The Warrior’s Ballad
Chapter 98

Translator: Willia

The Order of Judgement no longer existed. There may still be believers somewhere in the Empire who clung to it like ghosts, but at the very least, the Holy Fortress was no more.

What had happened at the Holy Fortress at the time was not widely known. Only a few survived, and none of them really said much about it one way or the other.

What was certain was that Hellauman, the Court Count of Kelbron, who had served as the commander-in-chief during the subjugation operation, was killed in action. His corpse was so gruesome that recovering it was difficult.

Whether or not he deserved to be honored, the circumstances did not allow for it. It was handled quietly within his own family.

Fifth Prince Bellator loudly proclaimed that he had avenged the former Emperor, and used it to assert his legitimacy as the next Emperor. However, the effect was less than expected.

This was because major figures such as kings, dukes, and border counts were not ones to be swayed by mere symbolism.

They only moved when there were tangible and clear benefits. Or when there was a force strong enough to cause them serious losses. And truthfully, each of them was too busy managing their own vassals.

Second Prince Rotarius was still alive. He was first in the line of succession.

Because the eldest son had died young and the Emperor’s grandson had to be made Crown Prince, Rotarius had been sidelined and left the capital early, becoming a Count.

As a result, he had no political base in the capital, and being someone who rarely appeared in public and lacked sociability, he did not have clear support from the vassals.

Little was known about what kind of person he was. In short, he had little going for him other than his legal claim.

In contrast, the Fifth Prince was second in line to the throne, but he had solid political power in the capital. While support from vassals was unclear for him as well, at least he made public efforts.

The Emperor was elected by the princes who held voting rights. Until now, unless there was a special reason, the custom was to always elect someone from the Nibelinger family, the house of the first Emperor. However, in fact, any noble with a title was eligible for election.

In other words, to become Emperor, the electors had to gather and hold an election. But currently, with no Crown Prince and a rivalry between the Second and Fifth Princes, no one knew who would be elected.

In short, it was a situation where either the Second Prince or the Fifth Prince had to die. Even if they themselves had no desire for power, that was the fate of those born as sons of the Emperor.

The Empire was still plagued with outlaws in many places. Some areas were quite peaceful, while others witnessed tragedies on a daily basis.

The rebellion in the Kingdom of Adeloron had not been easily suppressed either, and the war had become prolonged.

It was that kind of world. Historically speaking, it wasn’t anything unusual. It was the kind of chaos that cropped up now and then. But for those living in the present, it was a tragedy.

A strange kind of stability, one that felt like peace and yet not quite, lasted for several years. The Emperor’s seat couldn’t remain vacant forever, but for the time being, it did.

In the meantime, Ricardt and his friends went their separate ways after the operation against the Order. It wasn’t an emotional rift, just a divergence in the paths they wished to follow.

Perhaps it was not such a rare thing for friends to part ways as they grew older. Isn’t that how most people live?

Volka was granted an unclaimed territory somewhere in the East by the Imperial Family at a low price. It was a place granted autonomy, similar to a Knight Order’s land or a monastic territory. Should it be called a clan territory?

In any case, the Imperial Family provided nothing beyond the land, so it was entirely up to Volka to keep the area safe and restore the devastated land.

Some people followed Volka to the end, and Boribori went along as well.

Boribori was finally able to cast off the loathsome nickname “Five Body Part Slicer”. People now called him the “Black Sword”.

As an undisputed Sword Master, he was known as the guardian of the Viola Clan and a master of the sword.

Volka, using his connections in Ernburg, cobbled together a new beginning by borrowing and buying what he needed there.

It was hard, dangerous, and busy work, but it was rewarding. He no longer belonged to a guild, this was purely his own. No, it belonged to everyone.

And between Volka and Delphi, a new life was born. Unlike how they had been abandoned, they loved and blessed this new generation.

Ice, together with Daisy, the Prophetic Nuns, and the surviving children, bought an old abandoned monastery and ran it as an orphanage.

The name was “Miquella Sword Monastery”. It was not simply a place of worship for God, but a kind of armed monastery.

Though Ice was currently the only armed monk, he taught the children swordsmanship.

Ice was called the “Sword of Purity” or the “White Sword”. He was known to rival the Black Sword Bori.

“Praise God and be brave in the face of love.” That was the monastery’s motto, and they considered it their duty to protect the weak, especially children.

Although they struggled financially and lived day to day, each day was meaningful.

This was because seeing the children’s pure smiles and watching them grow year by year filled their hearts.

Those who had once been abandoned were now building families and faith in their own ways.

And Ricardt...

The language of God was silence, and so He did not speak to announce the change of seasons. He simply let it be felt, through the melting snow, sprouting buds, awakening from winter sleep, and the warmth of the sun.

God showed everything. It was only that humans chose not to see.

But there were those who couldn’t afford to notice the freshness of spring. Life was just too harsh and difficult.

This was especially true for those driven from their homes by the tyranny of violent lords, corrupt priests, and lawless men.

Unless one had relatives to rely on, settling in a new place was no easy task. It was a time when people were especially hostile toward outsiders.

