Chapter 169
Chapter 169
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 169
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (12)
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"Follow me."
The low, steady voice carried a gravity to it. But the atmosphere was markedly different from what he'd sensed back at the imperial palace. At least the scorching, sun-like killing intent was absent. Ronan was mulling over whether to follow or not.
Suddenly, Naviroje's voice rang out from inside the restaurant.
"Ronan! Where'd you go? Leaving your master to drink alone—you think that's how I taught you?"
"...Hah."
Ronan pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed. Her slurred speech suggested she was pretty drunk. No surprise there—her two disciples had shone brightly in the exam, so she had every reason to be in high spirits.
Before the exam started, she'd drilled into them not to do anything reckless. But now that they'd taken down a hundred beasts, she was grinning from ear to ear. It was ridiculous. Zaifa's ears perked up at the sound of her voice.
"That voice... So the snake came along too."
"Yeah, pretty much."
"...A nuisance. Hold tight."
"Huh?"
Ronan tilted his head. In an instant, Zaifa shot out his arm and hoisted Ronan onto his shoulder. There wasn't even time to yell about what the hell he was doing. Bam! Coiling his body tight, Zaifa leaped into the night sky.
"You son of a—!"
The night sky poured down over his head. The terrifying leg strength was as formidable as ever. With every kick off the ground, the stars drew closer then farther away. Leaping along snow-covered ridges, he finally landed. Ronan jumped down from his shoulder, spitting curses.
"Hey, you bastard, what the fuck was that?!"
"My temporary abode. I hate noise."
"Temporary abode?"
Once his churning stomach settled, Ronan finally took in the surroundings. They were inside a spacious cave. It wasn't deep, but tall and wide enough for Zaifa to stand upright.
Outside the entrance, the starry sky, waning moon, and the vast eastern plains stretched into view. Perched midway up a sheer cliff, it was nearly inaccessible without wings. Zaifa nodded.
"Right. Whenever I come to Parzan, I handle lodging here mostly. Climbing to the holy site brings too many hassles."
"...Not bad."
Ronan raised an eyebrow as he surveyed the place. It looked spartan but had everything one might need. Near the entrance, a massive bonfire crackled vigorously, as if freshly lit. Several stakes with large cuts of meat pierced on them were planted around it.
"What meat's that?"
"Elk. Hungry?"
"Later."
Deeper in, half a dozen wooden crates were stacked—contents unknown. Hammocks strung between nails in the walls looked less like beds and more like traps for catching buffalo.
Beside them leaned a single massive crescent blade, the kind only Zaifa could wield. Even now, it seemed more like construction material than a weapon.
Its slightly altered shape suggested it had been remade after Naviroje destroyed the original. Zaifa strode over and perched on a crate. Ronan crossed his arms and asked,
"So, what'd you wanna ask?"
"Did you kill my subordinates?"
Zaifa asked flatly, his tone as dry as if inquiring whether Ronan had watered his plant yesterday. Ronan's face hardened for a moment. He'd anticipated the question, but not this direct thrust. The vertically slit pupils stared straight at him. After a brief silence, Ronan spoke.
"...You're talking nonsense."
"Yeah. Figured as much. It is nonsense."
Nonsense. Muttering it to himself, Zaifa fell silent. An awkward quiet settled, broken only by the wind's howl. Ronan was about to say something when an indescribable chill raced up his spine.
Danger.
On pure instinct, Ronan gripped the hilts of both swords. A sharp metallic ring echoed under the night sky. Claaang—! Locking eyes with Zaifa, Ronan curled one corner of his mouth.
"Knew it."
He'd expected it the moment Zaifa sat within reach of the crescent blade. The blade's razor edge was wedged between the crossed blades of Lamancha and Imir. Ronan gritted his teeth against the immense force. Loosening even a fraction would split his forehead in two. Watching him, Zaifa remarked with intrigued amusement,
"You've improved beyond recognition. Switched to dual wielding?"
"I swap depending on my mood. You wanna go?"
Ronan spat on the ground. Zaifa said nothing, steadying his stance and thrusting the crescent blade. Considering its size and weight, the speed was unbelievable. Sparks flew like water spray with every clash of the three blades. Irregular metallic clangs echoed through the cave. After about twenty exchanges, Zaifa suddenly withdrew. Ronan, mid-diagonal upward slash, halted abruptly. Lamancha's tip stopped precisely at Zaifa's throat.
"Fuck, what the hell are you playing at?"
Ronan scowled. A split second later, and he'd have really cut him. Zaifa looked him up and down, then nodded.
"...Not you, after all."
"What?"
"I wondered since the palace. No idea what happened, but you carried a scent similar to those fanatics."
Ronan twisted his lips. So he'd noticed. Zaifa leaned the crescent blade back against the wall, grabbed two crates from the corner, and set them by the fire.
"Sit."
"Gonna swing that thing again after this? You said similar."
"Your suspicion's cleared. Similar, but different grain. You lack that naive reek of delusion they have. And your sword marks don't match those on my men's bodies at all."
"How so?"
"It was a massacre only an emotionless butcher could deliver. Fundamentally different from your emotionally charged strikes."
