While soaking in the warm bath, the ogre reflected on the lingering softness at the back of his head.
It was hard to put into words, but in his brief life—though somewhat longer compared to humans—being cradled on someone’s lap was an experience that had occurred only a few times. This was mainly because his race, the ogres, generally did not establish physical contact with subordinates as a gesture of friendship.
Ogre children could stand within a month after birth and weaned early. While female ogre children were nurtured as warriors, the interest of mothers in male children waned at an alarming rate. That being said, what was considered “cherishing” for females—“making sure they don’t d*e while getting their butts thoroughly kicked and trained”—might look completely insane to other races.
Still, the ogre had rested on male knees a few times—in a rare display of tenderness, his taciturn father had put him to sleep on occasion during breaks. Additionally, during his time as a support soldier, a comrade once lent him his knee to rest his head upon after he had fainted in battle.
But even considering the differences between races, was the knee of a man supposed to be so soft?
“Yo, rookie, you alright? You’re not getting dizzy again, are you?”
Yorgos was brought back to reality by the bulky minotaur who was soaking in the same bath.
Currently, they were both in a bath section of the bathhouse where the water temperature had been set to a moderate warmth. Most of the group had already left for the steam room, exclaiming that they wanted to steam themselves again while their bodies were still warm. However, some, like Yorgos, found the steam room too hot.
There was no need for everyone to do the same thing, so the group had split up according to each person’s preference for water temperature.
Yorgos claimed to be fine, but the minotaur’s skeptical expression suggested that he didn’t fully believe him. It wasn’t unreasonable—once someone has collapsed, people tend to worry if it’ll happen again. Even someone as tough-skinned as an ogre, whose skin was impervious to most swords, may still be fragile on the inside. Once this fact is known, such worries are understandable.
Tired of the excessive concern, Yorgos changed the subject by asking the minotaur—a senior member of their group—about the Sword Friends Association.
While it was mentioned in poems, it was usually only as part of the tale’s embellishments. The association often served as a device to elevate the protagonist’s status by having youths gather under the mentorship of a renowned swordsman. This wasn’t akin to a job advertisement with a helpful explanation, as it usually was not one.
To some extent, Yorgos had an idea of how clans worked from the adventurers he had met traveling with merchant caravans. He knew that by paying an entry fee and regular dues, one could draw upon a clan’s power in a mutually beneficial structure. However, Etan, the minotaur, negated this understanding with a smirk.
The Sword Friends Association wasn’t a clan.
“Huh? Not a clan…?”
“Yeah. We kinda think of ourselves as one, but in reality, it ain’t a clan. It’s more like a bunch of kids who admire that guy, and who like weapons, and who have chosen this line of work and ended up humbling themselves under his banner.”
The explanation began with a denial and was disarmingly simple.
The golden-haired man had never approved of forming a clan. Money wasn’t an issue for him, nor did he care for flaunting a multitude of subordinates. However, it seemed his conscience didn’t allow him to dismiss the youths who admired him. After much contemplation, he decided on a structure for the organization that differed from that of a clan.
The Sword Friends Association didn’t take an entry fee, nor was there any concept of dues. It was more like a club where those who gathered under the golden-haired man were taught by him, and together they worked efficiently on tasks.
The golden-haired man had asked, how could one justify taking more money from youths who had come from the countryside with no funds to become adventurers? And even if the money was accumulated, would it make the food they ate or the wine they drank any tastier?
Essentially, he had forsaken the privileges that usually came with being the head of a clan. Similarly, he prohibited any exploitation from those in a position to guide less experienced members.
Considering these facts, one couldn’t technically call the Sword Friends Association a clan.
“So, you’re saying we don’t have to do anything for the boss…?”
“Yep, and if you carry money, you might even get looked at funny. That man’s already earned enough to live carefree, so why would you bother with petty cash?”
On reflection, this made sense—but at the same time, it was strange and hard to believe.
Even in the tales, the golden-haired man was said to earn substantial rewards. The bounty for capturing the evil knight Jonas Bartlinden alive was never less than a hundred drachmas—some poems exaggerated it up to three hundred drachmas—and if one included the rewards for capturing his subordinates, it should have been enough to purchase farmland. Moreover, the golden-haired man seemed to have a knack for helping caravans plagued by bandits, which provided frequent opportunities for righteous deeds. Though not on the same scale as capturing Jonas, the heads of bandits operating in this frontier area could fetch ten or twenty gold coins apiece if they were alive.
