Chapter 58

It was a night in the forest when not even the owls cried.

The harsh footsteps of humans carrying torches were the loudest sounds around.

“Circle around that way.”

“No, to the left.”

“I’m going to kill that fucking bastard.”

Rickart could hear them shouting.

Hidden behind a tree, he estimated the enemy’s numbers from the chaotic footsteps.

Four? No, five.

His ability to determine their number almost precisely from their footsteps alone bordered on inhuman, but even Rickart could tell that these enemies were no pushovers.

Maintaining their spacing and forming a coordinated encirclement while pursuing Ice was not easy, especially at night.

These people are definitely from the same clan. And they’re highly skilled.

But the enemy did not know Rickart was there, while he knew exactly where they were. There could hardly be a more advantageous position.

Rickart had not merely attained a high level of swordsmanship. He knew how to fight.

Not swordsmanship, but combat technique.

In truth, this had contributed more than his swordsmanship to making Rickart the strongest a hundred years ago. Surprisingly, most people did not understand that.

Because they obsessed solely over becoming Sword Masters, they could not even imitate him.

Thick, straight trees filled the forest, so the enemies carefully checked behind each one as they closed the distance. However, if they moved too slowly, they might lose Ice, the “Ermine,” so they advanced as quickly as possible while remaining cautious.

Rickart saw the light of a torch reach the area nearby. Remaining concealed in the darkness, he concentrated on the approaching footsteps. Without even consciously trying, he could picture the distance, the person’s weight, and even his posture in his mind.

Then he heard a footstep enter his range.

Step.

Whoosh!

An enemy!

Rickart did not emerge, see his enemy, and then swing his sword.

He sprang out while already swinging—and struck the man squarely across the neck.

Naturally, the enemy’s head went flying before he could even react. The other enemies, who had been pursuing Ice while maintaining their distance from one another, flinched in surprise and immediately realized what had happened.

“Over here...!”

The man closest to his dead companion shone his torch on Rickart and shouted, but he never finished his cry.

Rickart rapidly darted between light and darkness, closing the distance in an instant.

The man, holding a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, hurriedly retreated and raised his sword defensively. But there was no chance that such an awkward posture could block Rickart’s blade.

Living up to the nickname by which he had once been known throughout the Beringen region—“Ricky the Severer”—Rickart broke through the man’s feeble sword and severed his neck as well.

Clang! Thud!

After bringing down his second enemy, Rickart immediately threw himself back into the darkness.

The three men pursuing him hurriedly shone their torches in that direction, only for the point of a blade to appear directly before one man’s eyes.

Whoosh! Thud!

“Urgh!”

The sword plunged into his chest, and he fell backward.

A nearby companion turned to look at the falling man in surprise. By the time he turned his head back, a boy armed with a dagger was already charging at him.

Rickart’s dagger moved like the wind, slicing through the inside of his thigh and his armpit in an instant.

“Aaaaaaargh!”

The scream rang through the silent forest. With his major tendons severed, the man dropped his torch and collapsed helplessly to the ground.

The last remaining enemy instinctively focused on his screaming companion.

His torch swung around in a rush, flames roaring—only for Rickart to appear behind him, seize his forehead, wrench his head backward, and slit his throat.

“Ghk! Cough!”

The blood gushing from his wound clogged his windpipe. He collapsed directly in front of his crippled companion and writhed on the ground.

Thud.

The enemy sitting on the ground with the tendons in his thigh and armpit severed was so shocked and terrified that air rushed sharply into his lungs. His entire body stiffened.

Trembling violently, he raised his head.

He was so afraid that a single thought echoed repeatedly through his mind.

I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead. Please, kill me quickly.

Rickart drove his sword into the neck of the man who had completely lost even the will to fight, slicing through his cartilage and finishing him off.

His gaze was neither cold nor cruel, merely composed. Yet it held no trace of pity or sympathy.

Still seated on the ground, the man’s upper body pitched forward and collapsed over his companion’s corpse. Blood spread beneath them in a steady stream.

After killing all his enemies, Rickart surveyed the scene.

Torches had fallen here and there. Their light illuminated only parts of the bodies rather than revealing them fully, making the scene feel exceptionally eerie.

However, the fact that they had all died in an instant did not mean they were weak opponents.

The enemies had relied solely on the light from their torches, whereas Rickart could reconstruct the entire battlefield from sound alone, almost as though he could see the future. That was what created such an overwhelming difference.

