Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: The Girl Who Will Become a Countess (3)
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Inn <Dancing Mule>, room 201.
The wooden floorboards were littered with all sorts of trinkets. Swords, potions, rings—each item varied wildly, but they all shared one common trait: they gleamed.
Marya spoke as she surveyed the spoils lined up on the floor.
"So, these are the ones that didn't sell? The stuff you guys were gonna use?"
"Yeah."
"They're pretty high-quality... Why'd you keep three swords?"
"They break fast."
Hans's sword, already chipped and notched, was proof of that.
Even in his previous life, Ronan had replaced his weapon about once a month. Most blades couldn't withstand his swift swordplay.
"Well, whatever... Ah, damn. Still throbs. Go easy next time."
Marya grumbled, rubbing the bump on her head. Ronan opened his mouth to show the cut on his tongue—from when he'd bitten it during her uppercut.
"Think this was from a sparrow pecking me?"
"Tch. If I'd been a bit stronger, I could've sliced you clean."
Despite Asel's mediation with magic, the two had still traded a few more blows.
Marya had elbow-struck Ronan's throat, and he'd flicked her noggin in the same spot as before.
Her strength was unbelievable for her size, but she still couldn't match Ronan.
The match ended when she briefly blacked out and admitted defeat upon waking.
"Anyway, you must really abuse them. A swordsman should treasure their blade."
"A sword's just a tool. It's all about who's wielding it."
"Oho, pretty confident, huh? Wanna spar sometime? I'm the strongest in my merchant group, you know."
"Sure."
Once the commotion died down, Ronan and Marya got along decently. They'd both come to respect each other's guts. (Asel couldn't comprehend the process at all.)
The three headed to the plaza, ate Marbas's famous crawfish pasta, and returned to the inn.
Marya had kindly explained Phileon basics, and now the boys were inspecting the unsold spoils one by one.
"Anyway, everything left here is usable. Especially this longsword—it's real black iron. Maintenance could be better, though."
"You sure?"
"Doubting my eye? Even Dad asks me about metals sometimes."
Black iron lived up to its name—dark-hued, rare, and incredibly tough. It was favored for knights' and nobles' weapons.
Ronan liked black iron blades too; they held up for about six months even with rough use.
"Good to know."
"And this staff's gem... it's a real magic stone. Hey, cutie."
Asel, sorting gear, turned belatedly. Marya held a metal staff about a meter long—one of the unsold items, like the black iron sword.
"Huh? Me...?"
"Who else? That barbarian? No time earlier, but you're a mage, right?"
Asel nodded. Without a word, Marya tossed the staff at him. Startled, he halted it midair with telekinesis.
"Y-You almost hit me!"
"Plus telekinesis... You'll get in with a scholarship at this rate. It'll help a ton."
Asel eyed the floating staff. Mana gathered in the gem at its tip. He'd kept it suspecting something special from the start, but a real magic staff? Those were pricey enough embedded with a magic stone, it'd be insanely expensive.
Marya, perched on the bed, turned to Ronan.
"Problem's us two. What're you showing for your skill?"
"Skill?"
"Yeah, Phileon's practical exam's famous."
Examinees had to demonstrate their best technique before a panel of professors.
The exam spanned eight days total—written and practical. Seven days of practicals, then a mass written test on the last.
Phileon's entrance exam boasted astronomical competition. Anyone aged 10 to 15 could apply, regardless of status or origin.
Practicals and written differed hugely in scoring. Written wasn't negligible, but practicals decided pass or fail.
"Plenty of mediocrity, but talent too. Prove your worth."
"Damn, swordsmen just gotta kill well. What do normals show?"
"Hm... Nobles demo family secrets... Cutting rocks was trendy. But most common? Unique combat styles using mana."
"Hold up."
Ronan's face hardened instantly. Suspicion and doubt creased his brow. Marya tilted her head.
"What's up?"
"10 to 15? Kids barely got pubes. Non-mages handling mana? I look retarded to you?"
"Huh...? Aura, not mana? Sensing's enough for combat application."
"Aura and mana different?"
"...What?"
Boom! Lightning struck above Marya's head. Like asking a pillbug-dragon difference? Doubting, she asked:
"You... sense mana, right?"
"What's that?"
"Ah."
