Chapter 177
Chapter 177
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 177
Chapter Title: Festival of Swords (20)
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“Holy Sword. Want it?”
“What...?”
Ronan furrowed his brow. It was as if she were implying he already had the Holy Sword in safekeeping. Her expression was deadly serious—having entered twice before—and it didn't look like she was joking.
“...Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Rin nodded emphatically. Her clear eyes brimmed with certainty. Ronan raised his hand and poked her cheek with his index finger.
“Then why don't you pull it out yourself?”
“Can't do that. I thought you'd strip naked right here in joy, but your reaction's kinda underwhelming. What do you think the Holy Sword is, anyway?”
Rin said. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were a bit annoyed. Why is she suddenly acting like this? Ronan pondered for a brief moment before speaking up.
“A good sword.”
“...That's it?”
“Yeah. If it's famous enough to have a name like that, it must be sturdy.”
His tone was firm. No further description came even after a long wait. Rin's face gradually hardened. At some point, she pouted and turned her head away.
“Idiot.”
“Why are you sulking again all of a sudden?”
“You're too much. It's still the sword that slayed the Dragon Demon, you know.”
“Honestly, I'm not even sure if that's true. If it played a decisive role in the first emperor defeating Orse, more people should know about it. But I only heard about it for the first time when I got here.”
Ronan said. In fact, if it hadn't been for that grandmother—who wasn't exactly a master chef—he might have gone his whole life without knowing. Rin replied in a deeply sulky voice.
“...That couldn't be helped. The Holy Sword asked not to be recorded in history.”
“Huh?”
“But Balon broke that promise. Out of respect for the Holy Sword's wishes, he didn't make a big fuss, but he did tell his close aides. Naturally, the secret didn't hold, and disappointed, the Holy Sword came here to Parzan and settled down. No one wielded it, but its sanctity remained intact. And so, Parzan's light-gathering puddles became a grave where sword souls gathered.”
The story flowed from her tiny lips like water. It felt like some tremendous secret he shouldn't be hearing had just brushed past his ears. Ronan stared at her with wide eyes.
“How do you know all this?”
“I just know. And maybe you're right.”
“Right about what?”
“That it's just a sturdy sword. Truth is, the Holy Sword's power didn't defeat Orse.”
Rin said calmly. Ronan shrugged at the baffling words.
“What are you talking about all of a sudden?”
“The Holy Sword merely awakened the power Balon already held. Among mortals who live but a fleeting moment, there are occasionally those whose potential overwhelms even immortals. Balon was one of them.”
“Potential, huh.”
“Yeah. Orse—one of the five strongest dragons in history—took a wound from that explosive power and had to flee. Balon was the rightful founder of the Empire.”
Rin calmly recounted the tale of Balon's battle with Orse. Her tone was as if the first emperor were a personal friend.
Of course, as the very first to create an organization called the Imperial Army, he was sometimes called even harsher nicknames among fellow penal legionnaires. But hearing it like this felt strangely off—like watching someone call their parents by name. Rin continued, lightly bumping her head against Ronan's shoulder.
“In the end, the sword isn't what's most important. It's the one wielding it. And you understand that perfectly. Though, of course, that's not the only reason I picked you.”
“Picked me?”
Rin didn't answer. She stopped bumping her head and stood up. Ronan noticed her hair faintly glowing.
“You... what are you, really?”
“Answer my question first. Time's almost up.”
The blazing sunset illuminated the two. The clear wind carried no scent. The sun's desperate struggle to survive felt especially fierce today.
“No way...”
Ronan's eyes widened as he stared at Rin. Looking back, the girl had been peculiar from their first meeting. Suddenly, a hypothesis flashed through his mind like lightning. Applying it to everything that had happened since meeting her sent chills racing across his skin. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a booming voice echoed from the holy site.
“Darman! What is this place that you dare enter? Get out!”
“Eek! P-Please, just once. If I don't give it to you now, I really might never get the chance...!”
Both turned their heads. Far off, a familiar boy was approaching, stepping carefully on the holy site's soil to avoid the swords. His cautious gait was almost comical. On his back was the long box Ronan recognized well.
“Darman?”
Ronan furrowed his brow at the inexplicable behavior. He couldn't understand why the boy was rushing it when he could deliver it later.
He'd heard only the elders, the Sword Saint, and the final qualifier could enter. True to that, the old woman who'd introduced herself as the Silver Sword's master was scolding Darman. She asked,
“Give what, exactly?”
“It's a gift from my master to Lady Zaifa. As Madam Olga knows, I came to Parzan for this. Could you please just give me a moment? Really, just a moment?”
