Chapter 174
Chapter 174
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 174
Chapter Title: Sword Festival (17)
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“...You're right. The culprit is clear.”
Zaifa said. Nodrek's bisected corpse was convulsing at his feet. Ronan frowned upon seeing the gash across the chest.
“Fuck, did you have to confirm it like that? Hurry up and get treated.”
“This much is fine.”
Zaifa shook his head. It was a brutally crude verification. Of course, there was no better way to confirm whose sword mark it was, but it was a bit much. Red blood was spreading over the jet-black fur. After a moment of silence, he continued.
“...One strike.”
“Huh?”
“I bisected this worm in one strike. Generously speaking, it took about one second. Do you understand what that means?”
A damp sadness rippled beyond his red pupils. Suddenly rummaging in his inner pocket, Zaifa pulled something out. Dozens of flat metal dog tags, strung on a long, thin leather cord. Ronan's and Naviroje's eyes widened. They were Imperial Army identification tags.
“If I'd been at my subordinates' side for even one second, this sort of thing wouldn't have happened.”
The clinking of metal was heartrending. Ronan started to say something but stopped. Allowing the slash despite being able to block it was his own form of mourning and atonement. Biting his lower lip, Ronan spat curses for no reason.
“...Damn.”
“There were accomplices. Two more, probably.”
“Yeah. Guys who handle the sword better than that bastard.”
“We need to catch them all before summer comes. If you're willing to cooperate, come find me.”
Ronan nodded. He planned to hunt them down and interrogate them as soon as possible anyway. Zaifa tucked away the tags and turned his gaze to Naviroje.
“You've gotten sharper. Still haven't manifested aura, though.”
“How do you...!”
“I can tell at a glance. Instead of offering respects, let me give you some advice.”
Naviroje didn't answer, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Zaifa spoke in a more serious tone.
“Life is walking through storms. People naturally suffer countless wounds, and some of them leave scars that never fade. I imagine your repeated defeats at my hands have become such a scar for you.”
“...What are you getting at?”
“You can't erase a scar. That's what a scar is. But deciding how to face it is entirely up to you.”
Suddenly, Zaifa pointed to his own chest. A long scar was etched beneath the ragged clothes. The sword mark Naviroje had left. He swung his guandao through the air to shake off the blood and extended a handshake to her.
“I've never once been ashamed of this scar.”
“...You.”
Naviroje looked up and glared at Zaifa. Perhaps because the tiger had spoken such fine words, she—who always seemed so mature—looked like a granddaughter standing before her grandfather. After hesitating for a moment, Naviroje clasped his hand. It was a historic moment. After a light handshake, Zaifa turned his back.
“Then I'll await your third challenge. Former Sword Saint.”
With those words, Zaifa leaped high. He landed with almost no sound, just as before. In a single bound, he returned to the platform where he had started. Ronan watched Zaifa converse with Alogin and spoke up.
“Doesn't seem as dangerous as you said, Instructor.”
“...His demeanor has changed a great deal. Does all hatred eventually fade before time?”
“Hatred... What the hell happened to Zaifa anyway?”
Ronan asked. He'd been wondering about it for a while. What on earth had happened in the past to make her warn him so gravely? The Zaifa he'd met in person didn't seem like a war criminal capable of sparking the Night of Fangs. Naviroje stared at Ronan before turning her head away primly.
“Ask him yourself. Aren't you close enough to drink with him? Come to think of it, you haven't drunk with me either.”
“Ah, why get sulky over something like that? So childish.”
“I'm not sulky.”
She strode out of the arena, leaving Ronan behind. Only then did the hesitant officiants rush in to clean up Nodrek's remains. The symmetrically cleaved corpse wasn't much to behold for long. With his hands in his pockets, Ronan watched them sweep the entrails into brooms. Alogin, serving as supervisor, tilted his head.
“Hmm...? Aren't you leaving?”
“It's my turn anyway. Uh, I get to nominate first.”
“True, but... shouldn't you rest up a bit? You went through quite the ordeal.”
