Chapter 187
Chapter 187
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 187
Chapter Title: Mother of Fire (3)
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"Whoa, shit."
Ronan widened his eyes as he peered inside the box. Nestled modestly within the silk-lined interior was a black, translucent blade fragment. It was a piece of Ramancha, the one that had shattered during his fight with Darman.
"You actually managed to find this."
Ronan muttered in admiration. Honestly, given the scale of the collapse, he'd thought it was gone for good. He could picture the Farzan staff still toiling away like mules without even needing to see them.
He carefully wrapped the fragment in the silk from the bottom. It was a relief, since he'd inwardly regretted losing it. Sita's eggshell was a precious material impossible to obtain again. There had to be some way to recycle it.
'This time, instead of Doron, it might not be a bad idea to find another blacksmith. But...'
Ronan cocked an eyebrow. The box was ridiculously heavy for its contents. He quickly found the reason. Lifting the compartment holding Ramancha revealed another space beneath it.
"What did they pack in here?"
It was piled high with white metal fragments. Each piece felt substantial, giving an impression utterly opposite to Ramancha's. It was the remains of Imir, destroyed in the fight with Darman.
'This one's no good.'
Ronan grimaced as he examined the fragments. He'd accept the gift, but even to his untrained eye, the condition was poor. Unlike Ramancha, which could potentially be restored as a weapon, these would probably need to be melted down entirely to make something else.
The silver lining was that the hilt was intact. Ronan unwound the bandages wrapped tightly around it.
The material made by slicing a page from the Forbidden Book Bajura. The power resonating with his second core likely came from here. Mulling over the word "resonance," Ronan snapped his fingers.
'This could be pretty useful.'
If things went as he planned, it could be recycled quite nicely. After all, the power Imir held was essentially a form of sensory sharing.
Ronan immediately wrote up a commission to send to Gran Kapadokia. It was for something meant for innocent, good-hearted people like Iril or Lucy. With no telling when he'd leave Phileon again, it was best to get it made quickly.
Lifting out the compartment with Imir's fragments revealed the bottom. A parchment lay there like a rug, with something written on it. What now? Ronan picked it up.
- To the Master of the Holy Sword. For entrant number 44.
Alogin's letter was straightforward. The brief lines, less than half a page, expressed thanks for saving him and Farzan, along with some updates. Composed purely of the essentials without flowery language, it was easy to read.
As Ronan had anticipated, the elders had taken the raid very seriously. Information on Nebula Klazier and their special unit, Lyco Phos, had been disseminated across the continent.
The sword Darman used and the corpses of his unit had been collected and were under analysis. Ronan nodded in satisfaction.
'Hope they find something useful in the analysis.'
The letter ended with a promise to visit once things settled to see the holy sword. Though written in poor handwriting and concise, it brimmed with sincerity. A postscript suddenly caught Ronan's eye.
- I'll introduce you to a smithy worthy of honing the holy sword. Map enclosed.
It continued that he and the other elders had included recommendation letters. A map marking the smithy's location was attached below. Seeing the northern coastline, it seemed to be in Heiran, the northernmost point of the continent, as mentioned.
"The north, huh."
Ronan stroked his chin with interest. For even the swordmasters who once dominated the era to go this far, it must be an extraordinary smithy.
In his previous life, he'd spent plenty of time in the north as a penal legionnaire, but he'd never gone as far as Heiran. Adeshan's hometown. The land once held by the beastman alliance led by Zaifa. It felt like his next destination had already been decided.
'Gonna need to get a leather coat.'
Once he pulled out the map, the box was empty. Ronan quickly penned a reply to Alogin and prepared to head out. There was still some time, but he needed to leave soon to snag a good seat.
"Well then, shall we go?"
With his preparations complete, Ronan set off. As he stepped out of the dormitory, golden sunlight poured over his face. The day was warm, but the breeze was cool. Just like the day he'd enrolled.
Phileon class of 780's entrance ceremony was held in the grand plaza, as always. The spectator seats and podium conjured by Kratiir's magic were already set up.
The members of the elite adventure club had already filled the front row. Asel spotted Ronan and waved.
"R-Ronan! Over here!"
"You got here quick."
Ronan sat next to Asel. Normally, only second-years—the class right above the freshmen—attended, but with no classes, anyone could watch freely.
Marya was nervously biting her thumbnail. Schlieffen, absent during Ronan's spar, sat quietly with arms crossed, having heard the news.
Even Ophelia, who would usually be asleep, was nodding off while seated, clearly eager to see Navardoje. Marya turned to Ronan.
"Ronan. Is the dragon really coming? I haven't heard anything."
"Me neither. The seniors think it's weird they're even attending."
Braum nodded in agreement. It seemed only they knew Navardoje was coming.
As the start time approached, students still entered the seats leisurely. Seeing the sparse crowd, Ronan whistled.
"They used their heads. Kratiir."
