Valeri and his companions returned to Torvik by boat. Free of the smell of burning peat and earth peculiar to Gringen, they could truly feel that they were somewhere else.

There was no grand triumphal reception. Perhaps word had yet to spread, or perhaps people did not know who the Ballsack Opener was. The landing was quiet. Only the reeds seemed to welcome them, swaying gently in the breeze.

As they disembarked, Skard carried a large box under his arm, while Arne held Creed’s signature weapon. Those were their spoils, if anything was.

Yet despite their considerable feat of arms, none of the five looked particularly happy. There was not a trace of excitement about them, and no one spoke. Some had discovered their potential, but also their limits. Some had simply done what they were told, without any particular thoughts from the outset. For others, it did not feel real.

And then there was Valeri. Deep anguish seemed to drape him like a cloak. He was not exactly depressed, but Creed’s life and death felt far too close to his own. Fundamental questions trailed him like a tail: When and where had it begun? What had gone wrong? Who was at fault? What did being wrong even mean?

But these were not questions that yielded easy answers, however much he pondered them. Perhaps what mattered was not getting to the heart of them, but the choices he made here and now. Everything had changed, after all, from the moment he accepted Harald’s invitation to go hunting when he came to see him on his birthday.

A heart grown sharp for fear of being hurt, a little courage, feelings he had never managed to show, and regret...

Valeri did not free himself of his anguish. He buried it in his heart, along with Creed. He did not pity him. He merely understood.

For now, Valeri and his companions headed for the lane crowded with jewelers and entered the largest shop.

“Welcome, gentlemen.”

The man examining a gem behind the table quickly concealed it as he spoke. His eyes swept over the party even faster than his hands moved. Having penniless fools wander in was nothing but a nuisance.

Valeri’s party was a little difficult to judge, however. All but one had well-formed features, so they did not seem to be vagrants, yet their fine clothes were worn in places and filthy with stains. And the smell! They reeked so strongly of smoke that he wondered whether something had caught fire nearby. That was what came of spending four days living in a warehouse, burning peat charcoal without a proper wash.

But Valeri’s looks overwhelmed all of that, leaving the jeweler rather dazed. The maddeningly handsome young man stepped forward.

“I would like to sell some gems.”

“... G-gems? Oh, gemstones, you mean? Certainly. Ah, I would like to see the goods first... A standard procedure, of course. Yes, yes.”

The jeweler snapped out of his stupor as he spoke.

Then Valeri spread the gems he had received from the Black Hand across the table, and the jeweler nearly lost his senses all over again. True gems were different from their very color. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and topazes glittered on the table, a sight so dazzling it was almost intoxicating. And there were far more than one or two, all of them sizable. Even a jeweler rarely saw stones like these. Every single one of the highest quality? Surely not...

His hand trembling slightly, the jeweler picked one up, squeezed one eye shut, and inspected it closely. It appeared to have received only minimal cutting, and it was utterly flawless. Unquestionably a gem of the highest quality. He set it down again and worked his lips soundlessly, unable even to inspect the others. He could have negotiated over something more ordinary, but there were so many of these that he had no idea where to begin. Silver coins were out of the question, naturally. In gold... fifty? A hundred? More?

“... W-where did you get all these?”

“Gringen.”

“Gringen?”

A chill ran through the jeweler’s chest at the thought that they might be smugglers. Smugglers were everywhere, of course, but anyone handling gems like these would be no ordinary operator.

As the jeweler once again fell speechless and studied the party, Yorik spoke up.

“Hey, jeweler. Let’s get a move on. Don’t go getting any clever ideas, eh? This gentleman here is the hero who lopped off that infamous Ballsack Opener’s head. And this gentleman is the third son of the great ducal house of Torvik. Understand? Try anything clever and you won’t like how it ends. Unless you want your head cut off or your guts slit open, you’d better behave. Got it?”

