Chapter 175
Chapter 175
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 175
Chapter Title: Sword Festival (18)
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The final day of the festival dawned. After getting plenty of rest, the participants started climbing the mountain in the afternoon. Alogin explained that the last outpost and the holy site weren't too far apart—about an hour's hike away.
The survivors who made it this far, Ronan and his group included, numbered twenty in total. Having overcome all sorts of trials to reach the top, their eyes gleamed with extraordinary resolve. Ronan whistled as he looked them over.
"Looks like they've been properly weeded out. A few of them even seem stronger than us."
"They're the best talents from across the continent, after all."
Schlieffen nodded in agreement. It was obvious even without sparring them. They were surely sword saints in their own right, revered in whatever domains they hailed from. Suddenly recalling last night's antics, Ronan elbowed Schlieffen in the ribs.
"Oh, right. How's your head?"
"What brought that on?"
"You're a riot. Spouting all that drunken nonsense last night and now playing innocent?"
Ronan chuckled in disbelief. Schlieffen, wasted after just one sip, had gone on praising Iril nonstop even after Ronan turned in. His eyes glazed over as he rambled endlessly—a perfect picture of a madman. It had helped wash away the lingering unease from Russell and Riley's deaths, at least.
"You don't even remember what you said? Figures—that's why you're still alive instead of hanging from a noose this morning."
"I remember everything. And I feel no shame in stating facts."
"You're insane."
"It's just regrettable that I need alcohol to be honest. I'm lacking in courage."
Ronan shook his head. The conviction in his voice made Ronan wonder if the real danger wasn't the Torrent Sword, but this guy. They chatted idly as they climbed. Rin trailed about thirty paces behind, holding Naviroje's hand. Glancing back and forth between Ronan and Schlieffen, she muttered thoughtfully to herself.
"Hmm. Tough call."
"What is?"
"Which ass do you think is better? You must know, being their teacher."
"...Huh?"
Naviroje was certain she'd misheard amid the wind. What kind of question was that about her students' butts? But asking again yielded the same response.
"The fierce face is more my type up front, but from behind, they're even. That one's got a rock-hard appeal, while the young master's..."
Rin suddenly launched into a critique of her two students' rear ends. Her expression was deadly serious—like a rancher appraising prime heifers. It was nonsense with zero nutritional value, but listening started to spark an unwelcome curiosity. Naviroje shook her head vigorously, suppressing it.
"...No idea. About that."
"Gotta decide by today. Big problem. Maybe just go with you."
Rin looked up as she said it. Staring blatantly at Naviroje's chest, she let out another thoughtful hum. She was clearly deep in thought about something, but Naviroje had no clue what—and no real desire to know.
"Hey, Naviroje."
"Yes?"
"Can I really go to your academy?"
Naviroje shrugged. Come to think of it, a few days back, Rin had beamed about Ronan suggesting she enroll. Naviroje gently stroked her head.
"Of course. Phileon's doors are always open to the talented."
"Thanks. Guess I'll really go, then."
"But you'll need to restrain yourself from groping Ronan there."
Naviroje chuckled. Now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen her face in a while. Bullied at first, but clawing her way to student council president—she was surely thriving. Rin tilted her head.
"Why?"
"He's got a fierce rival. She's a bit timid, but still."
"Oh, that? No problem. I'll be prettier."
Rin swept her lush white hair behind her ear. Naviroje let out a hollow laugh. It was a bold gesture that didn't match her petite frame. Enviable, in a way. Just then, Alogin, leading the group at the front, came to a halt. He turned to the others.
"You've all done well. This is the summit of Parjan."
Ronan and Schlieffen, right behind him, stopped as well. There was nowhere left to climb. An otherworldly vista unfolded before them. Ronan scanned the surroundings, murmuring in a trance.
"...A crater?"
The terrain dipped like a spoon-scooped bowl, hinting that Parjan had once spewed fire. The crater, easily three kilometers wide, was blanketed in eternal snow.
The setting sun's rays reflected off the snowpack, creating an illusion that the holy site itself glowed. Alogin smiled kindly.
"Indeed. A pool where light gathers. The sacred sword slumbers somewhere here."
"A pool where light gathers..."
Ronan nodded. Apt nickname. At the crater's rim stood a building, presumably the elders' dwelling—elegant and antique, like a detached annex from Phileon. Alogin led them there to drop their gear and rest briefly.
The building wasn't as spacious as expected. High ceilings and massive pillars evoked a temple.
Ronan had figured the wizened elders would have attendants aplenty, but they seemed self-sufficient.
The participants got time to rest and wash up. Elders milling about offered sword salutes.
"Welcome. Swordsmen who conquered the final trial. We've been waiting."
"Ah, yes. Hello."
Ronan bowed in greeting. Despite their age, their auras were formidable. Dressed uniformly for the sacred rite, perhaps. Then a burly old woman stopped before Ronan.
"Ah, you're that No. 44 entrant. The talk of the elders."
"Good talk, I hope?"
"Hahaha. I like you plenty. Isn't that enough?"
The old woman dodged with a raspy laugh. Stocky and boisterous, she evoked a northern warrior. Introducing herself as the Silver Sword's mistress, she clapped Ronan's shoulder heartily.
"I hope one of you finds the sacred sword. Truly—it's time."
"You say it like someone found it before. Isn't it just a legend?"