It was far from the packed house he'd expected. Who knew they'd even control info to the students? Made sense, though—panic would be a headache. Ronan tilted his head while scanning the seats.
"Hm?"
Front row, just five seats away, a coat-clad gentleman read a newspaper. The stylish fedora hid his eyes, but Ronan recognized him instantly.
"Ha, shit."
Ronan couldn't hold back a hollow laugh. Was he even trying to hide? Quietly standing, he walked toward the gentleman. Schlieffen glanced back.
"Going somewhere?"
"Be right back. Won't bother you soon, so focus."
Ronan plopped down casually beside the old gentleman. Instantly, sharp killing intent poured from all directions.
Looking around, people in various guises glared at him: kindly parents, cleaning maids, even some students. The old gentleman spoke first.
"Nice weather, isn't it?"
"Sure is."
"Your expression's odd. Something wrong?"
Ronan snorted at the question. What was this guy playing at? He'd have to play along until the emperor was satisfied.
"Just reminded me of three years ago. My sister sat here watching me enroll."
"Heh, nostalgic. You look young—what brings you here?"
"Friend's enrolling, came to watch. His mom's a big shot, insisted on attending as a parent. Headache."
"I see... similar to me."
The gentleman chuckled lowly. Ronan snickered too. Brushing back his bangs, he said without turning.
"Seeing you like this is pretty novel. Your Majesty."
"Couldn't stay away."
The emperor, disguised as an old man, turned a newspaper page. The killing intents stabbing Ronan eased. The glarers resumed their roles seamlessly.
"That getup... I mean, look?"
"Doesn't suit? Always wanted to try this."
"What about the empire?"
"Meeting the Mother of Fire isn't state business? I... er, I think it's vital."
"Fair point."
Ronan nodded. It was irrefutable logic.
Valon XLIV said he'd disguised himself for the ceremony to see Navardoje without causing a stir. A dozen imperial guards in disguise protected him.
"Glad you're recovered. Was worried."
"Just overdid it. Grateful... uh, is this right?"
"Don't usually cross legs. Hands out of pockets too."
"Ah."
"Of course, I'm Lord Dnifen Roster of the merchant guild now, so no issue."
The emperor chuckled. Deep into the roleplay. Only a few guards behind eyed Ronan murderously.
"Read your report. Impressive feat on first mission."
"No big deal."
"Must reward your efforts. Name anything."
"Nothing specific... I'll think."
Ronan shook his head. Lately, everyone wanted to give him stuff—Navardoje too. After thirty minutes, seats filled.
Second-years lined up to surprise the freshmen. Kratiir soon veiled them in transparent barriers. Fresh-faced newbies entered the plaza.
"There they are."
Some faces he'd seen when the system was still winter-bound. Itargand blended ordinarily in the crowd's middle.
'No issues there.'
Far more intriguing than receiving penal legion rookies who might die tomorrow. Kratiir ascended the podium.
"Welcome all. Krava Kratiir, current principal of Phileon Academy."
Cheers erupted. His improved expression suggested he'd sorted things. No Navardoje yet. Staff, hearing the news, stood tensely behind him.
"Before we begin, allow me to introduce a guest. From afar—give a big welcome."
"Guest?"
"Who's that?"
The unprecedented step buzzed the seats. Kratiir smiled meaningfully. He'd planned a show.
Suddenly turning, he reached into empty space beside him. The backdrop shattered like thin ice, revealing a throne-like grand chair. After ten breaths, Kratiir spoke.
"Now, behold. Primordial flame and god's wing, Navar... hm?"
"What?"
Ronan frowned. Kratiir's face stiffened. The chair appeared, but no Navardoje sat. He muttered, unable to hide panic.
"W-where did she..."
Staff murmured too. Something was wrong. As he tried addressing stunned freshmen—
Paaaaah—!
A massive magic circle formed in the plaza's sky. A mana storm swept through.
"Kyaaaaah!"
"W-what the?!"
Screams burst everywhere. Kratiir's surprise barriers shattered. Second-years' identities exposed, chaos reigned.
"T-the veil?!"
"My club banner's flying away!"
It was pandemonium. Newbies shocked by sudden seniors, but bigger shocks abounded.
The sky-covering magic circle blazed like lava in every line. Its center parted, revealing a colossal dragon head. Building-sized, it overwhelmed—even Kratiir screamed.
"Hiiiik!"
"...Mommy."
Itargand muttered blankly skyward. Faintings spread.
Then, a brilliant flash from the rolling dragon's body. Everyone shut their eyes momentarily.
Opening them, they saw a woman on the empty chair. Red dress, elegant hair cascading past shoulders—scales matching the dragon's hue. She haughtily gazed at Kratiir and spoke.
【Sorry. Had to handle something urgent.】
Silence fell. Kratiir paled. Far from agreed-upon staging.
"Ah... aaa..."
Ruined, but as an adult, he bore responsibility. Forcing a smile, Kratiir turned to the freshmen.
"...Everyone, welcome her. Lady Navardoje."