Chapter 160
Chapter 160
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 160
Chapter Title: Festival of the Sword (3)
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Ronan turned his steps back toward the square he'd left behind. Only now did he notice that quite a few participants were staring at him.
Some glanced furtively as they passed, while others gawked openly. Each gaze carried its own emotion—admiration, awe, jealousy...
Was it really because of what that idiot had said, about him slaying the Winter Witch? It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it sure felt burdensome. Ronan flipped the bird at a guy glaring at him like he was the murderer of his parents.
"What're you looking at, you bearded bastard."
"Eek...!"
The man averted his eyes and backed away. Come to think of it, Darman was nowhere to be seen either. Nor the Jaifa guy he'd promised to deliver goods to. Of course, with so many people around, it wasn't too worrying.
Ronan soon arrived at the square. Naviroje and Schlieffen were still standing in their previous spot, chatting idly. What heavy-legged folks they were.
"I'm back."
"Right on time. Heard screams echoing from the direction you went—what happened?"
"Some crazy bastard suddenly stripped naked in the street. Down to his underwear."
"End of times, indeed."
Naviroje shook her head pityingly. Schlieffen, who'd been listening quietly, nodded slowly in agreement. Suddenly, Ronan recalled something that Pasha-something-or-other had said. He clapped Schlieffen on the shoulder.
"You know, you gotta step it up. Feels like I've stolen too much spotlight from you."
"What's that out of nowhere?"
"There's just something about it, man. Soon as we get back to Phileon, you and I..."
"Could everyone please pay attention?"
Ronan was about to continue when a gravelly voice boomed across the square. The gathered crowd turned their heads in unison.
"What the?"
"Yeah, thanks everyone. Over here."
An elderly man with deeply wrinkled skin had climbed onto the platform at the front of the square. He leaned on a long sword like a cane, looking pitifully frail. Naviroje raised an eyebrow with interest.
"Ho... something must be up for that old man to come out himself."
"Who's he?"
"Allogin. One of the seven elders who manage the holy site and Parjan. He was a swordsman who once rose to the rank of Sword Saint."
"Holy shit, a Sword Saint?"
Ronan's eyes widened. It was a resume far beyond expectations. Though he looked like he'd be ruled a natural death even if shot with arrows. The elder named Allogin continued speaking.
"Thank you all for coming, even though we pushed the event forward hastily. I've heard a similar number gathered at Aran Parjan across the mountains. I can confidently say this is the largest turnout in nearly a century. The reason we called you all here is..."
It was a raspy voice, but full of power. Just from how it instantly captured the attention of these rough sword-for-hire types, one could sense his depth. Allogin, who had gone silent, spoke again.
"I won't deny the rumors floating around. The elders, including myself, all had the same dream. A dream where the holy sword we'd long sought finally appeared before us. No explanations were needed—we all knew it was the holy sword."
Allogin spoke of the strange dream. A meteor with a long tail crashing into the holy site. A single sword, half-buried in the ground, radiating light.
It matched perfectly with the info the young man had given. The crowd began murmuring noisily. Thud! Allogin tapped the platform once with the tip of his sword, refocusing their attention.
"It was a magnificent dream. But upon waking, we realized a heartbreaking truth. None of us could touch the holy sword. Most simply watched it glow, while those who approached to grasp it woke up. The meaning was clear: none among us old folks were worthy to wield it."
Allogin's voice carried a tinge of bitterness as he said this. Ronan thought it plenty understandable. Anyone who'd lived a proper life as a swordsman would have a heart burning like fire, no matter how decayed their body.
Thud! Allogin tapped the platform again with his sword tip. Guides in uniform lined up before the platform. Some held large placards numbered from 1 to 4. Allogin announced,
"Then, let the first trial begin. Everyone, follow the guide matching your number."
The guides without placards moved through the crowd, handing out slips of paper. The twice-folded parchment bore numbers from 1 to 4. Ronan's group unfolded theirs simultaneously.
"Your name? Any affiliation?"
"Ronan. I'm a student at Phileon Academy."
Ronan answered calmly. The guide confirmed his orb showed no reaction before flashing a friendly smile.
"Haha, truth be told, I knew already. How could I not know the hero who saved the capital from winter? It's just procedure—don't mind it."
"No problem. Thanks for the hard work."
Ronan brushed past the guide and entered the door. Inside unfolded a space reminiscent of Phileon Academy's first arena. People who'd entered before him gathered in small groups, chatting.