And since he had ambushed them on top of that, they had no means of resisting him, no matter how skilled they were.

When Rickart had fought the ten swordsmen in the Kaitz Highlands, a full moon bright enough to resemble morning had hung in the sky. There had also been nowhere to hide or exploit the terrain.

Because he had been forced to confront them using pure swordsmanship alone, Rickart had inevitably struggled.

Even so, defeating all of them had been an extraordinary accomplishment, which was why so many people continued to speak of it.

Rickart knew how to understand the battlefield environment and even the enemy’s psychology, using their weaknesses to strengthen his own position. That was not an ability one could develop merely by practicing with a sword.

It required innate instincts, real combat experience, and the luck to survive.

Ice possessed an extraordinary natural talent for swordsmanship, but this was where the difference between him and Rickart became glaringly apparent.

What Ice had accomplished so far was certainly remarkable, but this was why he could not achieve the same monstrous results as Rickart.

“Ricky?”

It was Marie’s voice.

Rickart looked over at her while retrieving and cleaning his sword and searching through the spoils. It was obvious that she had run there in a hurry to help him.

But she apparently had not expected everything to be over already, because she stared blankly at the scene.

“Huh?”

“N-Nothing. I came to help.”

“What about the others?”

“They took that man named Ice back to the campsite.”

“Is he all right?”

“He doesn’t have any external injuries, but he lost consciousness. I think he’s severely exhausted. It looks like they were chasing him for quite a while.”

“That’s a relief, at least. Will you help me?”

“With what?”

“We need to collect their equipment and take whatever money they have.”

“Huh? Oh. Y-Yeah, of course.”

Marie had killed people before, but she had apparently never searched a corpse, so she was somewhat flustered.

It felt wrong to her, but when Rickart calmly continued rummaging through the bodies, she followed his example and began searching them too.

“H-How thoroughly should I search?”

“Huh?”

“I can’t put my hands inside their trousers.”

“Hahaha! You don’t have to go that far. Just pat them down roughly and take any coin purses you find. Focus on collecting weapons. We should only take as much as we can carry. If we take too much, it’ll weigh us down and could reduce our combat effectiveness later. You mustn’t get greedy, Marie.”

Normally, thoroughly looting someone meant stripping them of everything except their underwear, but as Rickart had said, there was no need to go that far.

“I wasn’t being greedy...”

“I was joking. Let’s go.”

Rickart collected two swords and a coin purse, then returned to the campsite with Marie.

Ice lay beneath a blanket. Pale tear tracks remained on his face. Boribori had placed some unidentified plant beneath his nose.

Boribori’s baseless folk remedies were sometimes surprisingly useful.

“When he wakes up, he’ll have an appetite.”

Volka’s expression looked complicated as he stared down at Ice. He was deep in thought and only belatedly noticed Rickart’s return.

“Did you kill them all?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Why? Just say it here. The others already know anyway.”

Rickart was uncannily perceptive, so he could roughly guess what Volka wanted to say.

Because of what Dunkel had told them, Volka presumably wanted to consult Rickart about what they should do with Ice.

Boribori and Delphy had attended the Academy with Ice, so they knew that he was a heathen. However, they did not know the details and stared at them in bewilderment, unable to understand what was happening.

“Wouldn’t it be better to discuss this together? We’re members of the same clan.”

Rickart made the suggestion once more. Marie was not an official member of the Viola Clan, but she was practically halfway there already. The others treated her that way as well.

Volka agreed that it was the right thing to do and spoke frankly.

“You all know that Ice belongs to the Order of Judgment. But apparently, he isn’t just a believer—he seems to hold an official position within the Order. If he’s involved that deeply, it could cause trouble for us. If he’s subjected to an inquisition, we could be implicated as well.”

This was shocking news to those who had not known. If Ice held an official position within the Order, he was indisputably a heretic. If discovered, he would be sent straight to the stake without even needing to be interrogated.

“So... Hmm. My opinion is that we should treat him and then send him back. We’re already going to be busy with the branch.”

Volka cautiously offered his opinion first.

The atmosphere was heavy, though at some point, owls and nocturnal insects had begun to cry.

Crackle, crackle.

The campfire burned beside them. However, those who had awakened in the middle of the night remained silent.

Boribori crouched beside the sleeping Ice and looked down at him.

