* * *

The city of Gringen, and its southern district in particular, was bustling with unusual energy. The reason was simple: Valeri had been handing out salt indiscriminately.

In Gringen, salt was currently worth its weight in gold. Rather than simply consuming it as food, people took it to the somewhat better-off northern district to buy what they needed.

Some bought food to fill their empty stomachs, others bought pots and other daily necessities, and the wiser among them invested in their futures by purchasing livestock such as chickens and pigs.

For people enduring their darkest hours, it seemed dawn had finally broken.

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

He appeared with his men, but instead of heading straight for Valeri and his companions, he astonishingly began robbing the townspeople. They went to those living in pit houses or tents pitched amid the ruins, beating and plundering indiscriminately.

“Who the fuck gave you bastards permission to sell that salt!? Are you insane!? Everything you bought with it belongs to me!”

Creed sent his men storming into ordinary homes and hauled out anything worth money.

Most were too afraid of violence or death to resist at all, though a few pleaded with utterly pitiful desperation.

“Please! Please, not the pot! It’s the only thing we own!”

“We didn’t buy this with salt!”

“Where are we supposed to live if you take our tent?”

This was not even a war, yet Creed’s pillaging was merciless. Anything that looked like metal went onto the carts, and, out of some unfathomable spite, he overturned the first proper meals people had enjoyed in ages.

They dragged their carts through the streets, beating people and taking whatever they pleased.

Meanwhile, Valeri and his companions, who had indeed been giving away salt since early morning, noticed unease spreading through the crowd.

At first, people had swarmed around them, frantically collecting salt. Gradually, however, their numbers dwindled, and those who remained began to look frightened.

Then, amid the murmuring, a few words caught Valeri’s ear.

“The Ballsack Opener. They say the Ballsack Opener is here.”

Valeri and his companions immediately exchanged glances. Salt trading aside, killing Creed was the reason they had come here in the first place.

Creed rarely ventured out of his hideout. This was their chance.

“Where is the Ballsack Opener?” Arne asked, stopping someone.

“I heard he’s past that alley, on the road up to the northern district...”

As soon as Valeri heard that, he addressed his companions.

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

The three went into the warehouse and collected their shields and swords. They pulled their leather gloves on tight and checked and tightened one another’s belts, making every preparation they could.

Arne’s and Skard’s hearts pounded at the thought that the time had finally come. Anticipation and fear, mixed in the right proportions, became excitement. That was exactly what they felt.

Valeri buckled his sword at his waist, donned his short Viking-style cloak, and left the warehouse again, leading the way.

Sensing something was afoot, the people who had come for salt followed the three in a crowd.

They headed in the direction they had been given and soon heard curses and screams in the distance. Valeri went straight toward the noise.

But only Creed’s men were visible, with no sign of Creed himself.

“Let’s split up and look,” Valeri said. “Ask people, too. If you find him, don’t start fighting. Shout for the others, and we’ll fight once we’re together.”

Arne and Skard nodded and went their separate ways.

Valeri went straight to the Ballsack Opener’s men, beat them, and chased them off. He deliberately let them escape so he could follow them. They might lead him to the Ballsack Opener.

Instead, they headed straight for the landing, which apparently served as a gathering point. All he found there were carts loaded with odds and ends stolen from the townspeople.

For better or worse, Skard was the first to find the Ballsack Opener.

Creed was instantly recognizable in his garment stitched together from assorted animal pelts. Above all, his enormous build and unusual gaze set him apart.

Just as Valeri had taught him, and just as he had done so successfully before dawn, Skard charged straight at him behind his shield.

Creed had been directing his men as they tormented the townspeople. Skard’s sudden charge caught him off guard, but he twisted instinctively, avoiding the full impact.

His sheer bulk kept him on his feet. Although the shield blocked his view, he caught Skard’s wrist and stopped the dagger thrust toward his belly.

“What the fuck? Oh, it’s you.”

THWACK!

Creed slammed his forehead into Skard’s face.

Skard grimaced and staggered back from the dizzying impact. Blood streamed from his nose.

Moving leisurely, Creed all but snatched his weapon from the subordinate carrying it. He pointed it at Skard.

“They lost to a useless little shit like this? They deserved to die. Deserved every bit of it. Fucking idiots.”

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

As he prepared to face Creed with sword and shield, a familiar voice rang out. Arne’s.

“Hey! Ballsack Opener!”

Creed, who had been about to pound Skard into a pulp, wheeled toward the speaker with fury blazing in his eyes.

“What son of a bitch dares call me that!?”

His voice was so loud it seemed to shake the entire city.

Even Creed’s presence was unlike that of anyone Arne had faced before. His heart hammered as though it would burst. Still, he barely managed to steady himself and drew his sword.

Valeri had warned him against rashly drawing his sword and fighting, yet Arne was preparing to face Creed head-on. Perhaps the dawn battle had filled him with confidence, or perhaps he was angry that his friend had been hurt.

