Chapter 170
Chapter 170
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 170
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (13)
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Daybreak arrived. As always, the sky over Parzan shone with a clear blue hue. The fierce winds that had raged through the night had finally died down.
The participants set off right after finishing their morning meal. The final outpost was located so close to the summit that they had to climb for quite a while.
As before, Ronan and Naviroje led the procession with their swift strides. Ronan, eyes fixed on the summit where the holy site lay, opened his mouth.
"This hike is finally coming to an end."
"The holy site still remains. Of course, by the final outpost, it's close enough to touch if you trip."
"Right, that's true."
"By the way, you came back pretty late last night. What happened?"
Naviroje asked. Caught off guard by the sudden question, Ronan tried to keep a nonchalant expression. Having spent the night drinking with Zaifa, he'd only returned to the outpost at dawn. Ronan, thinking quickly, casually deflected.
"Uh... just went out for some air. Someone asked me to teach them swordsmanship, so I did as a bonus."
"I see. Was your time with that cat enjoyable?"
"Well, it was okay in its own way... Huh."
Ronan sucked in a sharp breath. Naviroje walked on with her usual impassive face, staring straight ahead. Ronan swallowed hard and spoke.
"...You knew?"
"It'd be weirder if I didn't. How many times do you think I've crossed blades with that cat?"
"Sorry. I didn't say anything because I thought you'd hate it."
Ronan scratched his head sheepishly. Were all Sword Saints just that perceptive, or did perceptive people become Sword Saints? After a moment of silence, Naviroje spoke.
"Fine. If you want to befriend him, I can't stop you. Just keep in mind what I said before."
"What you said? Oh, that Zaifa's dangerous."
"Yes. Remember I'm not saying that just because I dislike the old monster. And who started the Night of Fangs. Hatred is like a plague—it spreads easily."
"Hatred?"
Ronan tilted his head at the meaningful words. Naviroje didn't respond and walked ahead. Though she'd said it was fine, she clearly wasn't thrilled about his time with Zaifa. As Ronan pondered how to smooth things over, a familiar voice called from behind.
"Hey."
At the same time, a palm gently stroked his buttock. The touch seemed increasingly lascivious. Ronan turned with a look of disdain. Sure enough, Lin had her hand on his rear.
"Get your hand off."
"I didn't get to ask yesterday. You like me that much?"
"What's that out of nowhere?"
"I know everything. You were trying to impress me."
"Impress you with what?"
"Getting all flirty. Taking down a hundred monsters alone in yesterday's test."
Lin poked his side with her elbow as if impressed. Ronan chuckled. They said you laughed when something was too absurd—and it seemed true.
"Did you eat something weird?"
"Heh. It was old-fashioned, but not a bad appeal. I'll consider your proposal positively."
Lin winked playfully. She must have picked up something strange that morning. She slapped his butt and walked ahead. Schlieffen, who had drawn up alongside, muttered as he passed.
"Poor student council president."
"Damn it, why are you joining in?"
They finally reached the final outpost in the afternoon. It was similar in scale to the previous ones but had the best facilities. Seeing several people already moving about, Ronan raised an eyebrow.
"Looks like they got here first."
Regardless of age or gender, their auras were extraordinary—befitting survivors of three trials. However, the atmosphere they exuded was starkly different from those who had climbed from Gran Parzan.
They barely spoke, moved alone, and their stiff, hardened faces gave an impression of intimidation. Noticing the difference, people whispered.
"Why's their vibe like that?"
"Heard there's one terrifying guy. Because of him?"
"Don't we have to take their weapons? They look ready to off themselves any second."
It was definitely odd. Ronan nodded in agreement.
Come to think of it, the presumed devil hadn't shown up yet. It'd be good to at least see his face before the duel started. Ronan grabbed a nearby man and asked.
"Hey. Heard there's a terrifying guy around. Know where he is? White-haired one."
"...Why are you looking for that bastard? I don't know!"
The man flung his arm away. Ronan frowned at the unexpected irritation. He suddenly noticed the other Aran Parzan participants glaring at him.
"What're you staring at?"
Even if he dropped his pants and peed right there, they wouldn't look away. Seeing this, Russell muttered to himself.
"At this rate, it looks promising..."
"Huh?"
Russell's gaze quickly scanned the Aran Parzan participants. The words sounded suspicious. Ronan asked.
"Promising how?"
"Hm...? Oh, I meant their cowed momentum means we can pass the final trial smoothly. Like that, they'd lose before fighting."
Russell laughed heartily. His smile looked somehow forced. Ronan warned.
"Don't pull any funny business. It'll all be over tomorrow anyway."
"Would I? Come on, let's unpack first."
Russell shouldered his pack and led the way. The stunned participants followed one by one. Ronan felt uneasy but walked on. As he'd said, everything would end tomorrow.
Evening fell. Expectations that they wouldn't exchange a word with the Aran Parzan side were proven delightfully wrong. A woman chatting with Ronan across the table widened her eyes in admiration.
"Ah, so you're the one who took down a hundred in the third trial. We wondered why they took some of our monsters. Impressive."
"No big deal. Who's the top from your side?"
She was one of the Aran Parzan participants. Conversations flowed naturally between both groups throughout the dining hall. Ronan had finished training late and come alone, so his companions weren't visible.
The biggest contributor to thawing the mood was the fermented barley brew. Seats mixed naturally, a drink or two led to opened mouths.
Multiple dorms but one dining hall forced communal meals; the devil surviving on dew alone kept him away—both helped. After a pause, the woman spoke.
"...As you know, the devil. Last in line, he slaughtered all 97 remaining monsters."