“I don’t know. Ice is someone I’m grateful to. But I’m not the only member of the clan...”

His opinion was similar to Volka’s. He was reluctant to do it, but he thought it might be difficult for Ice to remain with them.

However, unlike his words, Boribori’s expression betrayed his pity and concern. His sense of indebtedness and sympathy seemed to have softened his heart.

Delphy and Volka were practically husband and wife, so she was likely to follow Volka’s decision. That left only Rickart’s opinion.

Surprisingly, however, Marie spoke first.

“You don’t need to worry about an inquisition. It’s the royal families of the various kingdoms that persecute the Order of Judgment, not the Papal Palace.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a little complicated, but that’s what I’ve heard. People keep abandoning their territories, and apparently the Order is responsible. The Imperial Family is turning a blind eye because weakening the kingdoms benefits the Empire.”

The kings and the Emperor had a somewhat complicated and unusual relationship. As the supreme ruler of the world, the Emperor held a higher position than any king, but that did not mean he could treat them however he pleased.

The kingdoms possessed independent military authority and autonomy, and they exercised considerable influence within the Empire.

Simply put, when the kingdoms grew stronger, the Emperor felt threatened. When the Emperor’s authority increased, the kingdoms were suppressed.

They merely avoided revealing it publicly, but the relationship between the Emperor and the kings was practically one of mutual enmity.

However, upsetting the balance of power would be harmful to them all, so they were also passengers aboard the same ship. They hated one another enough to want each other dead, yet none of them wished for the others’ complete destruction.

At decisive moments, they sometimes supported one another—and at other decisive moments, they undermined one another.

That was the relationship between the Emperor and the kings.

To make matters even more complicated, the royal families of the various kingdoms and the Imperial Family were connected by blood through marriage alliances.

In any case, this was an era when population directly equaled national power. Without people, there was no one to cultivate the land or provide other forms of labor.

In other words, when peasants migrated elsewhere, the territory they left behind grew weaker. Moreover, relocating without permission was illegal.

But what if they migrated beyond the kingdom’s borders?

No matter how powerful a king was, once the migrants entered Imperial territory, he could not touch them recklessly.

Dunkel’s words comparing the Ernberg Five to prostitutes flashed through Rickart’s mind.

His brilliant mind rapidly connected the different pieces. When he reached a particular conclusion, his brow furrowed instinctively.

“Could the kings have secretly commissioned the Ernberg Five?”

The Ernberg Five had caused trouble in many places, but they were especially notorious for slaughtering entire villages.

Most of those villages had been settlements founded by migrants who worshiped the God of Judgment.

From the kings’ perspective, they needed to kill those insolent migrants to make an example of them. Otherwise, the movement would continue to spread.

Although a king did not possess as much power as the Emperor, he still wielded enough influence to prevent them from being placed on wanted lists. If not one but two or more kings were involved, it would have been even easier.

“I don’t know that much either. But I think you’re probably right, Ricky.”

It was impossible to know whether the Imperial Family had knowingly ignored what the kings were doing or simply had no interest and remained unaware. Still, it was true that the Ernberg Five had gradually begun to become an eyesore.

“But how do you know all that?” Volka asked Marie.

“H-Huh? Well, c-couldn’t I have heard it somewhere?”

Marie forcibly averted her gaze as she answered. Anyone could see that she was acting suspiciously. Moreover, perhaps because Volka had only belatedly learned that Rickart was a noble, he began to wonder whether Marie might be one as well.

He never imagined that she was an Imperial Princess, but Rickart and Boribori had realized it from the moment they first met her.

In any case, Rickart stroked his chin and contemplated the matter for a long time. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

The clan came first. That was obvious.

If asked why he had risked his life fighting until now, personal honor and pride had certainly played a part, but he had primarily done it for the clan.

To create a home of their own.

But if accepting Ice placed the clan in danger, should they still accept him?

Yet it was unclear whether he would actually bring them harm. Should they reject him solely because of that uncertainty?

If they accepted him, why should they do so?

Because he was their friend?

How far could one go for a friend?

Before that, what exactly was a friend?

The more Rickart thought, the more difficult questions arose, one after another.

If he had been alone, he would naturally have accepted Ice. But with the entire clan at stake, he could not simply force his opinion upon everyone else.

Yet these were not questions with objectively correct answers. Ultimately, he had to define the answers for himself and establish his own convictions.

