Chapter 157
Chapter 157
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 157
Chapter Title: Toward the Holy Land (4)
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"Probably some newbie hunters. It's one of the ways they filter out participants for the Festival of Swords."
Naviroje let out a sigh. Her dry voice carried about as much emotion as saying, 'The neighbor's dog ate a big bone today.'
Ronan shrugged.
"Happens pretty often, huh?"
"Yeah. It's their own form of self-policing, so just let it be. They usually just take the stuff and leave it at that—rarely kill anyone. If you really want to help, go ahead."
Ronan shook his head. He had no intention of helping idiots who couldn't even look after themselves. If you were weak enough to get robbed, you should've been prepared for it.
At that moment, another scream echoed out.
"Waaah! Please don't take my sword! It's all I have—everything I own!"
"No, take it all, just spare my life! Hic! My great-grandpa's shield!"
It was all the same voice. His lungs were so powerful that the robbers' voices were completely drowned out.
Judging by the high pitch, he still sounded like a kid.
Ronan's eye twitched with every scream. Naviroje tapped his cheek with her finger.
"Why don't you just go check it out?"
"Nah. Let's head back."
Ronan brushed off her hand. He turned away, trying his best to look heartless.
Just as he took his first step—
"Dahak! Th-that's my father's heirloom...! Nooo!"
"Fuck."
Ronan froze in place. That little shit. What a set of pipes.
"I told you before. Don't be ashamed of your good nature."
"...Shut up."
"I'll head back first. Do what you want."
Naviroje turned and raised her arm in a casual wave.
"Thanks for today. Much better now that you said it."
"Whatever."
"Separate from the thanks—this is confiscated. You're still just a green kid."
A well-worn pipe was pinched between her thumb and forefinger. With that, she vanished behind the trees.
Ronan rubbed his cheek and gave a wry smile.
'Hope she recovers from this.'
Such a small thing wouldn't heal her wounds. Like a hole left after pulling out an arrow, her snake was still dead.
Ronan decided to think positively. Snakes were tough creatures. When the weather warmed, it might rear up and bare its fangs like nothing happened.
"Alright then..."
He shook off the sudden gloom, turned, and focused. No more screams. Narrowing his eyes, he sharpened his senses. His sight, hearing, and other perceptions expanded.
'Not far.'
A few hundred meters at most. Pinpointing the direction, he bolted away from the lake. Bam! Mana-reinforced legs pounded the ground, kicking up dirt and leaves.
'Let's see the face of the bastard who got on my nerves.'
Trees and birdsong whipped past. Soon, flickering firelight appeared between the trunks.
'Damn, too late?'
Ronan frowned. The scene was already a mess. Camping gear and junk littered the ground.
The campfire logs were still intact, suggesting they'd been attacked right after lighting it. Voices murmured.
"Got everything worth taking?"
"Yeah. Not a bad haul."
"Tch, finally quieting down after a beating."
Ronan turned. A few steps from the fire, three hulking brutes stood like statues. Their massive builds and defined cores marked them as more than common bandits.
'Newbie hunters.'
They wielded weapons as huge as themselves: two two-handed hammers, one greatsword. Not cheap knockoffs—decent quality.
"Ugh... ah..."
Between them lay a scrawny boy groaning. As Ronan expected, barely old enough for whiskers.
His swollen face and tattered clothes showed he'd been thoroughly pummeled. Blood from a broken nose pooled beneath him. Trembling, he lifted his head and pleaded.
"Ugh... wh-what did I do wrong...? Please stop..."
"What'd you do wrong? Punks like you showing up make us look bad too."
"Think of it as a lesson and go home. We'll put your stuff to good use."
The greatsword wielder lifted his foot. It hovered, then slammed down on the sandwich in front of the boy. Squish! Bread crumbled, sauce and veggies splattering everywhere. The boy's eyes bulged as he unleashed a thunderous scream.
"Gaaah! Th-that was made by my mom!"
Birds scattered again. What a voice. Even Marya or Braum might bow to it.
"Ugh, so noisy. Big bro, should we just kill him?"
"Not a bad idea."
The hammer brothers grumbled in unison. They looked similarly ugly—definitely siblings. The greatsword guy nodded, stroking the hilt.
"Yeah. First blood."
"N-no! Spare me!"
"Blame that loud mouth and die!"
