Chapter 256
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 256
Chapter Title: Stay Quiet and Watch
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"What a handful of a master you are."
At that moment.
Rimon was carving a wooden figurine in a corner of the encampment, chuckling to himself.
Just as Maya had pegged him as a finicky slave, he saw her as no less of a demanding master.
Today's massage had been a prime example.
She'd been testing how faithfully he carried out tasks to make the scales react—trying all sorts of methods to figure out ways to earn balance weights and test the enforcement power.
Of course, Rimon had played the dutiful slave and stuck to the rules, but the result was a set of scales left with just two weights.
The balance, which had been at 5:5, had tipped back to 8:2 in a mere two days.
It wasn't that Rimon had slacked off.
There were two problems.
One was Maya's interference, far more persistent than he'd anticipated.
'When she assigned me bath duty, that was no joke.'
She hadn't blocked him directly.
She'd simply stationed dozens of Green Dragon Clan experts as guards and never passed on the message that he was supposed to attend her bath.
So he'd shown up unsuspectingly and gotten nabbed.
When he'd talked his way past the guards and actually arrived for duty, she'd scowled in frustration.
But that was just one trick among many.
Sending lavish meals his way.
Or trying to assign him an exclusive maid.
All manner of sabotage to keep him from doing slave work without issuing contradictory orders.
And as she learned more about the scales, her schemes grew subtler, forcing Rimon to break a sweat a few times.
'If she'd just known who I was, this would've been easier.'
Had the grudge-blinded Green Dragon Clan picked a fight, he could've earned weights by fending them off "slave-like" enough.
Who would've thought she'd use them as third-party obstacles.
What a headache.
But the real trouble was something else.
"Carving again?"
"Ah, got a bit of free time."
He'd been whittling a suitable piece of wood to make a gift for Maya, the loyal slave that he was.
Rimon glanced over at Hermann, who had approached out of nowhere.
And pulled a strange expression.
"Why the look?"
"Nah, just surprised you're looking so healthy for real."
"...I know."
Hermann gave a wry smile.
In truth, he'd changed beyond recognition in just a few days.
Not only had the white hair vanished from his once salt-and-pepper mane.
His wrinkles were gone, skin taut; his face glowed with vitality. His frame had grown by half a head, muscles bulging firmly.
Now in his thirties by appearance, he radiated health—no trace of illness.
"I knew Quetzalcoatl's medicine was potent, but I never dreamed it'd be this effective."
"...Well, Green Dragon Clan remedies are impressive."
Rimon's reply was lukewarm.
No matter how advanced their pharmacology, there were limits.
To achieve this, who knew how many priceless elixirs they'd fed him.
Put a price on it?
Enough to buy a whole country.
There were plenty of rich folks who'd burn hundreds of billions for a year more of life.
'Our master really wants me dead, no matter what.'
Not content with stuffing him full of elixirs, she'd dragged him to the battlefield for personal treatment. Hermann was on the verge of full recovery.
And that was why his weights had dwindled away.
Should he be happy?
Or sad?
Rimon couldn't help feeling conflicted.
Unaware of the full story, Hermann looked apologetic anyway.
"I'm ashamed I haven't repaid you despite recovering this much."
"Don't sweat it, sculptor. It's not something you pull off overnight."
Rimon shrugged.
Then extended a hand to Hermann.
"Thanks to you teaching me, this guy's starting to come around."
"Already qualified?"
"Not yet."
But close.
Hermann nodded at Rimon, who flashed the platinum carving knife.
Not because he sensed from its subtle sheen that qualification was near.
What Rimon was carving—the dragon etched into the wooden comb—told him.
Unlike at first, Rimon had moved beyond imitation into creating his own style.
"Looks like I have nothing left to teach you."
"Aw, bummed out?"
"...How'd you know?"
"It's all over your face."
Having lived immersed in art, his thoughts showed plainly.
Rimon chuckled at Hermann and added,
"Plus, I've raised disciples myself, so I get the master's mindset."
"At your age?"
"I'm just that talented and virtuous."
"Fair enough."
Hermann smiled wryly.
Virtue aside, Rimon's abilities were monstrous beyond imagination.
So he was certain.
Once qualified, Rimon would breeze through not just the grueling stage 2 that had stumped him, but stage 3 too.
'What insane talent.'
Rimon had already matched his prime.
Technically surpassed it.
And with just days of practice—who knew what masterpieces he'd craft in years.
A dazzling prospect, blindingly bright.
...Of course, only because he didn't know Rimon was a 900-year-old monster. But it wasn't entirely off-base.
The immortal Sword Master had endless time to hone his skills.
"Rimon, could I borrow that carving knife?"
That was why.
Hermann blurted it out casually.
Rimon just chuckled, unperturbed.
Not his first time.
