WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Reformation of the Deadbeat Noble

Chapter 39

──────

Unwelcome Guests (2)

The Farreira territory was small but prosperous.

Bordering two kingdoms meant heavy trade traffic, and things had only improved further since the current head of the house, Baron Harun Farreira, brought in the glasswork guild.

On top of that, the family now had a daughter, Kiril Farreira, a Sorcerer whose talent drew widespread attention. The house's standing had risen far beyond what it once was.

That was precisely what drew the jealousy of the neighboring territories.

Of all houses, it had to be Viscount Gairon's...

Marcus the attendant's expression hardened.

All five neighboring territories acted this way to some degree, but Gairon's hostility was especially sharp.

House Gairon had long played the role of chief power in the southernmost region of Hale Kingdom, and House Farreira's rising fortunes were anything but welcome to them.

And now.

The easiest target for their hostility happened to be riding in this very carriage.

If only they'd just pass by...

Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Whatever tensions simmered beneath the surface, the six southern houses of Hale Kingdom maintained cordial relations, at least on paper.

Two houses crossing paths so close to Farreira territory and simply driving on would be a breach of etiquette.

Sure enough, the other carriage slowed as it approached. The Farreira carriage slowed as well.

A strange tension hung in the air between the two carriages as they came to a stop at a respectful distance.

A moment later, two figures stepped out of the Gairon carriage.

Damn it.

Aren Gairon, of all people.

The attendant swallowed back a curse.

Aren was the second son of House Gairon, a year younger than Airen Farreira.

But his temperament was far nastier than most grown men.

Every time he visited the territory, he made a habit of quietly belittling the young lord.

And whenever someone came close to losing their temper at his overreach, he'd slip away like an eel, claiming he was young, that he didn't know any better. It was an infuriating little act.

In short, he was the worst possible person to run into right now.

"Young master, did you hear that?"

"Yeah."

"It's House Gairon's carriage. Young Master Aren Gairon and, it looks like, Sir Jack Steward have stepped out."

"..."

"Would you like to stay in the carriage?"

Marcus asked politely.

Not showing his face at all could come across as rude, but they could always claim illness and smooth it over.

Still, far more important than etiquette was making sure the young master's mood wasn't ruined.

While Marcus was still thinking it over, Airen Farreira shook his head.

"It's fine. Wouldn't be polite."

"...Yes, sir."

He really has changed.

Still expressionless. Still a man of few words.

But different from before. Marcus couldn't quite put a finger on it, but Airen felt sturdier somehow.

Marcus clenched his fist. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and opened the carriage door.

He fell in step behind the young master as they got out.

Soon they were face to face with the second son of House Gairon, Aren Gairon, and Marcus offered his greeting.

"Greetings to Young Master Aren Gairon and Sir Jack Steward."

"Uh... right."

"..."

Aren Gairon answered with a faint look of surprise.

Jack Steward standing behind him, and the Gairon soldiers who'd been driving the carriage, all wore similar expressions.

It couldn't be helped. The lazy lord's build had changed enormously since the last time they'd seen him.

Aren Gairon thought to himself.

Did he get taller? No, his whole body looks... built up.

Not bulky, exactly.

But certainly nothing like the frail, sickly frame from before. Even through his clothes, the muscle was obvious enough to throw Aren off balance.

A single year at some fencing hall did this?

Of course, it didn't move him any further than that.

Just a moment of surprise. Anyone would be startled to see a kid they'd assumed would be a weakling for life turn out looking perfectly ordinary.

His expression shifted back in an instant, and he smiled as he spoke.

"You're coming from Krono Fencing Hall, I take it?"

"Yes, that's right. What brings House Gairon out to our territory?"

"Ah, just an errand for my father, a message to deliver. Anyway, it's been a while. Good to see you, Airen?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, Krono Fencing Hall must really know how to teach. Never thought Airen would change so much I'd barely recognize him..."

Aren was a year younger, yet he didn't bother with formal speech. That wasn't unusual in itself.

There was the difference in rank, baron's son versus viscount's son, and a one-year gap was often close enough for casual address anyway.

Of course, the two of them were nowhere near close. There was an unmistakable undertone of condescension running through everything Aren said.

