Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Practical Exam (3)
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Naviroje opened her mouth without sheathing her sword.
"Fine, three times. Just like that sleight of hand you showed."
Ronan swallowed hard upon hearing "three times." Naviroje's insight was spot on. He had used the same technique as when he broke Marya's sword before.
"Two slashes at imperceptible speeds, followed by a final cut you deliberately slowed. Cocky bastard... did you think no one could read your sword path?"
Ronan clamped his mouth shut. The reason he'd slowed his final strike was simply concern for dulling the blade, but that hardly mattered. His pounding heartbeat seemed to echo all the way to his skull.
She read it? My sword?
After staring into his eyes for a few seconds, Naviroje quietly sheathed her blade.
"I'll remember you, Ronan."
Krava Kratir only spoke after she returned to her seat. He seemed to have caught on to Ronan's secret as well, but he didn't bother with follow-up questions.
Krava Kratir sent him off with the same kindly smile from their first meeting.
"Good work, Ronan. But this old man has one question."
"Yes?"
"Why do you want to enroll in Phileon?"
Ronan blinked as he met Krava Kratir's gaze. An indescribable glint flowed from between his half-moon eyelids.
"To learn."
"Learn... what, exactly?"
"Uh..."
What? Ronan trailed off. The sudden silence made the examiners tilt their heads.
Ronan faced Krava Kratir, but his gaze lingered on the scenery beyond his own reflection.
Descending giants and torrential rain over corpses. The Grand General's final request, passing on the future.
Finally, Ronan's mouth opened.
"...How not to have regrets?"
"Hm?"
Krava Kratir raised an eyebrow. Ronan offered no further explanation.
After pondering for a moment, Krava Kratir smiled faintly.
"...I see. Take care on your way back."
Ronan bowed his head in greeting. Thud. The door closed the moment he left the exam hall.
"How not to have regrets."
Krava Kratir muttered as he slumped into his chair like a deflated sack. No matter how much he chewed it over, the words made no sense.
That gaze, far too profound for his age, also nagged at him.
"I just don't get it."
What regrets could a young boy possibly have to say something like that?
Krava Kratir eventually gave up on finding an answer. That wasn't what mattered now.
"Phew... thank goodness this is Phileon."
"Why is that?"
"Because there's no better place for that kid to go after leaving here."
Krava Kratir looked three years older in that short time. Naviroje nodded in agreement.
Gidokan, unable to contain his curiosity, spoke up.
"What just happened? Naviroje, you too... did that boy use some trick?"
A former Sword Saint, a swordmaster, had drawn her blade on an examinee. Even with an 8th-circle archmage as principal right there, she hadn't been stopped.
It was an unprecedented incident, hard to put into words. Most examiners, including Gidokan, still hadn't grasped what had transpired.
"A trick... well, you could see it that way."
"What do you...?"
-Clang!
At that moment, Lord Madros's head hit the floor. The glow flickering from his helmet visor faded away.
The stunned examiners gasped.
"Gasp...!"
No new sword marks were visible, even though his head and torso were severed. The knight, who had tested examinees for over a century, had entered eternal rest.
Krava Kratir murmured softly.
"That talent... if it's not a trick, what else could it be?"
"Ugh, so bright."
The intense spring sunlight poured down the moment he exited the exam hall. Ronan raised a hand to shield his eyes.
The enchanted exit connected directly to Phileon Academy's grand plaza.
"Ronan! Over here!"
A familiar voice called out. Even amid the crowd, Marya was easy to spot.
Ice-blended raspberry juice filled both her hands. She hurried over and handed him a cup.
"Took you forever. Weren't you right after me?"
"Something came up."
"Something? What?"
Ronan nodded. He recalled what had happened in the exam hall.
The woman called Naviroje was stronger than he'd imagined. Even at full strength, he wondered if he could have blocked her sword.
'Couldn't even cut the armor in the end.'
And he hadn't sliced Lord Madros's armor either. That's why he'd swung three times.
Thank goodness the thin seam connecting head and body was made of mana.
'Schlieffen at least left a mark. Still a long way to go.'
He'd momentarily forgotten. The Grand General hadn't handed over his final chance just because Ronan was strong.
It was the unknown genius who could fell a giant alone—that was his edge.
Ronan finally realized his own weakness. But he wasn't angry.
He downed the juice in one gulp after catching his breath.
"Hey, you'll choke. Drink slowly."
"Puha... you know, I..."
"Yeah?"
The liquid cooled the heat in his body as it slid down his throat. Only after crunching the ice did Ronan speak.
His voice brimmed with excitement.
"...think I can get stronger."
He could see the path upward. A star to guide his compass.
It was a joyful realization, so Ronan smiled.
"What outta nowhere?"
"Just what I said. Anyway, turn your head a bit."
"Huh? Oh?"
Ronan suddenly reached out and gently grasped Marya's chin. He was checking the spot Derian had hit.
Marya gasped as their faces drew dangerously close.
"Eek."
"Hm... good."
Ronan slowly tilted her head to inspect her cheek. Redness followed the handprint, but fortunately, no wound.
Marya belatedly snapped out of it and jerked her head away.
"W-what are you doing? Out of nowhere!"
Ronan shrugged as if it were absurd.
Merchants, who had to face countless customers, truly relied on their looks. He'd only checked her injury out of concern for the future, yet this reaction?
"I was checking your wound, and you complain?"
"W-who asked you to?"
Marya backed away. Her left cheek had been red before; now the right one flushed too.
"S-so unnecessary...!"
"Hey, where you going?"
Every step Ronan took forward, Marya retreated one. Their odd, theatrical dance drew the crowd's eyes.
Then, a furious shout echoed across the plaza.
