Chapter 34
Chapter 34
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: Port Entry (3)
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In the Cradle, clashes with rivals were inevitable.
Frequent conflicts with rivals would inevitably lead to rapid wear and tear.
In other words, the more enemies one had, the higher the chance of falling behind.
There was no better way to reduce competition than turning rivals into allies.
And if those turned allies were competent, it was icing on the cake.
Thus, those targeted for recruitment in faction-forming were inevitably scions of prestigious families or renowned geniuses from their regions.
Gunter Irons fell into the latter category.
"I appreciate the offer, but I must decline."
It was the third time today Gunter had uttered those words.
His polite yet stiff tone caused the face of the one making the offer to harden.
"You've rejected every offer so far, from what I can see. Not... exactly a wise choice."
"I'll take responsibility for my own decisions. That's not for you to worry about."
"Is that so? My apologies."
The boy had introduced himself as from a certain administrative district, a member of some family.
He made no further offers in the face of Gunter's firm refusal.
Instead, he withdrew the friendliness he'd shown upon first approach and revealed open hostility.
Gunter let out a weary sigh as he watched the boy turn away coldly.
'Everyone's so busy.'
If not an ally, then an enemy.
These barely teenage kids were casually employing such stark, binary thinking.
Children born in the era of the Sword Lord.
To those exposed to competition from childhood, this was all too natural.
Of course, Gunter was no different.
The only difference was that he viewed everyone as a rival, without taking sides.
Gunter's gaze settled darkly.
'Most of them are chaff.'
He had a rough idea from the stories he'd heard.
He knew there were donation recommendations into the Cradle, aside from talent recommendations.
His father, Ashraf Irons, had given a harsh assessment of them.
[Gunter, the ones you need to concern yourself with aren't those chaff who got in via donations.]
And that assessment proved spot on.
Small groups of two or three.
Larger clusters of over ten, gathered in twos and threes.
Those who had built their own factions wore confident expressions, but to Gunter, they were nothing more than useless social clubs.
What good were twenty chaff together?
If he set his mind to it, he could dismantle them in ten minutes.
'The ones I need to watch aren't those types.'
It was the ones standing alone, like himself.
Those who brimmed with confidence to beat anyone one-on-one, viewing factions as mere encumbrances.
They were the true rivals he needed to beware of.
Gunter's eyes scanned the surroundings.
'Ivan Baskin, Clarice Van, Nelly Blanc.'
Scions of families whose fame reached even the northern Irons territory.
Beyond them, true noble heirs exuded an aloof aura.
And they weren't the only ones.
A massive bald youth towering well over two meters.
A beautiful girl with blue hair.
There were others with striking individuality and an ominous aura, identities unknown.
'They might be even trickier to deal with than the famous noble scions.'
High fame meant abundant known information.
Thus, facing unknowns with no intel was likely harder.
'This should be interesting. Wonder what they're like.'
With faint tension and excitement, Gunter clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly.
A subtle wariness hung over the large cabin.
Sensing the thick auras emanating from here and there, Gunter gave a slight smile.
'They know the real competition begins once this voyage ends.'
Not a clash of swords, but a battle of presences.
It felt like a small typhoon raging inside the cabin.
However....
Golong- golong-.
Not everyone in the cabin shared the mood.
Faction-forming?
Probing?
A typhoon-like atmosphere?
Someone lived in a world utterly detached, as if none of that concerned him.
Drrrng-.
Gunter's head turned naturally at the loud snoring.
There, a black-haired boy trembled in his sleep, mumbling.
"Ears... poet... hate iiiit...."
What kind of dream was that?
After one mumble, the black-haired boy frowned.
Writhing as if in a nightmare, he seemed about to wake, then regained peace and sank back into deep slumber.
Scritch scritch- smack smack-.
Scratching his cheek, smacking his lips.
Sword wedged between his legs, hugged tight, he slept soundly, looking utterly at ease.
Amid everyone's murderous auras, how could he sleep so deeply? It was astonishing.
And even more surprising was....
'...How many days has it been now?'
Since boarding, the black-haired boy had done nothing but sleep straight through.
He was awake only in one instance.
When the Black Sword Soldiers distributed lunchboxes.
Aside from eating, he slept the whole day.
Someone watching muttered with a sneer.
"No wonder, a beggar's best skill is crashing anywhere on the street."
The voice was loud for a mutter.
Many nodded in agreement at the contemptuous words.
And rightly so, for the black-haired boy's entrance had been intensely memorable.
