Chapter 23

Translator: Willia

Valery and his companions returned to Torvik by boat.

Away from Grinnen's signature smells of burning peat and earth, the change of place was unmistakable.

There was no grand triumphal welcome. Perhaps word hadn't spread yet, or perhaps no one knew who the Ball-Ripper was.

So the wharf was quiet. Only the reeds swayed gently in the wind, as if welcoming the party home.

As they stepped off the boat, Skard had a large box tucked under his arm, and Arne carried the weapon Creed had personally wielded. Spoils of war, if one could call them that.

Yet for all the remarkable feat of arms they had accomplished, none of the five looked particularly happy. There was not a trace of excitement among them, and no one spoke.

One of them had glimpsed his own potential, and with it, a wall he could not cross. Another had only done it because he was told to, having had no particular thoughts about it from the start. Another simply couldn't feel that any of it was real.

And then there was Valery. A deep anguish seemed to drape over him like a cloak.

He was not exactly gloomy; it was just that Creed's life and death did not feel like some stranger's story.

When and where did it begin, what had gone wrong, who was at fault, and what did "fault" even mean in the first place, such fundamental questions clung to him and trailed after him like a tail.

But no amount of brooding would produce an easy answer. Perhaps what mattered was not digging down to the root of it all, but the choice he himself made here and now.

After all, everything had changed the moment Harold came calling on his birthday and he accepted the invitation to go hunting.

A heart honed sharp by the fear of being hurt, a small act of courage, the true feelings he could never show, and regret......

Valery did not free himself of the anguish; he buried it in his chest. And Creed along with it. He did not pity the man. He only understood him.

Valery and his companions first headed for the alley where the jewelers clustered. They stopped at the largest shop among them.

"Welcome, honored customer."

The man who had been examining a gem behind the table quickly hid it away as he spoke.

And faster still, his eyes swept over Valery's party. Penniless riffraff wandering in only meant trouble, after all.

But this group was hard to place. Save for one, their features were clean and even, so they didn't seem to be vagrants; yet the clothes they wore, though of fine make, were frayed here and there and filthy with stains.

And the smell. What was that burnt reek? Strong enough to make him wonder if something had caught fire somewhere.

That was because Valery's party had spent four days living in a warehouse, burning peat charcoal, without a proper wash.

But overwhelming all of that was Valery's face, so strikingly handsome that it clouded the jeweler's wits.

That maddeningly handsome man stepped forward and spoke.

"I wish to sell some gems."

"......G-gems? Ah, gems, you say? Of course. Ah, but first I'd like to see the goods...... standard procedure, you understand. Yes, yes."

The jeweler, snapping out of his daze with a start, managed to reply.

But when Valery spread the gems he had received from the Black Hand across the table, the jeweler very nearly lost his wits a second time.

Genuine gems announced themselves by their very color. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topazes glittered across the table, dazzling enough to entrance the eye.

And there weren't just one or two; the stones were large besides. The kind he had rarely laid eyes on in all his years in the trade. 'Every single one top grade? Impossible......'

With trembling fingers, the jeweler picked one up, squeezed one eye shut, and examined it closely. It had received only the barest cutting, and it was flawless, without a single blemish. Unmistakably a gem of the highest grade.

He set the gem back down and, unable even to inspect the others, could only work his lips soundlessly. Negotiation was possible when the goods stayed within reason; with this many, he couldn't even begin to gauge a price.

'Silver coins are out of the question, obviously. In gold coins...... fifty? A hundred? More?'

"......Wh-where did you come by all of these?"

"Grinnen."

"Grinnen, you say?"

A chill ran through the jeweler's chest at the thought that these men might be smugglers.

Smugglers could be found anywhere, but anyone moving gems of this caliber would be no small fish.

As the jeweler, at a loss for words once more, studied Valery and his companions, Yorik spoke up.

"Oi, jeweler pal. Let's hurry this along, eh? And don't go getting clever on us. Huh? This gentleman here, he's the hero who took the head clean off the infamous Ball-Ripper himself. And this gentleman is the third son of the great Ducal House of Torvik, that's what. Huh? You following? Try any funny business and it won't end well for you. Unless you want your head lopped off or your belly slit open, you'd best mind your manners. We clear?"