Judging from how generously the Sword Friends Association members treated meals and baths, there was no doubt that the rewards were properly distributed among his party and the adventurers and guards accompanying the caravans. Otherwise, his nickname “The Benevolent” wouldn’t have circulated among the people.
Still, even so, despite having more gold in his personal coffers than an ordinary person might make in a lifetime…
Yet… still…
Human greed is insatiable. Many believe more money is always better and are easily swayed by amassing wealth. Despite this, there are very few who would honestly say they don’t need money.
“That guy… he just doesn’t care much for money. He views it as a convenient tool, nothing more. If he believes it can be turned into something more valuable, he doesn’t hesitate to part with it.”
“Something more valuable…?”
“Yeah, like connections or trust. That said, I’ve followed him for about a year, swinging swords, but the educated folks probably understand how complex his mind must be—there’s no way I can comprehend all the sophisticated things he’s pondering.”
Do you know? He supposedly worked as a servant to the nobility in the Imperial Capital. That’s when the association started, Yorgos thought, linking it to the wizard teacher who also hailed from the capital.
“Anyway, the Sword Friends Association isn’t just about swords. We also teach about work methods, efficient camp setups, and sometimes group purchases that make everyone’s life easier. Remember the courtyard? We often use it to turn cheap meat into preserved food together. It’s lively, fun stuff.”
Contrary to its name, the Sword Friends Association wasn’t solely about swordsmanship. It was a group that also trained members in the practicalities of being an adventurer.
Camping might sound simple, but setting up a comfortable rest, cooking efficiently, and setting up camp quickly is something that requires experience and familiarity. Growing up playing outdoors doesn’t mean one can confidently spend a night under the stars and wake up ready to go the next morning.
Similarly, knowing how to take on and handle jobs is a learned skill, and many adventurers have suffered due to lack of experience. The golden-haired man was there to teach methods to avoid such tragedies.
“But, we do have a few rules, not complicated though.”
Despite the group being made up of people, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Where people gather, troublemakers inevitably appear, necessitating a way to enforce discipline.
Hence, the Sword Friends Association had several rules.
The most important? “Don’t leverage the Sword Friends Association’s influence.”
When the golden-haired man decided not to run the association as a clan, he harbored one concern: someone might misuse the association’s name to enrich themselves under his banner.
Thus, he forbade activities conducted under the banner of the Sword Friends Association.
It was fine to take pride or use it for promotion, as far as boasting about their group. But greed tarnishes the original purpose of forming the association.
“Using the name of the Sword Friends Association or the boss’s influence will result in immediate expulsion. Memorize that deeply, rookie.”
“…Yes.”
“Up until now, we’ve cut ties with about five people. One was a delusional idiot, one had that as their sole purpose from the get-go, and one became overconfident and went off the rails. There was one time when the boss got genuinely mad, and it was… seriously terrifying. I don’t want to see that ever again.”
Recalling the past, the minotaur shivered even as he soaked in the warm bath. His slightly pale face eloquently conveyed that he didn’t want to share the details of what had happened.
The mild-mannered golden-haired man losing his temper was an image too far-fetched to imagine. But if someone as imposing as the minotaur could be this afraid, it was safe to assume something truly horrifying had taken place. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.
As if shaking off his scary memories, the minotaur started sharing the rules of the Sword Friends Association.
The rules, aside from the first one, weren’t exceptionally complex or severe.
Thorough cleanliness, maintaining a sense of dignity instead of being a thug, the importance of honesty—themes closer to ethical education than anything else.
But the golden-haired man emphasized that safeguarding these basic principles was both difficult and crucial.
“Once you think about it, it makes sense, doesn’t it? No one dirty, rude, or intimidating to civilians would be welcome. If you want to become someone like that, act accordingly—it’s that simple.”
“Huh… Actually, I’m unfamiliar with how things work around here…”
“Oh, where are you from?”
“Somewhere between the southern inland city-states. Is the treatment of adventurers here not good?”
The minotaur Etan responded, ticking off his fingers as he explained how adventurers were generally viewed: thugs, lowlifes, and ruffians. Essentially, they were considered troublemakers who chose rough work instead of having a steady job, giving them a poor reputation.
