Chapter 23
Chapter 23
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: For My Sister (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Schlieffen continued chatting with Iril for quite some time afterward. To be precise, it was more like Iril doing all the talking unilaterally.
"By the way, you look about the same age as my Ronan. Oh! Are you enrolling in Phileon this year too?"
"Ah... Um... Yes, but..."
"Wow! What a coincidence. Please get along well with my little brother!"
"Uh... Uh-huh... Yeah."
Ronan looked at Schlieffen with pitying eyes. What was coming out of Schlieffen's mouth now was barely words anymore—more like reactions. Things like "Ouch," "Ugh," and "Whoa!"
Love is truly frightening.
Ronan shook his head as he watched the Empire's Rising Star act like a dementia patient. At first, he'd been furious that this guy had dared to harbor romantic feelings for his sister, but now he just felt sorry for him.
Then Iril pointed at Schlieffen's sword and spoke.
"Wow! That sword looks amazing! Do you know a lot about swords? If so, could you recommend a good shop? My brother needs to buy one right now."
"Sis, please."
Ronan pressed his forehead and sighed. Iril was looking up at Schlieffen with sparkling eyes. Schlieffen stared silently into her eyes for a moment before finally opening his mouth.
"Sword."
It was a word loaded with meaning. Schlieffen rummaged through the pockets of his uniform one by one and pulled something out. It was a gleaming platinum metal plaque.
Schlieffen held the metal plaque out to Iril.
"Take this first. As... compensation for my mistake..."
"You messed up with me, so why give compensation to my sister?"
"Wow! Thank you! But what is this?"
Iril fiddled with the metal plaque curiously. Engraved on the front was the image of a knight trampling a dragon. It was the crest of the Grancia family, one of the great houses that divided the empire.
Ronan's eyes widened. He knew what the plaque was. It was a form of promissory note often used by noble houses. Proof that you could receive goods first and have the family pay later.
Considering that its value and utility grew with the prestige of the house, a promissory note from the Grancia family was worth an enormous amount. It was practically a one-time free exchange voucher usable anywhere in the empire.
It was overly generous as compensation for ruining a black iron sword. Ronan said incredulously,
"You madman... Do you even know what this is before giving it away?"
But Schlieffen didn't even glance at Ronan as he continued.
"The shop is at the western end of Forge Street... A smithy that's forged the Grancia family's treasured swords for over 500 years. It's normally hard to get in, but... show them that, and you should be able to enter."
"Wow! Really? Is it okay to tell us about a place like that?"
"The artisans... are on vacation right now, so you'll have to visit a few days later."
"Are you seriously insane?"
"Your brother's... sword being ruined... was entirely my fault. I pray you... find—no, procure—a fine blade."
Schlieffen turned to leave. Iril grabbed his hand again and said,
"Thank you so, so much! Thanks to you, we can get a great sword. Thank you!"
"......!"
Ronan knew he'd never forget the expression on Schlieffen's face at that moment. He staggered away like he'd been clubbed over the head.
Iril beamed and said,
"He looked scary, so I was worried, but he's a really nice guy. What a relief!"
Ronan couldn't say a word. Iril placed the plaque in Ronan's hand.
"Here, Ronan. Sis didn't understand a thing he said, but you can figure it out and use it well, right?"
"...Probably."
Ronan tucked the plaque into his inner pocket. He wasn't particularly interested in gear to begin with, but there was no reason to refuse something offered so freely.
Besides, a secret smithy that forged weapons for the Grancia family. Ronan clicked his tongue.
"Love is truly frightening..."
Since it was vacation time anyway, he planned to visit the smithy after enrollment. Ronan and Iril headed back to the bustling streets.
The Ronan siblings next headed to the largest hair salon in the capital. Ronan had no idea, but it was a place so renowned that even nobles had to book months in advance and wait at least three months.
"Welcome. Name on the reservation...?"
"Huh? What's wrong?"