Now was no exception.

"So, you planning to keep training with the sword?"

"...Probably."

"At home, I assume? Makes sense, learning anywhere else would be a bit awkward at this point. You started so late, after all."

That little brat!

Marcus bristled.

The buried contempt was bad enough, but the casual assumption that the young master had washed out of Krono Fencing Hall made his blood boil.

He'd conveniently forgotten that not too long ago, he himself had assumed Airen would never get in.

There was no room for that kind of self-reflection right now, not with Aren Gairon being this insufferable.

His tone, his expression, everything about him from head to toe, all of it grated.

Marcus was fairly certain every single person from House Farreira felt exactly the same way.

But Airen Farreira didn't so much as flinch.

"Probably, yeah."

"Huh?"

"Anything else?"

"Uh..."

"If not, I'll head off. It's been a long trip. I'd like to rest."

Watching Airen speak his mind so calmly, Jack Steward, standing at attention behind Aren, was caught off guard all over again. So was Aren Gairon.

But what Aren felt leaned less toward surprise than toward irritation.

This guy has the nerve?

He'd changed.

It had only been a moment, but Aren could tell.

He hadn't been like this before.

The old Airen Farreira couldn't even meet his eyes, let alone answer him this directly.

He'd always tried to find some way to slip out of the situation.

That had probably been the one and only effort the lazy lord ever put into anything in his entire life.

And yet.

Why?

Why wasn't that the case now?

Why was he standing there so composed, saying whatever he wanted to say, right in front of him?

The lazy lord, of all people? A dropout who'd apparently flailed for a year before getting kicked out of some fencing hall and sent packing back home?

The moment that thought crossed his mind, Aren Gairon decided he wasn't about to let the guy walk away so easily.

"Wait."

"...?"

"Ah, it's nothing much. Let's shake hands before you go."

"Now?"

The nerve of this brat.

Aren's expression nearly twisted, but he forced a smile and kept going.

"You know what they say? Swordsmen can tell each other's skill just by shaking hands."

"Never heard that one."

"Guess staying home so long left you a little out of touch. Sir Lewis Sogard said it, one of the most famous swordsmen around. And honestly, grip strength matters as much as anything in swordsmanship, so it's not a bad saying at all. Wouldn't you agree, Sir Jack Steward?"

"I would."

"See? Even our house's best knight says so."

"..."

"As your senior with six more years of training under my belt, let me see how much you've improved."

The moment he finished, Aren Gairon shot his right hand out.

Marcus's face twisted at the sight. Jack Steward watched the scene unfold with a flicker of curiosity.

And Airen Farreira.

"..."

After a brief pause, he silently took the offered hand.

Aren, privately gloating, immediately clamped down with force.

Damn it, if I squeeze this hard right away he'll just pull his hand back. Should've eased into it... wait, what?

Something felt off.

That was the expression that surfaced on Aren Gairon's face. He looked at Airen Farreira with eyes that refused to believe what he was feeling.

A pressure, unmistakable and unyielding, the moment their hands met.

Hard calluses, and a hand that didn't so much as tremble.

The second son of House Gairon felt a growing unease creeping in, and squeezed harder, then harder still.

Airen simply watched him do it.

What should he do?

As mentioned before, he wasn't a fool. He could tell the difference between mockery, contempt, cold disdain, and derision without any trouble at all.

None of it had ever stopped hurting. And he'd never really gotten used to it either.

The stares that kept coming before old wounds could even scab over had cut deeper into the boy than words ever could. They'd become bruises that never quite faded.

To keep himself from feeling that pain, he'd hidden in sleep. He'd hidden behind the sword.

His whole life had been one long escape.

Do I need to run from this too?

No. He didn't think so.

The old him would have run. Few people had ever felt as terrifying, as suffocating, as relentless to him as Aren Gairon.

To the lazy lord, the person standing in front of him now had once felt like a natural predator.

But not anymore.

The boy who'd faced down the gazes of Illia Lindsay, Brett Lloyd, Judith, and so many other trainees felt nothing resembling fear from Aren.

So, should he fight, then?

That, he wasn't sure of.

Ever since his final meeting with the Hall Master, the boy had started drawing a distinction between his own strength and the strength of the man from his dreams.

