* * *

How the world looked depended on the heart. Just as even a blade of grass by the roadside looked different to a soldier leaving home for a distant battlefield.

As the open door swung back toward its frame, someone pushed through it. The man who had just gone inside.

In his hand was a sword gleaming in the midday sun. It was as though he had snapped off a sunbeam like a branch and held it in his hand.

The girl's ears felt numb. Yet she also had an instinctive sense that she would never forget what she was seeing now.

Filthy lust, merciless violence, and the loss of her parents had descended on her one day without warning.

Since then, the world had lost its light, turning a bleak gray. Now color was seeping back into it.

Fresh red blood on the ground, a breath of wind, golden afternoon sunlight, and a man who seemed more extraordinary than anyone in the world.

Perhaps this was the difference between hell and heaven. Nothing had changed. It was all a matter of the heart.

Like a lion or tiger strolling at its leisure, Valeri walked slowly, neither making a fuss nor acting rashly, merely casting a casual glance around.

When his gaze settled on one particular spot, Knut met it. Then he stabbed the neck of the crossbowman beside him on the palisade, with whom he had been looking out over the scenery.

The instant he pulled out his dagger, he threw it at another crossbowman some distance away. The blade flew silently and buried itself squarely in the man's temple. He collapsed and fell from the palisade.

Knut immediately picked up the mercenary's crossbow beside him, braced it against the floor, and wound its crank. Then he loaded a bolt.

It was around then that the mercenaries occupying the village realized something had happened.

With corpses strewn haphazardly throughout the village, one extra head hardly stood out. Normally they would have noticed something amiss at once, but their own deeds had prevented that.

"Your captain is dead for deliberately delaying the job. From now on, I am your commander. Anyone with objections, step forward."

Valeri had not shouted, yet everyone in the village heard him clearly.

There were nearly twenty mercenaries against just three of Valeri's party. Yet the sudden turn of events and his commanding manner left the mercenaries cowed instead.

Their own guilty consciences troubled them, too. Accustomed to doing only as they were told, they had lost their captain and, for the moment, their ability to think.

Never mind raising objections. Their minds simply went blank as fear crept over them.

"I'll take a head count. Fall in. Fetch anyone who's asleep or not here."

Valeri pointed to the ground before him with his sword tip.

Still wondering what on earth was happening, the mercenaries shuffled about, neither quite obeying nor refusing.

"Why are you so damned slow? Move it!"

His sharp bark made them flinch. Only then did they hurry into motion like soldiers.

As they assembled in ranks before him, Valeri counted their heads and said,

"Arrange yourselves by height as closely as you can. You, move back. You, come forward. Two abreast. Shoulders touching. Close up front to back, too. Good."

As he spoke, he held his sword sideways against their necks as though measuring them with a ruler. Then he moved to the side of the formation.

"Eyes front, all of you. Look anywhere else and you die."

Bewildered though they were, the mercenaries obeyed.

Valeri drew a deep breath and summoned the power of the rune, concentrating on speed and precision rather than brute strength.

Then, in an instant, he unleashed the power gathered in his heart like a tightly compressed spring released.

Twisting his waist as far as it would go, he made two great sweeps, left to right, then right to left. His body, arm, and sword moved too quickly to see as anything but a blur.

There was no sound, either. He had swung exactly twice, but so quickly that it was practically a single motion. Eighteen bodies twitched once, and a fine line appeared across their necks.

Valeri calmed the power he had unleashed, reining it in with a long exhalation.

"Whew..."

Then eighteen heads tumbled off at once. The headless bodies tangled together as they fell, spewing so much blood that it was hard to believe even while watching. A pool formed in an instant.

Valeri stepped back and sheathed his sword, neither quickly nor slowly.

The incredible swordsmanship aside, the whole process, from lining them up to killing them, had been far too practiced.

Just as someone accustomed to eating meat knew how to enjoy it, someone experienced in slaughter was certainly quicker and cleaner at it.

Gently coax them together like a flock of sheep, then kill them without warning. Sheep never knew they were going to die until they did.

Valeri looked around. When his gaze reached the women in the cattle shed, several rolled their eyes back and fainted.

They had seen plenty of violence, but what Valeri had done was, well, something that profoundly shook their existing beliefs and understanding of the world.

Still, surely all that mattered was that the job had been finished without much commotion.

"I came at the farming village's request, so you have nothing to fear. Get dressed and take the bodies outside. What happened to you is tragic, but the farming village will help you. Once you've recovered in body and mind, seek them out."

Valeri gestured for Yorik to bring the horses.

Leading the two horses over, Yorik grimaced at the twenty-odd corpses heaped together in a pool of blood.

