WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Reformation of the Deadbeat Noble

Chapter 88

──────

Vulcanus's Numbering Sword (2)

Novelists, painters, sculptors, anyone whose craft was to create something, tended to have fierce pride in their work.

That pride only grew stronger with skill, and it applied just as much to their creations as to themselves.

There was a reason certain masters said their work meant more to them than their own children.

The dwarf Vulcanus was the very picture of that kind of person.

"He can't just hand off something he poured his heart and soul into to just anyone. That's the gist of it."

That was why Vulcanus sold his signature works, the Numbering Swords, only to Sword Masters.

He refused to hand his own child over to some random nobody.

A craftsman's particular brand of pride: you had to be at least a Sword Master to earn the right to hold his blade.

At a glance, it might have looked arrogant, but no one ever spoke ill of Vulcanus for it.

He was, after all, one of the finest blacksmiths of the age, with the skill to back up every bit of that pride.

"So everyone was shocked out of their minds when he gave one of his Numbering Swords to a swordsman who wasn't a Sword Master."

That had happened ten years ago.

Vulcanus announced he'd completed his seventh, eighth, and ninth Numbering Swords, and the whole world turned upside down.

Never before had he released three Numbering Swords into the world at once.

But what shocked people even more was that all three blades went to people who weren't Sword Masters.

Public opinion soured fast.

Vulcanus had gone soft, people said. He'd clearly sold his pride for a fat sum of gold. He couldn't be called the finest blacksmith anymore.

Even people who'd never laid eyes on a single one of those three Numbering Swords cursed him and cursed his work.

Vulcanus had always stood tall in front of any swordsman without flinching, and plenty of people admired his stubborn streak as much as his skill, so maybe that reaction was only natural.

But five years later.

Everyone who'd cursed Vulcanus's choice had no choice but to eat their words.

Because every single owner of the seventh, eighth, and ninth swords, without exception, had reached the rank of Sword Master.

"...That's really something."

"Right? It gets me too. If it were a swordsman, sure, I'd get it, but how does a blacksmith spot the makings of a Sword Master? I mean, sure, all three were considered incredible prospects already, but reaching Master rank, that's a level only a tiny fraction of even those prospects ever manage!"

The man spoke with excitement in his voice. Airen nodded.

It really was quite a story.

Even someone like him, who had little interest in other people's swords, found himself drawn in. He could only imagine how the other swordsmen in the room felt.

Sure enough, it wasn't just his own table. Most of the swordsmen in the inn had gathered around, hanging on the man's every word.

One of them, a veteran mercenary well known by the name Wolfgang, spoke up.

"So then, Vulcanus's tenth Numbering Sword, that legendary blade. How does he decide who gets it?"

For a moment, every eye in the room turned toward him.

That was it. That was the real question.

The sword itself was tempting enough, but what made the whole thing irresistible was the story behind it.

Vulcanus's judgment felt like a declaration: you're the next one who's going to become a Sword Master.

No swordsman alive wouldn't want to be chosen like that.

A few people even swallowed hard, waiting for the man to go on.

Fortunately, the storyteller had an answer ready.

"From what I heard, he's probably going to hold a tournament."

"A tournament?"

"Yes. It's not straight from the man himself, mind you, but one of his apprentices said so, so it's probably accurate. A week from now, he's gathering up every swordsman who wants the tenth Numbering Sword and holding a sword tournament."

"How do you enter? What are the rules?"

"That much I don't know. Since there hasn't been any word on it, I'd guess he'll announce it on the day."

The man stammered under the weight of Wolfgang's stare, or really, under the collective stare of every mercenary in the inn.

Understandable, honestly.

The chance to win the greatest legendary sword on the continent, something people had only ever heard stories about, was suddenly right there within reach. Anyone would get worked up over that.

Every swordsman in the inn pictured themselves holding a Vulcanus Numbering Sword.

Some grinned stupidly. Some trembled.

Wolfgang the veteran mercenary was no exception.

But.

"Sounds fun. Should be good experience."

"..."

"I think I'll enter too."

The moment Airen Farreira, who'd been listening quietly, spoke up, all that excitement went cold.

"Come to think of it, if you're entering, I don't stand a chance."

"Ah..."

"..."

At Wolfgang's remark, the mercenaries looked like they'd just woken from a dream.

No wonder.

The staggering background of being the Golden Cohort of Krono Fencing Hall.

And the monstrous raw strength that overshadowed even that background!

They'd seen it with their own eyes, and not one of them could honestly say they'd bet on beating him.