True to his back-alley roots, his speech was thuggish beyond redemption, and some of his facts were wrong. It was the Ducal House of Viðing, not of Torvik.

Still, it was true that a great deal of tedium vanished whenever Yorik stepped in.

"Did he really have to bring up the belly-slitting?"

Arne muttered to himself. It was hardly a pleasant memory for Knut. Knut himself didn't seem to mind much.

At any rate, Yorik's browbeating worked wonders. At the words "Third Young Lord", the jeweler's eyes changed at once, and he put on a fawning smile.

So the Young Lord had said he was going off to sell salt a while back, and apparently made quite a success of it. 'But hang on, they killed the Ball-Ripper? Really?'

"Oh, d-dear me. I failed to recognize such an exalted personage. B-but, about the gems, er......"

"Don't price them high, don't price them low; pay the going rate. If you lack the coin, we'll trade a portion now and draw up a provisional contract for the rest."

Valery settled the matter.

"Th-that would be best, yes."

The jeweler began examining the gems again, one by one. His hands shook so badly that, fearing he might drop one, he pressed his face close to the table as he worked.

The price he set came to five or perhaps ten gold coins per gem. There were twenty such gems in all, so for now they agreed to trade only two.

The jeweler scraped together every last bit of money in the shop and sent his assistant to the money changer's to exchange it for gold coins.

Valery signed a contract to trade the remaining gems with this same jeweler, then stepped outside with the money and the rest of the stones. Exactly twenty gold coins.

Valery divided the gold among his companions, four coins each.

It was such an enormous sum that Arne and Skard looked as though they couldn't believe it, and Yorik's eyes went so wide they seemed ready to pop out of his skull.

"M-My Lord......"

“Staying by my side and taking that risk was work in itself. The mission succeeded, but one mistake and any of us could have died. And looking after Knut isn't exactly easy either. You earned this, so there's no need to get emotional. Straighten your shoulders.”

Faced with Valery's supremely cool manner, not only Yorik but Arne and Skard as well couldn't help finding him magnificent.

Knut, of course, remained indifferent despite having earned a fair amount of money. That was only natural. As the son of a great noble house, he had neither an ordinary sense of money nor even much of a concept of earning it.

If he needed something, he simply took it; if something needed doing, the servants did it. Within the bounds of what Duke Sven permitted, naturally.

"I don't really need money."

"Take it anyway. You had a role, and you played it well. This is your payment."

Knut had served as the face of their cover business and as a deterrent against their enemies. All of it was Valery's plan, of course, but he had still done work vital to completing the mission.

"Am I...... supposed to say thanks?"

"It's not a gift. It's payment for the work you did."

"Then that makes me sound like a commoner. I don't work. A gift would be better."

Knut was no exception; nobles in general considered working for pay beneath them.

That was why they so adored things like spoils of war. Many of them held that only what a man seized through his own fighting had any worth.

"Fine, call it a gift, then."

At Valery's offhand reply, Knut finally tucked the money snugly away.

"You'll get your share every time we trade the gems from now on. Best not to let a windfall go to your heads. Money is like a devil's delicacy; I've seen plenty of people rot because of it. What's truly valuable is the strength, courage, and wisdom you showed carrying out the mission. Blowing off a little steam is fine, but I hope you'll think carefully and spend it wisely."

Valery said, looking around at them all. It was almost like a commander addressing his soldiers. More than mere eloquence, there was something in it that awakened and stirred the spirit.

Twisted or cold as his character might be, perhaps because he was a prince at his core, his way of handling people was something else entirely.

"If I ever saw a legendary hero like Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer in the flesh, I bet he'd be just like you."

Arne said. It was neither flattery nor an empty compliment; he truly meant it.

From the extraordinary looks to the unshakable mind, the brain that laid meticulous plans, the courage to face a mighty foe, the iron decisiveness, and above all that charisma, he had seen it all with his own eyes.

The image of Valery holding the Ball-Ripper's severed head had left an especially deep impression. Like a tattoo that would never fade.

"But wasn't that Sigurd fellow the child of twin siblings? That part's always bothered me a bit."

Skard said. In fact, Sigurd's parents had been twin brother and sister. From Sigurd's standpoint, his aunt was also his own mother.

The men of the Vǫlsungr line were known for uncommonly intense eyes, and Sigurd's, they said, had been fiercer still, glowing even in broad daylight.

