Chapter 22

Translator: Willia

The city of Grinnen, and its southern district in particular, was alive with an unaccustomed energy.

This was for no other reason than that Valery had been handing out salt left and right.

In Grinnen these days, salt was quite literally worth its weight in gold. So people did not simply consume their salt as food; they took it to the northern district, which was somewhat better off, and bought what they needed.

Some bought food to fill their bellies for the day, some bought pots and other daily necessities, and the wiser ones bought livestock like chickens or pigs, laying plans for the future.

For those who had endured their darkest hours, dawn seemed to be breaking at last.

But there was one man who could not stand the sight of it. Creed.

Appearing with his men in tow, he did not head straight for Valery's group; astonishingly, he set about robbing the people instead.

He went to those living in dugout hovels or tents pitched among the ruins, beating them indiscriminately and taking whatever they had.

"Who the hell told you damn wretches you could sell that salt!? Have you lost your minds!? Everything bought with salt money belongs to me!"

Creed, with his men mobilized, stormed into ordinary homes. And they carried out everything that might fetch a price.

Most of the people, terrified of death or violence, could not muster even a token resistance, though a few pleaded in the most pitiable manner imaginable.

"Please! Please, not the pot! It's the only thing we own in this world!"

"This wasn't bought with salt money!"

"If you take the tent, where are we supposed to live!?"

But though this was no war, Creed's plundering was merciless. Anything that looked like metal was loaded onto the cart, and the first proper meals people had laid out in ages, he overturned out of what could only be pure spite.

In that fashion he dragged his cart through the streets, robbing and beating everyone in his path.

Meanwhile, Valery's group, who since first light had genuinely been handing out salt to the people, sensed at some point that an uneasy mood was spreading through the crowd.

At first people had swarmed in, frantically collecting their salt, but gradually their numbers dwindled, and a certain fearfulness crept over the ones who remained.

Then, amid the murmuring, one phrase pierced Valery's ears with perfect clarity.

"The Ball-Ripper. They say the Ball-Ripper's come."

In that instant, Valery and his companions exchanged glances. Salt business or no, killing Creed was the reason they had come here in the first place.

Creed had scarcely left his hideout all this time, so now was their chance.

"Where is the Ball-Ripper?"

Arne caught hold of a passerby and asked.

"Past that alley there, on the road up to the northern district, I heard......"

The moment he heard it, Valery spoke to the group.

"Arne, Skard. Get your weapons. Knut and Yorik, stay here."

The three of them went into the warehouse and gathered shields and swords. They pulled their leather gloves on tight and cinched one another's belts a second time, making every preparation they could.

At the thought that the moment had finally come, Arne's and Skard's hearts pounded. Anticipation and fear, mixed in just the right measure, made for a thrill, and that was exactly what they felt now.

Valery belted on his sword, threw a short Viking-style cloak over his shoulders, stepped out of the warehouse, and walked at their head.

The people who had come for salt sensed something ominous in the air, and trailed after the three in a swelling crowd.

Following the direction the man had given, they heard curses and screams from far off. Valery headed straight for the sound.

But when only Creed's underlings came into view, with Creed himself nowhere to be seen, Valery spoke.

"Let's split up, the three of us, and search. Ask the people, too. If you find him, don't engage first; shout, call the others, and we fight together once we've regrouped."

Arne and Skard nodded and scattered.

Valery went straight for the Ball-Ripper's underlings, beat them soundly, and drove them off. He meant to let them flee on purpose and follow wherever they ran. The Ball-Ripper might be there.

But they made straight for the ferry landing, apparently some kind of rallying point, and there was nothing there but a cart piled with odds and ends stolen from the people.

Whether by good luck or bad, it was Skard who found the Ball-Ripper first.

Creed was recognizable at a glance, wearing a garment stitched together from the furs of all manner of beasts, and above all his frame was massive and there was something uncanny in his eyes.

Just as Valery had taught him, and just as had served him so well at dawn, Skard put his shield forward and charged headlong.

Creed, who had been directing his men as they tormented the people, was caught off guard by Skard's sudden charge, but twisted his body in an instant and avoided a clean collision.

