Chapter 188
Chapter 188
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 188
Chapter Title: Mother of Fire (4)
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“...Everyone, please welcome her. This is Navardoje.”
Kratir spoke. No cheers erupted right away. In the prolonged silence, murmurs began to spread.
“I-Is that really the Mother of Fire? For real?”
“No way... That can't be. The principal must be joking.”
“B-But that magic circle just now was too...!”
The students couldn't believe she was Navardoje herself. But Kratir's words were too bold to be a lie. The powerhouses who ruled the world often became the butt of jokes, but only in private settings.
Above all, they remembered the massive dragon head that had torn through the magic circle. And the mana storm so intense it seemed it would sweep away even souls. The woman overlooking the confused grand plaza opened her mouth.
“......!”
In that instant, all doubts vanished from their hearts. It was a voice no mortal could ever produce.
Silence fell once more. But it was a silence swollen like a balloon on the verge of bursting. Soon, the erupting cheers shook Phileon to its core.
“Then, allow me to introduce the seniors who will be closest to you during your academy life.”
“Woooah! Welcome, freshmen!”
“If you're in the Martial Arts Department, join the Armor Combat Club!”
The entrance ceremony proceeded smoothly. Realizing Navardoje harbored no hostility, the students soon regained their youthful innocence.
Despite the sudden incident, Kratir somehow salvaged the situation and guided the event forward. Of course, whenever he had a spare moment, he turned to check on Navardoje.
“It must have been tiring traveling from Adren. Is your seat comfortable?”
He seemed less like Phileon Academy's principal and more like a friendly restaurant server. Who wouldn't act that way before the Mother of Fire, though? Navardoje nodded.
Kratir expressed his thanks and returned to the podium. A clichéd but solid speech followed. Throughout it, Ronan kept staring at Navardoje. The fact that she had vanished briefly and then reappeared nagged at him.
‘Something must have happened.’
She showed just a faint sign of fatigue. The horns growing from the sides of her head bore small scratches that hadn't been there the night before.
Above all, Itargand's worried gaze toward his mother proved that something had occurred. It somehow felt connected to the “offensive” she had mentioned the previous night.
‘Is there some being or faction opposing Navardoje? Who could it be?’
He pondered but found no answers. Deciding to ask her later, Ronan let his gaze drift slightly below her face. The breathtaking view made him mutter without thinking.
“...I wish I had a dragon mom too.”
“Hm? What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Ronan shook his head. His eyes were fixed on Navardoje's bosom. Even wrapped in her robe, the curves were extraordinary.
‘Itargand, you lucky bastard.’
Naviroje and Marya were impressive enough, but this was on another level. Was it a racial difference? Or perhaps the pouches that held flames were particularly well-developed?
If the emperor weren't sitting right next to him, he would have leaped to his feet in a standing ovation. If her dress had been cut any lower, he might not have been able to stand at all. At that moment, the emperor, who had been stroking his chin, spoke up.
“Indeed. Even I am awestruck every time I see it.”
The emperor nodded emphatically, his tone full of agreement. Their eyes met briefly, as if seeking tacit consent. As if to say they were both seeing the same thing.
‘This guy's a goner too.’
Ronan let out a dry chuckle. The two exchanged solemn nods before turning back to Navardoje. Ronan opened his mouth.
“Of course, I was referring to the scale of her mana.”
“Naturally. Nothing else could be imagined.”
“Nothing else, like what?”
“......Oh, look over there. It's nearing the finale; seems like something's about to happen.”
Slyly dodging the question, the emperor pointed with his index finger at Kratir. Sure enough, he was preparing some grand magic.
“Enough with the dull speeches... It's time for the part everyone's been waiting for, right?”
The students cheered. They had a good idea of what was coming. At Kratir's gesture, the entire grand plaza writhed and shifted. The ground sank and rose repeatedly. Before long, the flat plaza had been reconfigured into a massive circular arena. Kratir announced,
“Then, we'll proceed with Phileon Academy's tradition: the ‘simple greeting.’ The designated freshmen from the Martial Arts Department and second-years, please come forward.”
Ten freshmen and ten second-years stepped forward. The twenty students lined up facing each other in the center of the arena. Itargand stood at the far left of the freshman row. Ronan raised an eyebrow.
“Oh. Top of the class?”
“I heard that handsome young man is Navardoje's son. Is it true?”
“Yes. As long as nothing goes wrong.”
Ronan nodded. Itargand had entered Phileon through the same process as everyone else: the entrance exam and interview.
He had polymorphed into an even younger form and used the alias “Iril.” Everyone would end up calling him that anyway, so why had he made such a fuss the night before?
In any case, since his origins were kept strictly secret, most people didn't know he was a red dragon and Navardoje's son. However, he had garnered attention as the top scorer in the Martial Arts Department and for his striking good looks.
His noble platinum hair fluttered in the wind. The refined aura emanating from him was in no way inferior to Schlieffen or Erzsebet. Whispers rose from various parts of the stands.
“Isn't that the kid who sprouted wings before? His brother?”
“Dunno. He's handsome, though.”
“They say he crushed the test mech knight with raw strength. Where'd this monster come from...?”