"It's the Divine Bloodline. They're not like the rest of us. And killing a dragon at fifteen, that's incredible, isn't it?"

"Can't argue with that."

"Enough of that. Let's split up for now. We meet again before the Torvik Citadel gates by sundown; we still owe His Excellency the Duke a report. I'll take this with me for the time being."

Valery had no particular feelings about his great-grandfather, but listening to others chatter on about him wasn't exactly pleasant either.

So he cut the conversation short, took the box holding Creed's head along with the weapon, and headed for the citadel. For him and Knut, the citadel was where they stayed.

Arne and Skard lived mostly in the barracks, but each had a home of his own. As did Yorik.

"See you later."

Valery said as he walked off toward the citadel with Knut.

"Fancy a drink?"

Skard asked Arne.

"Huh? I...... no. I'm good."

"Yeah? Suit yourself. What about you, Yorik?"

"I'm thinking I'll hit the sauna, been ages. And I want to buy myself some fine clothes."

"Fair enough. See you in a bit."

Without a backward glance, Skard rounded up his gang and went off to drink himself merry.

Yorik, true to his word, headed for a paid sauna house.

But Arne, left alone, somehow found it hard to take that first step. Because he didn't much want to go home.

Still, he had accomplished something great, and it had been so long since his last visit that he figured it was about time he went.

So, with difficulty, he set off.

Arne's house stood on the outskirts of the city. On its wall hung a round shield painted in quarters of black and yellow, marking those who lived there as Freemen.

A family of Nordic warriors, the class that never rose to nobility, never won knighthood, never came to own so much as a scrap of land.

Inside the fence was a small vegetable garden, modest as it was. Tools like hoes and spades leaned against the wall, and there was no livestock. Firewood was stacked up, though not much of it. The whole place had a hollow, threadbare feel.

The sight of his own house made Arne's feet drag all the more. After dithering alone for a while, he decided he would just look in quickly and be on his way.

He opened the gate in the fence, crossed the yard, and carefully opened the door. Inside, a woman sat sewing before the hearth.

"Mother."

At the word, the woman's head snapped up and she turned to look at Arne.

"Arne?"

"Yes, Mother. It's me."

As he stepped carefully inside, his mother cast her sewing aside and came to him, her face overcome with emotion. She hugged him tight, then ran her hands over his shoulders and arms, as if to make sure her son was whole.

But her face was mottled here and there with bruises.

"Are you doing all right? Barracks life can't be easy."

"Yes, well...... I'm fine. You don't need to worry."

"Look at me, keeping you standing there. Come in, quickly."

His mother took Arne's hand and pulled him along. Then she served him the pale, oddly colored porridge that had been bubbling away over the fire in the hearth.

She gave it to her son to eat, and though it had little flavor to speak of, it was, in its way, a taste he had missed.

Arne could hardly feel at ease in this house, but he blew on his mother's porridge and drank it down.

"Anything I can help with?"

"Hmm, it would be nice to lean on my son for once. Would you split some firewood outside?"

"All right."

Arne shed his coat and went out. Rolling up his sleeves, he took up the axe and began splitting the wood that had piled up.

When he had finished and come back inside, his mother gave him more porridge. There were no set mealtimes here; eating porridge whenever, that was what a meal was.

He talked with his mother again as he ate. But the conversation felt neither interesting nor enjoyable to Arne, just an exchange of hollow pleasantries.

And so he passed the time, helping with the housework, talking, then lending a hand again.

A few hours must have gone by when Arne, though he hadn't planned it from the start, carefully brought out the words he had buried deep in his chest.

"How's...... Father been lately?"

"He's not what he used to be. Maybe it's his strength failing, but it doesn't really hurt anymore."

"Even so, wouldn't it be better to leave and live on your own? I'll look after you. I've earned good money now."

Arne took out the four gold coins he had received from Valery that day and showed her.

Her eyes went round as she asked.

"Where on earth did all this come from?"

"I'm a grown man now, aren't I? I earned it working."

"What kind of work?"

"It's, well, something like mercenary work, I suppose."

"......Blood will tell, I see."

Just then came the sense of someone outside, and the door burst open.

A wild, unkempt beard; eyes bloodshot red from drink. His father.

