Swordmaster of the Great Wall

A dark night, where not even the moonlight shone through properly. The cover of darkness hid Erich and Milon's figures perfectly.

They moved toward the largest tent at the center.

– Crack!

"Ugh!"

They advanced by taking down the minimum number of guards along their path.

"By the way... how did you guess that the boss of the merchant group would be in that tent?"

"I checked before we even came down from the hill."

"You're saying you could see all that in the middle of the night?"

Erich merely shrugged and moved on. Milon glared at Erich through the slit of his mask. But right then—

"So, Milon, what were you planning to do once we got here?"

"If a crazy masked man shows up at night brandishing a sword, anyone would spill whatever they know, wouldn't they? Am I wrong?"

"... So you do realize you look crazy."

"And you're any different? Isn't this exactly why you came?"

"To be precise, my loyal servant was severely injured, so I'd say I'm in a diminished mental state, not in my right mind."

However, from Milon's perspective, Erich looked utterly normal to anyone's eyes—which only made it look like he'd found himself a handy excuse.

'In the past, even just this much would have been out of the question.'

Of course, the reason why Erich could use such methods now was because he'd already shown his capability to the grand duke.

As Erich was now, so long as he didn't cross any major lines, even the grand duke would likely overlook this without much reprimand.

Such is the value of a swordmaster.

– Crack!

Erich knocked out another guard, and Milon moved ahead to scout the situation in front.

"That must be it. It's bigger and looks more comfortable than the others."

"Definitely the kind of place a boss would be."

"You take the left. I'll take the right."

With that, Milon approached the guard at the tent rapidly.

Then, as he got close, he quickly wrapped his thick arm around the guard's neck.

It didn't take long for the guard to lose consciousness.

– Sssht.

Milon and Erich each checked the guard they'd dispatched and pulled up the tent flap. As they stepped inside—

"Gasp."

Milon was briefly startled by what he saw inside the tent. Someone was sitting at the edge of the bed, looking at them.

– Snore!

Of course, the man was snoring as he did so. He was a northerner, sleeping with a long greatsword and shield in his grasp.

He was too old to be called middle-aged, but too young to be called elderly.

A typical northern warrior, his long, coarse white beard was tied with a cord, and his hair pulled back into a topknot. He was dozing with his eyes open.

Erich gestured silently to Milon. The idea was to approach slowly and subdue him at once.

However—

"Yawn."

The man apparently woke up, yawned, then calmly fixed his gaze on Erich and Milon standing before him.

But in his eyes, there was a sharpness one would never expect from someone who'd just woken up.

"This is why I can never sleep lying down."

Erich shot a look to Milon, who stood as awkwardly as he did. But before they could exchange any signals, the old man before them stood up.

"If you're coming here, you must either be rival merchants, or people who want information about my clients. But merchants don't have that kind of guts. So..."

– Clack.

The old man quickly shielded his body and pointed his sword at them as he continued,

"Before we kill each other, why not introduce ourselves?"

"... So you're not just the leader of the merchant group."

"There's a proper title—'chief'. I like that title very much. 'Huskarl' sounds too much like a lackey, doesn't it?"

Huskarl. At that word, Erich's eyebrow twitched. Milon had no idea what it meant, but he could tell Erich recognized the man's true identity.

"What's a huskarl?"

"Just as there's a grand duke in the south, the north has one too. Huskarl are the grand duke's personal guard—the bravest of the warriors, handpicked."

And Erich added,

"They're also the crazy ones who believe that if they die well in battle, they go to Valhalla."

"Kuhuhu, you know your stuff. Are you from the north? If so, you must know what it means to fight me."

Erich realized that the strange confidence the old man displayed was well founded.

An ordinary person would have called the guards the moment they woke. But right now, the old man in front of them was remarkably composed. As if taking on two at once was nothing to him.

"You're awfully confident... for an old man whose bones should be creaking."

But despite Erich's sarcasm, Milon, too, intuitively sensed that this was no ordinary warrior.

A warrior. But not just any warrior—a huskarl, now acting as a merchant chief. They had come to rough up the boss to get information, but if they couldn't take down this old man quickly, they might not even be able to escape.

Upon hearing he was a huskarl from the north, however, a smile instead crept across Erich's lips.

'A worthy opponent. The first strong one I'm meeting since my regression.'

Just as he thought that, the old man rushed at them.

– Clang!

Inside the dark tent, the clash of swords sent up sparks.

– Clang! Screech!

The old man's rapid attacks were hard to believe from such an aged body. The movement of his shield, intercepting Erich's swinging attacks, spoke to the extent of his battle experience.

Blows were exchanged rapidly between the old man and Erich. Although neither's attacks landed, as the old man passed Erich, Milon, waiting in ambush, struck at him. It was a sharp surprise attack.

– Crack!

But the old man, as if he had eyes on his back, skillfully flipped his shield behind to block Milon's attack. In that instant, though, Erich's attack came crashing down on him.

– Clang!

But in a split second—

The self-proclaimed chief blocked Milon with his shield in one hand and parried Erich's attack with his sword in the other. Then he spun his body rapidly.

– Wham!

With the two attacks narrowly evaded, the old man's sword traced a sweeping arc as he spun.

– Slash!

"Guh!"

