Translator: Willia
The frenzied autumn passed, and winter arrived. Although it was not a year of famine, here and there along the roads, the bodies of those who had starved to death lay scattered.
Among them, the frozen corpse of a baby was particularly heartbreaking. What crime had this baby committed? Could even a god provide an answer?
However, those who suffered from chronic disillusionment remained indifferent even upon seeing such sights.
Outlaws. Those who had killed the lords of their lands were now lost, with no path forward. Their directionless rage ultimately drove even themselves into a dead end.
There was no class struggle, no ideological background. They had simply been swept up in the atmosphere and committed acts of violence, only to find themselves unsure of what to do next.
Spilled water could not be gathered back. Those who had murdered nobles fled to the mountains, where they banded together and became bandits.
Like mold spreading across the world, such outlaws were everywhere.
In small territories, even if they mustered an army, it barely amounted to ten men. In truth, it was not much of an army, just adult men awkwardly wearing ill-fitting battle gear.
Though it was said that a hundred fully armed knights could stand against them, many knightly families had, since their grandfathers' time, wielded hoes instead of swords.
Some locked themselves within their castles in an attempt to survive, while others were dragged out by outlaws, their entire families massacred, and their villages left in ruins.
Who would punish them? No - before that, whose fault was this?
Regrettably, such questions were meaningless. When a bandit pressed a sword to your throat, law and justice became shockingly powerless.
Winter passed. As the swallows returned, violet primroses bloomed in the fields.
Even so, the situation did not improve.
Though it was early spring and the weather was cool, the sunlight felt unusually scorching.
A man wearing a helmet with a rounded brim was already drenched in sweat, panting from the heat, his already wrinkled face contorted into an even deeper frown.
Clad in a gambeson stuffed full of cotton and gripping a billhook, a polearm with a hooked blade, he stood at the foot of the mountain, looking up.
Above, from a crude, makeshift mountain stronghold, bandits gazed down at him indifferently.
"Those assholes..."
The man cursed, not just speaking the words but chewing them out as if grinding his teeth in sheer hatred for the bandits.
"Is everyone down?"
"Where's the boss?"
"Nobody got hurt, right?"
Around the helmeted man, voices sounded as if they were checking on something. They were his companions.
There were seven of them in total. Their equipment was similar in quality but varied in type.
Some wore helmets, others did not. Some wore tightly fitted leather or cloth coifs instead. Their weapons ranged from spears to swords to axes, each carrying something different.
That was because they were not soldiers, they were adventurers.
However, they had a serious problem: the bandits numbered fifty. Seven people tasked with subduing a group of fifty? That had to be a joke.
Of course, if they fought in open terrain, it was possible to kill fifty poorly armed bandits. The problem was that the bandits refused to come down from their mountain stronghold. seaʀᴄh thё nôvelFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
With so few in number, the adventurers could not surround them. The bandits roamed about freely, taking advantage of the cover of night.
What made the fight difficult was not just the battle itself, but the sheer exhaustion of surviving outdoors, eating, sleeping, standing guard, all of it wore them down mentally and physically.
And it was even worse when there was no clear solution. Each day, they would charge up the mountain, only to be driven back down by a rain of stones from above.
Underestimating thrown stones was a mistake. A well-slung rock could crush a skull in a single blow.
So why were they even doing this? The boss said that even if it seemed futile, they had to keep it up to intimidate the enemy.
"Hey, is the crossbow still not fixed?"
The clan leader pulled an arrow from the ground and tossed it aside. The arrowhead was smeared with filth, excrement and urine. It was a poisoned arrow. If it lodged into flesh, the infection would rot the wound until it festered.
Fortunately, the bandits’ bows were so crude that they could not pierce armor and reach flesh.
But there was no helping the stench, so the clan leader casually grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and rubbed it over himself as if it were second nature.
"Boss, I think we need to take this to the bowyer. The ratchet won’t lock in place."
The only one in the clan who handled the crossbow spoke up. Fuck, they had fired five times, and now it was broken. And on top of that, they had not hit a single target. Was it the crossbowman’s incompetence, or was the weapon just a piece of junk?
"Can’t you just pull it back with brute force?"
"I told you, it won’t lock!"
"Then just hold it in place and release it manually."
"Does that even make sense?"
"Ah, fuck, guys, let’s just eat first."
At the clan leader’s command, a few of them dragged over a large cauldron, their bodies weighed down with fatigue. They filled it with water and threw in whatever ingredients they could find, letting it all boil together.
As the unidentifiable soup or broth began to bubble vigorously, the adventurers ladled it into wooden bowls that looked questionably clean.
They set down their weapons, removed their helmets, and slumped onto the ground, roughly drinking or eating with their hands. Naturally, no one bothered to wash their hands.
There were no spices to expect, so they just mixed in whatever herbs they had foraged or used the salt they carried personally.
For these weary and exhausted men, one small mercy was that it was still early spring, meaning they could cool off quickly. When the cool breeze blew and dried their sweat, it felt like heaven.
