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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Practical Exam (2)
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Derian Marshol de Mirodin, who had been called, turned around. Ronan, who had been glaring at him the whole time, drew his sword hilt. A few strands of silver lines flashed through the air.
The lines grazed past Derian's scabbard and pants. No one except Ronan had seen his sword strike. It was the moment Derian stepped forward.
Thud...
"Hm?"
Derian's scabbard had been severed. The longsword, deprived of its sheath, tumbled to the floor. The blade snapped in half upon hitting the ground.
Clang!
It sounded just like glass or pottery shattering. A sharp metallic ring echoed loudly. Derian, turning his head belatedly, widened his eyes.
"W-What the hell!!"
The work from Daruan Forge lay on the floor in two pieces of scrap metal. But Derian's misfortune didn't end there. The moment he turned, his pants exploded.
Derian, instantly left in his underwear, let out a scream.
"H-Hiiiik!"
"Whoa~ What were you trying to show off?"
Ronan clapped from his seat. The shredded pant pieces fluttered down like autumn leaves. The guide's voice rang out once more.
"Derian Marshol de Mirodin. Are you not here~?"
"D-Damn it!"
At this rate, he'd fail the exam without even entering. Derian clutched his head, breathing raggedly.
He couldn't figure out what had happened. What the hell just went down? My sword! My pants!
Frantically looking around like a madman, he pointed at Ronan's waist and shouted.
"Y-You! Give me your sword! Right now!"
"Nah, don't wanna."
"You bastard! Can't even tell you're a commoner who doesn't know his place! I am from the Mirodin Barony..."
"Baron or bullshit, why should I give you mine when you can't even keep track of your own stuff? Did your old man suck at that too, so you ended up like this?"
"W-What...!"
Ronan spat on the floor and stood up. Startled by his feral aura, Derian hurriedly backed away. Ronan picked up the handkerchief draped over Marya's head.
"S-Stay back, you! Do you know who I am?!"
"Couldn't care less. Just take this tip I'm offering."
Ronan strode over and tucked the handkerchief into Derian's panties. Marya covered her mouth with both hands. A scrap of cloth stuck out from between his butt cheeks, swaying like a tail.
"Suits you well."
"Y-You son of a bitch!"
It was the kind of thing you'd do to a shady-dressed girl with an IOU note, but who cared.
The moment Derian, his reason snapped, lunged with a roar, the guide's voice sounded again.
"Disqualified if you don't enter by the count of three. One... two..."
"He's calling you. Better get in there."
"D-Damn it!"
Derian practically sobbed as he dashed inside. Ronan returned to his seat and picked up a piece of the broken sword.
"That guy's done for now. Gonna sing a song or something?"
"Are you insane...? Even if you have nothing to lose, how could you do that...!"
"You say thanks in times like this, man."
"Even if you used a fake name, this is...! This is...!"
Marya, pale as a ghost, tapped Ronan's arm. Her eyes trembled as she covered her mouth with one hand. Ronan smirked and handed her the sword shard.
"Wipe your mouth first before talking."
"...Busted?"
Marya hesitated, then removed her hand from her face. Her lips, barely holding back laughter, came into view.
Soon, her hearty laughter boomed out, making the waiting examinees shrink their shoulders.
"C-Crazy bastard...! A handkerchief, hick, why stick a handkerchief there...!"
"Hmph, as expected of a vulgar commoner wench, even her laugh is tacky. My fart would sound sweeter."
"S-Stop! Stop it!"
Ronan mimicked Derian to egg her on. Marya hugged the chair back, stomping her feet.
The other examinees, holding back their own laughs, didn't object to her outburst.
"Next, please come in~"
The guide's voice rang out soon after. It felt like less than 30 seconds since Derian had entered.
Marya wiped her tears and jumped up. The stinging cheeks, shame, tension—all gone long ago.
"I'll be back!"
She pumped her fist energetically, then marched off confidently. Her ponytail of golden hair fluttered proudly.
Ronan, now in the front row, waved.
'If you wanna laugh, laugh.'
Ronan chuckled. The door opened again exactly five minutes later.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
A long table sideways held seven people seated. They were the examiners for Exam Room 4. The elderly gentleman in the center, Krava Kratir, stroked his beard and asked.
"How many left?"
"Only seventy-five today."
"That's a small comfort. You're getting a pay cut."
Kratir let out a faint sigh. He had lost track of how many examinees this was.
He regretted not listening to the professors who said he should maintain the principal's dignity, cursing his past stubborn self.
"Cheer up. For the talents who'll lead the continent someday."
"I know. But seeing Schlieffen this morning left me unsatisfied. I know I shouldn't feel this way."
"True. The title Empire's Rising Star suits him perfectly."
"By the way, what was that last guy trying to do? Looked fine enough."
Kratir recalled the previous examinee.
The boy entered in just his upper clothes and underwear (with a handkerchief tucked in his panties), mumbling about borrowing a sword, only to hear Instructor Gidokan's "This ain't a brothel! Wahaha!" and run out crying.
"But the one who just left was excellent. Great future ahead."
"Ah, yes. Marya Karabel, was it? Remarkable strong sword."
"That's why we do this. Records show she failed once before—honestly, unbelievable."
The agreeing examiners nodded with satisfied expressions. Marya had shown top-tier skill among today's examinees.
Kratir, feeling a bit better, spoke.
"Call in the next examinee."
The resting examiners straightened up. With the guide's announcement, the door opened.
A sturdy-built boy strolled in leisurely. His messy hair and fierce eyes didn't leave a great impression.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Next, please come in~"
The exam room came into view as the door opened. A circular space reminiscent of a small arena.