"D-Director!!"
For some reason, the moment the clerk saw Iril's face, she dashed off somewhere. Soon, an old gentleman with scissors tucked into his shirt pocket approached them. He was the director overseeing the salon.
"Heavens... This is truly..."
The director froze the instant he saw Iril. He stared back and forth between her face and hair for a long while before speaking.
"Excuse me, miss. Might you grant me the honor of crafting your beauty?"
"Craft my... beauty?"
Iril tilted her head. Ronan glared at the director and said,
"He's asking if he can cut your hair. Speak plainly so the old man can understand..."
"M-My apologies. I got carried away..."
"Ah, sure! Make it pretty, please!"
Iril sat in the chair. The director took a deep breath and picked up the scissors. He'd been styling the hair of noble ladies and matrons for over 40 years, but he'd never been this tense.
Of course, Iril, who was visiting a place like this for the first time in her life, just felt excitement. She turned to Ronan and said,
"Hey, aren't you getting a cut, Ronan?"
"I'm good."
"...You're not planning to enroll with that hair, are you?"
"That's exactly the plan. Isn't it fine?"
Ronan swept back his bangs. His sloppily combed hair shook messily. Iril's face hardened for the first time since reuniting with her brother.
"Absolutely not! Excuse me! My brother needs a cut too!"
Iril shot her hand up and shouted. She yanked Ronan's sleeve and forced him into a chair. He refused several times, but she wouldn't budge.
"Fine, I'll cut it. I'll cut it."
"Um... So, sir? How would you like it styled?"
Ronan sighed.
"Just do whatever. Make it neat."
"Whatever..."
The stylist's face stiffened for a moment. But he quickly plastered on his professional smile. Soon, the snipping began.
Come to think of it, this is the first time anyone but Sis has cut my hair.
Snip, snip. With each sound of the scissors, his tough hair was sheared off in chunks. Ronan's head began to bob forward and back.
For some reason... sleepiness... was coming on.
.
.
.
In his hazy consciousness, he heard murmurs.
"Ooh, this is truly..."
"Hair really does define a person's impression. It's like a transformation."
"Ah, you're awake, sir?"
Ronan opened his eyes. He'd dozed off briefly. Blinking his heavy eyelids, he looked around. Iril was beside him, hands clasped tightly, staring at him.
"Wowww..."
"What? Already done?"
Her previously overly voluminous silver-white hair had been styled into a sophisticated city-woman look. The volume was halved, but the beauty was amplified tenfold.
"...It suits you. But why's everyone staring at me?"
Something felt off. Despite Iril's violently stunning beauty, everyone's gazes were fixed on Ronan. Iril murmured in an emotional voice,
"My little brother was this handsome all along..."
"What?"
Ronan turned to face the front. In the tall mirror, some annoyingly good-looking guy was blinking back at him from the chair.
Ronan touched his hair. What had been like an unkempt new nest was now a neat slicked-back style. It gave off a refined yet wild impression, like Professor Baren's mane.
"...Is this me?"
The black hair swept back over his forehead gleamed smoothly, unlike its usual messiness. His exposed eyes sparkled rebelliously. The director, scissors in his chest pocket, approached with a smile.
"Today is the pinnacle of my styling career. Not one, but two raw gems to polish—and the finest jewels at that."
From midway, he'd claimed he'd cut Ronan's hair himself. Ronan stared blankly at his reflection. No matter how he looked, he couldn't get used to it.
"Damn, feels so awkward. How much?"
"No charge. Thank you for this wonderful experience."
"Pardon?"
"Please come again. Safe travels."
The director courteously saw Ronan and Iril off. Outside, the gazes that had been solely on Iril now split. Before, both men and women had stared only at Iril; now men eyed her, women eyed Ronan.
Ronan frowned.
"This is burdensome. How do you endure it, Sis?"
"Huh? What?"
"...Never mind."