"Boss, how much longer do we have to keep doing this shit?"
"Ricky said he’s coming, so just hold on a little longer."
"I know he’s an incredible swordsman, but will his arrival really change anything? It’s not like those bastards are going to agree to a duel."
"I don’t know. He must have a plan."
"And if he comes and there’s no plan?"
"Then it’s just a matter of who gets exhausted first."
"Damn it..."
"Hey, quitting isn’t an option. Our reputation is everything. And do you really want to lose to scum like them?"
At least the clan leader, unlike the average adventurer who just grumbled, seemed to have a firm grasp of reality.
He did not fail to understand why his comrades were complaining. In truth, he was just as frustrated as they were, even if he did not show it.
Still, leading meant sometimes soothing and sometimes pushing people forward, no matter what.
And in battles, emotions could be deliberately provoked as a tactic.
"Hey! You there!"
A voice called out from the mountain stronghold not too far away. The adventurers, gulping down their food, turned their heads to look up.
"I’ll give you a gold coin each if you just leave!"
In prolonged, stagnant battles like this, negotiations were common. But the adventurers from the Ernburg branch of the Beringen Guild were different. They had pride, or perhaps arrogance.
One of them abruptly stood up and shouted.
"Fuck off, you son of a bitch!"
"Hey! How much do you guys even make!? Why don’t you join us instead!?"
"Is he out of his damn mind?"
"Last winter, we made... how many gold coins was it? A shitload!"
"Then we might as well just kill you all and take everything!"
"You fucking bastards! Do you not understand words!? Your mothers, your wives...!"
Perhaps frustrated that things were not going his way, the bandit spewed out curses that were vile enough to make even the hardened adventurers flinch.
"You asshole! I remember your face now!"
"Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it!? Come up here! Come on, I dare you!"
"Fuck’s sake!"
Grinding his teeth furiously, the adventurer had no choice but to swallow his anger.
But just then, someone spoke up from beside them.
"What are you all doing?"
They turned their heads to see a young man with golden hair, draped in a red cloak, standing there nonchalantly. A sword hung at his waist, and beneath the cloak, glimpses of metal armor could be seen.
It was a breastplate acquired as war spoils when the Rubens Guild surrendered, an ancient relic, thin and lightweight yet boasting absurd defensive capabilities.
Moreover, the material was pure mithril. Not just a small mix, his armor was made entirely of mithril, something beyond the capabilities of modern human craftsmanship.
Making iron both thin and strong required a highly advanced level of metallurgy, and blacksmiths skilled in working with mithril were exceedingly rare across the entire Empire.
Most knights wore chainmail, and even high-ranking nobles did the same. That was why the breastplate Ricardt currently wore was no different from a mysterious ancient magical artifact.
People mockingly referred to it as "Rubens' Last Pride", a name that carried a hint of ridicule toward the Rubens Guild. Rubens was the founder of the Rubens Guild, and the armor had originally been discovered by him in an ancient ruin.
However, Ricardt found the armor’s shine too flashy and embarrassing, so he covered it with a surcoat to hide it somewhat. The surcoat was embroidered with violet primroses.
A red cloak, plate armor, and primroses, these were the visual symbols that represented Ricardt.
Ironically, the very people who had ruined his lungs had also provided him with something that could perfectly protect his torso.
"Ricky?"
"When did you get here?"
"Just now."
"Uh... as you can see, this is the situation."
The clan leader said. The other adventurers, still in the middle of their meal, sat on the ground and blankly looked up at Ricardt.
"Do you have a plan?"
"Wait a moment."
Ricardt silently studied the mountain stronghold. After a brief assessment, he borrowed a heater shield from one of the adventurers who carried one. Adjusting the leather straps, he secured it tightly to his forearm and then spoke.
"I think I can break down that gate. Once it’s open, everyone needs to charge up immediately. You have to move fast."
"Break it down? That thing? Without a battering ram?"
No matter how poorly constructed the gate was, it was not weak enough to be breached by a single person’s strength.
Normally, they would need several people working together to ram it with a sharpened log, but with their current numbers, that was impossible.
"Once we finish up here, meet me in Ernburg. An official notice came from the Imperial Guild Bureau, under the name of the Court Count of Kelbron."
Kelbron was the domain of Hellauman, the Emperor’s Champion. High-ranking lords were typically referred to by their titles rather than their names.
"What kind of notice?"
"Ask Volka for the details. But it seems related to suppressing the Order."
"How much are they paying?"
"Dunno. Finish your meal and get ready."
With that, Ricardt began ascending toward the mountain stronghold alone. The bandits, who had been cursing at the adventurers, stared at him blankly for a moment before resuming their provocations.
"What are you gonna do? Huh? What are you gonna do?"
"A red cloak? Wait, are you Ricky? And what are you planning to do?"
Like a bunch of monkeys, they started hurling rocks at him. Ricardt did not shrink back. Keeping his posture straight, he calmly looked up and nimbly dodged the incoming stones.