A few looked weak, but most exuded the aura of lifelong sword-for-hire types—nothing to sneeze at. Ronan's gaze, scanning around, landed on a young man standing alone in the corner with arms crossed.
"Hey."
"You're late."
Schlieffen turned his head. Ronan strode over and leaned against the wall beside him. He could feel the stares concentrating on them. Ronan smirked.
"They'll probably ask you the same, instructor? Name and affiliation."
"Likely. No exceptions, I heard."
"What a joke. Who among these sword dogs doesn't know that lady?"
It was amusing. Schlieffen nodded in agreement. Ronan and he had drawn 4, while Naviroje got 1. The placard guides had led them to separate locations.
With so many participants, they split them into groups for the trials. Before entering the testing areas, they meticulously verified identities.
All questions were asked before a magic tool that detected lies, and anyone triggering it was booted on the spot. That was the orb the guides carried. Ronan grumbled, sticking out his tongue in disbelief.
"They check so damn thoroughly. No idea why bother with all this hassle."
"Probably to bar those officially banned from entry."
"Huh? There are idiots like that?"
"Yeah. Take Naviroje instructor—the Sword Saint right before her, for instance."
Schlieffen spoke matter-of-factly. Ronan tilted his head at the unfamiliar story. Come to think of it, neither Allogin nor anyone had delved into past Sword Saints. Schlieffen shrugged.
"Torrent Blade Croden. Ring a bell?"
"Kinda sounds familiar."
"Makes sense—the empire doesn't exactly welcome his name. Strong, sure, but infamous for his cruelty. In the Festival of the Sword, he killed every other participant because the holy sword didn't choose him."
"What a psycho fucker."
Ronan let out a hollow laugh. Just that example explained the rigorous checks on swordsmen. Schlieffen continued,
"Naviroje truly rose to fame after defeating him. Held the Sword Saint title for nearly 40 years. By toppling him from that seat, she condemned him to pay fully as a criminal."
"Cool as hell. So he's dead now? That Croden guy."
"Probably. Last sighting was him jumping off a cliff too high to survive while pursued by imperial knights. Even if alive, he'd be a dying old man by now."
Schlieffen named a few more banned from the Festival of the Sword. Ronan nodded, intrigued. The world was vast, full of lunatics.
More participants kept trickling in. Even split into four groups, there were easily over a hundred. He'd heard there was another gathering spot like this, Aran Parjan—he wondered how many had shown up there. As he pulled out his sword to polish it,
A familiar voice rang out from nearby.
"Ah, nice ass."
"Hm?"
Ronan whipped his gaze toward the sound. The white-haired girl he'd seen earlier stood right there. A worn sword hilt poked up from her lion-mane hair.
"You...!"
His eyes bulged. He hadn't sensed her approach at all. The girl looked back and forth between Ronan and Schlieffen, nodding satisfiedly.
"Yep, hot guys have hot friends. I like it."
"You... you're really a participant?"
"Told ya. I don't lie."
Her tone was like, why even ask. Schlieffen, eyeing the girl silently, spoke up.
"Who's this kid?"
"Dunno. Some weird perv I met earlier."
"Harsh words. I was about to share info on the first trial."
The girl pursed her lips. At "first trial," both men raised eyebrows. Ronan said,
"How do you know that?"
"Not my first time here. Anyway, the first trial's nothing special. It's just to weed out idiots not fit to swing a sword—super simple. Probably just splitting a tough rock, at most."
The girl pointed around the arena, indicating spots where rocks would be placed. Her tone was as certain as if predicting the sunrise.
"...For real?"
"I don't lie. It was rock-splitting last time, and the time before. Oh, here he comes."
The two turned toward where she pointed. A man slightly better dressed than the other guides strode in purposefully. He clapped to draw attention. Clap! All eyes focused on him.
"Thanks for coming, everyone. Straight to it: the first trial."
Sensing their impatience, he got right to the point, scanning the participants.
"There are exactly a hundred of you here. Everyone carries at least one weapon, so over a hundred arms in total. Reduce that to ten."
"What?"
"No holds barred on methods. Per the ancient traditions of the Festival of the Sword, bloodshed won't be stopped. By any means, ensure only ten weapons remain at the end."
It was completely different from what the girl had said. Far from easy, it was sure to be a bloodbath. Ronan and Schlieffen looked down at her simultaneously. Avoiding their eyes, she muttered softly,
"...Exceptions happen sometimes."