Yet, among those with nowhere to go and no one to turn to, a certain rumor began to spread.

The Eastern Frontier. Word had it that if you went there, you could get land for free, there were no tyrant lords, and it was a place where each could find salvation through their own faith.

More and more people began heading there, relying solely on that rumor.

Thus, a place had formed where those people gathered. There were even agents who guided travelers on the way to the Eastern Frontier.

It was hard to tell whether they were conmen or not. Even if they were swindlers, there was no one to turn to for help or protection.

Near the border between the central and southern regions of the Empire, there was a place that was neither a village nor a city, just a settlement formed by people gathering together. It had no name, and people simply called it the “Crossroads”.

There were a few shabby buildings and a wide stable, but most people lived in huts or tents.

Nearby, there was a graveyard, and it seemed the undertaker was the most profitable profession. Sick people gathered around the graveyard and waited for death.

One family arrived at such a place. A burly father with a thick beard, a mother who seemed considerably younger than her husband, a grown daughter, and a small boy who looked to be around seven or eight. It was a family of four.

They seemed to have a story, but that wasn’t anything special here. Stories too painful to hear without tears were as common as trash on the roadside.

The father held a logging axe, its blade wrapped in cloth. On his back he carried household tools, and apart from the youngest son, even the wife and young daughter each carried a load.

He looked around this squalid, barren place and then headed toward a building called “Lilylily”.

It looked like a shabby inn, but functioned like an administrative office even though it wasn’t one. It was the place where people bound for the Eastern Frontier were gathered and, once a sufficient number was reached, sent off.

As soon as he entered the building, he smelled a foul stench. Inside were nothing but thugs, criminals, and prostitutes.

The father went straight to the bartender and said,

“I want to go to the Eastern Frontier.”

The bartender, wiping a wooden cup with a filthy rag, looked up slightly at the man. Then, as if dismissively, continued wiping the cup while asking,

“Name.”

“Hartmann.”

“From the Order of Judgement?”

“No.”

“Criminal?”

“Yes.”

“What crime did you commit?”

“I killed a priest.”

"......An outlaw then."

“No.”

The bartender placed the cup down with a thud. Then he looked at Hartmann and the family behind him.

The wife carried a load on her back, and the young daughter and son held tightly to the hem of their mother’s skirt as they stared up at him.

“Three adults and one child. Three silver coins and one copper.”

“There are two children.”

“Anyone over ten isn't a child around here.”

The bartender pointed to the daughter with his chin as he said this.

Arguing here wouldn’t lower the price or change anything. It was by no means a small sum, but perhaps it was a fair price to pay for a final hope.

Hartmann placed three silver coins and one copper coin on the bar. They were worn and slightly dented.

The bartender snatched up the money, pointed somewhere with his eyes, and said,

“Those two over there, Riemann and Yaff, will be heading out soon. And that old man in the far corner, Bremen, you’ll have to wait a bit for him. Take your pick.”

Hartmann looked over at the people seated along the wall. The ones named Riemann and Yaff were young, appeared to be armed to some degree, and judging by the others at their table, they seemed to have comrades.

In contrast, the old man called Bremen sat alone at his table, head bowed beneath a coif. It was unclear whether he was sleeping or not. All that was visible was a short sword hanging from his waist.

Guides weren’t just for leading the way. They needed to have the strength to protect people during the journey to the Eastern Frontier.

In that respect, the old man Bremen was the least trustworthy.

However, Hartmann approached the old man. Not for any special reason, just because if Riemann and Yaff ever turned their blades, he wouldn’t be able to handle them.

He intended to protect his own family. All he needed was someone who could guide the way.

As Hartmann reached the old man, Bremen slowly lifted his head and looked up at him. His coarse white mustache left a strong impression.

Bremen glanced over at Hartmann’s family and then said,

“Do you know how to handle that axe?”

“I’ve swung an axe my whole life.”

“No, I mean not for cutting wood. Can you swing it at people?”

“That’s why I came all this way.”

“...Alright. Your name?”

“Hartmann.”

“Bremen. I’ve been needing an extra hand. There’s a lot to haul.”

“Before that, how can I trust you?”

He wasn’t someone officially appointed by a lord, nor was he affiliated with a minimally credible group like the Adventurers' Guild. He was just a guide.

Bremen looked at Hartmann calmly and said,

“You’re looking for trust in this world? Well, all you can do here is choose to trust, or not. That’s all.”

Hartmann didn’t answer. Bremen then asked him in turn,

“I’ll ask you something too. Nine out of ten who head for the Eastern Frontier die before getting there. You still going?”

Hartmann thought of his family. That alone made it hard to answer. But there was nothing he could do except nod.

Bremen slowly got up from his seat. He didn’t appear to move with difficulty, but there was a typical old man’s slowness and creaking about him.

Hartmann figured they’d have to stay for a day or two, so he rented a room. There were no vacancies, but the bartender kicked out a guest who had fallen behind on payment to make room.

The room, having been used by someone else, was dirty and messy. His wife, Elia, did a rough cleaning and let out a breath of relief as she put down their heavy baggage.