"Well, with Airen Farreira-nim here, who's going to dare..."

"We couldn't have dreamed of it even without Farreira-nim in the mix. You know how many swordsmen show up in Derinku."

"That's true. Gold Plate mercenaries come around pretty often too, and I heard there are plenty of knights from the Western Five Kingdoms."

"But even the Gold Plate mercenaries and royal knights probably can't beat Airen Farreira-nim..."

"Maybe Farreira-nim really will end up the owner of the tenth Numbering Sword?"

"That's not out of the question."

"Whoa..."

The mood in the inn shifted in an instant.

Even setting aside any wild fantasy about becoming the sword's owner themselves, the story alone was plenty entertaining.

A sword tournament, and strong fighters gathering to compete for the win. Just thinking about it was enough to get anyone's blood pumping.

And knowing that the man they all considered the strongest favorite had some connection to them made them strangely proud, even though it had nothing to do with them personally.

The mercenaries and merchants chattered on, more excited than ever.

Airen Farreira, listening to all this, felt nothing but discomfort.

"...I think I'll head up to the room."

"Why? Plenty of nice things being said about you around here."

"It's a lot of pressure. Really. There are so many people stronger than me out there..."

Airen said, his face flushing slightly.

He meant it.

It was true that he had impressive skill for his age, or really, impressive skill regardless of age.

But he knew better than anyone that the world was full of people far greater than himself.

Just the people at Krono Fencing Hall alone were strong enough that he couldn't even compare.

There was no reason to think Derinku would be any different.

He was mulling that over when a loud voice rang out from a corner table of the inn.

"Seriously, who even is this Airen Farreira that everyone's fawning over him like this? Is he a Sword Master or something?"

"..."

"If he's not a Sword Master, maybe you all should shut your mouths. You don't even know who's in Derinku right now."

"Hey now, friend, we're just having a good time talking here. No need to pick a fight."

"Who's picking a fight? I'm just saying it's ridiculous to talk about some guy nobody's even heard of like he's a favorite to win."

"So who do you think the favorite is, then? Is there actually a Master coming?"

"No. From what I heard, no Master's entering. There's a prize on the line that wouldn't be strange even for a Master, but word just hasn't spread yet, seems like."

"Then quit dragging this out and just tell us who you think the favorite is."

A drunk mercenary rose from his seat and demanded an answer.

He'd been sitting next to Trant, and he was the one who'd been singing Airen Farreira's praises the loudest of anyone.

Not wanting to be outdone by that kind of fire, the man at the corner table shot up to his feet too.

And he named two people.

"Charlot. And Victor."

"...!"

"What? The strongest twins?"

"Whoa, Charlot and Victor. Now that's a heavyweight name."

"You know them?" Airen asked.

Kubharu nodded.

"Pretty famous duo," he said. "Twin swordsmen. Their teamwork is supposedly so good that if they fight together, they can go toe to toe with a Sword Master. That's the rumor about those veteran mercenaries, anyway."

"Is that really true?"

Airen was genuinely startled.

He knew exactly how great a Sword Master was.

He'd crossed swords with Ian directly, and he'd met Vice Hall Master Keira Fin face to face.

'I obviously couldn't beat the Hall Master... and even with two of me, could I really put up a fight against the Vice Hall Master?'

No matter how he looked at it, it seemed impossible.

If the rumors about Charlot and Victor were true, that meant both of them were far better swordsmen than he was.

But listening to what Kubharu said next, that didn't seem to be quite the case.

"It's probably exaggerated. I don't know much about swordsmanship, but come on, think about what a Master actually is."

"Ah, I see."

"Still, they're strong enough that rumors like that circulate about them, that part's true. They've got a lot of good stories attached to them too, so mercenaries seem to respect them quite a bit."

Kubharu told him a few of the tales tied to the pair.

Clearing out a demonoid den in some backwater territory for next to nothing when no one else could manage it, saving a merchant caravan in crisis from a massive monster...

Every story painted them in a good light.

It was easy enough to guess just how strong they had to be.

The fact that the two of them alone had taken down a demonoid was already something ordinary mercenaries couldn't even dream of.

"Of course, you're impressive too. You saved an entire merchant alliance from bandits drunk on demonic aura."

"You don't have to flatter me."

"What, I'm just stating facts. Your problem is you're too humble. Didn't your little brother tell you to carry yourself with more confidence? I think that's decent advice, myself."

"Hmm..."

"In that spirit, why don't you show those folks a taste of your skill?"

"Sorry?"

