Chapter 163
Chapter 163
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 163
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (6)
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The first exam had ended. Only after it finished did the devastation resembling a battlefield finally come into view. Dead and injured people lay scattered everywhere. The pained groans of those still conscious echoed from every corner of the arena.
“Ugh... m-my... arm...”
“Kuhk, you bastards will receive heaven's punishment...! To melt a family's treasured sword in molten iron...!”
“Huaaaak! It hurts! Save me!”
Soon, the main gates opened, and the proctors entered. They wandered the chaotic arena, helping the wounded or loading them onto stretchers.
Only seven people, Ronan included, were still standing on their own two feet. A guide strode into the arena.
“Everyone, you've worked hard. We need to confirm the passers, so please bring out all the weapons you possess.”
The guide began circling the arena, checking for weapons. Upon confirming Schlieffen's sword was intact, the guide smiled warmly.
“I saw you protecting the one who forfeited. In Parzan, status and rank mean nothing, but I can't help but pay my respects to your nobility.”
“I just thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You pass. Empire's Rising Star.”
The guide bowed politely before turning away. Ronan suddenly noticed one of the standing men trembling. The man, glancing around like a meerkat, hurriedly bowed his waist.
“...Damn it!”
At his feet lay a broadsword with its tip broken off. The moment he reached for the hilt—thunk! A crossbow bolt from the spectator seats embedded itself right in front of his big toe.
“Hiiik!”
“I said not to move.”
The man fell back on his butt in terror. If he'd moved a little more, he'd be crippled for life. The guide said sternly,
“It's pointless to pick it up now anyway. The ten weapons have already been decided. Only those emitting light are recognized as intact.”
“...Goddamn it.”
“The rest are considered destroyed and won't be counted. We'll handle the cleanup, so leave them be.”
The man swept his hand over his face and spat curses. It seemed he'd somehow survived to the end but failed to keep his weapon. Soon, a proctor rushed over and collected the broadsword he'd tried to grab. Ronan tilted his head.
“Light?”
He drew Lamancha and Imir slightly to inspect them. Sure enough, a faint blue glow was flowing along the blades—something invisible before. It must be part of an identification spell.
“Argh! Useless thing!”
At that moment, one of the remaining participants hurled his mace. The battered lump of metal, cracked all over, emitted no light. A regrettable failure. Now, only five remained.
One of those two must be the bastard who pulled that shit.
Excluding the girl and Schlieffen, there were really only two suspects left. One of them had driven the participants mad to attack Ronan. One was a woman in full plate armor, the other an old man with a long spear. Both exuded the aura of seasoned sword-for-hire types.
Strange. I should've sensed something.
But something was off. Squinting at them, Ronan twisted his lips. No trace of the mana that had driven the participants berserk emanated from either. It wasn't even something easily mistaken. Baffling. Just then, the guide, who had been inspecting weapons one by one, stopped in front of Ronan.
“Participant number 44.”
“Ah, here.”
Ronan presented the gleaming Lamancha and Imir. Both swords were in perfect condition, without a single nick. The guide nodded with a satisfied smile.
“Your family resides in the capital, so I'm well aware of your reputation. I heard you were a swordsman of remarkable skill, but I never imagined this level.”
“It was nothing special.”
“No need for humility with skills like that. Especially that last move—it was the most astonishing technique I've seen in my ten years working Parzan. Shattering twenty-four weapons without harming a soul... How on earth did you do it?”
He was referring to the misty sword strike Ronan had unleashed at the end. It was Ronan's first successful attempt at it, so he had no real explanation. Ronan shrugged awkwardly in response. The guide, eyes wide like someone seeing the ocean for the first time, clapped him on the shoulder in awe.
“I hope you achieve what you desire at Parzan's pinnacle. You pass.”
“Thanks.”
“May the holy sword bless you. Next...”
Having passed Ronan, the guide lowered his gaze. The white-haired girl was still stuck right beside him.
“Ah.”
Suddenly, a scene flashed in Ronan's mind. The girl's longsword shattering spectacularly upon clashing with the axe blade. Right—she had no weapon. He looked down at her urgently, about to say something.
“Hey, you...”
“Participant number 72. Weapon possession confirmed. You pass.”
The guide acknowledged her pass and moved on. The girl casually waved him off as if to say good work. Ronan's brow furrowed sharply.