Hartmann followed the old man and met people who were living outside in tents. They, too, were planning to head for the Eastern Frontier with Bremen. In other words, they were fellow travelers.

There was one man like Hartmann with multiple children, and the rest were three young men who looked like delinquents and a single mother.

Including the children, there were fourteen of them, and no one knew where the others had come from, what they had done, or what their stories were. But they all shared one thing in common, they wanted a new life.

The people were awkward around one another. And they were cautious. Even so, they helped each other organize baggage, buy travel supplies, and subtly offered what they could when something was needed.

The man named Gazer was around the same age as Hartmann, a widower with three daughters and a son.

Surprisingly, he had two cows and three calves. Considering livestock was the greatest wealth a commoner could own, he was a rich man. Whatever his story was that made him want to go to the Eastern Frontier, no one knew.

Dalia, a former prostitute, held a newborn baby in her arms. She had no husband, and whether it was shyness or an act, she seemed uncomfortable and bashful around men.

As Hartmann got to know the group’s faces, sorted his belongings, and familiarized himself with the tasks ahead on the road, evening came.

His wife, Elia, exhausted from the grueling journey, fell asleep clutching the children in her arms. Then, the door creaked open. From the sound of the footsteps, she could tell it was a man, and assumed it was her husband.

He lay down beside the daughter and son, but a moment later, the daughter called out in a trembling, frightened voice.

“M-Mom...”

Only then did Elia open her eyes. In the dim room, a filthy, unfamiliar man was looking at her with a sinister grin. His hand was groping her daughter. Chills ran down her spine.

“Hiiik!”

The man quickly clamped a hand over Elia’s mouth. He was the same man who had been kicked out of the room earlier for not paying.

“Shut up, you fucking bitch. Unless you want to die.”

Then he pulled out a rusty knife, and Elia was too terrified to make a sound. At that moment, the daughter wriggled free and screamed.

“Father! Father!”

“You little bitch!”

The man grabbed the girl just as she was about to open the door and threw her. A loud crash was heard. As he loosened his belt, he muttered,

“Brats who don't listen need a beating.”

At that instant, the door slammed open. As the man turned around, there came a heavy sound of air being sliced.

Whoosh! Thud!

The axe blade struck him squarely in the head. He collapsed instantly and helplessly.

Hartmann, his beard thick and tangled, stood there with his teeth clenched, seething with rage. Only then did the young daughter burst into sobs and run into her father’s arms. On the floor, the man’s corpse lay sprawled, blood pouring from his head.

“Father, Father...”

Hartmann held his daughter tightly for a while, then grabbed the dead man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out. Though the man wasn’t small, Hartmann dragged him with one hand. His thick forearms looked like rough tree logs.

The place wasn’t soundproof, and the noise from the next room had people opening their doors and peering out.

Ignoring them, Hartmann dragged the corpse to the staircase and tossed it down.

Crash! A loud noise erupted, and everyone in the dining hall looked up. Hartmann bellowed in a booming voice,

“Which other fucking bastard wants to lay a hand on my family!?”

People glanced between the corpse and Hartmann. None of them looked frightened, in fact, it seemed like a familiar sight to them, and no one’s expression changed much.

Among them was Bremen, who silently stared at the corpse.

Hartmann, still holding the bloodstained axe, returned to the room. His wife was cleaning the blood smeared across the floor.

Hartmann held his frightened daughter and son in his arms, helping them sleep again. He stayed awake all night, keeping watch over his family.

The next morning, Hartmann’s family departed the “Crossroads” following Bremen. There was a sense of urgency in their departure. The wheels of the ox cart clattered as they rolled away.

But unlike the others heading north, Bremen took the road east. Curious, the man named Gazer asked,

“Why are we heading east?”

"The path is rougher this way, but safer. We'll stop at Wertheim for supplies."

"Safer? Is there a difference?"

"The man who died last night was a member of a nearby bandit group. If they seek revenge, we'll need protection."

Gazer glanced toward Hartmann.

The killing was justified. But because of it, they might now be in danger.

“Who’s going to protect us? If there were such people, this place wouldn’t be so lawless.”

"I don't know either. They probably just want to live quietly."

“Who is it? Who are you talking about that can protect us?”

“A young shepherd couple. It's not that they’ll protect us exactly, but if things go wrong, we run to them.”

“What?”

“About four years ago, they started herding sheep. In the four years since, not a single sheep has been stolen. That alone makes them no ordinary shepherds.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re taking this route?”

Gazer frowned. Shepherds, not retired mercenaries? He clearly didn’t like the idea.

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Saw what?”

“One of them killed five seasoned bandits with a single wooden stick.”

Gazer frowned even deeper. It sounded like utter nonsense to him.

He hadn’t chosen another guide because of his cattle. If a guide turned on them, it would be hard to protect the cows. But now he was starting to regret his decision.

“What’s the name of that shepherd?”

Dalia, who rarely took the baby from her arms, asked.

Bremen, knowing these people wouldn’t believe anything he said anyway, let out a deep sigh and answered.

“Ricky...”

****

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