"Going for another shot?"
"Yes."
Once Rimon qualified, he wouldn't need to carve himself anyway—no finished piece would remain.
Rimon didn't discourage Hermann's retry.
He handed over the knife readily.
"Give it your best, sculptor. I'll be watching."
"I'll do my utmost."
"Hm..."
No guarantees of success.
But he'd try.
Rimon paused at Hermann's calm resolve.
Stared a moment, then asked bluntly,
"Not giving up, no matter what?"
"Of course."
"Good. That's all I needed."
Only then did Rimon grin, satisfied, handing over the knife. He pocketed the half-done comb and strolled off.
Watching his retreating figure—who'd even vacated the spot—Hermann's expression grew complex for a moment.
Then he gripped the knife.
Not just to repay Rimon's grace, but as a once-world's-greatest sculptor.
To carve, even once, the most perfect work he'd ever seen.
With life's final piece in mind, he set to work on the glowing lump.
Under soft moonlight.
With butterflies and crickets as audience.
After repeated failures.
Undeterred, pouring his soul in—how much time passed?
Hermann suddenly stopped.
Gazed at the unfinished statue, then up at the reddening moon, murmuring bitterly.
"Time's up."
Shhh.
Rimon narrowed his eyes.
Not just because the moon was tinged blood-red.
A dissonant aura emanated from hundreds of Green Dragon Clan experts.
Amplified through their formation, the massive psionic flow dyed the sky crimson, prickling his skin.
"The Great Blood Heaven Poison Formation, as expected."
"Nostalgic?"
"Impressed. Didn't think they'd finish it in under half a day."
Rimon shrugged.
The Black Dragon Clan with their telepathy might manage, but syncing psionics for other clans was no easy feat.
Only elite squads, long-trained in formations, could pull it off—and even then, dozens at most.
That's why the Seven Dragon Society used squads of around thirty elites.
The Great Blood Heaven Poison Formation was impressive in that regard.
Less efficient, sure, but syncing hundreds? Monumental.
He could imagine the Green Dragon Clan's struggles to deploy it so fast.
'A bit sloppy in spots... but I'd give it an 80.'
As someone who'd shattered it before, he graded the psionic flow like a professor marking a paper.
Not bad for a rush job. He nodded.
Then asked Maya,
"Attacking right away?"
"Don't ask stupid questions. If not now, should I just moon-gaze?"
"Might want to call in at least the Poison Dragon Unit."
"Extra baggage is just cumbersome."
Maya dismissed her clan's strongest unit—composed of division commanders—as mere luggage.
Rimon didn't find it odd.
Just shrugged and added,
"Still, it'd be insurance."
"We have better insurance right here."
"...You mean me?"
"Yes."
"Hm, unexpected. Didn't think you'd entrust me with such a key role."
Rimon was a bit surprised.
Capability-wise, no sturdier insurance existed.
But after sabotaging him relentlessly as a slave, handing him this chance now? Surprising.
"Don't worry. I plan to use you as proper insurance."
"...?"
Puzzled by the cryptic words, but only briefly.
Rimon figured it out: using him directly would tip the scales, so pure backup.
But when Maya's pale lips parted,
he froze.
"By the scales' power, I command."
"Aw, no need for the scales..."
"While my slave, you are forbidden from holding a sword."
"...What the hell?"
He'd dropped polite speech, eyes wide at the unimaginable order.
Before he could react, the white scales tattoo on her wrist glowed.
Flash!
Three white weights vanished.
Invisible bonds formed.
Longswords, daggers, greatswords, shortswords—even kitchen knives.
All blades forbidden, the Sword Master blinked in stunned silence.
Maya smirked coldly.
"Insurance should act like insurance, no?"
Overinsured was wasteful.
Just enough for need—that's smart consumer sense.
Rimon gaped at her mocking tone.
"Come on, even you have to admit that's too much."
Telling a swordman no swords?
Like a cameraless cameraman or tasteless chef—what a joke.
He protested incredulously.
Maya laughed coldly.
"Relax. I won't send you charging Forest Guild without certainty of victory."
"Should say certainty of our victory. Otherwise, it sounds like you'll throw me in if we're losing."
"Exactly."
"...So refreshingly honest."
Rimon sighed.
Not the worst deal.
She'd spent three weights; gathering ten just got harder.
But no room for complacency.
Her darkly sunken eyes said it all.
Whether child's tricks or "cunning rabbit dies, good dog cooks,"
she brimmed with intent to smash Forest Guild—and Rimon too.
This shackle was just step one.
"How do you plan to use me now?"
"Stay quiet and watch."
To Rimon, scratching his cheek at the blatant murder-lust he'd half-expected,
Maya said coldly.
Then stepped forward slowly.
"We have more than enough forces to crush Forest Guild."