Ricardt to land a high kick from his blind spot.

With a dull thud, Rischlen collapsed to the ground, his head hitting the dirt. He was completely knocked out in one blow, his body limp and motionless.

Ricardt stood over him, looking down quietly, then turned around and simply walked away. He hadn’t even swung his sword. He proceeded up the path toward the watchtower alongside the members of the Beringen Guild.

With the duel concluded, the paying spectators began voicing their complaints.

“This is it?”

“Send out a real opponent next time!”

“You’re charging us three silver coins for this kind of crap?”

“Well, since we’re here, why don’t you at least execute the loser or hang him or something!”

But the Guild Alliance adventurers ignored the crowd’s complaints and started ushering them out.

“Hey, listen to me!”

“No, no, this is ridiculous. Honestly, this is too much!”

“Everyone! The duel’s over! Out! Get out!”

Like herding sheep, the adventurers drove the common folk down from the highlands. The disappointed spectators grumbled as they left, muttering that they’d been swindled or that the Heigen and other guilds were pathetic.

Rischlen eventually regained consciousness, but he couldn’t stand on his own and had to be supported by his comrades.

Gramschvitz watched the entire scene in silence as Wolfgang approached him again.

“What do you think?”

“…It’s too soon to be certain, but he has no habits or predictable patterns. No constraints either. There are no signs of formal training from anyone. Honestly, it’s hard to believe. To reach that level at his age…”

It was a remarkable insight. Even after witnessing a fight that was almost comically one-sided, Gramschvitz had managed to grasp the essence of the situation.

“Hmm…”

Wolfgang nodded somberly, acknowledging Gramschvitz’s assessment.

“All the capable fighters who entered the duels died three days ago. Only guys like that one are left now. The rest of the skilled ones don’t care about the duels. So, what do you want to do? If you’re willing, we can set up a duel for you as soon as tomorrow.”

In other words, the only strong fighters left were those who sought to kill Ricardt purely for revenge, not for fame. They were willing to use any means necessary.

By doing so, they could restore their tarnished honor, settle personal grudges, or gain an advantage in the war. Each person’s objective was finally converging into a single purpose.

After a moment of thought, Gramschvitz asked, half-agreeing.

“What’s the plan?”

“Follow me.”

Gramschvitz followed Wolfgang, the Clan Master of the Heigen Guild, to a secluded area.

Ricardt was watching them intently from above. The location of the watchtower itself doubled as an observation post, allowing him to see the entire surrounding area.

Though the people were packed so densely that it was difficult to tell one person from another, Ricardt’s almost supernatural eye for detail made it easy for him to distinguish between the riffraff and those who exuded an unsettling aura.

Ricardt knew, too. All the worthy opponents who were worth killing in a duel had already died about three days ago, and the remaining skilled ones were undoubtedly plotting something.

What exactly they were scheming would require some thought, but one thing was clear.

The true fighters, those who were ready to die, were about to make their move.

Ricardt sensed instinctively that if he was going to defend this watchtower to the end, he would need to stop those guys.

And Ricardt also knew that people with extraordinary resolve were more difficult to deal with than those with mere sword mastery.

To face such people, it wasn’t about technique or skill. He, too, would need to have a similar resolve.

But what did Ricardt hold in his heart at this moment? Unlike in his past life, there was no burning resentment or anger directed at the world, no bitter self-hatred.

Loyalty to the guild? Just as others lacked that, Ricardt felt no particular loyalty either. It was only Volka’s words that lingered somewhere in his mind.

‘I’m going to clear out some empty land and make an estate of our own. I’ll live there with Delphi. Until we’re old and ready to die.’

Yes, someday, I too…

However vague, Ricardt also had a modest dream. In his mind, he saw his old friends smiling. For that vision, he was willing to risk his life.

Revenge and dreams. Here on the Kaitz Highlands, those two things intersected. Even if it was just a spectacle to some.

Who was right and who was wrong? Who was just and who was in the wrong? There was no need to ponder such things.

Because no one in this world was without their own story, and especially in the death of a swordsman, there was no room for excuses.

So there was no need to get sentimental. Even if he were to lose and die, he resolved to hold no resentment, no regrets. If anything, that was Ricardt’s resolve.

*****

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