The wyvern swiftly ran across the treetops, dodging the arrows, and disappeared from their sight.
"Aren't wyverns supposed to fly?"
"It must be a pretty smart one. It only flies at night."
A wyvern with black scales is almost invisible when it flies at night. It knew that flying during the day would only attract people's attention.
"Damn. This is troublesome. When the farmers said they saw a wyvern, I thought those ignorant fools were just spouting nonsense…"
In reality, farmers were known for exaggeration. They would claim to have seen a dragon, but when checked, it would turn out to be a crocodile or a lizardman. They would say they saw a giant, but it would turn out to be nothing more than a bugbear.
But this time, the farmers' reports matched the actual sighting exactly.
"If a young one is wandering around alone, that means there must already be quite a few juvenile wyverns."
Gazrek grumbled as he walked toward where the wyvern had disappeared. Soon, the forest ended, and the outskirts of a farm appeared. The people, who seemed to be farmers working on the land, were lying on the ground—some groaning, struck by arrows.
"..."
It seemed that the arrows fired at the wyvern had flown past the trees and accidentally struck the farmers.
"Damn it. Why are stray arrows always so lethal?"
When trying to kill someone intentionally, even ten arrows sometimes weren't enough to finish the job, and they would still run away. But stray arrows like these? They always seemed to kill with just one shot.
As Gazrek stared blankly at the scene, the trainee knights who had followed behind also arrived and witnessed the sight.
"Huh?!"
"What?"
"Oh, shit!"
"Eight Thrones above…"
The trainee knights realized their mistake and were horrified. Gazrek let out a deep sigh and looked around.
"Ugh…"
"P-please spare us! We did nothing wrong!"
One farmer lay dead, struck by an arrow, while the remaining two were injured and collapsed on the ground. Seeing the knights, they clasped their hands together and begged for their lives.
"W-what should we do, Sir Gazrek?"
'Does this fool have no sense? Why would you say my name here?'
Suppressing his irritation, Gazrek gestured with his chin toward Tasig, who had just called his name.
"They're heretics. Finish them, Tasig."
"What?"
"Why else would farmers be in the forest? They're heretics."
A silent shock rippled through the trainee knights. But the one ordered to kill, Tasig, quickly grasped the situation and acted.
"A-ah, I see. Understood."
Tasig raised his hunting spear and drove it into the pleading farmers, ending their lives.
"..."
The trainee knights gasped for breath. Their consciences screamed at them for killing innocent civilians. Gazrek glanced at them and gave a bitter smile.
"Hey, pull yourselves together. I just cleaned up the mess you made."
"Huh?"
"Who fired the arrows?"
The trainee knights had.
"And those arrows hit them. You killed them."
Gazrek snapped at them.
"Recite the knight order's rules."
"W-we…"
"What happens if a knight kills innocent civilians?"
"E-execution by hanging."
"Do you want to be hanged?"
"N-no. But…"
Framing innocent people as heretics to cover up their crime—was that not simply covering one sin with another? If they had truly killed innocent people by mistake, there was still a way to atone. They could become penitent knights.
A penitent knight was one who sought redemption through hardship. Without any support from the order, they would wander the lands, slaying monsters and helping people, accumulating merits until a bishop granted them pardon. Until then, they would roam the wilderness, sleeping without a roof over their heads.
Few ever successfully completed their penance and were reinstated. Most either fell into depravity and became mere roadside bandits or died along the way.
And that was only if the bishop was a lenient man. Considering the disposition of the bishop currently ruling the Salasma diocese, those without noble lineage would all end up on the gallows.
'Damn it. I can't become a penitent knight at my age. It would ruin my daughter's future as well…'
Gazrek was already despised by the higher-ups for having fathered a bastard child as a holy knight. If it was discovered that he had accidentally killed civilians, becoming a penitent knight would be his only option.
If it were just him, that might be one thing—but his daughter would suffer for it, too.
"Understand? Just say they were heretics."
At that moment, Tasig, who had finished wiping the blood from his spear, asked,
"There are many types of heretics. Which should we say they were?"
"Followers of the Kurt Divine Clan."
Gazrek said this as he looked around—then suddenly stiffened.
"..."
A single wooden clog was caught on a tree stump.
It was unmistakably just recently removed—the inside was still clean.
The footprints of the missing clog led toward the farm.
"Ah, for fuck's sake."
Gazrek covered his face with his hand.
"Are you seriously going to do this kind of sloppy work?"
"W-what should we do?"
"What do you think?"
Gazrek counted the roofs of the farm.
"They seem to be barns or livestock sheds, so in practical terms, about two households? Since three are already dead…"
After making a rough estimate, Gazrek clicked his tongue.
"We better hope there aren't too many children in that farmhouse."