“Nah. Better to wrap it up quick and rest. I'll nominate.”
Ronan scanned the Aran Parjan participants and pointed. It was less choosing and more just jabbing at random. The man who happened to be in the direct line of his index finger gasped. A knight in full plate armor who looked reasonably strong. Ronan beckoned lazily.
“Come down.”
“Urgh! This scoundrel dares...!”
The knight snorted and descended into the arena. It took exactly three minutes and twelve seconds until he surrendered, screaming like a child.
“Argh! I, I was wrong! Please, mercy!”
“Sorry for the scoundrel. Guess no amount of training changes the roots.”
The man fled, even discarding his main weapon, the longspear. Hearing Alogin's victory declaration, Ronan sheathed his sword. The rest of the final exam proceeded as smoothly as flowing water. Half failed, half passed. No one else died besides the bisected Nodrek. Schlieffen, who had taken exactly forty-four seconds to claim victory, grinned triumphantly.
“Heh... close one, Ronan.”
“Gonna hurl. Are all hotshots this childish?”
Ronan grimaced in disgust. It had seemed odd that he'd unleashed Storm Blade right from the start; this must have been why. He worried deeply for Grancia's future.
Adding up all the scores so far, Ronan and Schlieffen were tied for first. Ronan yielded the right to receive guidance from Zaifa to Schlieffen. He'd gotten his fill of fighting just the other day in the cave anyway. After exchanging a few blows with him, Zaifa stroked his chin.
“Hmm, the finest aura I've ever seen. You have the potential to surpass me.”
“Thank you. Sword Saint.”
“Nothing particular to advise—just keep refining it. I'm curious which of you two will become the next Sword Saint.”
Zaifa alternated glances between Ronan and Schlieffen, smiling in satisfaction. His exposed fangs gleamed pure white. Even amidst his grief, he seemed genuinely pleased.
“With this, the final exam is concluded. My respects to both victors and vanquished. Parjan will never forget the blood and steel you offered.”
The exam didn't end until late at night. Alogin came down from the platform and shook hands with each one individually.
The passers returned to base, while the failures descended the mountain. As he left the arena, the Milky Way came into view, streaking horizontally across the edge of the sky. Ronan stepped forward, freshly realizing that this long journey was finally drawing to a close.
Ronan returned to his lodging after dinner. Schlieffen, who had come back first, was polishing his sword.
Tenacious bastard. Look at that face—not a single change.
The actual time swinging swords had been short, but with so much happening, the mental fatigue was considerable. Ronan flopped straight onto his bed and let out a sigh.
“Phew... finally tomorrow. Wonder how everyone's holding up in Phileon.”
“No issues there. But I'm worried about Lady Iril.”
“Overkill with the escorts. Just admit you miss her, man.”
Schlieffen didn't reply. His flushed ears were downright comical. In truth, Ronan wouldn't feel this at ease either if he hadn't secured the emperor's promise of escorts.
He recalled his dinner conversation with Alogin. The autopsy had confirmed that Nodrek was indeed the Torrent Sword Croden. Complicated thoughts swirling, Ronan groaned.
Saving a dying man to use him—fine. But sealing his memories with a spell... what was the goal? And why the hair and eyes like that?
The immediate fire was out, but much remained mysterious. Nodrek felt very different from the Nebula Klazie members he'd encountered so far. They were shitty bastards either way, but this one was unpleasantly shitty. There was a fundamental sense of incongruity.
Similar. The vibe.
He suspected that incongruity was tied to the hair and eye color. It was surely connected to the traitor as well, but nothing was clear. Propping himself up, Ronan asked Schlieffen.
“That Torrent Sword bastard. Why do you think he came here?”
“For revenge against Instructor Naviroje, maybe?”
“Nah. Felt more like a side benefit. Bastards with grand ideals are even shittier... argh, damn it.”
Ronan rubbed his face with his palm. His head just wasn't turning today—he needed some sleep. Rummaging under the bed, he pulled out a bottle of liquor. Schlieffen raised an eyebrow at the label.
