The Hunter of Hawk and Wolf-Chapter 77 : Chapter 77

When Sevha left the Widow's Garden with Sherry, the red-roofed streets were still dazzling. But the world now seemed altogether different from the one he’d known before he entered the garden.
“I imagine Jerom looks different to you now, after seeing a knight take his own life.”
Sevha did not nod, but he understood. The knight’s suicide had twisted the streets of Jerom—and all of Jershu—into something grotesque.
“I was just as naive when I first married into Jershu from the Maritime Kingdom. I learned as I lived here that the knights can carry their weapons anywhere.”
As Sherry said, only a few of the passersby were armed. They entered any shop they pleased without surrendering their weapons or submitting to an inspection, and the unarmed shied away from them, cowering.
“The ones with the weapons are…”
“Knights.”
“Nobles in other countries certainly have the privilege of carrying weapons.”
“But in Jershu, a knight can kill someone outside their order for merely blocking their path.”
“Absurd.”
Nobles in any country had their privileges, but those of a knight in Jershu went far beyond.
“And so, do you see why the power of the knights is so absolute?”
Sevha immediately thought of what he’d heard about Duce, how Barsh had abused him because he lacked the physique to become a knight.
“Because Barsh II made it that way.”
Sherry nodded at once.
“Is Barsh II really that absolute…”
It was a kingdom that reflected its king’s values, where knights possessed incredible privilege. That such a nation could be maintained despite what must be fierce opposition proved just how absolute a figure Barsh was.
“He is a tyrant everyone acknowledges but no one can overthrow.”
“…Why are you telling me this now?”
Sherry chuckled softly, pleased that Sevha had cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“Do you remember the day you marched through Jerom? On that day, the people were in despair, knowing that the number of knights who would oppress them was about to grow.”
Sevha recalled the people, already terrified before the procession had even begun.
“But watching your march, they remembered the image of a true, admirable knight, one known to all in Jershu. And for a brief moment, they forgot their fear.”
“And?”
“I believe you might be the one to change this kingdom ruled by violence and fear. That is why I wish to help you.”
Words filled with goodwill and hope. Sevha knew there was no such thing as a person full of only goodwill and hope, so he did not trust them.
She wants to use me for something…
But uncovering her motives was impossible for now. He decided to simply judge whether he could make use of her.
“I need a partner for the ball, and ears and a mouth for afterward.”
“A partner for the ball… and an informant. A fitting role for me. I can help you with that.”
“How can I trust you when I don’t even know your face?”
Sherry paused, then lifted the black veil. She looked to be around thirty, her face vibrant in a way that belied her calm demeanor. A large scar cut across it.
“Do you know who I married? The older brother of the current Knight of the Dagger, who commands the shadows of Jershu.”
Sevha recalled the women guarding the entrance to the Widow's Garden. He understood then that Sherry commanded people of the same ilk as the troupe leader he had killed during the festival.
Sherry extended her hand as if for a dance.
“This should be enough to be of help, yes?”
Instead of answering, Sevha tapped his hand atop hers.
Night fell, and the ball began.
Escorting Sherry, Sevha entered the royal ballroom, a magnificent hall of marble. Starlight streamed through the windows lining the walls, but the light within was so brilliant it devoured the stars.
In that light, countless knights and noblewomen danced, ate, and drank the wine served by servants. Knights in black armor stood guard throughout the hall.
“Is that…”
“Look. Over there…”
As Sevha and Sherry entered, everyone cast furtive glances their way.
“You know the etiquette, I assume?”
“Upon entering, one must dance a single song with their partner.”
They walked directly toward the dance floor. As he moved, Sevha spotted Duce and Charlotte and gave them a nod. He caught whispers from those standing near.
“Is that the new Knight of the Shield?”
“Yes. The Brothel Lord. The Frenzied Blanc.”
The whispers were not just about him.
“It’s the Dagger’s widow.”
“Why is the Widow Spider with the Knight of the Shield…?”
Once on the dance floor, Sevha took his position with Sherry and joked, “Your notoriety is impressive, Widow Spider.”
“Thank you, Frenzied Blanc.”
Sevha’s face twisted into a scowl. He hated that nickname.