His speech was every bit as thuggish as one might expect from a man of the backstreets, and some of his information was inaccurate. It was the ducal House Viðing, not the ducal house of Torvik. Still, it was true that Yorik’s interventions saved them a great deal of trouble.

“Did he really have to mention slitting people’s guts open?” Arne muttered to himself. It was hardly a pleasant memory for Knut, though Knut did not seem particularly bothered.

At any rate, Yorik’s blustering worked wonders. At the words “third young lord,” the jeweler’s expression changed at once, and he gave a servile smile. He had heard the young lord was off to sell salt a little while ago. It seemed the venture had gone rather well. But had they really killed the Ballsack Opener? Truly?

“Oh, d-dear. I failed to recognize your noble personage. B-but as for the gems...”

“Neither inflate the price nor undervalue them. Pay the market rate. If you lack the funds, we can sell you a portion now and draw up a preliminary contract for the rest.”

Valeri settled the matter.

“Y-yes, that would be best.”

The jeweler began examining the stones one by one again. His hands were shaking so badly that he leaned his face close to the table to inspect them, afraid he might drop one.

He valued each gem at roughly five or ten gold coins. There were twenty in all, so they agreed to sell only two for the moment. The jeweler scraped together every bit of money in the shop and sent his assistant to the money changer to exchange it for gold. After signing an agreement to sell the remaining gems to the same merchant, Valeri left with the money and the rest of the stones. Exactly twenty gold coins.

Valeri gave each of his companions four coins. The sum was so enormous that Arne and Skard looked unable to believe it, while Yorik’s eyes widened until they seemed ready to pop from their sockets.

“M-my lord...”

“Staying beside us despite the danger was work too. It’s fortunate the mission succeeded. One wrong turn, and you could have died. And waiting on Knut is hardly easy. You’ve earned it, so there’s no need to get emotional. Stand tall.”

Valeri’s utterly casual manner made him look impossibly impressive, not only to Yorik but to Arne and Skard as well. Knut, of course, was merely indifferent, showing none of the excitement that might come with earning some money. As the son of a great noble house, he had neither an ordinary sense of money nor any real concept of earning it. If he needed something, he simply obtained it; if something needed doing, he had servants do it. Within the limits Duke Sven allowed, naturally.

“I don’t particularly need money.”

“Take it anyway. You had a part to play, and you did it well enough. This is your reward.”

Knut had served as the public face of their cover business and a deterrent to their enemies. Valeri had arranged all of that, of course, but Knut had nonetheless played an important role in completing the mission.

“Should I... thank you?”

“It isn’t a gift. It’s payment for your work.”

“Doesn’t that make me sound like a commoner? I don’t do work. I’d rather it were a gift.”

It was not just Knut. Nobles in general considered working for payment beneath them. That was why they loved spoils of war so much. Many believed that only what they won through fighting had any value.

“Then call it a gift.”

Only after Valeri’s offhand reply did Knut tuck the money away.

“I’ll keep dividing the money as we sell the gems. Don’t get too carried away just because you’ve come into a fortune. Money is like the devil’s favorite indulgence. I’ve seen plenty of people corrupted by it. What truly matters is the strength, courage, and wisdom you showed during the mission. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourselves a little, but I hope you’ll think carefully and spend it wisely.”

Valeri spoke as he looked around at them all, rather like a commander addressing his soldiers. It was more than eloquence; there was something stirring and encouraging in his words. His personality might be a little twisted and cold, but perhaps because he was a prince at heart, he had an uncommon way of leading people.

“If I ever saw a legendary hero like Sigurd the Dragonslayer in person, I think he’d be like you,” Arne said. It was neither empty flattery nor mere praise. He genuinely believed it.

He had seen it all for himself: the extraordinary looks, the unshakable spirit, the mind that devised meticulous plans, the courage to confront powerful enemies, the firm resolve, and above all, the charisma. The sight of Valeri holding up the Ballsack Opener’s severed head had left a particularly deep impression, like a tattoo that would never fade.