“Eternal Snowflower steeped liquor. Pretty rare stuff—where'd you get it?”
“Snuck one while drinking with Zaifa.”
“...What?”
Schlieffen furrowed his brow. Ronan silently uncorked it. With no cups, he drank straight from the bottle. The liquid sliding down his throat was sweet. After a few gulps, Ronan offered the bottle to Schlieffen.
“Want some?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Yeah, you monk. Knew it... huh?”
Ronan's eyes went wide. He'd expected a refusal. Schlieffen took the bottle and boldly tilted his head back to gulp it down. Seeing his Adam's apple bob, Ronan panicked.
“Hey, that's pretty potent.”
“Phew... hits better.”
“Something eating at you? Did you spout crap like 'I'll propose when I return' to your sis or something...?”
“No. Just calming my elated mood... hic. It's not over just because the Sword Saint praised me.”
Ronan let out a hollow laugh. So he was drinking to settle the high from Zaifa's praise. He'd seen plenty drink to forget troubles, but this was a fresh reason. Snatching the bottle back, Ronan shook his head.
“Crazy bastard. You're the only one who'd drink for a reason like that.”
“Must always give my... hic, all to live. That way I can... hic, protect the weak.”
“Got it, so drink in moderation. Your hiccup tone sounds just like Erzsebet's.”
Suddenly, Erzsebet throwing a tantrum on the airship to Dawn Tower came to mind. The ordeal of stopping her from using fire magic inside the wooden ship. Ronan was about to say something when the quietly hiccuping Schlieffen spoke up.
“......Ronan.”
“Huh?”
“I miss Lady Iril.”
“Fuck.”
Ronan's face twisted. Head bowed, Schlieffen began lavishing praise on Iril. His vocabulary was so rich it could fill a book.
Can't stick around a drunk like this. He was about to down the rest to pass out when a knock sounded, and the door opened. A woman in guide's attire appeared.
“Um... Participant 44? Ah, you're here. Good.”
“Huh? What's going on?”
“Here. Came to deliver this.”
The woman carefully handed over an envelope. It was quite luxurious, inscribed with magic that would set it ablaze if opened by anyone but the recipient. Ronan tilted his head.
“Who's it from?”
“From Russell, killed by the Torrent Sword at dawn today. Found it while clearing his lodging—it's addressed to you, Ronan.”
“...Russell?”
The woman nodded and left the room. She looked quite busy due to the Torrent Sword incident. Scratching his head, Ronan tore open the envelope. Unlike the envelope, the contents were plain parchment. Tiny writing filled one side densely.
“What'd he bother writing so meticulously?”
Ronan began reading the letter slowly. The introduction and middle were as expected. Sorry for the rudeness. Thanks despite that for the help. I truly trust you, but still want to finish this properly...
It detailed the plan he'd conspired with the Aran Parjan participants to take down the Torrent Sword. The plan that had ended in惨 failure, leaving them all as mangled corpses. Ronan clicked his tongue as he read.
“...Goddamn it.”
If he'd just stayed out of it, none of them would have died. The booze suddenly tasted awful. Even after that point, about half the content remained. As Ronan read the middle-to-end, his eyes widened. The location of the ruin where he'd met the Torrent Sword, its internal structure, and all the information he'd uncovered while tracking him were listed there.
“This dumbass uncle...”
Ronan let out a deep sigh. Among them were locations suspected to be Nebula Klazie strongholds. Information of immense value. Deploying the Imperial Army here would likely be his first mission as Dawn.
The moment on the cliff where he'd been intimidated flashed before his eyes. The lively knight named Riley, whom he'd shared drinks with face-to-face. Ronan neatly folded the letter away, lifted the bottle, and muttered.
“Rest easy.”
Ronan took a swig of the steeped liquor. The sharp booze mingled with the Eternal Snowflower's fragrance, filling his mouth. The end of the journey was right before him. Tomorrow, he would finally set foot on holy ground.