"Wow. What the hell happened here...?"

"You of all people shouldn't be surprised."

"Even so, this is a bit... I thought there'd at least be a proper fight."

"Men who've acquired a taste for plunder lose their judgment. They can't even grasp that they might die themselves. Take advantage of that, and there's no need for a fight."

Before his return, Valeri had never permitted looting. He would sooner kill everyone cleanly, then distribute generous shares of their wealth.

He had not done it out of kindness. It was purely a matter of efficiency: keeping the army mobile, preventing the soldiers from becoming depraved, and so on.

They had to risk their lives in battle. If they grew corrupt and steeped in pleasure, their will to fight weakened. That, at least, was what Valeri had observed.

"Well, you're not wrong..."

Valeri mounted his horse.

Knut went over to the fallen crossbowman and spent some time searching for the dagger he had thrown. It had come loose as the corpse fell, and wherever it had landed, the undergrowth hid it from sight.

Yorik went to help him look. Fortunately, they safely recovered the Dwarven steel dagger, which Knut had nearly lost on its very first use.

"That gave me a fright. I'm never throwing it again."

Knut and Yorik mounted as well, and the party left the village, taking only the mercenary captain's head. They had departed Benholm that morning, and it was now just past noon.

Fluffy clouds drifted across the blue sky in the clear sunlight. The weather was so lovely, yet human affairs seemed utterly at odds with it.

At any rate, they rode back to the farming village in the cool breeze.

At first, the villagers assumed they had merely been out scouting.

But Valeri's words took them by surprise.

"I've killed them all. Go and see for yourselves."

He cut through the hair by which the mercenary captain's head was tied to his saddle and held it up. The villagers stared, wide-eyed and bewildered.

They examined the head closely, its eyes rolled upward, tongue protruding from its stupidly gaping mouth. It was unmistakably the captain of the mercenaries who had pillaged the other village and tried to occupy this one.

"Th-this is..."

The last lingering doubts in their hearts vanished, replaced by dismay. He had brought back the captain's head as casually as if he had popped out for a visit. Even with the proof before them, it was hard to believe.

These people had fought desperately with their lives on the line. They even felt a hollow sense of futility: if it was this simple, what had all their suffering been for? At the same time, they could see why people hired professionals to solve their problems.

"F-first, we'll send someone to make certain. Please, come inside for now."

His tone had grown polite. As ever, people seemed to learn manners far faster from one demonstration than from a hundred lectures.

The farming village was packed with people, including refugees from the shepherding village. Those the mercenaries had brutalized were the ones who had failed to escape in time.

Valeri and his companions handed over their horses and sat together at the base of a tree in a corner of the village. There was no empty house available to accommodate the three of them yet.

In moments, people gathered around, whispering as they stared at the party like strange, frightening animals.

After all, the distinction between a hero and a villain lay only in whether they helped or harmed you. Both possessed the same merciless power.

Charisma arose from fear. Whether gentle or commanding enough to dominate a room, it sprang from the unconscious fear that careless behavior would have consequences.

Like a lion or tiger: get too close, and it might tear you to pieces, yet it was too captivating to look away from.

In that eternal gap between fear pushing people away and fascination drawing them closer, charisma reached its height.

That was what people sensed from Valeri now. His exceptional beauty, his appearance so immaculate that it was hard to believe he had just fought a battle, and the mercenary captain's head.

They tried to force those incongruous things together in their minds. All the while, they could not take their eyes off him.

"Want me to tell them to piss off?"

Yorik asked. Valeri and Knut gave small nods almost simultaneously.

At once, Yorik made a threatening gesture at the crowd and shouted.

"Hey! What are you gawking at? Think we're fucking pushovers just because we're sitting here? Piss off! You heard me! Why, you little—!"

His choice of words might not have been appropriate, but it certainly worked. The frightened crowd scattered. In truth, they were afraid of Valeri, but thanks to Yorik, the three could sit in peace.

"Where are we going once we get the baggage wagon?"

Knut asked, tilting his canteen to drink.

"Like it or not, we'll have to pass through Westlanding's capital and head to Nearcaster first."

They needed to replenish their supplies along the way, so their route inevitably connected places where they could do so, like points marked on a map.

An earldom had a capital, and so did a duchy. Torvik, for example, was Eldeira's capital.

The capital of the duchy of Nearcaster was Nearcaster, while Westlanding's was Helsenborg. Valeri meant that they would travel through Helsenborg to Nearcaster.

"But that Oder fellow lied to us. And we ditched his job and killed his mercenaries. Just leaving feels like it'll leave something hanging over us."

