Chapter 74

Translator: Willia

Sometimes in life, one misfortune followed hard upon another. That was what the Lokir Merchant Company was going through now.

The young lady had died, and now the head of the merchant company was dead as well. The two deaths had occurred only days apart.

Lokir's illness had dragged on for so long that people had expected him to die sooner or later, but when it actually happened, they felt an immense sense of loss.

He had founded the merchant company. Nine major guilds alone belonged to it, along with more than a dozen smaller businesses and branches, and he was the man who had brought all those stubborn artisans and craftsmen together as one family.

They had not come together solely because their interests aligned. Adversity, loyalty, betrayal, forgiveness, trust, resentment, and everything else that life could hold had converged to form the commercial and industrial consortium known as the Lokir Merchant Company.

Those guilds clustered around the Lokir Merchant Company's estate like a village: gold, silver, and gemstone artisans, tanners, blacksmiths, tailors, stonemasons, weavers, dyers, shoemakers, architects, and many more.

Each guild was already an association of people in the same trade, and the Lokir Merchant Company encompassed every one of them.

It supplied their raw materials, sold their finished goods, provided armed protection, mediated disputes, lent money, and handled any other difficulties that arose.

Such an organization could not have been formed through appeals to human kindness alone, nor could it have been sustained solely by the cold organizational logic of shared interests.

It needed both: human warmth, and lucid reason and vision.

Though Lokir had not been nobility, he was a self-made man who had truly built a small kingdom of his own.

Many elderly people attended his funeral holding the hands of their sons or grandsons. They were families who had passed their trades down through the generations.

That was why calling it merely a professional organization did not do it justice. They were all bound together by blood in one way or another.

Like a liege lord and his vassals.

“First thing you need to do is get married. Get married, and hurry up and have some children. The dead are dead, but the merchant company must go on, mustn't it? It's all in your hands now, Lucas.”

An extremely old man said this as he kneaded Lucas's hand. He had been one of the merchant company's founding members, though he had retired from active work long ago.

Lucas needed time to compose himself as well, yet he was breaking into a sweat dealing with the mourners while wearing an awkward smile. He looked somewhat haggard, but he had not fallen apart completely.

Serving as chief mourner was no easy task, especially with so many people coming to pay their respects.

“Yes, I understand. I'll keep that in mind, elder.”

“Oh, Grandpa, I'm sure he can handle it himself. That's enough now.”

“You little rascal! That's no way to talk! Do you know what it took to build this merchant company?”

“I understand, so please come over here.”

Strangely enough, people seemed to grow more impatient and irascible with age. Even a man who had achieved great things was merely a troublesome grandfather who needed constant looking after in the eyes of his grandchildren.

The mourners laid flowers before Lokir's body, which had been made up and laid out as though he were still alive. A distinctive long brazier stood in the center of the temple, and some also tossed coins into it.

Collecting them later would be something of a nuisance, but tradition was tradition.

In any case, the temple had entrances at both ends, so people entered through one and left through the other. Lucas's aides directed the flow and saw to the various arrangements.

Meals were also served to the mourners outside the temple. With so many people there, some were even drinking, laughing, and talking noisily off to one side, though it was hard to say whether that was appropriate.

The funeral felt aristocratic in some ways and distinctly common in others. That made sense, given that the merchant company's roots lay among artisans, craftsmen, and merchants.

Fortunately, most people laid down their flowers, bowed their heads to the chief mourner, and moved on. That helped him more than stopping him to go on at length expressing concern and wishing him well.

Some went further and joined the servants in helping with the work. They carried food, tended the brazier's flames, arranged the flowers, and swept and scrubbed the floor.

The number of mourners dwindled after noon. Lucas could not leave his post, but he sat down and finally caught his breath.

A group approached him then: Valery, Knut, and Yorik.

“You don't have to get up.”

Valery spoke as Lucas began to rise. The group first laid down their flowers, then tossed coins into the brazier. The merchant company had done much for them, so they gave generously.

“Isn't handling this alone too much for you? You must already be exhausted from nursing him.”

Before Lokir died, his dementia had reached its worst, and he had been especially difficult to manage. It was almost as though he had been trying to expend the last of his strength so that he could die even a little sooner. Only after his death did it seem that way.

“Hardship is the lot of the living. Thinking of it that way makes it easier.”

Lucas looked haggard, but he had not been utterly broken. Pain and sorrow were said to help people grow, and Lucas now seemed to prove it.

Perhaps he seemed somehow detached. It was in his eyes. They looked as though they had learned to see deeper and farther than before.

“And the priest? I'm sorry I couldn't help with his funeral. I'm grateful to him, too. Perhaps it would have been better if the priest had been at Father's side from the beginning instead of me.”

It had only been for a short while before his death, but Lokir had remained calm when Priest Eirik cared for him. That had been a truly curious thing.

“He was a Nordic, after all.”

Valery meant that they had placed Eirik's body aboard a ship, set it adrift on the river, and burned it. With no mourners to speak of, Priest Eirik's funeral had ended quickly.