"What?"
"Let's go, you lot."
Gazrek led the reluctant trainee knights toward the farm. He wasn't particularly willing to do this either, but for the sake of his superior—his daughter—he was willing to do anything.
***
Azadin groaned as he lay down. Muscle pain surged through his body.
The past week had been a series of forced marches. He had collected three of the Emperor's gold coins, even though gathering just ten in a year was normally a struggle.
People, despite knowing about the oppression by the King's Church, had hoarded the Emperor's gold coins to petition the Herald Clan. The calamities that had swept across the world over the past week had made it easier for people to break taboos.
His body ached all over.
The Aragasa were known for their brutal training and innate talents, making them seem almost superhuman—but they were still human.
And Azadin, more than the others, was even more human. To achieve the same feats as the other heralds, he had to pay a greater price.
But…
[The mission calls.]
The Emperor's voice spoke.
[Only those who answer the call of justice are worthy of being my herald.]
"…I haven't seen many like that."
Most of the Emperor's heralds that Azadin had met weren't particularly passionate about answering the call of justice. He himself did not consider himself worthy of even speaking the word justice, and the other heralds were even further removed from it.
It was simply the nature of the secular contract. Regardless of the soul that filled it, the contract that determined the herald clan was inherited by bloodline. So, what the Emperor's voice claimed was false.
But now was not the time to argue about the Emperor's voice being wrong. If justice was calling, that meant someone was suffering.
"Damn it. No rest, huh."
Azadin pushed his weary body and woke from his dream.
Just then, a farmer's son burst into the barn.
"P-please save us!"
"What's going on?"
As Azadin descended from the barn's second floor, the chickens on the first floor flapped their wings in fright, scattering away from him.
"Ugh."
"Oh, come on."
Midiam, Ishmael, and Tarkiev were still tossing and turning, unable to fully wake up.
"My father was killed! In the forest!"
The farmer's son looked on the verge of tears. His face was flushed from running, his body reeked of sweat, and he had lost a shoe, looking utterly disheveled.
"Killed? By what exactly?"
"An arrow!"
"An arrow?"
Azadin frowned.
"Kyahhh!"
A woman's scream came from outside the farm. Rushing out of the barn, Azadin saw an trainee knight clad in chainmail, bearing the emblem of the King's Church on his chest, stabbing a woman who had been working in the fields with his spear.
"Damn it!"
Azadin immediately dashed forward, picking up a stone from the ground as he ran. Without breaking stride, he hurled the stone in a sidearm throw.
—Swaaack!
With a sharp whistling sound, the stone flew through the air.
The trainee knight, just as he pulled his spear from the woman's body, instinctively raised his spear shaft to block the incoming stone.
—Tung!
The stone struck the spear shaft and bounced off.
"What the hell? You wanna die?"
The trainee knight, though trying to sound intimidating, felt a chill run down his spine. Azadin's throw had been so powerful that his hand tingled from the impact.
'Tch. Just woke up, my strength isn't at full power yet.'
Azadin had been strictly warned by his master never to throw with full force before his shoulders were fully loosened.
Until now, he hadn't needed to use his shoulders much—just the strength of his wrist and elbow had been enough to break armor and kill people. But the holy knights of the King's Church were no easy opponents.
Even so, after witnessing a civilian being killed right before his eyes, he couldn't just stand by. Azadin sprinted forward, charging at the trainee knight.
"This bastard's crazy!"
The trainee knight readjusted his grip on his spear, ready to kill Azadin in a single thrust. Meanwhile, Azadin was unarmed. The only weapon he had was the short dagger at his waist.
"Hup!"
The trainee knight stabbed swiftly. Azadin dodged to the side, and the spear was quickly withdrawn, striking again and again in rapid succession, hissing through the air like a viper's tongue.
It was a remarkable technique.
And it was a spear versus bare hands. No matter how skilled Azadin was, the difference in reach was despairing.
But Azadin, flowing like water through the attacks, picked up another stone from the ground and threw it again.
"Not this time!"
Recognizing Azadin's throwing stance, the trainee knight turned his head to avoid the stone.
Or at least, he should have.
—Thud!
The stone struck him squarely.
Azadin's throw had curved midair, landing further inside than the trainee knight had predicted.
—'Beauty of Nature, Yellow Crane, Kazas Style!'
It wasn't magic bending the projectile—it was pure technique, making the stone slice through the air in a curved path. The result, however, was nearly the same.
Of course, perfectly smooth stones didn't curve well, so to increase the angle of deviation, one had to coat them with mud or something sticky.
To prepare for this, Azadin always applied a layer of wax to his quiver. Before throwing the stone, he had discreetly rubbed it against the quiver to coat it with wax, successfully executing this secret technique.