"Who's that? What, Arne? What brings you here?"

Arne's heart lurched. The mere presence of his father set his heart pounding. It had been that way since he was a child.

Flustered, he hurried to hide the money, but his father's eyes caught it anyway.

"What was that just now? Is that money? Don't tell me that's gold?"

He strode over, grabbed Arne, and tried to wrench the money away.

"There's not a single coin here for you, Father. Let go."

"What did you say? You little bastard, is that any way to speak to your father!? Hand it over!"

His father's hand shot up to strike him, but his mother threw herself between them.

"You useless bitch!"

His father shoved her, and she went down with a crash. At the sight, fire lit in Arne's eyes.

He sprang to his feet, shoved his father back, and shouted.

"You vermin bastard!"

His father toppled over as well, and Arne drew the sword he had brought with him.

"How long are you going to live like this!? No! I don't care how you live! Just stop beating Mother!"

A lifetime of pent-up fury came pouring out of Arne. Whether it was rage or grief he couldn't say, but tears streamed down his face.

The blade caught the firelight, shimmering and rippling blood-red. Terrified by the sight of the sword, perhaps, his father couldn't even get up.

"You're the one dragging Grandfather's honor through the mud! What kind of Nordic warrior are you!? Groveling out in the world and beating your wife at home, is that a warrior!? Something like you is no father of mine!"

He finally spat out the words he had held back his entire life. Part of him felt relieved, yet somehow another part felt guilty. Arne thought his mind might break trying to understand why he should feel guilty at all.

Then someone struck Arne with a fire poker. His mother. She swung down with all the strength she had, but the blows were too clumsy to hurt.

No; they hurt his heart worse than any blade could have cut his flesh.

"You wicked boy! You mustn't speak to your father that way! Get out this instant! You're the one who's no son of mine!"

For Arne, this was the part that truly hurt. That his mother could never break free of his father, that is. Ever since he was small, whenever he defied his father, it was his mother who beat him for it.

This, he truly could not bear.

The tears came so fast his vision swam. He could barely see a thing, but catching the poker his mother swung was no difficult task.

When he yanked it from her grip, his mother couldn't hold her footing and fell forward.

He truly wanted to kill them all. But Arne clenched his teeth hard enough to shatter them and held it in, then pulled the four gold coins from his clothes and hurled them to the floor with all his might.

And he shouted at his parents.

"That's payment for birthing and raising me! Don't ever act like you know me again!"

Arne grabbed his coat and scabbard and went outside. He couldn't even sheathe the sword. He didn't have the presence of mind for it.

He flung the door open roughly and was crossing the yard when his steps stopped dead.

Because Valery, Skard, and Yorik were standing there, waiting for him.

Arne turned his head away, wiping his tears, and strode straight past them.

People will sometimes tell friends what they cannot tell family, and tell family what they cannot tell friends; but this was one thing he could never have let his friends see.

Arne didn't get far. As if the weight of it all had crushed him, he dropped to the ground and hung his head.

A long while later, his friends came to him. They slid the sword lying sprawled on the ground back into its scabbard and draped his coat over him. Without a word.

Only when time had passed and the sun had begun to set did Arne finally speak.

"Is life just this hard for everyone, or is it only me? You're smart, Wid. Do you know?"

Even before regression, Valery had never known about Arne's family.

So the answer he gave now was wholly for the Arne of this moment. Without a shred of hypocrisy or pretense.

"......Being born is the crime. Living is serving the sentence."

"Then why should we live at all?"

"Who knows. I'm still searching for the reason myself. Let's search for it together."

"......"

Arne steadied his breathing for a long while, and only when his feelings had finally settled did he lift his head and rise.

His friends offered no hasty comfort; they simply pretended not to have seen.

Then Yorik, who had been glancing around awkwardly, piped up.

"Me, I don't even know who my father and mother are. Got tossed in a gutter the moment I was born. Not like I can go demand to know why, is it? Heh heh......"

"What a fucked-up world......"

Skard said. His own family was far from normal either. Or perhaps "normal" was the abnormal thing; it was almost nowhere to be found.

For all the difference in station, Valery's lot was much the same.

And these people, these were the heroes. The heroes who, just five strong, had brought down the infamous Creed.

The red sunset caressed the four of them as though offering consolation.