Sigbold would likely raise a runestone for him once he returned to Jómsborg.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

It was unlike Knut to be the first to offer help. Such a thing was exceedingly rare. Perhaps he felt indebted to the merchant company after staying at the estate.

Lucas merely shook his head gently.

The landscape outside was visible through the open entrance: fields gradually turning yellow, a distant forest, and white clouds in a blue sky.

“Now I understand why he said we can never truly possess anything.”

Lucas spoke almost to himself as he gazed out at the fine weather.

“To possess something is only to have it pass briefly through our hands. The very idea that we own it is an illusion. All that remains is what we leave behind after passing through. I think that's what life is. So we must do our utmost in everything, with complete sincerity.”

“......That's impressive.”

Valery meant it sincerely. When they first met, he had thought Lucas some kind of lunatic, but no longer. Lucas had always been intelligent, and it seemed that amid regret and pain, he had finally discovered something important.

Whether it was fate or simply life, a man had grown into something greater.

There was something strangely heartwarming about witnessing another person's growth.

New mourners were entering. Seeing them, Valery spoke to Lucas.

“I'll get going.”

“All right.”

Their brief exchange was like a cool breeze, neither cold nor hot. Then Valery and his companions left the temple.

Outside, mourners were scattered across the fields or gathered in groups as though on a picnic. Some chattered noisily, while others, glad for the chance to meet again after so long, settled into quiet conversation.

As they passed them, Knut gently tugged at the hem of Valery's clothes and spoke.

“Valery.”

“I know.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Someone's watching us.”

“Couldn't they just happen to be looking?”

“No, that's not it. Just keep quiet for now.”

There was nothing strange about people looking at Valery's group, but Knut had picked out the ill intent mingled among those gazes.

Valery had even estimated their number, though he was not yet certain exactly how many there were. At times like this, all he had to do was test them.

“You two go and look after Ivy. I'll split off on my own.”

Valery said this to find out whom they were targeting.

When he separated naturally from the other two and headed toward the estate alone, they seemed to follow while carefully maintaining a fixed distance. Valery was their target.

They looked like the duke's men at a glance, but were they merely watching him, or had they come to assassinate him?

Their purpose was impossible to know for now, but to Valery, who had learned assassination from the Black Hand, they were rank amateurs.

A funeral provided an excellent pretext to be there, but strangers abruptly sent to observe someone still stood out as strangers.

In truth, an assassination was already a failure the moment the target noticed it. That was why Valery gave no sign that he had realized what they were doing.

When someone was targeting him, there was no need to be startled or flustered. He only had to behave even more predictably than usual and set a trap of his own, perhaps by deliberately exposing a weakness.

And so Valery strolled leisurely across the fields, taking his time on the way to the estate. Since he often spent time alone, there was nothing unnatural about the sight. He looked like someone peacefully enjoying the autumn.

Even Valery was not entirely free of cares or worries, however. It was nothing particularly serious, but winter weighed upon one corner of his mind.

He had to decide whether to stay here through the winter or move farther south even now and settle there.

Either choice would make little difference, but just as life was simply life and death simply death, winter too was merely winter. There was nothing he could do about that.

Valery had always lived a regimented life. He had been the same before the regression, because regularity was a kind of principle governing his actions themselves, separate from the business of living.

To put it more simply, he was almost like a machine.

His skills advanced and his judgment grew sharper with each day of his regimented routine. Perhaps he had always tried to keep himself honed to a razor's edge, ready to cut at any moment.

He had once lived that way compulsively, but looking back now, he wondered whether he even liked regularity all that much.

Valery realized this as he deliberately made his routine even more predictable for the assassins targeting him.

“Valery.”

At dawn, after finishing his meal and washing up, he was leaving his room when Brynhildr spoke to him, as though she had been waiting.

“What?”

Valery's reply was indifferent, but it no longer had the sharp edge it once had.

“There are people targeting you.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“The duke probably sent them.”

“Why?”

“He must have guessed that someone put ideas into your head. He feels threatened, so he'll want that person removed.”

“......You can tell even that? More importantly, how can you be so calm?”

“About what?”

“Someone is targeting you. Aren't you frightened or anxious?”

“Not really. They're obvious.”

“......”

Brynhildr wondered what was wrong with him. Any normal person would have been frightened and anxious if someone were targeting them, yet Valery showed none of those ordinary reactions.

No matter how strong he was, shouldn't he at least feel uneasy?

Of course, Valery had faced so many assassination attempts before the regression that he was simply accustomed to them. Had he lacked that experience, he too would likely have reacted normally.

“I'm used to this. So don't concern yourself or try to intervene. You'd only get in the way.”

Used to it. Brynhildr felt an ache in her heart when she heard those words. What kind of life had he lived? The way he acted as though it were nothing only made it hurt more.

Valery regarded his sister with a placid gaze, then turned and walked down the corridor. His footsteps rang loudly against the marble floor.

When he left the estate, he was greeted by the cool air unique to dawn and a world steeped in deep blue. The sun was rising later with each passing day.

