While repeating a tune countless times this day, a poet soothed his sore throat, irritated from excessive singing, with wine.
It was a surprisingly delicious wine. A white grape wine with a crisp taste, it was softly sweet upon the tongue but not cloying. The rich sweetness of the grapes swept over his palate like a caress and swiftly dissipated, leaving a fleeting aftertaste akin to honey vanishing like a trace of snow. Such a fine wine was rather out of place for the poet, who usually subsisted on whatever scraps he earned by handling odd jobs for the caravan.
“Good, isn’t it? It’s a thank-you for tonight.”
So saying, an unusually friendly middle-aged man poured him more wine. Indeed, after being made to sing nonstop for a good three times, it seemed only fair he should receive at least a fine drink in return.
And the caravan’s reputation had also been upheld. The listeners, having enjoyed the poet’s song so much they lost themselves in it, immediately began a banquet, involving the entire caravan as if celebrating the second spring festival. Even the merchants were smiling, their additional wares selling well, and with free wine on offer, not a single complaint rose across the vast empire.
Today, truly, was full of unexpected events. Immersed in such thoughts, the poet suddenly remembered something and carefully pulled out the precious notebook he always kept tucked away. This contained not only the lyrics and sheet music of poems sung by poets from various regions but also key ideas for his own original compositions that he hoped to one day reveal to the world – indispensable tools for his craft.
The man who so congenially served him a drink the kind that nobility might imbibe had, after the poem, taken the poet’s hand with great fervor and thanked him warmly for “delivering the story of his son.” This man, therefore, was, surprisingly, the father of a hero, one of those unknown tales that other poets would never have come across.
Even with the same poem, subtle variations according to the poet’s sensibilities and knowledge were common. And audiences, especially when invested in a hero, were delighted to learn personal anecdotes about the hero’s childhood through the poems.
The poet himself knew “Erich of the Golden Hair” only by reputation, but being able to gather firsthand accounts was undoubtedly a great advantage. Since this caravan’s route included the west, there would likely be more opportunities to acquire fresh material in the future.
In this case, he could refine the poems with elements unknown to others, elevating his own work. Other poets, who haven’t yet embarked on pilgrimages or so-called “interview travels” in pursuit of greater precision, were certainly missing out on such opportunities. The poet, thus, should be well-positioned to establish himself as a master of verse.
And if things went well, if they went well indeed, he could also forge a direct connection with the hero and his kin, who were still alive and could be a source for current stories.
Embroidering a hero’s tale with stories gathered from his family – there could be no greater draw than that.
Sure enough, when he expressed interest in the hero’s childhood stories, crowds of people, unbidden, came forward one after another to share anecdotes from their early years.
They said, he was extraordinarily skilled with his hands, and at five had already crafted a complete set of chess pieces – even showcasing the actual pieces – which he then donated to the meeting hall. He was deeply devout, contributing a magnificent statue of the God of Fertility to the manor. He remained unperturbed even when surrounded by dozens during self-defense drills. And he was highly considerate, widely liked by his peers and juniors alike.
Ah yes, thought the poet, smiling at his bounteous harvest – this was precisely what he sought. Those who disliked the everyday life segments might exist, but such details were necessary if one wanted to flesh out a protagonist in a series of poems. This was information so valuable it practically fell into his lap. In fact, it felt wasteful just to weave this rich material into the narrative. The stories were so vivid that he could already envision composing two or three original pieces, pairing them with pastoral melodies, and telling the tale of the hero’s early years alongside “Silent Margit,” a legendary figure often portrayed as the hero’s counterpart.
There were tales too of how without even realizing it, he’d had a sword expert deflect his blade effortlessly from his palm. Others spoke of how in a fox-and-goose game with spiderfolk hunters, he managed to hold his ground with even odds. But the crowning story was about “his beloved sister” and how he had protected her.
A tale that no one had sung yet, about how the half-fairy sister was rescued because he worked as an apprentice to a mage, leaving for the imperial capital, was excellent material. A hero filled with compassion and love has always been popular with audiences. Stories of romances with a princess or fellow adventurers might come second to the tale of an ordinary man rising to heroism, which always stirs the crowd.
Thinking this, he resolved to include it and probed the enthusiastically gesticulating relatives in detail.
Still, something did perplex him.
“Erich of the Golden Hair” was a hero who wielded his sword with great might atop a warhorse. Even a poet unversed in the art of war could feel the tremor of authority in the tales narrated with the proud cadence of a militia captain, as if talking about his own child. His demonstrations were nothing short of masterful and carried an undeniable weight of persuasion.
Yet, the man’s nephew praised his magical prowess, which, though certainly impressive, puzzled him since, in the stories he knew, “Erich of the Golden Hair” never used magic. It seemed odd that before a formidable enemy, for which a reward of one hundred dracmas had been set, one would not employ such a distinct advantage as magic.
Though he found it somewhat challenging to incorporate into his narrative – to add magic into a story where the hero traditionally uses none might lead to ridicule – the poet resolved to record every word, transforming them into his own flesh, so to speak.
Perhaps someday, when this caravan would pass near the imperial capital, he’d have the chance to verify these tales…
Thus, it was said, the golden-haired hero obtained and returned with treasures, but he remained humble, generously giving alms, earning praise beyond his martial prowess, and continuing his adventures in his present land…
A bard finished singing the hero’s tale with a matured tone. The campfire crackled softly around them as, ironically, the same story might be narrated far away in his hometown.