Or perhaps, as an eighteen-year-old man, he simply felt the urge to test himself.

Arne strode forward and stopped a short distance away, raising his shield and settling into a fighting stance.

Creed gave a derisive chuckle at the sight.

“Both of you, come at me together. I’ll make you pay for calling me the Ballsack Opener.”

His confidence was staggering. Arne and Skard had both spent years training as warriors in service to the ducal house, yet Creed treated them almost like children.

Arne attacked first. He closed quickly behind his shield, keeping his sword out of his opponent’s sight as much as possible and seeking an opening to thrust.

A kick from Creed rendered all of it useless.

“What the fuck are you doing, you moron!?”

Creed kicked Arne’s shield so hard that the single blow sent him tipping off balance. It was enough to shatter all the confidence he had felt.

Then Creed swept his short, spear-like weapon upward in a great arc. Its tremendous speed, combined with the strength of his monstrous frame, produced absurd force.

Arne barely blocked it with his shield. Part of the shield split, and his arm was flung above his head. It hurt as though it were being torn off.

CRACK!

Skard spotted what he thought was an opening and attacked. Once again, however, a single powerful blow sent him flying.

CRACK!

His shield, too, split beyond use. His arm hurt, but worse still, the heavy impact seemed to reverberate through his entire body. Without the shield, the blow would surely have cleaved some part of him in two.

Just two attacks had knocked both Arne and Skard down. They managed to get back up, but could barely remain standing.

“Well, this is fucking ridiculous.”

Creed tilted his neck from side to side as he spoke. He remained leisurely throughout, apparently confident that he could kill them whenever he pleased.

Then he heard that detested nickname again.

“Ballsack Opener!”

“... These fucking bastards...”

He clenched his teeth and turned. Valeri stood there. A crowd had gathered at some point, surrounding the fighting ground.

His short cloak fluttering, Valeri stepped forward.

“Arne, Skard. Fall back.”

“W-Wid...”

Arne called to him, but Valeri fixed him with a murderous glare.

“I said fall back.”

That fierce gaze was uniquely Valeri’s, blazing with anger. Faced with it for the first time, Arne felt his breath catch.

Valeri seemed angry that they had ignored his warning not to fight rashly.

Arne and Skard had no choice but to take a wide path around and retreat. The crowd had grown larger still.

Valeri addressed Creed, his gaze utterly cold, as though he had returned to the person he was before turning back time.

“A duel. One on one. Do you agree?”

“Hmph. So you’re the swordsman. You could’ve taken the world by storm as a male whore. Chose the wrong profession, didn’t you?”

He was referring to Valeri’s face. Creed’s own spirit was extraordinary: even confronted with Valeri’s fierce gaze, he showed not the slightest intimidation.

Valeri drew his sword without a word.

But tall and well-built though he was for his age, beside Creed he was unmistakably a boy.

The crowd watching them face off was desperately anxious. If one man won, their suffering would continue unchanged. If the other won, they would finally be free of oppression.

And so every one of them placed their hopes in Valeri. Perhaps. Just perhaps. Or, please. Dead gods, protect this young warrior.

The morning sun had fully risen. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the sunlight was especially strong. It flashed upon Valeri’s sword.

He subtly turned his wrist, directing the reflection into Creed’s eyes.

Creed chuckled as though the trick were beneath consideration, then strode forward and swung his weapon in a broad arc.

It was no blind swing relying on brute strength. The motion was remarkably natural, making it truly formidable.

WHOOSH!

Valeri lowered himself slightly, dodging and slipping into the opening at the same time.

But Creed’s hooked weapon suddenly came sweeping back from behind him. As though he had eyes in the back of his head, Valeri ducked lower still and avoided it.

To the onlookers, it was terrifyingly close. Alarmed gasps rose all around.

From his low stance, Valeri lashed out like a striking snake, aiming his sword at Creed’s forearm.

A chill shot through Creed, but he reacted, releasing his grip with that hand and avoiding the blade.

After that exchange, they withdrew and faced each other again. Both realized their opponent was far from ordinary.

Creed’s natural physique was monstrous, and his extensive combat experience gave him a perfect balance of offense and defense. Long weapons had clear strengths and weaknesses, yet his skill seemed to have all but eliminated the latter.

Valeri, meanwhile, possessed innate senses, reflexes, and precision with a sword that seemed almost animal rather than human. The slightest mistake against him could mean not merely a grievous wound, but death.

That single exchange had given each an almost exact measure of the other.

“...”

Would this be a long fight? Should they conserve their strength? If so, who would have the advantage? Similar thoughts flashed through both their minds.

Creed’s habitual mockery had vanished. He focused solely on Valeri.

Valeri appeared relaxed at a glance, but he, too, sharpened his concentration.

This time, Valeri attacked first. With the flowing motions characteristic of an assassin, he slipped smoothly into Creed’s reach.

Creed had an instinctively precise grasp of his own range and swung at Valeri.

As though he had expected it—as though the feint had been planned from the start—Valeri darted to the opposite side.