Clothes—or rags?—indistinguishable.
A tangled mess of hair hid his face; what showed was puffy and swollen, obscuring his features.
Plus a stench like he'd rolled in a dump.
If not for the guiding Black Sword Soldier, the last to board might've seemed a stowaway beggar, he was such a mess.
The ship held plenty of distinctive types, but none as singular as the black-haired boy.
His shocking arrival drew unavoidable attention.
Thus, the reserve riders observed him, all wondering, "What is that guy?"
But interest didn't last.
No special qualities amid the shabby appearance, even searching with wide-open eyes.
His constant drunken-sleep stupor was peak vulnerability.
Yet he timed meals perfectly, darting first to the Black Sword Soldiers at lunchbox time.
Then devoured like possessed, before crashing back to sleep.
Eat, sleep—repeating this beastly obliviousness made everyone frown.
'Trash that'll drop out first when competition starts.'
'Not worth the attention.'
'How the hell did that get into the Cradle?'
'No manners at all. Low-class.'
Even those watching for hidden potential lost interest after five unchanging days.
At best, lingering curiosity: "How long can he keep sleeping?"
Thus, the black-haired boy was perfectly excluded from the reserve riders' awareness.
So thoroughly shunned, no one approached within two meters.
As if dodging filthy waste.
Gunter stared at the black-haired boy's head, merged with the floor.
'Black hair, huh....'
The sight of jet-black locks naturally brought him to mind.
'Yuri Holland....'
A boy his age who felled a test-tube Black Sword Soldier.
Chosen as disciple by the peerless genius, Unyielding Sword Johan Redner.
He too had black hair.
'What is Yuri Holland doing now?'
Likely training in hellish sessions under Johan Redner somewhere on the continent.
Growing stronger every day, no doubt.
At that thought, Gunter clenched his fist slightly.
Crack-.
He'd never felt outpaced by anyone.
Until witnessing Yuri Holland's incarnation.
That day's sight had shocked Gunter, leaving an indelible mark.
It ignited his rivalry, making Yuri a foe he must surpass.
'Next time we meet... I won't lose.'
As Gunter burned with resolve against the memory of Yuri.
"Hmmnya... smack smack."
The loud lip-smacking snapped him from reverie.
At the same time, he caught the black-haired boy's hand dipping into his pants.
Scratch scratch-.
Scratching vigorously inside, the sight twisted Gunter's expression.
He apologized inwardly.
'Sorry, Yuri Holland. To think of you because that guy's hair color matched.'
Feeling genuine remorse, Gunter shook his head and turned away.
Thus, he missed the black-haired boy's face gradually losing its swelling, regaining form.
Also overlooked by Gunter and most others.
The center of a typhoon is calmest.
As if, amid the cabin's typhoon-like mood, only around the black-haired boy was serene....
Time passed, and five days later, December 1st.
Swoosh- screeech- thud!
The black ship bearing a small typhoon docked at the pier.
* * *
"Yawwwn!"
Yuri stretched languidly, yawning wide.
Crack crack-.
Rising slowly, loosening his stiff body, his joints screamed.
Craaack-.
A sound that would make listeners shudder and shake their heads, yet Yuri's face relaxed like an uncle in a hot bath.
Limp and floppy, like soft rice cake, Yuri was.
"Ehhe... hehhe, feels great. People really should rest properly when they rest."
When he first boarded the sailboat, his body had been a total wreck.
Half a year of torture-like training to build basics.
Then underwater demon flow conditioning began, and knowing Port Entry neared, he squeezed every last drop of strength pushing the swing.
Exhausted, he desperately circulated mana to avoid suffocation.
Finally, challenging Johan and getting thoroughly pummeled.
What tumultuous months they'd been.
'...Looking back, it's a miracle I didn't die.'
He survived, but his body had been pushed to collapse.
Yuri desperately needed rest to recover.
And perfectly, time for rest, space, and free lunchboxes for nutrition aligned.
Yuri made full use of it.
Was it such good rest?
His battered flesh fully recovered, facial swelling nearly gone.
Not only that.
He realized rest was as vital as grueling training.
'My body's tougher now.'
Yuri felt his muscles had grown substantially.
Muscle gain meant strength gain.
In short, mere rest had advanced him a step.
While others wasted energy probing each other.
Caring not if seen as vulgar beast, he used the time wholly for growth.
Thus, Yuri finished preparations in peak condition.
Ready to stir up the Cradle labyrinth.