“But wasn’t that Sigurd fellow born to a pair of twins? A brother and sister? That part bothers me a bit,” Skard said. Sigurd’s parents had indeed been twin siblings. His paternal aunt was also his mother.

Men of the Vǫlsungr clan had unusually intense eyes, and Sigurd’s were said to have been fiercer still, shining even in broad daylight.

“They’re of divine blood. They’re different from people like us. Besides, killing a dragon at fifteen is incredible.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Enough of that. Let’s split up for now. Meet outside Torvik Citadel before sunset. We still need to report to His Grace. I’ll take these for now.”

Valeri had no particular feelings about his great-grandfather, but he did not much enjoy hearing other people gossip about him. He cut the conversation short, took the box containing Creed’s head and the weapon, and headed for the citadel. It was where both he and Knut were staying, after all. Arne and Skard generally lived in the barracks, but they had homes of their own. So did Yorik.

“See you later,” Valeri said, setting off toward the citadel with Knut.

“Want to get a drink?” Skard asked Arne.

“Huh? I... No. I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Suit yourself. What about you, Yorik?”

“I thought I’d visit a sauna. It’s been a while. And I’d like to buy some nice clothes.”

“Right. See you in a bit.”

Without lingering, Skard went off to gather his gang for a good, heavy drinking session. Yorik likewise headed for a paid sauna, just as he had said.

Left alone, Arne found it strangely difficult to get moving. He did not really want to go home. Still, he had accomplished something great, and he had not been back in a long time. He supposed he was due a visit. With difficulty, he set off.

Arne’s home stood on the outskirts of the city. A round shield, quartered in black and yellow, hung on the wall. It marked the residents as freemen: Nord warrior families who had attained neither nobility nor knighthood, and owned not even a scrap of land.

Within the fence outside the house was a small vegetable patch. Tools such as hoes and shovels leaned against the wall, but there were no livestock. A stack of firewood stood nearby, though not a large one. The whole place felt rather bare. Seeing his home made Arne even more reluctant to approach. After dithering by himself, he decided to get the visit over with quickly.

He opened the gate, crossed the yard, and carefully opened the door. A woman sat sewing by the hearth.

“Mother.”

At the word, she jerked her head up and turned toward him.

“Arne?”

“Yes, Mother. It’s me.”

As he stepped cautiously inside, his mother cast aside her sewing and hurried toward him, overcome with emotion. She hugged him tightly, then felt his shoulders and arms, perhaps checking that her son was unharmed. Yet her own face was mottled with bruises.

“Are you well? Life in the barracks can’t be easy.”

“Yes, well... I’m doing fine. You needn’t worry.”

“What am I doing? Come in, come in.”

She took Arne by the hand and drew him farther inside, then served him some oddly colored, pale gruel that had been bubbling over the hearth fire. It was not particularly tasty, but as he ate what she had given him, he found it was a taste he had missed.

Arne could not feel comfortable at home, but he blew on his mother’s gruel and drank it.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“Well, it would be nice to have my son help me for a change. Would you chop some wood outside?”

“Of course.”

Arne took off his outer garment and went outside. Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up the axe and began splitting the wood that had accumulated.

When he had finished and returned inside, his mother gave him more gruel. There were no set mealtimes; they simply ate gruel throughout the day. They talked again as he ate, but Arne found the conversation neither interesting nor enjoyable. It felt as though they were merely exchanging formalities. He passed the time helping with chores, talking, then helping some more.

A few hours must have passed before Arne cautiously voiced something buried deep in his heart, though he had not planned to bring it up when he arrived.

“How has Father... been lately?”

“He’s not what he used to be. Perhaps he’s getting weaker. It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

“Wouldn’t you still be better off leaving? I’ll take care of you. I’ve earned a lot of money now.”

Arne showed her the four gold coins Valeri had given him that day.

His mother’s eyes widened.

“Where did you get all that?”

“I’m a grown man now. I earned it working.”

“What sort of work?”

“Well, something like mercenary work, I suppose.”

“... Blood will tell.”

