Chapter 167
Chapter 167
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 167
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (10)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Morning dawned. As announced in advance by the organizers, the third exam commenced at the break of dawn. Participants who had just woken up gathered at the assembly point, rubbing their eyes. Every time they breathed or spoke, white puffs of breath scattered into the air.
“Ugh, it's cold. How frigid is this holy site supposed to be?”
“This place is straight-up winter.”
The second checkpoint was situated midway up the mountain. As the altitude rose, the very concept of seasons gradually blurred. The guides' thick leather attire proved the point. They bustled about, hauling something with great effort. Most of it consisted of massive crates stuffed to the brim with meat, vegetables, and other ingredients.
“Dinner tonight?”
“Even for that, the quantity's insane.”
The bizarre sight set people murmuring. They were deploying all manner of equipment, looking ready to open a full restaurant. Just then, a woman in a finer coat than the others stepped forward before the crowd. She appeared to be in charge of guiding the exam. Clap! She clapped her hands to grab attention and spoke.
“Good morning, everyone. Already the third exam. The participant with the top score today will receive priority nomination rights for use in the final exam.”
“Priority nomination rights?”
“Yes. As you all know, the final exam consists of duels against participants from Gran Farzan. Normally, opponents are assigned randomly, but with priority rights, you can choose your foe.”
Ronan's eyes widened. An unexpected windfall. It seemed designed to stoke motivation, much like keeping the leftover sword from the first exam. He and Russell locked eyes almost simultaneously. Too far apart for words, they conversed with lip movements alone.
- You... this...!
- Lucky. No need for cheap ambushes.
- Confident?
- Gotta try.
Ronan nodded. He'd been agonizing over how to face off, so this was ideal. But seeing the flames kindling in other participants' eyes, he wasn't the only one gunning for those rights.
“Basically a ticket to the holy site.”
“Heh heh, nice.”
It made perfect sense. Pick someone who looked just weak enough, and victory was a breeze. The guide clapped again to hush the crowd and added,
“Also, this exam won't divide you into Jonah camps. No swords clashing between participants. It'll be unfamiliar, but good luck.”
The murmurs resumed. Nothing like the prior two exams. With that, the guide turned away. Participants trailed after her, chatting away.
“...Anyway, isn't it a good thing? We've bonded a bit.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Most reacted positively to the new format. Competitors or not, days of life-or-death struggles bred camaraderie. Whispers even circulated that the real deal was the Gran Farzan finals, and this third exam was just a token hurdle.
It didn't take long to realize they were wrong.
“Take this!”
“Kyak!”
A knight in full plate armor swung his sword. The broadsword traced an arc, and the orc's head launched skyward. The flawless cut-face attested to his skill. Surrounding orcs panicked and fell back.
“Kyiik! Kwiik!”
That he faced black orcs—larger and fiercer than average—only burnished his glory. Soon, they shook off fear and charged roaring. The knight wielded shield and sword with mastery, parrying the onslaught from every angle. The spectator stands erupted in cheers.
“Go, Fox Knight!”
“Show beastkin power!”
The arena thrummed with heat. The floor already bore four black orcs and a giant wolf, bleeding out. By monster count, top score yet. Then his foot snagged a rock; he staggered.
“Whoa!”
“Kyaek!”
He righted himself hastily, but orcs pounced on the lapse. A glaive from his blind side clubbed his head. Clang! Dull metal rang out. His dented helm flew free.
“Urk!”
A red fox head emerged—handsome werefox, true to his Fox Knight moniker. He steadied fast and thrust. Stab! The blade plunged deep into his attacker's chest. Heart-pierced, the orc dropped dead. Then a colossal shadow engulfed them. A spectator yelled in alarm.
“Fox Knight! Watch out!”
He looked up. A two-headed ogre loomed like a wall. It blinked, then hoisted an arm. Its boulder-hand gripped a club: a whole oak tree uprooted.
“Groooar!”
“Damn, sword's...!”
Fox Knight yanked back, but his blade stuck fast in the orc. The club descended. Too late—he raised his shield. Mana flared bright.
“Come on, monster...!”
He never finished. Crunch! The club pulverized shield and ground alike. Metal, bone, flesh squelched. Twin Head Ogre lifted its weapon: Fox Knight and orc reduced to red, sticky smear.
“Groooaaar!!”
Both heads bellowed triumph. Swinging wildly in glee, ogre sprayed werefox chunks like sleet. Participants recoiled from the flesh rain. Ronan peeled gut-bits from his hair, scowling.
“Blech. Could cart that off for a carpet.”
“Foolish choice.”
Schlieffen shook his head. Pity tinged their tones, but no sympathy. Self-delusion's price.
“That level, should've picked ogre or two orcs. Greed did him in.”
“Even ogre, skip the two-head. Where'd they source this menagerie?”
Ronan gave a dry chuckle, eyeing the beasts. The third exam unfolded in a mountain-carved arena—vast beyond the first two venues.
Content: slay continent-sourced monsters. Weakest goblins to manticores, ogres.
One by one, nominate count and types: one to hundred max. Score by kills and difficulty. Top 20 pass—riskier picks upped odds.
“They don't chow on each other? Ogre's chill.”
“Magic tethers, likely. Elaborate setup.”
Schlieffen muttered, awed. High praise from luxury-bred Grancia scion. Fox Knight's killers slunk to cages unaided.
Mystery of the food mountains solved. Cages sealed; staff cleared corpses. Scraping shards from gore-mud looked grim. Cleanup done, supervisor sighed faintly.
“...Another warrior's blood spilled. This exam claims many lives. Know your limits, choose wisely.”
He bowed curtly. Six tested; three dead. Scanning the queue,
“Next: number 44.”
“That's me.”
Ronan rose—first of his crew. Naviroje deadpanned,
“No reckless stunts.”
“Me? Nah.”
He waved it off, descending to the arena. Vast up close—double a premium guild yard. A translucent hologram materialized before him. Supervisor:
“Designate monsters and count.”
Beasts scrolled past. Hundred? Zoo-worthy. Ronan shook his head—no need to browse.
“All.”
“...Pardon?”
“All hundred. Most dangerous first, in sequence.”
His voice rang bright. Naviroje's brow creased deep. Stands buzzed.
“You.”
Rin shot up, composure cracked. Ronan glanced back, flashed a V-sign. Supervisor, dazed:
“...In earnest?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. Planned from the whistle—not solely for rights. Sinister smile curled.
Guess I'm no saint either.
Heart pounded. Since Russell's demon intel, nonstop. Ronan's old affliction: flaring for mighty foes. Deep breath, hilt-grip. Calmed somewhat. Traitor's face—his spitting image—flashed.
His blood, through and through?
Genetic curse? Two lives, unnamed thrill. Bloodlust? Hype? Adrenaline peak? Label irrelevant. One cure: quench in battle.
“Hah... Very well. Prep hundred.”
Supervisor sighed heavy, signaled. Staff scrambled; cage doors groaned open. Winch-grind evoked primeval growl—ominous. Hundreds of eyes gleamed from gloom.
“Lost it?”
“Ronan! Knight order pact! Quit the dumbassery!”
“Good riddance. Sick of that prick.”
Stands chaotic. Shock, jeers, premature dirges prickled. Feverish thrill scorched within. Craved blood. Quenching blood.
“Participant 44's exam: begin.”
Cages yawned wide. Barriers dropped. Hundred monsters surged tsunami-like. Ronan sneered at the horde, muttering,
“Time you cooled me off.”
Hundred roars drowned the din. Ronan gripped his hilt and drew.