Valery crossed grass that reached his waist and headed toward the forest. He meant to deliberately expose himself at a vulnerable hour, while also training his rune power.

With the morning songs of forest birds around him, Valery focused inward. He felt the cool power originating in his heart spread throughout his body.

If the dragon's blood had forcibly awakened his rune power, given it a particular nature, and increased its quantity, the Dragon-Slayer's rune that Priest Eirik had passed on was more a matter of the power's color and texture.

It could neither be seen nor touched, only felt, but the Rune of Dawn once borne by the Dragon-Slayer seemed deep blue.

It was delicate but not light, cool rather than hot, and calm rather than fierce. It was neither slow nor fast, yet at some point he would realize that a brilliant light was illuminating his entire body.

The Dragon-Slayer was not the only person born with the Rune of Dawn. Yet as he lived, his rune had gained a unique color and texture of its own. Just as Lucas had said that living meant only leaving something behind, the Dragon-Slayer's rune carried the texture of pure sorrow and self-sacrifice.

And regret for his mother as well. It was almost as though Valery could feel his soul.

There were, however, aspects of it that did not quite match the nature of the dragon that had commanded thunder and lightning. The dragon's power felt as though it wanted to burst forth fiercely, while the Rune of Dawn seemed to possess a pace of its own.

The two were not completely at odds, but finding a way to harmonize them would likely be another task for him.

In truth, possessing two kinds of power in a single body was an exceedingly rare case. One mistake could rupture his blood vessels or damage his organs, but Valery did not know how dangerous this could have been.

He had been fortunate because the dragon's blood the Dragon-Slayer had drunk after killing it was identical to the dragon's blood Valery had consumed. Furthermore, Valery was his descendant. As Priest Eirik had said, being a prince was what made it safe for him.

Anyone else, or even Valery if he had consumed the blood of a different dragon, might at best have been left an invalid, or at worst died.

In any case, the amount and nature of the power, as well as its color and texture, were one thing. The difficult part was how to wield it.

With the breathing technique Sigrún had taught him, he merely had to feel the power naturally spread along its paths and gather again. The method Eirik had taught him followed fixed paths, however, so he had to focus on it consciously.

Instead of his senses expanding, it felt as though they were closing in.

Moreover, just as Eirik had warned him, even moving naturally would be difficult until he grew accustomed to it. Ultimately, he had to connect it to his bodily movements and incorporate it into his swordsmanship.

Valery's swordsmanship was not orthodox. It was the product of adapting, developing, and internalizing assassination techniques through actual combat.

It was economical, swift, and lethal, but far removed from sturdy defense or stability.

It felt like walking a tightrope, with the danger offset by his innate instincts, gambler's temperament, and skill at outmaneuvering his opponents.

Then should he alter his swordsmanship to suit the method of wielding the power, or adapt the method to suit his swordsmanship? That was another problem to solve.

The two powers differed in nature and texture, and he had to master an unfamiliar way of wielding them while integrating it with his swordsmanship. It was a challenge of unprecedented difficulty.

Valery drew his sword first. Then, while circulating his rune power, he swung the blade very slowly.

Even taking a single step required care, and his sword moved slowly. Whenever something went awry midway through, his movements stopped and started.

To his surprise, it exhausted him quickly. He had plenty of rune power, but his stamina could not keep up. Less than thirty minutes had passed, yet sweat was already pouring off him. This wasn't easy.

For Valery, who learned everything quickly, it was a difficulty he had never encountered before. But he did not dislike it. He felt challenged, and he wanted to master it.

The assassins watched Valery from afar and wondered what he was doing. It was obvious that he was practicing swordsmanship, but his movements were painfully slow, and he was soon drenched in sweat and exhausted.

They had been cautious because he was said to be a jousting champion, but something seemed rather strange.

“Isn't he just good on horseback? It looks like he can't fight well on foot.”

“I think so too.”

“He looks tired. Want to finish him now?”

“No. We still have time. He comes here every day, so let's bring in more men, prepare in advance, and make certain of it.”

“Right. The fewer variables, the better.”

Having reached that conclusion, the assassins withdrew.

Valery knew they were watching, but whether they watched or withdrew, he remained completely absorbed in his training. He had always learned through actual combat and had rarely trained like this, so the pleasure it brought him was entirely new.

So this was why people needed to keep learning. The thought made him grateful to Priest Eirik once more.

His sword gradually quickened. Valery himself found it difficult, but the speed at which he opened an unknown path, or perhaps a path all his own, was extraordinary. He had never thought of himself that way, but in truth, Valery was a rare genius.

No one who had risen from the very bottom to become king could possibly have been ordinary. The difference from before the regression was that he now focused more on his own strength than on intrigue, leadership, and command.

That was because he was now living a life more truly his own, the life of an individual.

He lost track of time in his concentration, and before he knew it, the sun had risen, casting shafts of golden light upon him in the forest.

The darkness before dawn always ushered in the light. It was an omen, a promise, and hope.