His bulk was such that he kept his feet without toppling, and though the shield had blocked his view, he caught Skard's wrist in one hand, stopping the dagger thrusting at his belly.

"What's this, you bastard. Ah, it's you."

Crack!

Creed drove a headbutt straight into Skard's face.

At the dizzying impact, Skard grimaced and fell back. Blood streamed from his nose.

Creed moved without hurry, all but snatching his own weapon from the hands of the underling holding it. Then, leveling it at Skard, he said,

"They got beaten by this worthless bastard? They deserved to die. Deserved it, every one of them. Morons."

His face throbbing, barely able to draw breath, Skard had no choice but to draw his sword.

He was preparing to face Creed with shield and sword when a familiar voice rang out. It was Arne.

"Hey! Ball-Ripper!"

At that, Creed, who had been on the verge of pounding Skard to a pulp, turned toward the voice with fury blazing in his eyes.

“What asshole dares call me by that fucking name!”

His voice was so thunderous it seemed to shake the whole city.

The sheer pressure he exuded was unlike anyone Arne had ever faced, and his heart hammered hard enough to feel as though it might burst. Even so, he barely managed to steady himself and drew his sword.

Valery had told them not to rush into a fight, but whether the events of that dawn had filled him with confidence, or the sight of his friend being beaten had made him angry, Arne meant to fight head-on.

Or perhaps it was the urge of an eighteen-year-old man to test himself.

Arne strode up and stopped at a measured distance. Then he set his shield forward and braced himself to fight.

Watching him, Creed let out a snort and said,

"The two of you, come at me together. I'll make you pay for calling me Ball-Ripper."

The confidence was staggering. Arne and Skard had both trained for years as warriors in service to a Duke's house, yet Creed handled the two of them almost like children.

Arne attacked first. He closed quickly behind his shield, keeping his sword hidden from his opponent's sight as best he could, meaning to thrust into an opening.

But all of it came to nothing against a single kick from Creed.

"What are you doing!? You moron!"

Creed booted Arne's shield, and that one blow tipped Arne off balance. It was enough to snap his brimming confidence in two.

Then Creed swung his weapon, something like a short spear, in a great arc from low to high; its speed was blinding, and combined with the power of that monstrous frame, it produced an absurd, devastating force.

Arne barely caught it on his shield, but part of the shield split and his arm was flung high above his head. His arm hurt as if it were about to tear clean off.

Crunch!

Skard, spotting what he took for an opening, moved to attack. But once again a single crushing blow sent him flying.

Crunch!

Skard's shield, too, split beyond use, and beyond the pain in his arm, the heavy shock seemed to spread through his entire body. Truly, without the shield, the blow had force enough to break some part of him clean in two.

Two strikes, and Arne and Skard were both down. They fell to the ground and got up again, but they could barely stay standing.

"Unbelievable, honestly."

Creed said, rolling his neck from side to side. He seemed confident he could kill the pair of them whenever he pleased, for his movements remained unhurried throughout.

And then, the name Creed so despised reached his ears once more.

"Ball-Ripper!"

"......These bastards, I swear......"

He clenched his teeth and turned. There stood Valery. And a crowd, gathered before anyone had noticed, now ringed the battleground.

Valery stepped forward, his short cloak snapping in the air.

"Arne, Skard. Fall back."

"W-Wid......"

Arne called out to Valery, but Valery glared at him as if he might kill him and said,

"I said fall back."

That fierce, burning gaze, so distinctly Valery's when filled with fury. Meeting it for the first time, Arne felt as if the breath had been knocked from him.

Valery had told them not to fight rashly; he seemed angry that his words had gone unheeded.

Left with no choice, Arne and Skard circled wide and withdrew. The crowd had grown even larger than before.

Valery looked at Creed and spoke. His eyes were cold beyond measure, as if he had returned to the days before regression.

“A one-on-one duel. Do you agree?”

"Hmph, so you're that Swordsman. Seems to me you'd have had the world at your feet if you'd gone for a whore-boy instead. Picked the wrong trade, didn't you?"