He continued his ascent, undeterred. His damaged lungs prevented him from running, but he steadily made his way up.
"Hey! Your girlfriend was delicious! I had her last night! She loved it!"
"You little brat, just because you can swing a sword, you think you’re invincible?!"
The insults were vile, but Ricardt did not get angry. He knew that on the battlefield, every kind of curse imaginable was thrown around. If he reacted to every single one, he would be too stressed to fight properly.
Still, he made sure to remember their faces.
Most of the bandits threw stones by hand. Some missed completely, while others had decent accuracy. Among them, a few used slings to launch stones with greater force.
Ricardt dodged what he could and blocked the rest with his shield.
Thud! Thud! Thump!
Since he avoided or deflected all the projectiles, nothing stopped his progress up the mountain. Eventually, he reached the stronghold’s gate. As the bandits looked down at him, Ricardt drew upon Ilya’s strength and kicked the gate with full force.
Boom!
"You idiot! You think that’s gonna do anything?!"
Bang!
"Hey! Bring a spear!"
The mountain stronghold was not as tall as a fortress, so a spear thrust from above could reach him.
However, before they could bring a spear, an unsettling noise echoed.
Bang! Crack!
There was a distinct sound of wood splintering, crack!, but the door did not completely break in one blow. Instead, the wooden plank reinforcing the latch had fractured slightly.
For a moment, the bandits felt a creeping sense of disbelief, but they quickly rationalized it away. No, that’s impossible.
However, Ricardt swiftly drew his sword and sliced through the ropes that tightly bound the wooden planks together. After cutting several of them, he delivered a final, powerful kick to the now-weakened gate.
BANG! CRACK!
One half of the gate hung in tatters, barely holding on. The other half had lost its latch entirely, so he simply pushed it open.
Ricardt turned around and shouted to the adventurers.
"Now! Get up here!"
But the adventurers, who had been watching the entire scene from below, were just as stunned as the bandits. Their eyes were wide with shock, blinking in disbelief.
It was only when the clan leader snapped out of his daze that he hurriedly grabbed his gear and began climbing the mountain.
"Let’s go!"
Ricardt steadied his slightly rough breathing before slowly stepping into the stronghold. He glanced at the bandits still lingering near the wooden palisades and singled one of them out.
"What was that about my girlfriend?"
"I-I heard she was a beauty… It was just a joke..."
Ricardt let out a hollow laugh. At this point, no amount of excuses could save the man. It was not just about him mentioning Marie, it was about everything these bandits had done throughout the past autumn and winter.
They had razed villages to the ground and slaughtered innocent children simply for being of noble birth. And they had not merely killed them, they had committed unspeakable atrocities.
That was why they had to die. Not just as a duty, but because it was necessary.
Ricardt motioned with his fingers, gesturing for the man who had insulted him to step forward. Perhaps realizing there was no way to escape, the bandit unexpectedly complied.
"Haha… Someone like me would never even-"
The moment the bandit tried to make an excuse, Ricardt’s sword slashed horizontally from left to right.
The bandit flinched, and a cleanly severed head slowly tilted sideways before falling to the ground.
It was only then that the remaining bandits felt the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end.
At that moment, the adventurers arrived, seething with rage.
A massacre began.
Ricardt and the seven adventurers stabbed and slashed their way through the bandits, cutting down around thirty of them. The rest fled in terror, leaving the stronghold awash in blood.
Even one-sided slaughter was physically exhausting. Once the battle was over, the adventurers removed their helmets and wiped the sweat and blood from their faces. Then, they collapsed onto the ground, panting heavily.
After catching their breath, they searched the stronghold.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, there were no prisoners. They found only spoiled food and a few pieces of silverware and valuables.
Selling them would fetch a decent sum, but once split among the group, it was not much.
The clan leader turned to ask Ricardt how he wanted to divide the spoils, but when he looked around, Ricardt was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did Ricky go?"
"He left a while ago."
Blinking in surprise, the clan leader climbed onto the stronghold’s wooden palisade and looked down.
Ricardt had already descended the mountain and was walking away at a leisurely pace. His cloak fluttered slightly in the breeze.
There was something about that calm and composed figure that sent a chill down the clan leader’s spine.
Perhaps the source of their pride as adventurers came from the simple fact that they belonged to the same guild branch as Ricardt.
When someone acts differently, when they stand out and make an impression, others naturally want to follow them.
Ricardt never preached about justice. But at the very least, he had an unshakable sense of basic morality. Even when the world spiraled into madness, his principles never wavered.
And above all else, he was strong.
Being with him never felt like losing was an option. No matter how difficult things got, as long as they endured, there was always a way forward. He gave them hope.
Whether Ricardt intended it or not, that was how his fellow adventurers felt. And they believed in him, because time and time again, things turned out exactly as he said they would.
During the Order of Judgement subjugation campaign, Ernburg's guild branch had the highest participation rate.
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