Zaifa nodded firmly. Ronan swallowed hard at the chillingly precise analysis. Detecting mana shine was one thing, but this intuition was unreal.
"Should've cleared it up at the palace. Regrettable."
"Knowing you're innocent is enough. Your adjutant?"
"Hasn't woken yet. The physician says psychological factors are likely dominant. The shock sealed his mind shut."
Ronan twisted his lips. The image of the black lion cowering terrified in the pit was still vivid. A month later, and no recovery—deeper wound than thought.
"...Damn it."
"His body's fully healed, so he'll snap out of it soon. Not sitting?"
"Pushy."
Finally sheathing his swords, Ronan sat on a crate. The bonfire's warmth was soothing. Zaifa used his pinky nail to pry open another wooden box. Inside, half a dozen large liquor bottles were neatly packed. He pulled out two and handed one to Ronan. The label, made of fine paper, featured a delicately sketched snow crystal. Ronan's eyes widened.
"No way—this is millennium snowflower soak?"
"Liquor from home. I'll drop you back later, so keep me company."
With that, Zaifa downed the bottle in one go. His massive frame gulped a few times, and it was empty. Without pause, he cracked open another. Even for the wealthy, this was rare stuff—befitting a Sword Saint's extravagance.
"Company, huh... Sure."
Ronan muttered softly. Downing his like Zaifa, he exhaled sharply. Heat surged through him, vitality returning. Maybe this was the secret to strength. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Ronan eyed Zaifa.
"Phew... Damn good. So what kept you?"
"Killed some pests. No leads, though."
"Pests? Nebula Klazi?"
"Yeah. At least a hundred, I'd say."
Zaifa explained he'd roamed the continent since leaving the palace, hunting his subordinates' killer. The prime suspects, Nebula Klazi, bore the full brunt of the Sword Saint's wrath—their capital branch wiped clean. Ronan cocked his head.
"All by yourself? No weird barriers?"
"Some. Guys with impenetrable shields, no matter what. But short duration, no issue."
Ronan chuckled dryly. Zaifa said those using Star's Blessing had specific counters: hit-and-run until it faded, then strike. Possible since not permanent like the baldies'.
Monster.
Easier said than done, but an epic feat. Even Sarante lost eventually. It drove home why he was the strongest Sword Saint ever—and begged the question: why absent from the final battle?
Doesn't look like anyone killed him.
His head ached. Naviroje, Kratir—too many missing without clues.
Ronan grunted and took another swig. No point brooding now. Zaifa rummaged in his pocket and held something out.
"Hey, know what this is?"
"Hm?"
The small, gleaming metal was heptagonal. Ronan raised a brow at the familiar shape. Definitely what Bishop Teranil wore in the desert ruin Dainhar.
"...Where'd you get this?"
"From raiding a vermin caravan. Their leader left it with his arm. They were hauling something in a wagon—missed it, unfortunately."
Zaifa clicked his tongue. It happened in the southwest continent. He'd ambushed them in a pure white forest, annihilated most, but leader and wagon slipped away.
Hearing the white forest description, Ronan brushed back his hair. Location differed from Russell's tale, but features eerily matched.
"Where at?"
"Well... Forest beyond Itasian Mountains northwest. Only certain stretches unnaturally white."
"No ruins?"
"Ruins...? Embarrassing, but I was berserk with rage—no detailed search. Interested? It's yours—go check."
Zaifa gestured. Ronan nodded faintly and pocketed the badge. Truth felt closer. They talked two years' events beyond Nebula Klazi. The strong liquor kept things from turning too grave.
"Right, your 'master' visits the adjutant's bedside often. Some stranger."
"Master? Baren?"
"Yeah. The kid who blocked me at the palace."
"Pfft, haha. Yeah, that lion's due for marriage. Impressive."
Ronan snickered. Zaifa chuckled lowly, amused. Ronan's gaze drifted to the crescent blade against the wall. Darmam's face flashed—delivering the sword.
"Speaking of, still haven't gotten it?"
"What?"
"Uh... well."
Ronan trailed off. Darmam had said the sword he delivered was a gift from his master to Zaifa.
Surprise gifts hit best.
No urge to stir trouble. Avoiding his eyes, Ronan bluffed,
"Nah. You'll find out soon."
"Boring."
"Anyway, why're you here? Not as a contestant like Naviroje sis."
"Empire's Sword Saint must attend final exam and holy site ritual. Rub the green winner down, guide their swordsman path. Tedious duty, but this time... expectations. You, Empire's Rising Star—decent sprouts."
The snake's a pain, though. Zaifa muttered, swigging. Ronan's eyes bulged. Unheard rule: final winner duels Sword Saint? Thoughts of Russell, demon, Nebula Klazi raced by. Stroking his chin, Ronan spoke slowly.
"Zaifa."
"What."
"If I find him? Your men's killer."
Zaifa's eyes shifted. Stunned briefly, he downed the second bottle in one.
The house-worth of liquid vanished in three gulps. Clang! Tossing the empty, Zaifa glared.
"What're you saying."
Killing intent laced his growl again. Hand in his inner pocket, Ronan toyed with the dawn badge. Winds mingled with millennium snow wailed outside the cave.