WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Reformation of the Deadbeat Noble

Chapter 91

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Vulcanus's Numbering Sword (5)

The time to decide the owner of the Numbering Sword had finally arrived.

From the morning on, no small crowd gathered at the announced location, packing the area shoulder to shoulder.

Most of them were spectators, of course.

A chance to watch a fight, especially a fight between high-level swordsmen, didn't come around often.

Maybe it was to meet those expectations.

As the tournament drew closer, figures radiating fierce presence began appearing one by one in the open lot.

Every one of them looked far from ordinary.

A few even carried reputations big enough that even people with no idea what was going on could recognize their faces.

"Look over there. That's Kroshu. The one who's famous for handling dual swords like a monster!"

"Samir's here too. Word is he's one of the top talents among Gold Plate mercenaries..."

"It's One-Strike Randel! I can't believe Randel actually showed up!"

"If that's the case, even Charlot and Victor can't be sure of winning anymore, can they?"

"Kubharu, are the ones people keep pointing out actually famous?"

"Pretty famous, yeah. Kroshu's a rising young talent from the north, and Samir's a veteran who's held Expert rank for fifteen years. Randel, Charlot, and Victor go without saying, they're all top-tier."

"I see. They do look strong."

Lulu said it while crunching down on dried fish jerky.

Airen nodded along too.

Every name the crowd kept repeating carried an air that wasn't to be taken lightly.

'Even among the ones nobody's heard of... there are a lot who look pretty strong.'

He was in the middle of that thought when a commotion rose somewhere in the distance. Airen squinted and made out a stocky, thickset man pushing through the crowd.

It was Vulcanus. His weathered, cranky look was almost a walking stereotype of a dwarven blacksmith, and it left an impression.

But he wasn't alone.

Beside him walked another dwarf built along similar lines, and a human who looked to stand at least two meters tall.

People who spotted them cried out in surprise.

"It's not just Vulcanus?"

"Dwanson's here too!"

"That's Pablo next to him."

"Pablo? The one they call the best human blacksmith alive?"

The unexpected appearance stirred murmurs through every corner of the crowd.

Not just the spectators, even the swordsmen who'd come to compete narrowed their eyes and watched the scene unfold.

Amid all that commotion, Vulcanus climbed onto the platform.

"Quiet. Quiet down so I can talk."

His voice, amplified by some magical device, rang out across the grounds.

There was a hint of irritation in it.

The crowd shut their mouths. Here, at least, he was king.

Once the noise died down, he kept talking.

"Formal speech is a pain, so bear with me talking plain. As you all know, the prize for this tournament is a sword I made myself. Some call it a Numbering Sword. I see plenty of red-eyed swordsmen scattered around here."

"..."

"Sorry to say it, but there's a chance I won't hand one out at all."

"What? What's that supposed to mean!"

"Then why bother holding a tournament in the first place!"

"This is a mess, seriously..."

"Quiet! Let me talk!"

Vulcanus cranked the device's output to max and shouted over them.

He'd always been a little sharp, but he seemed more on edge than usual today, and the crowd fell silent again.

Still wearing that irritated look, he kept explaining.

"First, the rules. Any two of you confident enough, get up on the stage. Fight. Once there's a clear result, the loser steps down, the winner stays and fights the next challenger. If you feel outmatched, you're free to give up. When that happens, another two step up and fight, and we repeat the process. Once every participant has shown their swordsmanship, the tournament ends. Oh, and if I don't like what I see, I can disqualify a winner too."

"Wait, what kind of unfair rule is that..."

"This tournament isn't about picking a champion."

"..."

"The goal here is to find the one who sparks the inspiration I need to make my tenth Numbering Sword. Got that, more or less? For the record, Dwanson and Pablo beside me are here for the same reason."

"Ah, so that's how it is."

Kubharu nodded.

Lulu did the same, and Airen wore a look of understanding too.

Vulcanus had no interest whatsoever in running a fair contest to pick a winner.

His only goal was gathering inspiration useful for his own swordsmithing.

Put simply, he meant to use this whole tournament purely as fuel for his own creative drive.

"So he didn't gather the swordsmen because he'd already made his tenth Numbering Sword. He gathered them to be able to finish it."

That explained the part about maybe not handing out a sword at all.

If nobody managed to inspire Vulcanus, there'd be no sword to give in the first place, since he'd never be able to make one.

"Just so you know, this tournament's happening every month. Until a swordsman we actually like shows up."

The moment those words left his mouth, the swordsmen's faces fell.

Vulcanus's remark landed like he was saying, "None of you look promising!"

And in truth, all nine owners of the Numbering Swords already released across the continent were Sword Masters, so it wasn't strange for confidence to waver.

But not everyone reacted that way.

"So if someone wins here, there won't be another tournament?"

"Good thing we got here early. If we'd been late, someone could've beaten us to it, right?"

"Victor, relieved much? Even without Vulcanus's sword, you can still get one from Pablo or Dwanson."

"Ha, ha, don't say something so cold. I'll let you have Pablo and Dwanson's swords, brother."

People who trusted themselves.

Genuine powerhouses who believed their own potential didn't fall short even against a Sword Master.

Only those kinds of people looked up at the platform without a shred of intimidation.

"All right, anyone confident, get up here."

With that, Vulcanus stepped down from the platform.

Watching him settle in comfortably beside Dwanson and Pablo, the swordsmen exchanged glances, sizing each other up.

But that only lasted a moment. Before long, two swordsmen climbed onto the stage.

The spectators who recognized them cried out in surprise.

"Right from the start..."

"Two of the tournament favorites?"

Victor, one half of the Charlot and Victor duo, considered the strongest entrant in this tournament.

