Chapter 161
Chapter 161
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 161
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (4)
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"...Sometimes there are exceptions."
"Hey. Don't look away."
"Cough cough. Looks like the old fogies from Farzan are in a real hurry. To throw such a brutal test at us right from the start."
Suddenly, the girl started dry-coughing. Her healthy complexion showed it was nothing more than a sleazy trick to dodge further grilling.
That aside, it was a pretty novel rule. Deciding eliminations based on the number of weapons, not people. That must've been why they'd made everyone pull out all their gear during identity checks. The guide continued the explanation.
"Reducing your weapon count is simple. Destroy them yourself to render them unusable, or toss them into the furnace we've prepared. Ownership of the weapons that remain until the end will go to their final possessor."
"What?"
Ronan's eyes widened. Another shocking rule. Talented folks who'd made it this far to the Festival of Swords would have decent weapons—and this meant you could legally claim them. Chaos spread through the participants like wildfire.
"D-Damn it. Get out of my way!"
"Don't eye my sword like that, you mangy dogs!"
It was merciless, but a stroke of genius. They really meant to sift out only the best. Now, every participant had to fight all-out just to protect their own gear.
Most recoiled in horror, putting distance between each other, but some clustered in groups of two or three. They'd probably coordinated ahead. The rules seemed lax enough to let that slide.
"Hey, mister. Got a question."
At that moment, a man with tattoo-covered arms raised his hand. Crude hand axes hung from both hips, matching his rugged face. The guide nodded.
"Yes, go ahead."
"You said you won't stop bloodshed, but this is my first time here, so I'm curious how far it's allowed. Like, hypothetically..."
The man trailed off, scanning the crowd. His gleaming eyes burned with desperate hunger. Those who met his gaze shrank back. Whispers tickled Ronan's ears from a few participants.
"Gods. It's the Skull Collector."
"Damn it all, stuck in the same group as that psycho..."
A catchy nickname meant he was infamous. Bits of rumors floated by—making goblets from decapitated heads, a brutally savage bandit background. The man's slowly sliding gaze locked onto the self-proclaimed lady still faking illness. A sinister smile crept across his face.
"Can I kill?"
"If the situation demands it. But attacking someone who's forfeited is strictly forbidden."
"Heh heh. Music to my ears."
Practically no rules at all. The man chuckled, shoulders shaking. His surroundings had cleared out unnoticed. The girl, finally locking eyes with him, scowled.
"What're you staring at, ugly."
"Heh heh heh..."
The laughing man turned back forward. The girl kept muttering about how ugly he was, then glanced between Ronan and Schlieffen before relaxing her expression. The guide, having answered, addressed the participants again.
"Any more questions?"
Mention of death made the words hit heavier than before. A frail-looking young man raised his hand. A sword far too fine for his armor clinked at his waist.
"I-I want to forfeit. Can I do it now?"
"Not at this stage. Only participants who destroy their own weapons after the test begins may forfeit. Approach the Festival of Swords—where blood and steel are offered—with the proper resolve."
"No way..."
Fight until you bled, gave up your weapons, or the end. The young man's face twisted in despair. His slender legs trembled like a newborn fawn's.
"Heh heh, nice blade for a runt."
"Think you can make it to the furnace?"
Ronan spotted several participants eyeing him with predatory glee. Forfeiting wouldn't be easy either. Schlieffen frowned in distaste.
"Vulgar."
With the young man's question as the finale, silence fell. The guide clapped to regain attention and announced loudly.
"No more questions, then. The test ends when ten weapons remain. We've applied identification magic to the weapons you submitted during checks, so no worries there. Participants left without weapons at the end will be eliminated."
Finishing the final notice, the guide gestured. Staff in matching uniforms encircled the arena from the spectator seats. Crossbows gleamed in their hands at regular intervals—tools to subdue rule-breakers.
"All of you, back off!"
"Better watch your step unless you want your bones pulverized."
A massive gate on one side of the arena swung open, revealing a wheeled cauldron. Staff in thick gloves pushed it forward. Molten metal bubbled fiercely inside the elephant-sized pot. They positioned it dead center and retreated.