"Over there. The ones about to throw punches at our mercenaries."

Kubharu pointed a finger toward the corner of the inn.

The man who'd started the argument in the first place, along with about ten others, were spitting mad and going back and forth at each other.

The content of the argument was embarrassingly childish, an argument over whether Charlot and Victor were stronger, or Airen Farreira was.

"Show them a bit of your skill before this turns into an actual brawl. That should get the ones who picked the fight to back off and see reason."

"..."

"Not feeling it?"

"...No, I'll do it."

He wasn't feeling it, that much was true.

But he agreed that stepping in himself would probably help the situation.

'Guess my brother had a point about this kind of thing.'

Sometimes, to avoid trouble, you had to be willing to show off your skill.

Keeping Kiril Farreira's words in mind, Airen Farreira rose from his seat.

He summoned his sword, then knocked on it with his fist.

Tang, tang, tang, tang!

Every eye in the room turned toward him at once.

The man who'd started the argument, the mercenary gripping his collar, the ones on both sides with fists half raised, all of them turned to look.

To the whole room, Airen Farreira said in an awkward tone.

"Uh, so, um... how about you all calm down a bit, and come watch my swordsmanship outside instead?"

* * *

"Hmph. Just you wait and see. My swordsmanship might not be much, but I've got a real eye for talent."

"Don't need a real eye for talent for this one. As long as your eyes aren't literally buttonholes, you'll be able to tell just fine. How incredible a swordsman Farreira-nim really is."

"..."

Watching the inn's guests still bickering back and forth, Airen Farreira let out a sigh.

He remembered what the Hall Master had told him the day before he left the fencing hall.

That he'd inevitably draw plenty of attention, and that he'd need to get used to it.

'Right. Since I've come this far, might as well do it properly.'

He nodded to himself.

He wasn't planning to crack the floor open like he had at the bandit den.

That would only make things a bigger mess.

What Airen had in mind right now was Illia Lindsay's swordsmanship.

It was the flashiest by far, and Judith's or Brett's styles were hard to show off without an actual opponent.

Decision made, he summoned his sword once more.

Gasps of admiration rose from the crowd, people who'd only just joined the audience.

A few even started clapping.

Clap clap clap clap

"Whoa, is that magic?"

"He's supposed to be a swordsman?"

Clap clap clap clap clap clap

"Really? Then what's that?"

"No idea. Let's just watch."

Clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap

"There's still someone clapping."

"Yeah, I get it, it's amazing, but can they stop now..."

Clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap...

"..."

People started to look uneasy. So did Airen Farreira.

The clapping, which should have tapered off politely, kept going without a single break.

A few people frowned in irritation.

The only reason no one snapped at the culprit was that the clapping was coming from a child.

"Wow, that's really amazing."

"..."

"So cool. So, so cool!"

A girl in a black dress kept letting out little bursts of admiration.

She looked barely ten years old, if that, and the sight of her standing unafraid among a crowd of hulking mercenaries felt strangely out of place.

Her skin was pale to the point of looking bloodless, and her heavy eye makeup, far too mature for her age, gave off an odd sort of atmosphere.

Once she finally stopped clapping, she trotted over toward Airen Farreira in short little steps.

Lulu, who'd been sitting quietly behind him, scampered over and whispered to him.

"Sorcerer."

"Yeah."

Airen nodded.

He wasn't especially strong himself, but he could handle Sorcery too, which meant he could recognize what he was looking at in someone else.

By then, the girl had come right up close, and she spoke to him.

"Hey, can you give this to Anya?"

"You mean this sword?"

"Yeah. I want to give it to our boss as a present."

Saying whatever she pleased out of nowhere, she looked exactly like the child she was.

Of course, it wasn't a request he could grant.

He had no intention of giving it up anyway, but even setting that aside, it was a sword he'd made with Sorcery, so no one else could even pick it up.

Kubharu, for all his strength, couldn't. Lulu, a Sorcerer herself, couldn't either. Presumably no one could.

"Sorry, I can't give you this."

"Why not?"

"It means a lot to me, and besides, nobody else can even lift it."

"Anya can lift it, though."

"Huh?"

"Anya can lift it. Oh, by the way, Anya's my name. So give it here. Okay?"

"..."

"If you give me the sword, I'll give Anya something good in return."

"No, wait a second..."

The girl named Anya reached her hand straight into empty air.

The sight, defying all common sense, sent another ripple of shock across the onlookers' faces.

A moment later, something bizarre and unimaginable emerged from the rift in space.

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