Just then, they sensed someone outside, and the door burst open. An unkempt beard, bloodshot eyes reddened by drink. His father.

“Who’s there? What, Arne? What brings you here?”

Arne’s heart sank. Merely facing his father made his heart pound. It had been that way since childhood. Flustered, he hurried to hide the money, but his father had already spotted it.

“What was that? Money? Don’t tell me those are gold coins?”

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

“I don’t have a single coin for you, Father. Let go.”

“What? Is that any way to speak to your father, you little shit? Hand it over!”

His father raised a hand to strike him, but his mother rushed in to stop him.

“Useless bitch!”

His father shoved her away, sending her crashing to the floor. At the sight, Arne’s eyes blazed. He sprang up, shoved his father, and shouted,

“You fucking worm!”

His father fell too, and Arne drew the sword he had brought.

“How long are you going to live like this? No! I don’t care how you live! Just stop hitting Mother!”

The anguish Arne had suppressed his entire life burst out. Tears streamed down his face, though he could not tell whether they came from anger or grief. The blade caught the firelight and shimmered a blazing red. His father was apparently so terrified by the sword that he could not even get up.

“You’re the one disgracing Grandfather’s honor! What kind of Nord warrior are you? Groveling outside and beating your wife at home—is that a warrior? You’re no father of mine!”

He let out the words he had swallowed all his life. It was a relief, yet somehow he felt guilty too. Why should he feel guilty? Arne thought he would go mad.

Then someone struck him with a poker. His mother. She brought it down with all the strength she could muster, but her clumsy blows did not hurt. No—the pain in his heart was worse than being cut by a blade.

“You wicked boy! You mustn’t speak to your father like that! Get out! You’re no son of mine!”

This was what truly hurt Arne: his mother’s inability to break free of his father. Ever since he was a child, she had beaten him whenever he defied his father. This, he simply could not bear.

He was crying so hard that everything swam before his eyes. He could barely see, but catching the poker she swung was no great difficulty. He pulled as if to wrench it from her, and she lost her balance and fell forward.

He truly wanted to kill them all. But Arne clenched his teeth hard enough to shatter them and held himself back. Pulling the four gold coins from inside his clothes, he hurled them to the floor and shouted at his parents,

“Payment for giving birth to me and raising me! Never speak to me again!”

Arne grabbed his outer garment and scabbard and went outside. He could not even sheath his sword. He had no presence of mind for it. Flinging the door open, he strode into the yard—and stopped dead. Valeri, Skard, and Yorik were waiting for him.

Arne turned his head away, wiped his tears, and strode past them. People sometimes told friends what they could not tell family, and family what they could not tell friends. But this was a side of himself he could never let his friends see.

He did not get far. As though his heart had collapsed, he sank heavily to the ground and bowed his head. Much later, his friends approached, sheathed the sword lying on the ground, and draped his outer garment over him. Without a word.

Only as time passed and sunset approached did Arne speak.

“Is life always this hard, or is it just me? You’re clever, Wid. Do you know?”

Even before turning back time, Valeri had not known about Arne’s family circumstances. The answer he gave now was therefore wholly for the Arne of the present. Without a trace of hypocrisy or pretense.

“... Being born is the sin. Living is the punishment.”

“Then why should we live?”

“I don’t know. I’m still looking for a reason myself. Let’s look together.”

“...”

Arne spent a while steadying his breathing. Only when his emotions had finally settled did he raise his head and stand. His friends offered no hasty words of comfort. They simply pretended not to notice. Then Yorik, who had been watching the others uncertainly, spoke up.

“I don’t even know who my father and mother are. They dumped me in a gutter as soon as I was born. I can’t even ask them why they did it. Heh...”

“What a fucking world,” Skard said. His own family history was hardly normal either. No, perhaps “normal” was itself abnormal. It was almost impossible to find.

Their stations might differ, but Valeri’s circumstances were not so different. And these people were heroes. The heroes who, with only five men, had slain the infamous Creed.

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