The remark was aimed at Valery's face. Creed's spirit was no ordinary thing either; even meeting Valery's fierce gaze head-on, he showed not the slightest sign of flinching.

Valery drew his sword without a word.

Yet however tall and well-built Valery was for his age, before Creed he looked every inch a boy.

The crowd watching the standoff was anxious beyond words. If one man won, the days of suffering would simply carry on; if the other won, they would finally be free of their oppressor.

And so the hopes of every single person there gathered around Valery. Maybe. Just maybe. Please. O Dead Gods, protect the young warrior.

It was morning, the sun fully risen. Not a cloud marred the sky, and the light was unusually fierce; when it reached Valery's sword, it flashed.

Valery turned his wrist ever so slightly, guiding the glare of the blade into Creed's eyes.

As if to say the trick was beneath contempt, Creed gave a short snort, then strode in and swung his weapon in a great arc.

It was not some crude swing driven purely by brute force. His movements were incredibly natural, making the attack truly formidable.

Whoosh!

Valery dropped his stance slightly, evading, and in the same motion slipped into the opening.

But Creed's hooked weapon came dragging back at him from behind. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Valery bent lower still and evaded.

To the onlookers it was so perilously close that worried cries broke out here and there.

From his low stance, Valery whipped his sword at Creed's forearm, sharp as a striking snake.

Even in that chilling instant Creed reacted, releasing his grip on the weapon and pulling his hand clear of the blade.

They traded that one exchange and drew apart to face each other again, and both Valery and Creed realized their opponent was no ordinary foe.

Creed's natural frame was monstrous in itself, and his wealth of practical experience gave him a perfect balance of attack and defense. Long weapons had clear strengths and clear weaknesses, but his skill seemed to have all but erased the weaknesses.

Valery, on the other hand, possessed inborn instincts, reflexes, and a precision of swordplay that were scarcely human, almost animal. The slightest mistake against Valery would mean a mortal wound at the least, and likely his life.

With that single exchange, Valery and Creed had almost perfectly assessed one another.

"......"

'Will this fight run long? Should I pace my stamina? And if so, who holds the advantage?' Thoughts along the same lines flickered through both their minds.

At some point Creed had dropped even his trademark sneering; he was focused on Valery and nothing else.

Valery looked at ease at a glance, but he too had raised his concentration to match Creed's.

This time Valery moved first. With the flowing motion peculiar to an assassin, he slid smoothly inside Creed's striking range.

Creed knew his own reach with instinctive precision, and swung his weapon at Valery.

As if he had expected exactly that, as if the feint had been prepared from the very start, Valery spun fast to the opposite side.

At that, Creed swept the ground itself, as if mowing grass with a great scythe.

The difference in their builds was so extreme that Valery judged a thrust of his sword would never reach; he leapt into the air to evade and hurriedly fell back.

But Creed did not let the chance slip, closing in hard on his heels. He raised his arm high and brought the weapon hammering down, and Valery dodged aside in haste.

Only to find a wall at his back.

Creed instantly spun his weapon and slashed it down diagonally with all his strength.

Valery had no choice; as a desperate last resort he raised his sword overhead to block.

But in weapon, in speed, in power, in everything, this was beyond what a skewer of a sword could stop. The blade would snap, and Valery's body would be split along with it; anyone could see it. A fatal mistake.

"It's over! You bastard!"

Creed roared, certain of his victory.

But then something like magic happened. Something Creed had never once encountered in his life.

The sword Valery had raised overhead to block, he folded in toward his own body with impossibly precise timing, deflecting Creed's blow so that it slid away.

It was a technique of the highest difficulty, turning the body slightly to brace the flat of the blade against shoulder and back and shed the force of the strike.

At that, Creed's spear left its intended line of attack and slid along the sword as if down a chute.

Creed had never imagined such a method existed, and had he imagined it, he could never have believed it possible. For a split second, his mind went blank.

Sparks flew as the spear shaved along the sword's edge, and a strange cry of ringing steel echoed out.

Shriiiiing!

The instant Valery shed Creed's blow along his blade, he twisted at the waist again and hauled his raised arm down. With both feet planted firm, using the rotation of his entire body, his shoulders, his abdomen, the broad muscles of his back, every ounce of strength he had, he brought the sword down like a thunderbolt.