About 10 meters ahead, a long table sat horizontally where the examiners were.
Five humans, one elf, one werewolf. Seven examiners stared at him. Ronan gave a light bow.
"Ronan."
"Pleased to meet you, Ronan. I'm Krava Kratir, current principal of Phileon Academy."
The old man in the center smiled gently.
He looked kindly, but Ronan's honed instincts from brushes with death told him this was the strongest of the seven here.
'Second is that lady.'
To the old man's right sat a woman with tanned skin. Instructor Naviroje, who had once reached the Sword Saint rank.
Her striking features and grayish hair suggested southern native or mixed blood. Beside her leaned a massive nodachi over 2 meters long against the table.
'All of them look tough.'
The two had such overwhelming presences, but the rest were no slouches either.
Just the number of piercings on the elf girl's ears told him that. Crazy bitch. Who uses long ears like that.
Kratir said.
"So, how will you prove yourself?"
"I... uhmm..."
Ronan stroked his chin, pondering.
Despite a month of training, he still couldn't resonate with mana or develop any real technique. Too embarrassing to tell Marya or Asel, so he'd kept quiet.
Then the shirt-wearing werewolf burst out laughing. Instructor Gidokan, in charge of hunting arts.
"Wahaha! We've had frozen nervous kids, but never one pondering after entering. How about we see you next year?"
"No rush. Give me a sec."
Ronan waved his hand without lifting his head. The examiners' faces stiffened. Gidokan's lips split into a grin.
"Hoo, gutsy one."
Done thinking, Ronan gripped his hilt. No matter what, he only had one thing to show.
The silver lining was the inspiration from screwing over Derian.
"Made up your mind? Swordsmanship?"
"Yes."
The pierced elf girl snapped her fingers. A complex magic circle appeared in the air, summoning a fully armored knight before Ronan.
Kratir chuckled and introduced.
"A magitech doll that's handled the Martial Arts Department's practicals for nearly a century. Out of respect, we call it Lord Madros."
The practical involved demonstrating techniques on Lord Madros, with examiners scoring.
The specially treated armor resisted most attacks without a scratch, and even damage repaired overnight.
"Pretty amazing... Hm?"
Inspecting the knight, Ronan tilted his head. The armor was covered in claw-like scars. Familiar shapes. Unable to resist curiosity, he raised his hand.
"Has Schlieffen been here by any chance?"
"Oh? How'd you know?"
"Guessed. You said it doesn't scratch from normal attacks, but there they are."
"Heh, sharp eyes. Correct. Tested here this morning."
As expected. Ronan nodded.
Sharp yet fluid traces, like wind slicing through. Still immature, but unmistakably Schlieffen's sword marks. He felt the reality of his regression anew.
'Insanely shallow and rough. I really came back to the past.'
Kratir glanced at the tanned woman beside him, Naviroje.
"Such scars on Lord Madros's armor haven't appeared in nearly thirty years. Know who before? This very..."
"Let's proceed."
Naviroje cut in curtly. Her natural tone didn't even feel rude.
Kratir cleared his throat and looked back at Ronan.
"Sorry, got carried away. Lord Madros?"
Clank. The knight raised its sword diagonally into a guard stance.
Red glows emanated from the dark visor. The examiners' gazes focused on Ronan.
"Show us everything you've got."
"Sure."
Ronan drew. The dark blade flashed as his arm vanished from sight.
The sword's path grazed the knight's neck. Whoosh! The delayed air burst echoed.
...That was it. One examiner raised an eyebrow.
"...Done?"
"Yes."
Ronan sheathed. The questioner nodded dissatisfied.
The others wore similar or baffled expressions. Gidokan laughed.
"Uhaha! Not genius enough for the confidence. Really next year?"
"Instructor Gidokan. Mind your dignity."
"Haha, sorry. But really ordinary! Was I the only one expecting more?"
The examiners stayed silent.
They'd inwardly hoped for something novel from his bold attitude. But Ronan's technique had no flair.
Fast slash. That was all.
Not fast enough to evade mana-enhanced senses, no fancy skill either.
Just no mana at all was odd. Innate stealth mana? Or his condition off today?
If the former, worth reconsidering, but unlikely.
A scorer adjusted his glasses.
"Well done. You may go now..."
"My god."
Then Kratir and Naviroje stood almost simultaneously. The flustered examiners buzzed.
"P-Principal?"
"Instructor Naviroje? Why the sword...?"
Kratir's expressive reaction was one thing, but stoic Naviroje's was unprecedented.
Her nodachi was drawn. She glared at Ronan.
"You, what are you?"
"Pardon? What do you mean?"
Naviroje's twisted expression was like facing her parents' killer or finding a lifelong treasure. She pressed.
"Asked your identity. Who taught you the sword?"
Ronan didn't answer. Scanning the examiners, he scratched his head.
"Heh, you saw that?"
"Ha."
Naviroje scoffed. Before anyone could stop her, she leaped in front of Ronan.
Werewolf Gidokan's shocked cry burst out.
"I-Instructor Naviroje!"
The drawn nodachi aimed at Ronan's throat, stopping paper-thin away, steady as rock.
"Whoa."
Following the blade up, Ronan met her eyes. Jungle-deep green irises burned.
Naviroje said.
"And you—did you see it?"
"Yes. Left horizontal, three rotations incoming slash. How'd you do it?"
For a split second, Naviroje's eyes wavered. She kept the sword out.
"Yes, three times. Just like your little trick."