"Stop right there, you commoner wench!"
The voice was spine-chillingly familiar. Both froze and turned.
There stood Derian Marshol de Mirodin, skinny and decked out in flashy clothes.
"Changed already? Quick work."
Ronan whistled. Derian flinched at eye contact but ignored him, striding toward Marya.
Back to noble lady mode, Marya bowed politely.
"What brings you here, Lord Derian?"
"What brings me...?!"
Onlookers drawn by the commotion stopped in their tracks. Ronan watched with arms crossed.
Perhaps sensing the eyes on him, Derian didn't raise his hand right away.
"You call that words? What you did to me! I've never suffered such humiliation in my life!"
"It seems slapping this girl's cheek wasn't enough to sate your anger."
"Of course not! If you think that paltry payback settles it...!"
"But what exactly did this girl do wrong?"
Derian froze for a split second. Marya continued.
"What?"
"I know nothing of your sword snapping in half or your pants flying off like dandelion seeds. Why does Lord Derian, heir to a renowned house that served the Empire, vent his spleen on an innocent commoner?"
"Wh-what...!"
"If this girl sinned, it was only comforting you in your excessive tension."
Marya's demeanor was polite yet markedly different from before.
In the waiting room, she'd focused solely on noble etiquette. Now, it felt like she was just smoothly saying what she wanted. Ronan clicked his tongue.
'No holds barred now. Typical...'
Sen was an alias anyway. Derian had failed his last chance this year—no future encounters.
Thoroughly merchant-like girl, down to her bones.
"Entering the exam hall in your undergarments was truly regrettable. For the third son of a barony to attempt something even a drunken beggar wouldn't... how lamentable."
She spoke softly, but her voice carried far—like a chariot race commentator detailing Derian's misfortunes.
Snickers erupted from the crowd.
"Still, don't lose hope. Your bold display might charm them. This girl sincerely hopes to see you at the entrance ceremony."
"You...! This...! Arghhh...!"
"Oh, and wear pants next time."
"Wahahahaha!"
The nail in the coffin. Ronan swept back his bangs, laughing.
Derian's face turned explosion-red as he raised his hand, pointing at Marya and bellowing.
"Damn you! Sacred Duel! I, Derian Marshol de Mirodin, third son of the Mirodin Barony, challenge you to a Sacred Duel!"
The crowd buzzed. Not just any duel, but a Sacred one—that shocked them more.
This ancient tradition, enshrined in imperial law, wasn't uttered lightly.
A contest of strength staking personal and family honor. Regardless of status, the loser had to unconditionally fulfill one demand of the winner.
This crossed the line. Ronan shot up his arm.
"Hold on, question. I stuffed the handkerchief in your panties, so why challenge the girl?"
"Y-you'll pay separately later!"
Derian shuddered and yelled. Ronan snorted, piecing it together.
This was nobility? Astonishing how a hairless brat could be so ugly.
"Scared of me? Picking on the easy target?"
"N-not at all! The price for deceiving me is far greater!"
"True. I tolerate most things, but you're beyond it. Duel me."
"Gasp! Stay back!"
Ronan spat in his palm and advanced. Derian recoiled in horror.
Marya, who'd watched, stepped between them.
"Both of you, stop."
Ronan eyed her to move. She shook her head and turned to Derian with a light bow.
"Sen accepts your Sacred Duel."
The three moved to an open lot outside Phileon grounds. An old man, apparently Derian's attendant, acted as witness.
"Young master, what disgrace is this? Bickering with commoners wasn't enough—you challenge a Sacred Duel? If the family head learns..."
"Shut it, old man! Do you know the humiliation I endured?!"
"Returning in your undergarments gives me some idea..."
He snatched the longsword from the old man's hand. It gleamed expensively, as expected. The old man sighed deeply and spoke dryly.
"Very well. I shall explain the rules of the Sacred Duel. You must unconditionally accept the result..."
The tedious explanation droned on. Marya stood with hands on both sword hilts, eyes closed. Derian leered at the gathering crowd.
'Damn wench, I'll make sure you never hold a sword again.'
He planned to vent his exam grudge on her.
Mirodin house swordsmanship, with its storied tradition, could cripple a frail girl in seconds. No holding back.
"...That concludes it. Do both swear to honor this exalted tradition?"
"I swear."
"I swear not."
The explanation ended soon. The old man raised a handkerchief high. Its fall would signal the start.
The two faced off and took stances. A soft metallic ring accompanied the drawing of Marya's twin blades.
She smiled faintly.
"Lord Derian. Allow me to thank you in advance."
"...Thank me?"
"For giving me legal right to thrash you."
"What?"
The handkerchief slipped from the old man's fingers.
It was instantaneous. Marya lunged, spinning as she slashed.
-Whoosh!
"Wh-what?!"
A ferocious whirlwind of a strike. Derian barely raised his sword in time, but it meant little.
Crack! His longsword's flat slammed his shoulder helplessly.
"Gasp!"
"Don't show your face in front of us again."
Marya whispered. Derian's eyes bulged.
Onlookers gasped at the bone-crunching sound.
"That's my demand."
Derian collapsed like a dropped sack, a newborn's wail escaping him.
"Kwaaaaaah!!!"
"Y-young master!"
A sound only from finely shattered collarbones. As he writhed, a dark stain spread at his crotch. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground.
"Uh, the greeting's a bit late..."
"Hm?"
Marya, blades sheathed and hands behind back, turned. Ronan, clapping with satisfaction, tilted his head.
She scratched her cheek hesitantly before speaking.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it, miss."
Derian's screams lingered in their ears. The two headed to Phileon Tower 4 for the magic exam. Marya laughed freely at Ronan's jokes, no longer covering her mouth.