Knut spoke as he ate peanuts Yorik shelled for him. He meant that, having started something, they ought to finish it properly.

"As the villagers said, he's just a front man. Someone else is behind him. Killing him means dealing with whoever that is, too. Even if it leaves a bad taste, it might be better not to push any further."

Valeri had always known where to draw the line: the boundary between what was safe enough and what might become dangerous or difficult.

"What do you think, Yorik?" he asked.

"Hmm... Seems to me the right to collect taxes is behind all this. What happens if we take that right away from them?"

"We'd have to collect the money instead and pay a fixed amount to the earl."

"What if we don't collect anything and don't pay him? Or what happens if we just give the right to collect taxes to the people here? Does the earl have to buy it back?"

"That would be funny. How do you come up with these things?"

Knut laughed.

Valeri smiled faintly as well, then fell into thought. Finally, he reached a decision.

"Then let's make him pay for lying first. Rip out his tongue, or kill him if he resists. And if it comes to it, we'll cut down whoever's behind him and seize the right to collect taxes."

He said these terrifying things as though they were nothing. More frightening still was the fact that he actually had the ability to do them.

Perhaps Knut and Yorik had grown used to it, for neither seemed particularly surprised or afraid. When it came to impossibilities, the siege of Gringen had been even more absurd.

Still, by now it was getting hard to tell what was reasonable and what was not. Was selling the right to collect taxes reasonable, but seizing it and giving it to the people unreasonable?

Valeri and his friends passed the time discussing their travel plans and all manner of idle things.

Perhaps three hours had passed when the apparent leader of the village's able-bodied men—the man who had been speaking to Valeri on their behalf all along—came over.

"The man we sent to check has just returned. He says all the thugs really are dead. We're sending the people who used to live there back with their belongings. I failed to recognize such distinguished swordsmen. My apologies."

He bowed his head. Earlier, it had been all about the handsome young knight; now the way he treated them had truly changed.

Moreover, though he looked at least twenty years older than any of them, his face was almost deathly pale.

He was frightened by the fact that three people had killed twenty mercenaries—and in less than an hour, at that.

Subtract the journey there and back, and hadn't they killed them all practically in an instant? Just how strong did a human have to be to do that? Were they really knights? They looked so young.

The farming village's headman was bewildered, his heart pounding and his fingertips trembling slightly. It meant these young people before him could kill everyone here, too, if they chose.

Still, he forced himself to stay calm and spoke as politely as possible.

"The baggage wagon needs some repairs, and gathering the camping equipment will take a little time. In the meantime, we'd like to offer you a house and what hospitality we can."

"Very well."

Valeri nodded. The three were shown to an ordinary home. Apparently its occupants had been temporarily moved out so they could stay there.

It smelled faintly stale, with the ordinary odors of a lived-in house, but not unbearably so. Valeri deliberately left the door open.

A fresh meal was laid out: oat bread, cheese, stew made from freshly slaughtered lamb, beer, and the like.

Dipping his bread in the stew, Valeri addressed the man, who was a genuine village headman rather than someone who had arbitrarily claimed the title like Oder.

"Do you know who this Oder fellow works for?"

"... I've heard it's the Lokir Trading Company..."

If the Silverrich Company was the north's most famous mercenary company, Lokir was its most famous trading company. It ranked among the top five in the entire kingdom, with financial resources and influence to rival a great lord such as a duke.

And the difference between it and a mercenary company was merely its line of business. Being a trading company did not mean it lacked armed strength. Its own warriors alone could overwhelm most ordinary lords.

"Hmm... When did the earl sell the right to collect taxes?"

"It would have been around this time two years ago. After that, those bastards started coming every time the seasons changed. Don't get me started. Trampling or burning the oat fields was nothing out of the ordinary. They took hostages, beat villagers, and stole livestock as they pleased. All to make us hand over money. But somehow we could endure those things. Since the Lokir Trading Company acquired the right to collect taxes, though, they've become even crueler and more vicious. That was only recently."

Summer was just giving way to autumn. Valeri had arrived precisely when the "collection" was at its worst.

"Why did he sell it? Did he need a lump sum? Or did he simply find collecting taxes too much trouble?"

Knut asked, drinking water instead of beer.

"He must have needed a lump sum. It's only a rumor going around, but I'm sure it's true. The Valkyrie said she wasn't interested in anything but a treasure without equal in the world. The earl has been courting her for a long time, so he must have needed money to obtain one somehow. Everyone around here knows about it."

"A Valkyrie?"