Sherry seized the opening and began to lead. His dancing was not bad, but only because Sherry was such a superb dancer.
Feels like riding Toto back in his naughty days.
After exactly one dance, his duty as an attendee fulfilled, Sevha left the floor.
“I can run away now, yes?” he asked.
“I’m afraid that will be difficult.”
Just as Sherry denied his request, a deceptively innocent cry pierced his ears.
“The Frenzied Blanc!”
“For the love of—that name again…” Sevha muttered, turning to see Angke approaching. An old man in a red priest’s robe followed behind him.
“Angke, the Knight of the Sword, and Bellek, the Archbishop and Cardinal of Jershu,” Sherry murmured.
The moment Sevha saw Angke, whose gleeful expression belied his age, a single word surfaced in his mind.
Madman.
Angke, oblivious, greeted him brightly. “Hello! I’m Angke! You’re Dan le Blanc, right?”
When Sevha nodded, the old man introduced himself.
“I am Bellek, Archbishop and Cardinal of Jershu.” He smiled in an amiable, benevolent way.
Just then, Angke thrust his head between them. “I heard you beat my knights to a pulp.”
“Ah, so those were your knights in that shop?”
“Yep!”
“And?”
A silence fell between them. They locked eyes and, a moment later, reached the same conclusion.
“You’re strong, aren’t you? Want to fight?”
He’s strong.
As soon as they had taken each other’s measure, Bellek cleared his throat. “Duke. Have I not told you not to carelessly draw your sword on the human race?”
At Bellek’s sermon, Angke’s face fell.
Bellek patted Angke’s shoulder soothingly before addressing Sevha with utmost courtesy. “Marquis. I heard you are raising those filthy monsters, the Orcs.”
Hearing Bellek denigrate the Tusk Tribe with such politeness, Sevha knew at once what kind of man he was.
A Purificationist.
Purificationism. An ideology that considered all non-human races inferior and deserving of extinction.
“Please, I hope you educate those ugly beasts well. And be sure to kill them after you’ve had your fun.”
With that, Bellek gave Angke a look that said it was time to go, and Angke obediently took his cue.
“Blanc! Let’s meet again!”
After they left, Sevha felt suddenly weary. He sighed. “Those madmen are the Knight of the Sword and the Cardinal? Are the other Four Knights just as insane?”
“The Marquis is one of the Four Knights as well,” Sherry said, then glanced toward the wall. “Why not see for yourself?”
Sevha followed her gaze and saw Michel standing there.
“Michel, the Knight of the Lance.”
Michel’s eyes were fixed on Duce and Charlotte—or more accurately, on Charlotte.
Is that Charlotte’s brother? Why is he staring at her like that?
Just then, Charlotte took Duce’s hand to help him move. At once, Michel’s face contorted with jealousy, as if witnessing something unbearable.
A pervert’s face.
Sherry must have seen the expression as well. She began softly, “There is a rumor about Sir Michel.”
“A rumor?”
“That he is truly… in love with his younger sister, Princess Charlotte.”
“What? That’s… enough. It’s too disgusting to even say aloud.”
Having confirmed a madman and a pervert, Sevha asked about the last of them. “What about the Knight of the Dagger?”
Sherry started to answer, then stopped, her gaze fixed on something behind him. She stepped away from his side. “See for yourself.”
The moment Sherry left, a voice spoke from beside him. “My sister-in-law still seems to find me uncomfortable.”
Sevha turned his head to see Gwen, pale-faced and coughing.
“And you are?”
“Gwen, the Knight of the Dagger. Blanc.”
Gwen seemed to be struggling just to stand. He coughed a few more times before crouching down, gasping for breath. “My apologies. I am of a rather weak constitution.”
Just as Gwen said, frailty was the only feature Sevha could discern. For that reason, he distrusted Gwen more than Angke, Bellek, or Michel.
A liar.
Sevha prided himself on his ability to read people, yet he could see nothing in Gwen but his sickness. This meant Gwen was skilled at lying, at concealing himself.
“I came to speak with the new member of the Four Knights, so please don’t glare at me like that. I have weak nerves…”
Gwen retched a few times, then looked with hollow eyes toward the grand staircase. “Ah… he’s here already. I’m so scared I think I’m going to be sick.”