She grimaced in disgust. Even she called him the devil, so it seemed a well-settled nickname. She chugged her beer as if washing away the memory.
"What did he do to make everyone tuck tail? Your side looks strong."
Ronan pointed to her necklace. A silver flame emblem—symbol of the Flame Knights, one of the Empire's top ten martial orders.
One of the few knight orders Ronan knew from his past life; belonging proved her skill. She'd eaten sword rice long enough. Fiddling with the necklace, she gave a wry smile.
"Haha... I thought so too, but he was on another level. You should've seen it."
"Where is he now?"
"Holed up in his dorm since arriving. Always like that. A relief, really."
She detailed the devil's deeds over three trials. In the first, he severed all other participants' wrists. In the second flag war, he killed enemy and obstructive allies alike under accident pretense, using quicksword tricks to evade penalties.
In the third, as heard, he massacred 97 monsters in a gruesome spectacle unfit for open eyes. Truly deserving of the devil moniker, as Russell said. She continued after chugging more beer.
"Phew... One clear fact: he's connected to Stormflow Sword Croden."
"Croden? That Sword Saint wannabe?"
Ronan raised an eyebrow at the bombshell. He recalled discussing him with Schlieffen during the first trial.
The madman who killed all others for not receiving the holy sword's choice. The culprit who made identity checks tediously thorough. The woman nodded.
"Yes. Everyone who remembers him is convinced. Disciple or hidden bastard. No other way he resembles so much. The monstrous skill fits too."
"Resembles how?"
"Everything. Sword swings, cruelty, raw meat diet... Only difference is his taciturn nature."
She poured out tales of Croden with angry fervor. Ronan smirked throughout—not from amusement, but sheer absurdity of the atrocities.
Framing and burning a village for hiding the devil, raping women he fancied without hesitation. Famous for dripping raw meat diet; rumors even spread he was a cannibal.
No wonder Naviroje, who toppled Croden from Sword Saint, was so reviled. Finishing, the woman clapped.
"Right, Naviroje's participating? True? You're from Phileon Academy, right?"
"Yeah. Climbed together."
"Kyaa! What's she like in person? See her tomorrow? Raised in the knights since childhood, never met her. I took up the sword because of her..."
Her gloomy face brightened instantly. She idolized Naviroje intensely. Midway through effusive praise, a shout from the corner.
"Riley, enough! We were in a meeting!"
"Ah, got it!"
The irritated woman stood. She smiled at Ronan regretfully.
"Sorry. Gotta go."
"Was fun."
"Haha... Me too. Hope we meet at the holy site."
She turned. Ronan looked her way. In the dim corner, five men and women whispered. All Aran Parzan strangers—except one. Spotting the unexpected, Ronan narrowed his eyes.
'When did that bastard get so chummy?'
Russell gestured animatedly. Riley joined them. Ronan tsked pityingly. What schemes now?
He quietly drained his glass and returned to the dorm. Perfect timing to appease sulky Naviroje with tales of finding a zealous fan.
After a quick wash, Ronan lay down. The long hike brought sleep instantly.
"Mm..."
Ronan opened his eyes. Having kicked off the blanket overnight, he felt cold. Sitting up, he surveyed and sighed.
"...Woke up too early."
Through the window, deep navy night sky faintly lightened—dawn soon. Roommate Schlieffen slept soundly.
Ronan slipped out quietly for a smoke. Opening the door chilled the air. Rummaging pockets, he cursed.
"Damn it."
No pipe. He recalled Naviroje taking it. He'd handed it over in the mood, but now it irked. Kicking a stone grumpily, he calmed recalling her nude form.
"...No loss."
Hands in pockets, he wandered. Sleep gone, a walk wasn't bad. Deep breath filled lungs with dawn air. Scanning silent streets, he murmured.
"It's been long."
Finally today. One more trial, then the holy site. Devil's secrets revealed in hours. Recalling his chat with Zaifa two nights ago, he roamed aimlessly. After ten minutes.
"...Hm?"
Ronan sniffed. Wind carried an off scent. He turned into it. Another gust wrinkled his nose.
"...Blood."
Unmistakable, familiar metallic tang. Changing direction, he hurried. Foreboding stabbed his temples.
'What bullshit now.'
Speeding to a run, footsteps echoed in silence. Blood scent thickened.
"Hoo... Fuck."
Stopping, Ronan looked up. A lone log cabin—food storehouse. Blood wafted from within. Hopefully just butchering wild game.
Deep breath, he pushed the door. Unlatched, it creaked open. Stale blood fog enveloped him. Ceiling-high rice sacks, packed shelves, side door to meat storage entered view.
As he stepped forward, something touched his foot. Looking down, his face hardened. A hooded head rolled on the floor.
"Russell."
Reflexive utterance. Unmistakably Russell. Beside, headless corpse sprawled like trash. Heart raced explosively.
Face contorted in agony—tortured before death. In the blood pool, both hands missing.
Not just Russell. Six corpses littered the warehouse. All heads and wrists cleanly severed. Among them, Riley, the knight from last night. A sharp dagger pierced her mouth to occiput.
"This... What the..."
Familiar sword marks on cuts. Then—creak—the side door opened. A youth emerged, lips working, mouth blood-smeared. White hair bloodied red. Identity obvious.
"Hm?"
Noticing Ronan late, the youth turned. Eyes met. Swallowing, he spoke indifferently.
"Who're you?"
"You fucking bastard."
Mana shine irrelevant. Primal rage moved him. As Ronan's hand grasped hilt, devil's eyes widened. Clashing blades shattered dawn silence with metallic ring.