"The sacred sword exists. The world dismisses it as myth or fairy tale, but we elders know it's history. And the first wielder? Someone you know well."
"Someone I know?"
Ronan tilted his head at the cryptic words. The old woman smiled meaningfully.
"Ever wonder how a mere human repelled the demon dragon Orse?"
"Orse... You mean the founding emperor of the empire?"
Ronan's eyes widened. He'd never heard this. The first emperor beating the black dragon Orse—thanks to the sacred sword? Midway through the tale's intro, the old woman cut off.
"Heh. I'll tell you more after the rite. Hungry? You should eat."
"I'm good. Ate already."
"Nonsense. You can't swing a sword properly looking that scrawny. Kids these days—starving themselves on purpose?"
The old woman clucked her tongue. Scrawny? First time hearing that, except maybe from Iril. It was her personal standard, of course. Her arms, at seventy-plus, rivaled Ronan's in girth. She bellowed.
"Hey! Darman!"
"Huh?"
Ronan raised a brow at the familiar name. Soon, a boy dashed from across the building— so fast he left an afterimage. He skidded to a halt before her.
"Madam Olga? You called?"
"Yes. Guide this lad to the mess hall. And any other hungry participants."
"Got it. We'll head down tomorrow, so speak up if you need anything."
"Good boy. I've got rite prep—off with you."
Patting the boy's head, she turned away. Ronan stared blankly at the familiar face. Delicate features, gray hair, brown eyes. Yep, the sword delivery boy who'd hauled Zaifa's blade.
"...Darman?"
"Eek?! Lord Ronan?"
Darman finally noticed him, eyes bulging. Same reaction as their forest first meet.
"What're you doing here? What about Zaifa's sword?"
"Haha... It's a long story."
Darman scratched his head sheepishly. The bizarre tale unfolded. He'd made it to Parjan somehow but couldn't find Zaifa despite days of searching. Food and coin ran out, so he signed on as a runner between outpost and holy site.
Meant to quit once he found Zaifa, but the festival ended without a sighting. Turned out he liked the gig, and folks appreciated his sharp efficiency—he'd stuck around longer than planned. Finishing up, Darman hopped in place excitedly.
"I'm pretty fast on my feet. Deliveries come quick—they love it."
"Yeah, you're quick as hell. Things got tangled, but glad it worked out."
"Heehee, thanks to you saving me that day. Zaifa hasn't shown?"
"Nah, he'll be here soon. Said he'd join the rite."
Ronan explained Zaifa was holing up in private digs to avoid people. Darman's face fell in realization.
"Ah, that explains why I haven't seen him..."
"Yeah. Hand it over today."
"Ugh... Guess so. Mess hall first?"
"Sure. For old times' sake."
Ronan followed Darman to the dining area. The dishes, supposedly cooked by that old woman herself, were uniformly awful.
"Fuck. Why the hell's a fish head jammed into the pie? That old bat got dementia?"
"Haha... Madam Olga's cooking is... unique."
After venting curses, Ronan calmed down with Darman's improvised egg dish. Over the meal, he recounted events en route here.
"T-Torrent Sword Croden? He was there?!"
"Yep. Zaifa cleaved him in half with one swing."
"No way..."
Darman listened raptly, face twisting through a gallery of expressions. His vivid reactions made storytelling fun. After an hour, an announcement called them out for the rite. Darman waved Ronan off.
"Find that sacred sword!"
"Will do. I'll tell Zaifa to swing by—get ready."
Ronan waved back casually. Everyone but Darman exited. In the now-empty building, cheerful humming echoed.
The rite took place at the holy site's heart. The crater's interior was sacred ground—no entry for anyone but elders, sword saints, and final-trial passers.
They arrayed in formation at the center, said to pool starlight. Seven elders encircled them, weapons drawn, concentrating intently. Swirling mana converging made Ronan's head spin. Zaifa, back from his business, stood arms crossed.
The sky, close enough to touch, bore hints of sunset crimson. Ronan muttered a bit loudly for a mumble.
"What's this rite even about?"
"They won't tell you, even if you ask."
Naviroje stared straight ahead. She still wore Ronan's coat—impressively fresh after so long. Ronan pressed.
"C'mon, don't be stingy. Spill."
"Can't. It'd ruin the awe."
"That impressive?"
"First-timers can be awestruck. Unseen sights await."
Naviroje was firm. Sounded like something real was coming. A solemn chill wind blew, as if from the heavens. Abruptly, Alogin raised his sword.
"We begin the rite."
Blue radiance rippled along the longsword's blade. The other elders followed suit. Before participants could react, they plunged weapons into the ground. Shwaaaaa—! A fierce halo swept through the holy site like a wave.
"Fuck, what the—!"
Ronan squeezed his eyes shut instinctively. Impossible not to. Other participants reacted similarly. Amid the light piercing even closed palms, Rin's voice drifted through.
"This... is... the... finale..."
Wind drowned it out, unintelligible. Peeking through slitted lids, Ronan saw her staring ahead calmly. After about three minutes, the light faded. Mana settled; Ronan lifted his head.
"This is..."
He lost his words. As Naviroje said, an unprecedented sight. The snow-blanketed crater had become a blooming flowerbed.
But these weren't ordinary flowers. Weapons of every kind sprouted upside-down, blades buried in earth. Glinting coldly in the sun, they resembled steel blossoms.