The brute raised his greatsword for a vertical chop. The boy shielded his face, screaming. The massive blade arced down to split his skull—
Clang!! A sharp metallic ring echoed. The sword halted. Realizing he was alive, the boy slowly opened his eyes.
"Hic... hieeek...! Y-you...?"
"Brothers robbing together, huh? Nice work."
A stranger—a hulking figure—stood with his back to the boy, holding a sword as thin as a dragonfly's wing.
It pressed against the brutish greatsword, which looked ready to shatter at a touch. The greatsword wielder glared at the intruder.
"Who the hell are you?"
"None of your business. But let me ask one thing."
The brute growled threateningly. Ignoring him, Ronan continued.
"Was that really your first kill? If so, I might let you off with an arm each."
"This guy's totally nuts."
The brute scoffed. But his eyes fixed on Ronan's Ramancha. The black blade hadn't just blocked—it had bitten into the greatsword.
An incredible sword. And this kid blocked his strike with one arm. It wouldn't budge no matter how hard he pushed.
'Damn it, where'd this monster come from?'
Cold sweat trickled down the brute's temple. He exchanged glances with his brothers—all grim, sensing the danger. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at Ronan.
"Hey, you seem reasonable. Let's call it here. Newbie hunters like us weed out the trash, keeping the Festival's reputation intact, right?"
"Suddenly all polite. Figured out your place and your balls shrank?"
"More like, no need for pointless blood. What I mean is... rraaagh!!"
In an instant. The brute roared mid-sentence. The freed greatsword hurtled at Ronan.
"Tsyap!"
"Arrogant brat, die!"
The other two charged. Mana-charged blades and hammers traced blue arcs. Ronan sighed faintly.
"That's why pride is so scary..."
In a flash, Ramancha vanished from sight. Shriiik! A low whistle cut the air. Red lines traced across the brutes' upper arms.
Ramancha, having slashed wildly, returned. Splatter! Six arms shot into the air. The brutes' eyes widened.
"Ah?"
They didn't grasp it immediately. No sensation below the shoulders. Thud thud. The spinning arms hit the ground.
Clean cuts spurted blood. The arms still gripped weapons tightly. Weird. That tattoo—I got it all the way in the capital.
"My arm."
The greatsword guy murmured. Burning pain hit all three.
"H-huaaaagh!"
Screams of agony burst out—in perfect sync, like true brothers.
Twisting and howling, they fled into the woods, abandoning loot and their own gear. Ronan watched their backs and sighed.
"Idiots. Could've ended with one arm each."
Six trails of blood led their way. Mana users—they wouldn't die, but swords were out forever.
Sheathing his blade, Ronan turned to the boy. Covered in thieves' blood, he stared up blankly.
"Hey."
"...Ah!"
Ronan snapped his fingers. The boy jolted, staggering to his feet, grabbing Ronan's hand with teary eyes.
"Th-thank you so much...! Really... thank you!"
"Enough. How old?"
"F-fifteen this year!"
"A beardless kid like you, why come here? Suicide mission?"
Ronan growled low. More angry at the boy's recklessness than his bloody hands.
Maybe from seeing too many who wanted to live yet died stupidly. He couldn't tolerate double-lifers. Shoulders hunched in fear, the boy spoke.
"S-sorry... I had to get to Parzan no matter what."
"Why? Here for some holy sword too?"
"N-no! I don't even hope for that. I just... came to deliver something to one of the participants."
"Deliver something?"
Ronan frowned at the unexpected reason. The boy nodded eagerly. Blood droplets flicked from his bangs.
"Not lying, right? Who'd come to Parzan for that?"
"N-not lying! He's always impossible to track... Look!"
Suddenly, the boy stumbled to a bundle on the ground—one of the thieves' loot.
As thick and long as the boy was tall—impressive he'd carried it here. Ronan tilted his head.
"What's that?"
"What I have to deliver."
The boy deftly unwrapped it. Thick cloth fell away, revealing an ornate box. Stroking it, he sighed in relief.
"Thank goodness they didn't take this... really..."
His voice grew misty—clearly precious. Carefully, he opened the lid. Whoosh— brilliant light poured out. Lined with silk, the box held a longsword radiating white glow.
"This is..."
Ronan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He knew without explanation. An exceptional sword—Doron-level quality, maybe better.
"...Worthy of all that screaming. Who’s it for?"
Ronan asked. The boy, beaming at the blade, answered.
"Sword Saint Zaifa."