Chapter 154
Chapter 154
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 154
Chapter Title: Toward the Holy Land (1)
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“Ehem... Not bad.”
Ronan returned to Phileon in the late hours of dawn. A half-moon hung in the clear night sky. The tangy scent of alcohol rising up felt pretty good.
The banquet had been enjoyable. Contrary to what his penal legion comrades had expected, there were no fried fairies or drinks brewed from dragon's tears. Though plenty of equally fine dishes had graced the table.
'Dawn.'
Suddenly lowering his gaze, Ronan looked at his waist. Balon's sword, now with its new master, rattled against him.
He still couldn't quite believe it. A lowly swordsman from his previous life, scraping by as an arrow fodder, had become an agent of the Empire's secret service. Even a novel would get flak for lacking plausibility at this point.
'Screw it all.'
But Ronan was keenly aware that this was reality. Now that it had happened, he had no intention of half-assing it.
He planned to wring every right and privilege dry to the roots. His background was humble, but after seven years in the military, he was confident he could make good use of them.
'...Something still bothers me.'
The one thing nagging at him was the current Sword Saint, Zaifa. Even after downing enough booze to fill his stomach as camouflage, he hadn't gotten properly drunk—mostly due to his wariness of that tiger.
Zaifa never showed up at the banquet. Being rebuked by the Emperor in front of everyone was secondary; Ronan had a hunch the man harbored a vicious misunderstanding about him.
'He's not the type to pick fights with strangers, but...'
Those gleaming eyes still flickered in his mind. The sole survivor, Captain Nemeia, remained unconscious. If only she'd wake up soon, they could uncover the truth of the incident. It was just as Ronan was about to enter Navardoje's quarters.
“You're late, Ronan.”
“Shit, you scared me.”
A voice came from the darkness. Ronan whipped his head around. Schlieffen stood leaning against the dormitory entrance. Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed him there.
“I've heard the gist of what's happened while I was away. Quite a lot, it seems.”
“Where the hell have you been, crawling back now?”
“I arrived around noon today. I went to Grancia territory. The moment I got there, I stopped by Iril's place, and she treated me to a feast I didn't even ask for, saying it had been ages. You should live your life aware of how blessed you are.”
Hearing such trite lines delivered with a straight face confirmed it was indeed Schlieffen. It had been ages since he'd seen that smug mug. His annoyingly handsome face glowed white under the moonlight.
Schlieffen went on for a while about commissioning a spring outfit from his exclusive tailor and gifting it to his sister, how it made him look like an angel, and so on. Ronan's gaze, nodding soullessly, happened to land on Schlieffen's chest.
'This guy's been through the wringer too.'
Ronan chuckled. Surprisingly, his build hadn't changed much, but it was clear he'd endured hardships on par with Ronan's over the past month. The aura of his core had grown by nearly twenty percent since they'd last met.
But that wasn't the point right now. Ronan's brow furrowed.
“Hey, you lunatic. You've been waiting here the whole time?”
“Hmm... Your body's been tempered even further. Your mana feels much purer too. As expected, you're my one true rival.”
Schlieffen dodged the question but didn't deny he'd been waiting. What a mad bastard. Peeling himself from the wall, he continued.
“We need to spar, so let's move. The carriage to Parzan leaves in a few hours.”
“Ah.”
Schlieffen's expression was utterly serious. With departure day being today and no decisive bout yet, it was understandable.
From his reaction, this guy seemed clueless about the truth behind the Sword Festival too. Letting out a sigh, Ronan swept back his bangs.
“Well... I don't know how you'll take this, but we don't have to fight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that instructor lady tricked us. Damn, does being pretty and stacked mean you can get away with anything?”
Ronan relayed everything he'd heard from the Emperor. Anyone could sign up for entry, and they weeded out the promising ones internally. Naviroje had played them.
“......”
Despite it being shocking news, Schlieffen's face showed no hint of disturbance throughout the explanation. Finishing up, Ronan stretched into a massive yawn. Exhaustion washed over him like waves after a hectic morning.
“Haaah... She'll probably spill the truth in the morning. I'm crashing.”
“Wait.”
He was just about to head into the dorm when clang! Schlieffen drew his sword in a flash, blocking the door. Ronan scowled.
“You psycho.”
“We haven't sparred yet. Where do you think you're going? Follow me.”
“No, did you hear that through your ass? I'm saying we don't have to fight.”
“I knew about the entry conditions ages ago. But Instructor Naviroje said she'd take one, the winner of our duel. That's what I heard, clearly.”
The alcohol cleared from his system in an instant. Such rigid thinking was beyond rigid. Ronan vented in exasperation.