Of course, Iril had always been stunning, so she'd been used to admiring glances since snot-nosed kid days. Ronan swept back his bangs with a complicated expression.
This'll be annoying until it grows out again.
The siblings continued enjoying their time. They toured famous spots in the capital, had dinner, and returned to their lodgings as dusk fell.
Today's inn was [Sunset Keeper], one of the capital's finest, converted from an entire tower.
"Now, where did this ball go? Right? Left?"
"Ppya!"
Sita had returned first and was playing with Asel. When Ronan with his new haircut entered, the human and creature's eyes widened simultaneously. Asel said in a trembling voice,
"R-Ronan... right?"
"Yeah. Weird?"
"N-No...! It suits you perfectly. Amazingly."
"Ppyaaaaa!"
The flying Sita smooshed her face against Ronan's cheek. Her affection was far more intense than usual—she clearly loved it. Then Iril walked to the window as if entranced.
"Wow."
The sun was setting. From the special room with floor-to-ceiling windows at Sunset Keeper, they had a full view of the western boulevard.
The wide avenue paved with white stones blazed rose-gold. Shadows of people wandering in the sunset rippled like foam. Staring out the window, she spoke.
"It's so, so beautiful. The world has so many beautiful things."
Ronan twisted his lips silently. He felt like he'd repaid a tiny fraction of the grace his sister had given him.
The three talked late into the night. Ronan fell asleep only after everyone else, including Sita, had dozed off. The night before the entrance ceremony passed peacefully.
The day of the entrance ceremony dawned.
Ronan and Asel changed into uniforms after breakfast. Magic Department wore black robes with cloaks; Martial Arts Department had white shirts and black slacks as base with dark blue-gray blazers.
Martial Arts distinguished years by necktie color; first-year Ronan tied a red one. Iril clapped and squealed happily.
"Eek! You both look perfect!"
"It's stifling."
Ronan undid the top button. The group headed straight to Phileon.
With vacation over, Phileon Academy controlled access strictly, unlike usual. Armored guards checked every person's identity meticulously.
"Hm? You..."
"Yes?"
A guard who recognized Ronan spoke up.
"Thought I'd seen you somewhere—you're the guy who crossed swords with Schlieffen back then. Doing well?"
"Eh, so-so."
"Heard you took top practical. Curious how you beat the Empire's Rising Star. Looking forward to a casual greeting."
"Casual greeting? What's that?"
It made no sense. Ronan shrugged and entered the grounds. The streets, less crowded than exam day, stood out.
"Greetings, everyone. I am Krava Kratir, current principal of Phileon Academy."
The ceremony was held in the grand plaza where acceptance results had been announced. Spectators like Iril sat in temporary stands along the edges, watching.
Behind Kratir on the podium stood familiar faces lined up.
Former Sword Saint Naviroje, the elf with pierced ears, werewolf Gidokan, and others—the interviewers from Ronan's practical exam.
"Not one of us doubts that you will become the talents to lead the continent. Though we live mortal lives, your achievements will echo for a hundred—no, a thousand years, eternally."
Sorry, but you've got less than ten years left.
The speech was clichéd but heartfelt and uplifting. When Kratir finished, thunderous applause erupted from the stands.
"Welcome to our 787th class."
"Woooooooo!!"
"Thank you. Shall we move to the next part? Your seniors await."
"Seniors?"
Suddenly, Kratir turned. He made a pulling gesture at empty air. Ronan's eyes widened.
"What the fuck."
The scenery across the grand plaza tore away like a curtain. As if unveiling a painting covered in cloth, a packed plaza full of people appeared.
"Nice to meet you, juniors!"
"Martial Arts? Join the mounted combat club!"
"Hahaha! Who's Ronan? Looking forward to this greeting too!"
Filling the opposite side were students in uniforms. Upon facing the freshmen, they roared to the heavens.
Phileon 786th class. The seniors who had entered a year ahead.