Darman was on the verge of tears. He pleaded tearfully, citing his two weeks of desperate efforts to meet Zaifa. The elders exchanged glances, their resolve wavering at his pitiful sight. Then Zaifa, who had been dutifully drawing sword spirits, nodded curtly.
“Bring it.”
“Sw-Sword Saint...!”
The elders' eyes widened. With Zaifa herself saying it, they had no choice. Darman's face lit up brightly.
“Th-Thank you!”
Darman rushed forward and stood before Zaifa. The black tiger paused extracting sword spirits, looking utterly fed up. Bloodshot eyes showed his exhaustion.
“I-I'll show you right now. So... here!”
Darman fumbled frantically with the box like a man on fire. A pure white longsword emerged. The watching elders gasped in unison.
“Wh-What's that?!”
“Wh-What do you think? It's a really well-made sword.”
Darman carefully drew the sword and offered it to Zaifa. The elders' gazes locked onto it. Though over two months old, the memory was vivid. All seven recognized it.
“That... from the dream...”
“Yes. It's definitely that sword.”
Two months prior, all the elders had the same dream. A star fell into the holy site, embedding a gleaming white sword there. Believing it an omen of the Holy Sword's appearance, they'd hastened the Festival of Swords. A short elder stammered,
“Th-The Holy Sword?”
“...It looks that way to you too?”
Algon nodded. The sword in Darman's hand matched the dream's Holy Sword astonishingly—even perfectly. The elegant blade, cruciform pommel. Even the faint white glow trailing the tip.
As everyone puzzled over this turn, Zaifa—who'd remained silent—finally spoke.
“Yes. You're giving that sword to me?”
“Y-Yes... It's a gift from my master. She said she really hopes you'll accept it.”
“Your master. I haven't the foggiest who that might be.”
Zaifa alone seemed unperturbed. He tapped the ground with his tail, pondering only the sender.
“Y-You might not know her. But she's admired you for a long time. She worked so hard on it, hoping you'd use it.”
“I see. It is indeed a fine sword.”
Zaifa nodded. Even to his beastkin eyes, it was a flawless masterwork. Enough to justify the fuss. Darman glanced up cautiously.
“S-So, you'll accept it?”
“No. I refuse.”
“Huh?”
Darman's face froze. Zaifa turned away decisively. Stunned, Darman cried out in panic.
“L-Lady Zaifa! Is it because the sword's too small? Don't worry—if that's it, it has a special feature for that. Look here...!”
“I can't accept a sword from someone I don't know. Just convey my thanks.”
Darman desperately tried to grab Zaifa, but the black tiger callously strode deeper into the holy site. As he chased, the other elders halted him with glares. Darman hung his head in despair.
“...Ah.”
“What a shame, Darman. Go back for now, and we'll talk after the ritual. And that sword is...”
Several elders approached to console him. In that instant, Darman's figure vanished from sight. Ronan's eyes nearly bulged from above.
“Wait, that bastard...!”
“Grr?!”
Sensing danger, Zaifa whirled, swinging his glaive. Whoosh! The massive blade cleaved where Darman stood—but he was gone. Then, Darman reappeared behind Zaifa.
“You...”
Zaifa turned. Darman silently spun the sword once. The pristine white blade dripped with fresh red blood. Ronan kicked off the ground and leaped forward. Thud... The glaive's shaft snapped in half and fell.
“No.”
Rin murmured. Simultaneously, a fountain of blood erupted from Zaifa's chest. Splash! Whether from his massive build or the vital hit, an enormous volume gushed out. Two nearby elders roared and charged.
“Heavens!”
“Darman! What have you done?!”
Responses befitting their station—astonishing speed. One was the old woman, self-proclaimed Silver Sword master. In her hands was a two-handed axe dwarfing Marya's greatsword.
Darman's form blurred and vanished again. The three attackers crossed paths ferociously. No clash of metal. As Darman landed, the two elders' heads soared skyward. Splash... Blood from the headless necks dyed the holy site once more.
“...!”
The world fell silent in an instant. Zaifa staggered, then slowly toppled. Even the wind stilled, leaving only the soft thuds of elders' bodies and heads hitting the ground.
“No good. You shouldn't casually refuse someone's sincerity.”
Darman sneered coldly. Zaifa collapsed to one knee. His ash-gray hair turned snow-white, as if the clinging soot were scattering away. Spinning the sword to flick off blood, he turned.
“Don't you think so too?”
The familiar flash spread from Darman. His leaf-brown eyes gradually turned autumnal. Finally fixing on Ronan, he spoke.
“Little brother.”