"You hadn't heard? Ah, you're from Eldeira. That must be why. The Valkyrie Brynhild came to Nearcaster several years ago, saying she was looking for a husband. Rank doesn't matter: the bravest man, who knows no fear; a wise man versed in all the world's knowledge; a man who offers a treasure without equal. She keeps setting conditions as she searches, but does any of that make sense? Innocent men keep dying, enough to cover that entire hill and then some. The earl is one of her suitors, too. But would she so much as glance at a coward like him? Even that witch of a woman, if she had any sense... My apologies. I didn't mean to insult the king."

Perhaps his grievances had been building for some time. The headman grew increasingly agitated, then realized that even by his own standards he had been rather disrespectful and hurriedly apologized.

He had no reason to apologize to Valeri's party, but an insult to the king could bring trouble even upon those who merely heard it.

Knut and Yorik, however, knew who Valeri was and turned to look at him. He showed no particular sign of offense. Then again, this was the boy who joked about what would happen when the king died.

"But can a Valkyrie really get married like that? I thought all nobles had arranged marriages."

Yorik asked Valeri, not the headman.

"Royalty is different. Whether they're different because they're royalty, or royalty because they're different, I don't know. But a Valkyrie can choose her own spouse. Once she marries, though, she loses the king's favor."

Being born a princess was a difficult lot indeed. House Vǫlsungr rigorously excluded the maternal line from power. Marrying a princess did not even make a man a relation of the king by marriage.

While she remained the king's daughter, she was given the best of everything: a fine education, the rarest delicacies, and more. But the moment she married, she ceased to be royalty and became a complete outsider.

Thus, a girl born a princess—a Valkyrie—had to choose. Would she continue living under her royal father's roof, or marry early?

Even if she spent her life safely under the king's protection, things became dire when he died. If her mother's family had some power, she was fortunate. If not, her misery could become truly bottomless. Like Knut's mother.

Such was a Valkyrie's lot: a splendid exterior with no real power or benefit behind it.

Yet perhaps because of what she symbolized, some men were obsessed. This was no ordinary bloodline, after all, but the blood of a god.

And attracting public attention had a value of its own.

Of course, being born a prince was no better. If anything, it was worse.

To be born royal was to be born clutching misfortune.

"Unbelievable. All this tragedy just so he can give a woman a present..."

Yorik muttered, looking sickened. Understandably so. Those corpses, those wretched people.

"If it's no trouble, could you provide some bathwater? A little sword work has left me tired."

"Of course. We'll heat it right away."

The headman rose and went outside.

Some time later, the village women announced that the bathwater was ready. They had fetched it from the river, then heated it over a wood fire to a comfortable temperature.

By the time Valeri finished bathing, the sun was sinking toward the horizon. Feeling refreshed and dressed in clean clothes, he left the village. He had decided to go alone, thinking it would be better to deal with the matter quietly than kill openly.

"I'll be back."

"You don't need a horse?"

"If I walk, I should get there at about the right time."

Then, as always, he strolled calmly away with a single sword at his side, as though going for a walk.

But just as he left the village, he spotted a little girl standing barefoot. Looking more closely, he recognized the child who had been cradling her mother's head in the village where he had dealt with the mercenaries.

It was half an hour away on horseback, yet this young child had come all the way here barefoot. Her hands were covered in dirt and scabs. Apparently, she had just buried her parents.

"What is it?"

There was not a trace of pity in Valeri's voice. It sounded rather indifferent and dry.

"I tried to go on living... but I have nowhere to go..."

Valeri considered what to do, then shouted back into the village.

"Yorik! Yorik!"

Yorik, freshly washed and flirting with the village women as his gold tooth gleamed, came running.

"What's the matter?"

"She says she has nowhere to go."

Yorik looked at the girl for a moment, then lowered himself to her eye level.

"What's your name?"

"Ivy."

"A typical peasant girl's name. Do you know who this gentleman is? Did you think we'd take in just anyone because they've nowhere to go?"

"What are you doing?"

Valeri looked incredulous.

"Huh? Didn't you want me to chase her off?"

"No. I meant take her along and put her to work as a firewood brat or something. Did you think I only called you when I couldn't be bothered chasing someone off myself?"

Firewood brats were children who followed mercenaries or armies and ran errands. Some were orphans, others soldiers' children. They got the name because they often gathered twigs and firewood.

"Wasn't that it?"

"... What sort of person do you take me for? Never mind. Take her back and get her washed."

"Not like she'll have any training as a maid... Honestly. Come here."

Yorik did not seem particularly pleased, but he took Ivy's hand and led her into the village. The girl kept looking back at Valeri until the last moment, reluctant to leave him.

Valeri set off down the road alone again. Far in the distance, he could see people lowering the poles on which corpses had been impaled beside the road.

It was sunset.