Rickart could have spent the entire day thinking about this problem or debating it. Instead, he set every complicated argument aside and focused on the most fundamental issue.

He stripped everything else away and spoke from the heart.

“For now, let’s protect him. We desperately need help ourselves, and he’ll be a major addition to our fighting strength. He must also have gathered a great deal of information while fighting our enemies. And...”

Rickart trailed off.

The clan members listened carefully in their own ways, their expressions composed.

“Right now, I don’t think he has anywhere else that will accept him. If even we cast him out, wouldn’t that be too cruel?”

Shouldn’t someone who understood that pain and loneliness embrace him?

No one explicitly voiced their agreement, but they reached a general consensus that they would accept Ice.

Come to think of it, Volka owed Ice his life. Ice had been the one who saved him from Lorenz in Griffinswald.

Boribori would never have properly mastered Mana Drive without Ice either. If he had caused an accident by mishandling his mana, he might have been permanently crippled.

Except for Rickart and Marie, every one of them owed Ice in one way or another.

It was a sleepless night.

More precisely, they had awakened in the middle of their sleep and could not return to it.

About an hour later, a deep blue light began sweeping away the darkness from the edge of the world.

With nothing else to do, Rickart and his friends began preparing breakfast at the break of dawn.

They remained silent. It was impossible to tell whether they truly wanted to accept Ice.

However, Rickart’s words—that Ice had nowhere else to go—had undeniably moved their hearts.

That was because every one of them had experienced abandonment at least once.

Anyone who had never experienced it could not understand that hopelessness or desperation.

That was why—

Crack! Smack! Crack! Smack!

“Urgh! Mmph! Ngh! Urgh!”

The sounds of whipping rang out, accompanied by someone’s muffled groans through a gag.

This was no ordinary beating. The lashes were clearly filled with murderous intent.

A young Ice stood facing the wall, listening to the sounds.

He was not alone. More than a dozen children stood in a row, all facing the wall.

It was time for punishment and training to eliminate the heart.

Joy, sorrow, and fear all had to be offered to the God of Judgment.

Even one’s parents and family had to be offered.

Crack! Smack! Smack! Crack!

At some point, the groaning stopped.

The boy was probably dead.

Ice slowly followed the gaps between the cold bricks with his eyes.

Imagine this as a path through a valley.

If you follow the path, you can keep walking even if there is no exit.

There is no need to wander.

You simply walk.

The path has already been decided.

When he did this, no thoughts arose.

No—not even emotions arose.

He could no longer hear the whipping, the groans, or the final sounds of someone dying.

When the priest ordered them to turn around, Ice saw a boy hanging limply, his back flayed open and his ribs exposed.

He had been reduced to a bloodied mass so mangled that it was difficult to recognize his original form.

The boy’s crime had been laughing during training.

The priest who had administered the punishment was gasping as though on the verge of collapsing.

Another priest took his place and addressed the children with an utterly emotionless expression.

“Brothers, the prophesied day is drawing near. We must work even harder. Let us not lose discipline. Let us not be shaken. Let us offer everything to the God of Judgment and return to Heaven. God of Judgment, close Your eyes to us.”

“God of Judgment, close Your eyes to us.”

When the priest spoke, Ice and the other children repeated the final words.

They sounded like talking dolls.

At the priest’s gesture, the children stepped forward one at a time and spat upon the dead boy.

Then the next child.

The next.

The next.

The next...

Finally, it was Ice’s turn.

Ice approached the brutally murdered boy.

Then, for an exceedingly brief instant—whether it was a great reverberation or the faintest tremor—something stirred within his heart.

Because the dead boy was his younger brother.

Everyone’s eyes were fixed upon Ice.

He could not show even the slightest change in expression or disturbance in his heart.

Ice spat on him.

“Ptui.”

At that moment, Ice’s heart died.

Even though he lived, he was no longer alive.

He was no longer human.

He was merely a puppet that moved for his god.

That was how it should have been.

Ice slowly opened his eyes.

He heard the clinking of tableware and the quiet murmur of conversation.

They were peaceful sounds that pleasantly tickled his ears.

He could also hear early birds chirping and smell appetizing food.

Rickart and the other familiar faces came into view.

The heart that had been pounding from the nightmare gradually calmed, and a wave of relief washed over him.

<Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.>

Chapter 11 — Sanctuary. End.