As Gwen spoke, the orchestra stopped playing.
Barsh descended the stairs. A young woman followed behind him, trembling. As soon as he saw her, Gwen murmured, “The Third Prince’s wife… or she was.”
Barsh reached the bottom of the stairs, surveyed the hall, and spoke a single word.
“Praise.”
At once, the nobles in the ballroom erupted in cheers, congratulating Barsh on his birthday.
All of them were smiling. Their lips trembled with fear, but they smiled. Barsh watched them, impassive, as if their adulation was his due.
Then he raised a hand. The cheers died instantly.
“Greet me in order of succession.”
Immediately, the Second Prince, Aleio, started toward Barsh. But at that moment, Duce strode past him, approaching the king first.
“What—what are you doing, Clown? Are you mad…!”
Not just Aleio, but all the nobles were stunned. A silence descended, thicker than when the music had stopped, so heavy it was suffocating.
Duce walked through that silence and stood before Barsh.
Barsh spoke, his voice cold as ice, betraying no emotion. “It is not your turn, Clown.”
Duce retorted at once. “As the eldest son, it is my turn.”
In a plain voice, Duce had declared himself the eldest son. Everyone knew what that meant.
“The Clown… would deny his station?”
“I am not a clown.”
At Duce’s declaration, everyone trembled, anticipating what would happen next.
But Duce did not back down. “To call me a clown is to insult your knight, Marden le Blanc, who taught me.”
“Do not speak the name of a knight.”
“It is also to insult the blood of Barsh that flows in my veins.”
“Do not speak the name of the Knight King.”
Ignoring the warnings, Duce tilted his head back to meet his father’s eyes. “Father. My family and I are not clowns for you to play with.”
Barsh’s reply was a single sentence. “You will not die a peaceful death.”
He slammed his fist into Duce’s face. As Duce’s head hit the marble, Barsh kicked him again and again.
Terrified, trembling, everyone in the hall listened to the sounds of the brutal assault. Across the room, Charlotte gritted her teeth, forcing herself to endure.
And Sevha merely watched as Duce was beaten to the brink of death.
“Should you not intervene?” Gwen asked.
Sevha did not answer. He did not move. If he saved Duce without a pretext, he would be tied to the prince, and Barsh would try to kill him as well.
Besides…
You wouldn’t want that either, would you, Duce.
Duce was fighting his own battle.
The beating did not stop. But Duce did not scream. He did not even groan, though blood poured from him.
As Duce endured without a sound, a tinge of rage began to color Barsh’s cold expression.
“Do not pretend to be a knight, you clown!”
Barsh kicked hard, and Duce flew backward, crashing into a table. Sevha knew he would soon have to find a pretext to intervene.
But then…
Is that bowstrings I hear…?
Just as Sevha caught the minuscule sounds, Gwen murmured ominously, “The Great Hunt has already begun.”
Crash!
Several of the ballroom windows shattered as arrows flew inside.
Their target was Barsh.
Instantly, Barsh grabbed the Third Prince’s wife and held her up like a shield. Arrows riddled her back. She coughed up blood and let out a final scream. The nobles in the hall began to scream as well.
“Assassins!”
Amid the chaos, Sevha observed calmly as the sound of footsteps outside faded into the distance.
Angke and Bellek were smiling.
Michel was smiling.
Gwen was smiling.
Could it be…
Just as Sevha began to guess at the meaning of their smiles, Barsh tossed the dead woman to the floor and commanded, “Silence.”
Instantly, everyone choked back their screams, more afraid of Barsh than of the assassins.
Barsh scanned the hall before turning to Angke. “The work of trained soldiers.”
He looked at Michel. “There are many trained soldiers in Jerom right now.”
He looked at Gwen. “Among them, half are loyal to the crown, and the other half… are loyal to the Four Knights.”
Finally, he looked at Sevha. “Which of you tried to kill me?”
It was the same suspicion that had just formed in Sevha’s own mind. The only powers capable of such an assassination attempt belonged to the Four Knights.
As Sevha and the other three knights tensed, Barsh smiled—a fierce, predatory grin.
“If you are innocent, bring me the true culprit.”
At once, Sevha and the other three knights turned toward the doors.