Lightning struck again. Not "can't"—he straight-up didn't know.
Not lack of effort or talent; he didn't grasp mana sensing itself.
Half of Phileon's Martial Arts admits reached basic "sword user" stage, handling mana simply. No one lacked mana sensing basics.
This was bad. Fellow Phileon hopeful or not.
"Joking? You really don't know?"
"Told you. Quit dodging. So, what's Aura vs. mana?"
She stared at the idiot, speechless. His eyes narrowed in doubt.
Embarrassment boiled into rage real-time.
Got it. She'd spent half a day explaining top academy admissions to someone who couldn't distinguish mana from aura. With care.
She sat chuckling dryly, then kicked off the bed.
"Come out."
"Huh?"
"Spar now. I'll show you Aura vs. mana difference. And that stupid mana sensing."
Marya grabbed two shortswords from the floor—the spares Ronan kept.
Not precious black iron, but well-forged steel.
"Acting like you own 'em. Those are ours."
"Left my sword. It'll end quick anyway. One use."
"Lose?"
"Ha... Triple price. Deal?"
"With those terms..."
Bang! Marya kicked the door open before he finished. Shocked Asel hiccuped; Ronan advised him women do that sometimes, then followed.
Mana is the primal force of all creation.
Common terms like Aura, magic, cores, or circles? Just labels for mana types or handling methods. Mana sensing meant feeling it—the foundation of all.
"Sensing onset varies. Some never do, even till death. Minimal talent? Usually opens in a year. But that's just the start."
They'd left the inn for a nearby clearing. Street noise filtered through surrounding fences. Marya paced five steps from Ronan, turned.
"Aura's sorta mana, but no one sees 'em the same. 'Aura' means your unique mana you generate. Not ambient natural mana everywhere."
"One word: not someone else's shit, my own squeezed-out shit."
"That example... Ugh, never mind."
Marya shook her head. How low to set Ronan expectations? He scratched his nape, asked:
"One more thing. Awakening Aura that hard?"
"Obviously. Awakening means creating irreplaceable personal mana. Even talents take 10 years minimum."
"...Yeah?"
Ronan recalled foes he'd slain. Aura users yapped pre-fight, begging mercy 'cause "unique power." Weird abilities, pitiful now knowing the effort. Heads rolled anyway.
"Ready to start?"
Marya spun her swords slowly. Smooth circles proved her talent.
Needed serious wrist strength and flexibility. Ronan nodded.
"Yeah."
Ronan drew—not the new black iron, but chipped Hans's sword. Marya raised a brow.
"That one? Might break, hurt you."
"Just start."
"...If you insist."
Spinning shortswords halted. She'd hit sword user realm.
Beyond circulating mana internally; channeling into blade.
Not top among mana users, but worlds above normals.
'Better feel limits here than embarrass at exam.'
Her anger had faded. It stemmed not from ignorance, but his unpreparedness.
She liked Ronan decently. Crude speech, thuggish, but not scum. Academy together could've been fun.
This spar was mercy. Bitter smile, she readied.
"Then... ready..."
Asel counted down, judging. Slim fingers folded: three, two, one. Last folded—Marya shot forward.
Clang!
Three blades clashed, sharp ring echoing. Ronan parried rooted. Blades screeched. He whistled.
"Not bad."
Marya, stunned silent. First block in ages. Both her blades mana-infused.
"You... who are you?"
"Ronan. Strength's filthy strong, though."
Ronan shocked too. Her power dwarfed before. Dual-wield fierce strikes evoked great cat jaws.
Wrists buzzed; prolonging'd annoy. He said:
"Gotta end quick."
Blades parted. Ronan dipped, whipped sword. Marya backstepped—no counter. Blade grazed hers barely.
Impossible for mana-blind normal. Her calm heart raced. Smile crept.
"Ha, should've fetched my sword."
"Nah."
Suddenly, Ronan sheathed. Marya frowned, mid-attack. He glared, muttering nonsense.
"Triple, you said."
He turned, walked off wordless. Marya irritably called. Not interrupted mid-fight—fight hadn't started, toilet exploded.
"...What the hell?"
No answer; he raised right hand.
"Got talent. But center of gravity tilts right a bit."
Casual, like tipping. She opened mouth to snap—
Clang.
Something hit her feet. Two severed blades rolled there.