The sparse applause came from a small audience; merely those who had come to pass time during the camp’s downtime. There were guards with free time between watch shifts, and miscellaneous-duty personnel who had nothing else to do – their reactions showed little passion, treating it as a casual diversion.
Yet one person listened intently: a tall ogre with distinctive blue skin, who applauded heartily. His steel-colored hair, commonly found among southern ogre tribes but rare in eastern or western ones, drew attention. His rugged face, weathered like ancient rock, and his tri-crested golden eyes gleaming from the campfire’s reflection stood out among the crowd. Towering over everyone by at least two heads, this towering figure was remarkable.
What made him especially unusual was his presence within the caravan as an individual ogre warrior, typically never seen apart from the tribe.
However, none complained as long as he paid the riding fee. With a height over 2 meters and the strength equivalent to several humans, his labor was invaluable. Even the strange weapons he carried – human-sized and extended to fit his massive frame – were accepted with indifference.
“Ah, did you miss the performance?”
A shadow stood behind the poet as he collected a token amount of coin, tossed obligingly during this makeshift family performance.
“Ah, Master. I’ve just wrapped up.”
Indeed, the man was strikingly handsome. His tall and well-proportioned body held an almost androgynous allure. His slender neck led up to an attractive face framed by prominent eyebrows over resolute amber eyes, glowing with a latent confidence. His somewhat unruly black hair was neatly combed, adding to his mysterious charm.
Though on stage he might command attention, dressed simply with a long robe and carrying a staff almost as tall as himself, he unmistakably appeared a sorcerer.
Like the ogre, the sorcerer had joined this caravan going west for a ride. Decorated with silver hawks, his ancient staff hinted at his ongoing inspection journey. Though he had been scheduled to disembark at a relay point in Enderede, he was reluctantly appreciated by all.
He was known for his fondness of bardic songs and frequently attended performances when time allowed. Today, however, the tale of “Erich of the Golden Hair” had already begun as he had been busy repairing a broken carriage axle with magic.
“Ah, would you like us to perform again?”
The poet, keen to the fact that this story had once been greatly appreciated by the sorcerer – even earning him a generous silver coin – offered a reprise.
“Thank you, no need. Listening to the same tale for my sake might bore the others. Perhaps you could perform something different?”
Grateful for the substantial copper coin, the poet cheerfully plucked the strings of his harp and began reciting a beloved classical story cherished across the empire.
“Did you enjoy, Master?”
“Hmm… Yes.”
Nearby sat the ogre, leaning towards the sorcerer, who shared his destination, in a low voice.
“Planning on visiting the source?”
“Hmm, well yes, but…”
“Specially interested in the Golden-Haired one’s ‘Sword Friends Association,’ are you?”
This seemed to resonate with the ogre, who nodded eagerly.
In the western frontier regions, “Erich of the Golden Hair” is said to lead a distinguished lineage. Known as “The Sword Friend’s Association,” this lineage began when “Siegfried of Good Fortune” sought his tutelage, and since then, young aspirants drawn by his pure character and inclusive spirit have sought training here.
Typically, within an ogre tribe, male members would be responsible for all mundane tasks in peacetime and provide support during war as secondary fighters, carrying ammunition or spears. Yet this ogre sought his purpose in joining the “Sword Friend’s Association” far to the west.
There was a poem recounting how famed ogre Lorans himself praised the hero’s skills as “the divine might of my people,” referring to a tale where he demonstrated extraordinary prowess in a knight-hunting expedition. Inspired by this, the ogre chose to journey west.
Indeed, where the hero himself resides, poets must surely be more active, with stories aplenty.
With a slight qualification, however, young mage listened as the common poet performed a somewhat unremarkable piece.
“Having admiration for tales is fine, but do not indulge too deeply; admiration and understanding are different things.”
“Hmm…?”
The ogre tilted his head, interpreting his remarks as just another learned man’s complexities. What did understanding have to do with taking up the sword inspired by a hero’s tale?
“Admiration builds illusions. When your childhood fantasies grow into definitive beliefs, disillusionment looms. Listen carefully: instead, value your experiences and observations.”
“Hmm…”
The sweet-scented smoke of the hand-rolled tobacco carried words that were incomprehensible to the ogre who, barely able to write his own name, struggled with the complexities of the empire’s tongue. To him, a wanderer conversant in multiple tribal languages, Imperial language was but a rustic dialect mastered only partially.
“Hmm… Well, come again when you have the time. I could teach you Imperial if you teach me your southern tongue in return?”
“Wow! Truly, Master? That’d be a blessing! Anything I can assist with, just ask me!”
The young mage, realizing the core or even the meaning of his intended message hadn’t reached the ogre, decided to take on this innocent if excessively affectionate giant as a pupil.
“I’m simply not at the level to be called Master yet.”
“But anyone who uses magic’s a Master, says the caravan leader!”
In his modesty, the mage subtly resisted the deference, though his blush betrayed a small measure of pride…
【Tips】 Sometimes, tales of heroes are embellished by poets to such an extent that their content changes dramatically in different regions…
In an unprecedented number of reviews, the author apologizes for the delay in updates due to prolonged work on the third volume, with significant revisions totaling around five million characters.
However, one wonders, what exactly about this “Nini” has been so captivating?
As an aside, each of the e-book platforms is currently running a sale where the first volume is roughly half price. An increase in Kindle sales would make releasing the fourth volume more likely. With around sixty to seventy thousand rewritten characters and significantly revised content from the web version, the first volume should offer enjoyable reading experiences.
――― End Translation ―――