“...Huh?”
This was impossible. The metallic screech of her rusted blade exploding was still fresh in his ears. That longsword relic was shattered beyond repair—even Doron's grandfather couldn't fix it.
Am I losing my mind?
As Ronan questioned his sanity, he noticed the girl fiddling with something. In her delicate hand was a familiar dagger, ornate with jewels—more suited for ceremony than combat.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Where'd you get that?”
Ronan lightly grabbed her head. She spun the dagger playfully and answered flatly,
“Picked it up.”
“From where?”
“Your inner pocket.”
She replied shamelessly, without a hint of guilt. Ronan silently checked his inner pocket. Sure enough, the dagger that should have been there was gone. The girl said,
“Forgive me. I wanted to go higher.”
“What do you mean?”
“This silly event caught my interest. I've always dropped out midway before, but now I want to reach the top. Or not the event—maybe you and your friends...”
Suddenly, the girl leaned her head against Ronan. He couldn't make heads or tails of it, but he didn't press her. It was just a side dagger he'd picked up anyway, and deep down, he hoped she'd pass.
If she gets a proper weapon, she seems pretty strong.
Ronan remembered how she fought. He hadn't seen it fully because her sword broke, but her movements and stance ranked her in the top ten swordsmen he'd observed. Just then, the guide, finishing his weapon check, raised his hand and shouted,
“Does anyone have any additional weapons?”
“What's he suddenly on about?”
Ronan tilted his head. The guide's voice carried bewilderment—something had gone wrong. Proctors bustled about, searching.
“Strange. One's missing. Why only nine?”
The guide explained a weapon was short. They even stirred the cauldron's interior, but only red-hot iron stuck to the rod. Then, a raspy voice came from a corner of the arena.
“Here... it is.”
“What?”
“Can't... move my body... Someone...”
Everyone turned toward the voice—from the pile of unsorted casualties. Proctors rushed over and cleared the stacked bodies. Soon, a hooded middle-aged man emerged from the bottom. The proctors' eyes widened.
“My god, you were here the whole time?”
“Haha... Thanks. Couldn't move a muscle.”
The hooded man chuckled. Covered in blood and wounds, he looked in bad shape. Completely exhausted, he lay staring at the ceiling. The guide strode up to him.
“Participant number 3. Are you alright? If your condition's too poor, you can forfeit.”
“I'm fine. Just need a bit of rest.”
“Good. Do you have an intact weapon?”
“Intact weapon? Ah, yes... I do.”
Suddenly, the prone man shoved his arm under his waist. When it emerged, he held a short curved sword—an exotic style rare in the empire. A blue glow of intact verification swirled around the blade.
“...Confirmed. You pass.”
“Kehhehe, thanks. Now, can you move me? Arms work somewhat, but I can't stand.”
The man laughed self-deprecatingly. Proctors loaded him onto a stretcher. He was carried out with the other wounded.
As he was wheeled away, his eyes met Ronan's, and he grinned. Smiling in that state. Impressed by his positivity, Ronan was about to wave when—
“You...”
“Hm? What's up?”
Ronan's eyes widened. Familiar mana crept up from the man's chest—the reddish aura that had turned participants into maniacs. The man, who had only smiled silently, finally spoke.
“Looks like you have something to say, but I'm in rough shape... See you later, young friend.”
With that, he lost consciousness. His bloody hand dangled off the stretcher, and the mana faded. The escorting proctors quickened their pace. Watching their backs, Ronan muttered in disbelief.
“What the hell... that guy...?”
****
The second exam was scheduled for two days later, in the evening. Until then, participants could rest or train freely.
Those who passed the first exam left the village for the outpost on the mountain. With each passed trial, they drew closer to the holy site at the peak. Fortunately, the path to the first outpost was well-paved, allowing them to ascend despite their fatigue.
The high altitude brought cold winds. High in the sunset sky, wispy clouds drifted lazily. Their guide turned to the passers and said,
“Only six passed? It's rare to see such a low survival rate. Must've been fierce.”
White breath puffed from his mouth with each word. Ronan, following right behind, nodded.
“Yeah, pretty much. Are we the lowest pass rate?”
“Well... no. I heard the Aran Parzan group on the other side of the mountain had even fewer.”
“Fewer than six? How many?”
“One. They passed alone.”