“So, this place is like that. We’re rootless wanderers, dreamy fools chasing romance over honest work. It’s tough to have a good reputation, but we can’t change that.”
“It seems things don’t change much wherever you go.”
“As much as we’re called pieces of wood or ruffians, there have indeed been heroes like the ones in poems. It’s important for us to chase and embody the ideals we admire.”
“Right, this is also something I learned from the boss,” the minotaur added with a sheepish laugh, rubbing his mustache with his finger.
Reflecting on this, Yorgos felt that he could now confidently answer the wizard’s questions in the courtyard the other day.
Under him, it felt possible to become a magnificent warrior.
By the time they left the bath, the sun had declined considerably. They had spent quite some time there, but in the Threefold Empire, that was rather normal. Bathing involved soaking, enjoying light fare and drinks, resting, and soaking again. Slowing down the pace and luxuriously melting away fatigue was the essence of bathing.
“Really excellent water. Baths truly do heal the soul.”
“While rubbing down under the stars has its own charm during travels, this warmth is incomparable.”
The golden-haired man and the black-haired wizard, their bodies softened by steam and meticulously scrubbed, stretched leisurely as they walked. Those following behind, unsure of the relationship between the two, watched them curiously.
“Well, back to the inn! Nothing tastes as good as a toast to our reunion! Oh, by the way, Yorgos, do you have lodging arranged?”
The ogre, who had gradually become accustomed to the group, remembered his lack of accommodation when asked. Though his belongings were being held for him, he hadn’t yet arranged for his stay.
“Yeah, that’s obvious. But looking at your face, I know. Don’t worry, stay at the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern. As they’re acquaintances of ours, you can bunk in the shared dormitory for three aes. Do you prefer a private room? For eight aes, we might wrangle one.”
The Silver Snow Wolf Tavern originally catered to rookies with its affordable prices, but it seemed they had an arrangement with the Sword Friends Association providing preferential treatment. Though, this was because the association’s members helped out with the inn’s work.
“Still, I wouldn’t recommend it for Mika…
“Come now, friend, didn’t we once sleep on the grass and use the roadside stones as pillows? Room quality doesn’t matter to me, quite the contrary, it’s a fine inn!”
“The surroundings may not settle well for you, great professor.”
“Don’t mock me, noble-haired golden one.”
With their own private exchanges, the two laughed heartily and nudged each other with their elbows. The others of the Sword Friends Association, however, felt there was some merit in the golden-haired man’s words.
While the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern was better than most inns for adventurers, it certainly wasn’t one fit for a wizard of high standing. Furthermore, frankly speaking, having such important figures staying nearby could make the environment a bit uncomfortable.
“You may stay in the inn I frequent. It has much better rooms.”
“Ah, but aren’t you staying there?”
“Of course not. That inn is kind to rookies. If I occupy a room for my own luxury, depriving some rookie adventurer of a place, wouldn’t that be a shame?”
Although the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern served as the Sword Friends Association’s hub, the golden-haired man had a separate sleeping space, known only to a select few. Part of the reason was consideration about not eating into the quota for rookies, though anyone familiar with his longstanding connections would agree it was all part of who he was.
As they walked pleasantly amidst the warm glow of streetlights, the conversation carried them to the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern. There now awaited the long-delayed welcoming feast—a number of guests and adventurers who had patiently waited their turn for a taste.
But it wasn’t just those adventurers looking for handouts waiting by the roadside.
In the midst of the street, lit by the red glow, stood a man, almost blocking the road.
With his hands firmly crossed, he stood stock-still—not blinking, not moving. Not exceptionally tall, he matched the golden-haired man in stature. Dressed in soiled traveler’s garb from a long journey, a sword in a bag hung from his waist. His unruly black hair stood on end, and his challenging, slightly irritated gaze was complemented by a scar that ran from his right temple, across his closed lips, to mid-cheek, distorting his frown.
“You took your sweet time! How long do you plan to soak in the bath?!”
Yorgos immediately recognized him—a much easier task compared to identifying the golden-haired man.
The black hair, the eyes bearing the strength of resolve, and the scar across his lips were unmistakable markers of the man.
Standing defiantly in front of the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern was “Fortunate Siegfried,” the war companion of the golden-haired man Erich.
The warrior bellowed…