His blade swept across Milon's face in an instant. As Milon's mask fluttered to the ground, revealing his bare face, the old man's eyes searched quickly.

"... Hmm, that face looks familiar. Have we met before?"

"You talk a lot for an old man!"

– Clang!

Milon's blow hammered into the shield. Perhaps due to his natural brute strength, the old man wavered for a moment.

But the old man quickly regained his stance and parried Erich's next attack. The exchange became increasingly rough and fierce.

'A swordsman who wields a shield this well is rare. He's tricky.'

Great battle experience could be felt from the old man's shieldwork. How many battlefields had he seen to acquire such skill? An ordinary swordsman's shield would have been crushed already.

But the old man knew exactly how to block metal with a wooden shield. That was why he could defend so perfectly, even when attacked by two at once.

In the midst of this, Erich made a quick judgment.

'I was going to save this... but I guess I'll have to use it just this once.'

In the darkness, three shadows moved quickly, seeking each other's death. For a moment, the eyes of one shadow flashed crimson.

– Voom.

In that instant no one could see, Erich's sword passed through the air, emitting a faint blue glow.

– Crackle!

With Erich's blow, the old man's shield shattered to pieces. In the gap, Milon's sword sliced across the old man's side.

– Slash!

"Argh!"

The old man staggered back, clutching his side, his hand now soaked in blood.

"Kuhuhuhu."

He let out a strange laugh. Eyeing Erich and Milon as they closed in, he reached for a nearby axe. Sword and axe. With both weapons in hand, a look of exhilaration appeared on the old man's face.

"So you're not rats after all. You're the benefactors who'll send me to Valhalla."

"If you show up there, Valhalla will never be bored, given how much you talk."

"I can't wait any longer—send me to my death, quickly, you two!"

– Clang!

The old man—no, Harald—leapt at Erich and Milon once more. He had wielded a sword and shield as if they were part of him, but now, with a sword and axe, he became a perfect dual-wielding warrior, as if he'd never used a shield at all.

He unleashed complicated trajectories with his sword and axe in tandem. His wild, unpredictable attack patterns began to push back Erich and Milon instead.

– Slash!

But perhaps because he had abandoned defense, wounds began appearing all over Harald's body. Of course, Erich and Milon were taking minor damage as well.

– Splurt!

"Urgh."

One warrior alone, Harald couldn't land deep enough blows on two opponents. In the end, the warrior Harald started bleeding more and more.

But unlike Harald's body, which betrayed signs of defeat and nearing the end, his lips never stopped moving.

"Valhalla... Valhalla... Valhalla...!"

His delirious chanting echoed chillingly. Blood-soaked, Harald's face was alight with irrepressible joy.

But the source of the old man's joy was unknowable to all. Not only Milon, who knew nothing of the north, but even Erich, who had heard some stories.

"Valhalla—!"

Harald's cry rang through the tent.

Valhalla: the heavenly hall where the North's chief god gathers fallen warriors, and the greatest honor longed for by Northern warriors.

Yet, ironically, Harald could not go to Valhalla precisely because he was too strong. In search of death, he became the huscarl of the Northern Grand Duke and marched to countless battlefields.

But, in the end, he realized—even after dueling renowned knights of the south and wandering imperial battlefields in search of death, he had simply grown old.

'Old Harald'—that's what Northerners called him. Now, in his blood-red vision, Harald could clearly see the warriors who would bring him the death he sought.

– Clang! Slash!

Harald's wrist flew through the air. The axe slipped powerlessly from his grasp.

– Thud!

Next, Erich's blade sank deep into Harald's abdomen. Harald, grimacing in pain, fell to his knees.

– Thud.

But a pure rapture filled his face. The corners of Harald's mouth curled up as if yearning for something.

"... He's still gripping his sword. Truly an incredible old man."

"Before I die, tell me the names of you two."

Harald's lips were turning blue from blood loss, yet he still gripped his sword tightly, looking up at them.

"I am Milon Roland."

"... Roland? No wonder your face looked familiar."

Milon, staring at the fading old man, as if realizing something, responded,

"Harald. I think I've heard of you. Did you kill my father?"

"I did."

"In that case, I have something to ask. Judging from your skill, you must have won fairly..."

"It was not fair."

"... What?"

Harald spoke with difficulty, blood seeping from his lips,

"I wanted to take on a famous knight, just once. And the offer was tempting: if I beat him, I'd get to duel a swordmaster."

"... So what? What do you mean, it wasn't fair?"

Harald, catching his breath, gave Milon a significant smile.

"That's as much as I can say. Boy. If you're paid a price, you must keep your mouth shut, don't you agree?"

"Damn it! Tell me right now!"

Milon grabbed Harald by the collar, putting a sword to his throat. But Erich stopped Milon and spoke,

"What use is waving a sword at someone who wants to die already?"

"... But I have to know!"

"Step aside. I'll make him spill everything."

Erich curled his lips at Milon, then addressed Harald.

"If you want something, there's always a price to pay. And we've just gotten what we need in payment."

Milon had no idea what Erich meant. But Erich slowly approached Harald. Harald, overcome with a terrible premonition, chanted to himself, hoping what was about to happen wasn't what he feared...

-------------= Clacky's Corner -------------=
【ദ്ദി(⩌ᴗ⩌)】