Randel Clancy, a wandering knight out of Adan whose name was tied to a single, decisive killing strike.

With two heavyweights showing up this early, the crowd erupted into a roar.

"Victor! Show us the best a mercenary's got!"

"Hey, wasn't Charlot supposed to be the best?"

"Victor, Charlot, same difference!"

"No way, even Victor might be in trouble against Randel Clancy."

"Exactly. Feels like a lot of people don't really know Randel."

"We might be hauling off a few bodies today."

Most of the crowd cheered for Victor, a man armed with a fine character, exceptional skill, and years of experience.

But no small number bet on Randel winning, and most of them were the ones looking up at the stage with unsettling expressions.

Faces that seemed to be hoping for something to happen.

While the people nearby caught the uneasy chill of that mood, Randel Clancy looked at Vulcanus and spoke.

"I have a question, Vulcanus."

"Ask it."

"Am I allowed to kill?"

"...!"

For a moment, dead silence fell over the grounds.

Randel's expression, his bearing, the air around him.

Every part of it told everyone that this wasn't a joke.

A few in the audience felt a chill run down their arms. Someone stared at Randel with a face that looked ready to curse at him.

Then Randel Clancy added a few more words.

"I'm not saying I will kill him. I'm not saying I want to, either."

"..."

"I'm asking because my sword has no choice but to kill whoever it strikes."

One-Strike Randel.

A name earned three years ago, and no phrase could better capture his fast, explosive thrusting strikes.

Before his opponents could even register it, Randel's blade had already run through the skulls of countless monsters, punched through the chests of demonic beasts.

There was no mercy in it. Not even he himself had the ability to stop the blade once it had been loosed.

Only then did the spectators grasp the weight of the situation, and swallowed hard.

The moment Randel Clancy won, Victor would lose his life.

The next challenger, and the one after that, would meet the same fate.

Randel alone might be enough to throw the entire tournament into chaos.

But.

"Sounds fun. No objection from me."

"...!"

"As long as the other side agrees to it, of course."

Vulcanus didn't seem bothered in the slightest.

Neither did Dwanson or Pablo. If anything, they looked at Victor with faces brimming with interest.

It seemed they wanted him to accept the fight without flinching, and at that moment, a fair number of swordsmen quietly withdrew from the tournament.

Victor wasn't one of them, of course.

Grinning wide, he called out in a loud voice.

"No problem here. As long as I overpower Sir Randel, there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

"..."

For a moment, Randel Clancy's eyebrow twitched.

His composure wasn't broken, but Victor's remark had clearly gotten under his skin.

A few sharp-eyed people in the crowd noticed it too. Down below the stage, Charlot let out a small snort of laughter.

"Fine. Enough chatter, let's get moving. Once I give the word, you fight. Got it?"

Randel Clancy gave a nod. His cold gaze never left Victor.

Victor mirrored him. Casually drawing his sword, he settled into his stance.

The mood went dead quiet.

In a tension thick enough to hear a pin drop, Vulcanus's voice rang out.

"Begin!"

Whoosh!

Slash!

The result came instantly.

"..."

Randel Clancy stared blankly at his own severed sword.

"Whew! Incredibly fast. If I'd been a hair slower, I might've had a hole blown right through my chest."

Victor watched him, wiping sweat from his brow with exaggerated motions.

The victory was his.

The crowd's roar hit like thunder.

"Waaaaaaah!"

"Victor! Victor! Victor!"

"He split Randel's sword clean in two! Is he even faster than Randel?"

"Might've just timed it perfectly..."

"Who cares! Amazing either way!"

"Wait, does that mean the sword's owner is already decided?"

Sure enough, Vulcanus's expression had brightened considerably compared to when he'd first shown up.

His face looked almost like a kid who'd just gotten a present.

Watching this, Airen Farreira murmured quietly.

"He really is strong."

* * *

"He's strong."

"Yeah? How strong?"

"Strong enough that finding an opponent among Experts would be tough."

Georgu, who'd been watching the match, said so.

Hearing him, Anya tilted her head.

"Is that strong?"

"...It's strong."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Think about it logically. Experts are already incredibly strong, and being counted among the strongest of the Experts pretty much guarantees you a spot in the top two hundred on the whole continent."

"Then let's just go with that."

Anya nodded halfheartedly.

Watching her, Georgu let out a frustrated sigh.

'Maybe it's from traveling with the boss so much, but common sense doesn't seem to land with her.'

Saying anything more would only wear out his own mouth.

Giving up on convincing Anya, he got straight to the point.

"Forget it, let's just confirm it."

"Okay."

This time, Anya didn't argue back.

Crunching down on a lollipop, she reached her hand into empty air.

A golden piggy bank appeared out of nowhere.

Its size was nothing compared to the one she'd shown Airen before, far, far smaller.

She said, with a hint of reluctance in her voice.

"Goodbye, my daily savings."

Crack!

And crushed it with a crunch.

A golden thread, visible only to Anya and Georgu, shot outward, stretching toward Victor and toward Charlot down below the stage.

A moment later, the golden light wrapped around the two of them turned red.

"They're the ones we're looking for."

"I figured. Then mark them too."

"Ugh. I really don't want to spend two days' worth."

Even with a face full of reluctance, Anya pulled out another piggy bank.

She wasn't doing it because Georgu told her to. She was following the boss's orders.

The golden thread shot out again, leaving a glowing mark on Charlot's and Victor's foreheads.

Watching this, Georgu marveled inwardly.

'No matter how I look at it, that's straight up broken.'

A Sorcery piggy bank that granted any wish, as long as it didn't exceed the value of the money saved inside.

That was the extent of Anya's power.

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