Creed responded by sweeping the ground as if mowing grass with a great scythe.

The difference in their builds was so great that Valeri judged his sword would not reach even if he thrust. He leaped over the attack and hastily retreated.

Creed seized the opportunity and pressed close. He raised his arms and brought his weapon crashing down. Valeri hurriedly dodged sideways.

But a wall blocked his path.

Creed immediately wheeled his weapon around and struck diagonally downward with all his strength.

With no other choice, Valeri raised his sword to block as a desperate last resort.

But the difference in weapons, speed, and strength made the blow impossible to stop with that skewer of a sword. It was easy to picture the blade snapping and Valeri’s body being cleaved apart. A fatal mistake.

“You’re finished, you little shit!”

Creed shouted as though victory were assured.

Then something like magic happened. Something Creed had never experienced in his life.

With impossibly precise timing, Valeri folded the sword he had raised overhead back toward his body, deflecting Creed’s attack.

It was an exceedingly difficult technique: he twisted slightly, bracing the flat of his blade against his shoulder and back to guide the blow away.

Creed’s spear veered off its intended path and slid along the sword as though down a slide.

He had never imagined such a technique existed. Even if he had, he could never have believed it possible. For a split second, Creed’s mind went blank.

Sparks flew as the spear seemed to shave along the sword’s surface, and a strange ringing cry rose from the blade.

SHIIIIING!

The instant Valeri deflected the attack, he twisted at the waist again and wrenched his raised arm downward. With both feet planted firmly, he used the rotation of his entire body and the strength of his shoulders, abdominal muscles, and lats to bring his sword down like lightning.

“Hah!”

His lungs contracted, forcing the breath from him.

The sword was about to strike Creed squarely, yet even then he threw his head back and avoided instant death. The blade cut deep into his shoulder, severing his collarbone and first rib. It was a grievous wound, almost reaching his heart.

Creed hurriedly retreated. Valeri quickly sliced his sword free from Creed’s shoulder and, this time, pressed close himself.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Creed swung his weapon one-handed. But unlike before, his timing, range, and strength were all lacking.

As if it were inevitable, his attack cut only empty air.

The blade flashed in the morning sunlight. In an instant, Valeri’s sword sliced through the crook of Creed’s elbow and the tendons of his thigh.

CLANG!

Creed’s weapon fell to the ground. Its owner staggered hurriedly backward, then collapsed into a sitting position. In mere moments, his body had been reduced to a bloody wreck.

“Fucking hell...!”

Before joy could reach them, the watching crowd struggled to believe what they had seen. Their hearts pounded. The young warrior had won? Really?

Beads of sweat dotted Valeri’s forehead from his intense concentration. His slightly damp hair was tousled by the violent movements.

The fight was already over. He approached Creed to finish it.

“Your excessive greed has killed you, Ballsack Opener.”

At those words, Creed’s deeply contorted face suddenly broke into a grin. Then he burst into loud laughter.

“Ahahahaha! What!? Greed!? What the fuck do you know, you whore! Stop talking shit and kill me!”

After shouting that, Creed suddenly turned a cry of bitter hatred upon the crowd. No, it was closer to a scream.

“You fucking bastards! How many times did my father risk his life fighting for you, and you informed on him and got him hanged!? And then not one of you helped when my mother was raped to death!? You sons of biiitches! 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 townspeople’s silence seemed to lend credence to his words.

It was not greed that lay beneath Creed’s relentless torment of these people, but a bone-deep grudge. Valeri might have achieved his goal one way or another, but he had plainly misjudged him.

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

And who had made the Heartless man?

Valeri had hated his reflection enough to take down and cover the mirror, yet in Creed, he could not escape the sight of himself.

Squeezing out the last of his strength, Creed screamed every curse he knew at the townspeople.

Then he whipped around to Valeri, his bloodshot eyes looking close to tears.

He trembled with bitter resentment. Valeri spoke to him.

“... If there’s a world after death, I hope you can find some resolution there.”

“Shove your pity and find your own fucking resolution, you whore.”

Those were Creed’s last words.

Without a trace of hatred, Valeri swung his sword. The blade flashed again, and its brilliance dazzled Creed so completely that he never saw his own neck being severed.

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

After a while, the spurting blood subsided. Valeri seized the head by its hair and lifted it.

A sword in one hand, a head in the other. The portions of his blade unstained by blood shone with an almost blinding light.

He held Creed’s head up for the townspeople and slowly swept his arm from left to right, making sure everyone could see.

He was not boasting of his martial achievement. He was telling the guilty among them to look squarely upon their guilt.

No one cheered. Only a heavy silence overwhelmed the crowd.

Arne and Skard, and Knut and Yorik, who had arrived at some point, could only stare in a daze at the chilling sight.

Ironically, however, the people of Gringen would later celebrate Valeri’s glorious achievement by giving him a nickname.

The Salt Prince.

Part 6 – Light and Salt. End.