No matter how many times he turned it over in his head, the answer always came out the same.

Every bit of his growth had come from the dream, not from any ability of his own. He'd merely been carried along by it.

Given that, he had no confidence, no right to stand tall and grind someone else down like he was something special.

"Ngh..."

The handshake dragged on while Airen wrestled with his thoughts. He didn't realize it, but Aren was straining with everything he had.

Trying, by any means, to force a crack into that expression. To wring out even a single groan.

But the lazy lord remained at ease.

Not just physically. Beneath the surface, the questions kept circling, the doubts kept piling up, and plenty of them still had no answer even now.

But how to handle the situation right in front of him, that much had already been decided.

At the very least.

His gaze, which had been fixed only on the hand gripping his.

There's no reason I have to shrink from this, is there?

lifted to meet Aren's eyes.

A bearing that neither fled nor hid.

It surfaced without him even meaning it to. It was nowhere near the level Instructor Ahmed or Illia Lindsay could project, of course.

But it was more than enough.

Startled, Aren Gairon jerked backward.

"...Ngh."

His face flushed red a beat too late.

Pride, and shame, both at once.

I let go of the lazy lord's hand first?

He didn't want to admit it.

But there was no lying to himself. He knew.

He knew he'd flinched, if only for an instant, under Airen's gaze.

And before that, he knew he'd failed to overpower the boy's grip with his own.

Questions crowded in.

How had this happened. How had the lazy lord, once nothing but human garbage, come to carry himself like this.

Was a single year really enough time to change a person this much? Or was something wrong with him?

But the feeling running deeper than any of that.

I want to run.

Was fear, plain and simple.

Right now, he was feeling something close to what the lazy lord must have felt a year ago.

But...

He couldn't do that.

Retreating like this, looking pathetic, would cost him his dignity.

He couldn't bring himself to head back to the carriage, too consumed with worry over what that insufferable lazy lord would say once he got home, what stories the attendant standing behind him might spread.

Even the black cat watching from the brush off to the side irritated him.

A creeping dread settled over him, the absurd fear that even some dumb animal might somehow broadcast his humiliation far and wide.

That was when Jack Steward, who'd stayed silent until now, finally spoke up.

"Young Master?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Young Master Airen Farreira mentioned wanting to rest after the journey. Holding onto his hand any longer might not be very polite."

"Ah, r-right?"

"It wouldn't be. Wouldn't you agree?"

The knight looked to Airen, and the boy nodded. Jack Steward offered a courteous bow.

"Then we'll take our leave here."

"...Y-yeah. Ah! Airen, you've gotten pretty decent, seems like. Course, we'd need an actual sparring match to really know!"

"..."

"Well, I'm off!"

Airen offered a silent farewell as the two delivered their final words. The attendant and the soldiers driving the carriage bowed as well.

But Marcus's expression stayed sour.

That little bastard.

The outcome hadn't been bad, but the intent had been obvious from the very start.

Aren, itching to humiliate the young master, and Jack Steward, who'd clearly seen through the brat's scheme and done nothing to stop it, were cut from the same cloth.

Of course, there was nothing to be done about it. Marcus had neither the standing nor the position to make a fuss.

In the end, all he could do was let out a quiet sigh no one would notice.

Just as House Farreira's party turned to head back to their carriage.

"Talking big for someone who just went running scared."

"...?"

A taunting voice rang out from nowhere.

Aren Gairon, already halfway back to his carriage, spun around. His eyes blazed.

"Who the hell said that!"

Whatever unease, whatever fear he'd just felt, vanished entirely from his mind. Fury took its place in an instant.

How dare someone speak to him, the son of House Gairon, with such insolence?

Just who was it?

The answer came right away.

"Me. Got a problem?"

"Huh?"

Everyone's eyes converged on a single point, drawn by a voice that came from far lower than Aren Gairon's own modest height.

A black cat.

The small, unassuming creature that everyone had taken for nothing more than a wild animal rose up onto its two hind legs and added one more line.

"What are you glaring at?"

A talking cat.

Faced with something that shouldn't have been possible, one single word surfaced in everyone's mind.

A Sorcerer!

Join our discord at https://dsc.gg/wetried