The overall assessment was highly favorable. Each time such comments arose, the corners of Navardoje's mouth curved faintly upward. She glanced at Ronan with a proud expression several times, forcing him to respond with awkward smiles at regular intervals to subtly convey that she had raised an impressive son.
Suddenly, a memory from three years ago flashed through his mind. He had stood in exactly that spot, facing ten opponents at once. All to reassure his worried sister. Now sitting in the seat where Iril had been back then, the nostalgia felt fresh.
‘He needs to do well.’
Ronan looked down at Itargand. His face was stiff, a far cry from his usual arrogant, confident demeanor. The tension was obvious even from there.
“Somehow, I have a bad feeling...”
Guessing the reason wasn't hard. Navardoje was staring at Itargand with sparkling eyes, pretending to be nonchalant. If not for the massive crowd, she would have cupped her hands around her mouth to cheer her son on.
‘Ugh. So embarrassing.’
Ronan grimaced. If he were in Itargand's shoes, he'd be puking right there. At that moment, everyone except Itargand and one second-year left the arena. Their opponents had been decided.
The second-year representative was a youth who looked like a total delinquent. With his jet-black hair and a single sword in hand, he strongly resembled Ronan's past self. Just looking at him brought an inexplicable wave of unease.
‘He really looks like he won't listen... No, can't judge by appearances.’
Ronan shook his head to dispel the prejudice. Right, I'm not Lin. I shouldn't judge people by how they look.
As he repeated this to himself, the youth spat on the ground with a ptui and pointed his sword tip at Itargand while shouting.
“Haha, you're the top freshman? Pretty boy!”
“That's right.”
“Must have something going for you. Your face looks as fragile as a dandelion seed, though.”
Ah. Fuck.
Ronan's face hardened in an instant. The emperor beside him gasped. The sound of Asel choking violently on his water reached even there.
“Kheek! Kheek!”
Without a word, they all turned to Navardoje. The Mother of Fire was still calmly watching her son, her brows slightly furrowed but otherwise composed.
Provoking a dragon was never a good idea. As Ronan prayed he wouldn't say anything more,
“My name is Tyber Partisan! Didn't your mom teach you to introduce yourself before a duel?”
Ronan gritted his teeth. Itargand frowned at the mention of “mom.”
“...Iril.”
“Iril! Weird name, whoever gave it to you.”
The bastard named Tyber spun his sword gleefully while bursting into laughter. Kratir wore an expression like he wanted to break down crying as he stole glances at Navardoje.
“You know this, Iril? The last freshman to beat a senior in the Martial Arts Department's simple greeting was from the 787th class. My most admired senior, Ronan, took on ten at once and won.”
“So what.”
“Don't expect any miracles from you. Principal, start the match!”
Tyber turned and yelled at Kratir. Regardless of intent, his bold provocations had heated up the arena's atmosphere.
“...Yes, we must. Then, let the first greeting begin.”
Kratir squeezed his eyes shut and spoke. Boom! At the same moment, Tyber's figure shot forward. Gasps erupted from the stands. Even to Ronan's eyes, it was a sharp charge.
‘So that's the source of his confidence.’
For a moment, his deranged behavior was forgotten amid his impressive skill. It was clearly the result of building endless effort atop a foundation of talent.
But unfortunately, his opponent was the worst possible matchup. The moment Tyber, who had closed in right before Iril, unleashed his slash—
Iril, who had been watching him calmly, lightly swung the sword in his hand. Boom! Tyber was sent flying and slammed into the opposite wall of the arena.
“Keheuk!”
Spiderweb cracks formed where Tyber had collided. It was a sight worthy of a swordmaster's clash. Iril glared at him and growled lowly.
“How dare you insult my mother.”
“W-Wait a second!”
Somehow still conscious, Tyber cried out in a terrified voice. He was embedded in the wall, unable to move. Without giving anyone a chance to speak, Itargand swung his sword through the air. Whoosh! A wave of fire erupted along the sword path and surged across the ground.
“Kaaaak! Save me!!”
Tyber let out a deathly scream. The red dragon's all-consuming flames bore down on him. Ronan kicked off his seat and leaped to his feet.
“That idiot!”
In the end, the worst-case scenario had come to pass. Despite all the warnings to control his power, it hadn't sunk in. Ronan, reinforcing his legs with mana, sprang forward like a coiled spring. Thud! He landed in front of Tyber, blocking the way, and yelled in an irritated voice.
“Duck!”
“R-Ronan senior?!”
Ronan gripped his sword hilt and drew. The blood-red Ramancha slid free. As he focused his mind, time stretched out. In a world where even heartbeats had stalled, only Ronan and his sword moved as normal. Hundreds of white lines slashed across the wave of flames.
“That's...!”
“N-Navardoje?”
At that moment, Navardoje rose from her seat. The pupils that had mimicked human form narrowed vertically into slits.
The source of the nagging sense of déjà vu that had haunted her mind since last night finally surfaced. Now that she looked, his face was eerily similar too—how had she not recognized him at once? A mesmerized voice slipped from her parted lips.
“Yes. That child is your son.”