“Look, it was obviously a ploy. Be honest—who do you think she is, leaving one of us behind?”
“We'll find out tomorrow morning.”
“...Dude, I'm beat. If you want, I'll humor you in the morning, so go wash up and sleep.”
“Sparring with you was one of my main goals too. Are you afraid of losing to me?”
“What?”
A vein bulged on Ronan's forehead. Had he heard that right? Calming himself with a deep breath, he spoke.
“Say that again.”
“I asked if you're afraid of losing to me. Otherwise, there's no reason to squirm out like this. Your body's grown, but your heart's shrunk.”
“Ha.”
Ronan let out a hollow laugh. Now he saw—this guy wielded his tongue as sharply as his blade. His skill at riling people up was no joke.
“You little shit.”
Chortling, Ronan gripped his sword hilt. In two lifetimes, no one had thrown such words at him and gotten away with it.
Shing! Lamancha's blade slipped from its sheath, gleaming darkly. He leveled the tip at Schlieffen's throat and growled.
“Come at me.”
“There you are. Let's relocate first.”
“You'd better brace yourself. If you lose, I'm cutting the ass out of your pants real pretty and delivering it to my sister.”
The two set off side by side. Ronan had hoped to let it slide amicably, but that wasn't happening. Hangover and fatigue had long since vanished.
Dawn broke. Birds chirped under the gradually lightening sky. It was still early, so no students roamed the campus.
“Where the hell did they go?”
Naviroje sighed as she patrolled the grounds. Dressed in her crisp uniform, her backup sword Urusaga hung on her back. The carriage to the holy land Parzan waited at the main gate, but the two she was supposed to take with her were nowhere in sight.
'I heard both came back yesterday for sure.'
They weren't in the dorms or the first arena. Even after circling the grounds, no trace. They needed to leave soon to arrive on time—this was a problem.
'Ah.'
Then a certain place flashed in her mind. She'd been there once during Ronan's welcome-back party after his mission.
Naviroje headed north across the grounds. Soon, the warehouse connected to the elite adventure club came into view.
Ignoring the illusory firewood piles, she descended the stairs to reveal a massive training hall reminiscent of a runway. Naviroje froze.
“This is...”
The hall was utterly wrecked. Sword scars of all sizes littered the floor, walls, and even the high ceiling in chaotic disarray. It looked like a storm of blades had swept through.
Training dummies, magitech knights—anything useful for practice or combat was sliced to pieces. Less deliberate cuts, more collateral from the frenzy.
The wooden club building itself was cleaved vertically into two halves. One touch and it'd collapse. Naviroje let out a wry chuckle.
“Did they fight for their lives or something?”
No room for excuses—these were Ronan and Schlieffen's sword marks. Naviroje slowly stepped deeper into the hall. Moments later, she spotted the two sprawled in the center.
They lay rolling on the floor like drunken dogs. Clad in rags yet clutching their swords tightly—it was comical. Bloodstains splattered messily around them.
Fortunately, they'd collapsed from exhaustion, not death. Rubbing her forehead with a groan, Naviroje spoke.
“Get up.”
“Gasp...! Instructor?!”
“Urk!”
They sprang up like they'd been shocked. Their exposed skin through torn clothes was covered in wounds. Seemed they'd sparred without even applying salve. Naviroje said.
“What the hell did you two do last night?”
“Uh... Nothing happened.”
“Don't give me that nonsense.”
Naviroje sighed at Ronan's reply. Even two companies in melee wouldn't trash the place this bad. She pointed toward the exit.
“Get ready and be there in ten minutes. Both of you are coming.”
“Understood.”
“What do you mean 'understood,' you idiot?”
Smack! Ronan cuffed the back of Schlieffen's head. At least he had some conscience, taking it meekly. Ronan asked Naviroje.
“Instructor, you planned to take both of us from the start, right?”
“No. I really meant to leave the loser behind. Motivates them properly.”
Naviroje stated firmly. Ronan's face hardened. Schlieffen, rubbing his head, glanced back at him. Ronan averted his eyes as much as possible before speaking.
“Uh... so why take us both?”
“Obviously, no winner emerged. You both gave it your all.”
She'd expected rapid progress from both, but not this much. A smile tugged at Naviroje's lips.
'This Sword Festival should be fun.'
Disciples like no other. They'd know for sure once they got there, but massive waves were guaranteed. She turned with light steps.
Exactly ten minutes later, a whip cracked, and the carriage carrying the three set off. Destination: the holy land Parzan. The noble ground where the Sword Festival unfolded.