"Then, begin."
The gate slammed shut. A dozen staff blew horns in unison. Bwooo! The blare echoed across the arena. The young man who'd asked about forfeiting shattered the silence first.
"Hiii! S-Stay back! I'm forfeiting!"
He shrieked and bolted for the cauldron. Pursuers who'd been watching him surged forward.
"Stand still, coward!"
"Hand over the sword!"
Various blades flashed into view. Their voices dripped with madness—they clearly wanted more than just the weapon. It was predictable the moment killing got the green light. Bloodthirsty types are everywhere.
"Ah ha ha! Kid, if you weren't ready for this, you shouldn't have come!"
One pursuer kicked off the ground in a leap. Mana-boosted, the height was absurd. The lightly armored woman in thin robes gripped a hooked dagger like talons, glinting as she flipped gracefully.
Shiiik! Diving like a hawk on prey, she plummeted toward the young man. Distance down to three meters. Suddenly, a chill gust sliced past her.
-Shrick!
"Huh?"
The woman tilted her head at the anomaly. A thin line scored the curved blade. Just as it aimed to rip into the young man's back—Puk! The split halves sprang up, one gouging her right eye.
"Kyaaaak!"
Krunch! She crashed headfirst, balance lost. A soft snap echoed—neck broken. Her twitching body went limp.
"Y-You...!"
The pursuers skidded to a halt. A steadily approaching young man blocked their path. Schlieffen raised his sword silently and spoke.
"Leave the forfaitee be."
"T-The Empire's Rising Star...!"
His calm, weighty voice evoked the sea before a thunderstorm. Storm-charged aura rippled along the bluish blade. Overwhelmed, the pursuers staggered back.
"What rotten luck."
"Damn it, what kind of bracket draw is this...!"
No way they could handle him. How they'd forgotten he was here was the real question. The young man, not looking back, finally hurled his sword into the cauldron. Tsss! Scarlet metal swallowed it without trace. Legs giving out, he collapsed and wailed.
"Hiii! F-Forfeit! I forfeit!"
"Participant number 34 forfeiture confirmed. Please exit."
They'd assigned numbers unbeknownst. A side door in the arena corner opened. The young man shuffled out, hands raised above his head, sobbing. Crossbow staff blocked attacks on him. One pursuer, suddenly blocked by Schlieffen, flashed a sycophantic grin.
"H-Hey, why don't we team up instead? You're guaranteed to pass anyway. We'll find guys with good weapons, and you..."
Schlieffen slashed wordlessly. Wind gusted again—pursuers' weapons shattered instantly. Spear, longsword, mace fragments clattered to the ground. Their faces drained white.
"H-HEEK...!"
"Will you continue?"
Schlieffen said. To fight on, they'd need to steal from others now. Exchanging glances, the pursuers slowly raised their hands. Ronan, who'd watched it all, chuckled softly.
"Nosy bastard."
Typical noble purity. That's what fueled the masses' fantasies about aristocracy. The broken pursuers quietly exited through the side door. Standing beside Ronan, the girl watched with round eyes and whistled.
"Oho... Your handsome friend's not half bad."
"Decent guy. What, you didn't know who he was?"
"Nah. Not big on worldly stuff."
The girl shook her head. Talk like she'd lived three lifetimes. Fair enough—Ronan hadn't known about Stormblade either. He muttered as much, then frowned.
"Speaking of, that's my technique. Copied it quick, the punk."
A few shows during the Dahinar journey, and he'd picked it up. Hated geniuses for that reason. Suddenly sensing a chill touch, Ronan looked down. The girl had sneaked a hand to grope his butt.
"Hmm... Tough call. This one's firmer."
"Hands off?"
"Tch, spoilsport."
Tongue clicking, she withdrew. Couldn't let guard down for a second. Schlieffen, like a guardian of forfeit rights, planted himself by the cauldron and stayed put.
Sheathing his sword signaled no intent to attack unless struck first. Only then did wary participants start moving. No more forfeits. Standoffs crumbled one by one, plunging into all-out melee.