"Hup!"

His lungs contracted and the breath burst out of its own accord.

Creed stood to take the blade square in the face, yet even then he wrenched his head back and escaped instant death. The sword bit deep into the joint of his shoulder, severing collarbone and first rib. It was a mortal wound, reaching nearly to the heart.

Creed staggered back in haste. Valery sawed the blade free of Creed's shoulder in one quick motion, and this time it was he who pressed in close.

Creed, through the agony, clenched his teeth and swung his weapon one-handed. But unlike before, the timing, the distance, the strength, all of it fell short.

As if it could be no other way, his attack cut nothing but air.

The morning sunlight caught the blade and it flashed. In an instant Valery's sword severed the tendons at the crook of Creed's arm, then those of his thigh.

Clang!

Creed's weapon fell to the ground, and its owner reeled, stumbling backward in haste before collapsing hard onto the ground. In those few short moments his body had been reduced to a ruin, blood pouring freely.

"Fuck......!"

The watching crowd felt less joy at first than sheer disbelief at the reality before their eyes, their hearts thudding wildly. 'The young warrior won? Really?'

Beads of sweat dotted Valery's forehead from the intensity of his concentration, and his hair, dampened by the violent exertion, hung in disarray.

The contest was already decided. Valery walked toward Creed to finish it, and said,

"Your greed, taken too far, is what got you killed, Ball-Ripper."

At those words, Creed, whose face had been twisted in a deep scowl, suddenly began to snicker, then burst without warning into great peals of laughter.

"Wahahahaha! What!? Greed!? What do you know, whore-boy! Spare me the empty talk and just kill me!"

Creed bellowed, then abruptly turned toward the crowd and let loose a howl thick with resentment. No, it was closer to a scream of anguish.

"You fucking scum! How many times did my father risk his life fighting for your sakes, and you informed on him and got him hanged!? And then, when my mother was being raped and killed, not one of you helped her!? You assholes, all of youuuu! You don't deserve happiness! You don't deserve to live! You don't even deserve an easy death! Suffer forever! I'll curse you even after I'm dead!"

Whatever his story was, it was clearly no ordinary one.

And the people's silence seemed to bear witness that Creed's words were true.

At the root of Creed's savage torment of the people lay not greed but a resentment that cut to the bone. Valery might have achieved his objective one way or another, but it had been an unmistakable error of judgment on his part.

Who had made him this way? The betrayal of those around him, or the world itself?

And who had made the human without a heart?

Valery had taken the mirror down and covered it because he hated what he saw in it, yet in Creed he had no choice but to face his own reflection.

Creed squeezed out the last of his strength, shrieking, hurling at the people every curse he knew.

Then, with bloodshot eyes that looked ready to spill tears, he whipped his head around toward Valery.

He trembled with bitter grief. To that Creed, Valery said,

"......If there is a world after death, I hope you untangle it all there."

"Shove your pity and go untangle your own, whore-boy."

Those were the last words Creed left behind.

Valery swung his sword without a trace of hatred in his heart. The blade flashed once more, and the light was so brilliant that Creed, dazzled, never saw how his own neck was cut.

His head parted from his body and dropped to the ground with a thud. The headless body toppled, spraying blood from the stump.

When the spurting blood had at last subsided, Valery seized the head by its hair and lifted it.

A sword in one hand, a head in the other. Where the blade was not smeared with blood, it threw off a light that stabbed the eyes.

Valery raised Creed's head toward the people and swept his arm slowly from left to right, as if to make certain every one of them saw.

It was not to boast of his feat of arms, but to say that those among you who bear guilt must look that guilt squarely in the face.

No one cheered. Only a heavy silence pressed down upon the crowd.

At that spine-chilling sight, Arne, Skard, and Knut and Yorik, who had arrived on the scene at some point, could only stare, utterly transfixed.

And yet, in an irony of ironies, the people of Grinnen would afterward give Valery a byname of his own, praising that shining deed.

The Salt Prince.

Chapter 6 – Light and Salt. End.