WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

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◈ Reformation of the Deadbeat Noble

Chapter 92

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Vulcanus's Numbering Sword (6)

'Not quite fraud, is it?'

Georgu stroked his chin, watching Anya heave sigh after sigh over the pig she'd wasted.

Thinking about it, there were quite a lot of conditions attached.

The value of money and the weight of a wish were both judged by Anya's own subjective standards. Only money earned through honest work could be saved. And sometimes the wish came true in a way nobody could have predicted.

Still, accounting for every drawback, it was undeniably a powerful piece of Sorcery.

'If it were me, I'd have tried all sorts of things without picking and choosing... but this kid seems to find collecting more fun than actually using it.'

A little annoyed for no good reason, Georgu spoke to Anya.

"You're such a miser."

"Not a miser! A wise Sorcerer who saves her money!"

"Right, Lady Wise Anya."

"Hehe."

'That wasn't a compliment. That was sarcasm.'

Georgu sighed.

What was he even doing, going back and forth with a kid this young? A wave of self-loathing hit him out of nowhere. He wanted to go back and sleep already.

Of course, that meant finishing the job quickly first.

He said, "Fine, let's just finish what we started."

"Okay!"

Anya nodded and pulled out the third piggy bank, smashing it.

With a crackling sound, a thread of light shot out like a ghost and left its mark.

Except it wasn't on the intended target.

Georgu asked, baffled, "You said Airen Farreira. Why'd you send it to the cat?"

"They go around together, so it's fine if it goes to Lulu."

"Isn't one piggy bank worth two marks? If you're doing that, do both."

"No can do. Marking a Sorcerer is harder."

"..."

"We're done now, right? Let's go back and take a nap."

The girl in the black dress said her piece and headed back to their lodging.

Georgu stood in silence for a long moment before shaking his head and following after her.

* * *

"Now then, let's continue the tournament."

The match between Victor, one of the favorites to win, and Randel had ended.

Pablo and Dwanson, having watched Victor's swordsmanship, wore satisfied smiles, and Vulcanus's expression had brightened considerably compared to before.

Of course, the tournament wasn't over yet. It was just getting started.

The three blacksmiths kept pushing the swordsmen forward, hungry for more inspiration.

That was when Randel, standing quietly on the stage, raised his broken sword.

Shwip!

Breath, Concentration, and a thrust.

Gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd once more.

Even with a broken blade, Randel's swordsmanship was still excellent.

No, if anything, it looked sharper than when he'd lunged at Victor.

He said, "Vulcanus."

"What is it?"

"I am the loser. I was weaker than Victor, and so I lost."

"Right. So?"

"But that is only the present result. I want to say that neither I nor the potential of my swordsmanship falls short of the swordsman before me."

"Hm?"

Victor made a face like he had no idea what that meant.

The mood in the crowd turned chilly too.

To anyone watching, it looked like Randel was picking a fight.

But Vulcanus regarded Randel with a faint smile.

"So, what do you want to say?"

"I poured my future into the sword I just showed. My direction, my convictions, my resolve... I don't know if all of it truly reached you, but I wanted to say that if you build a blade imagining not who I am now, but who I'll be ten years from now, you won't be disappointed with the result."

Whick.

Randel sheathed his sword, bowed respectfully, and stepped down from the stage.

Vulcanus and the other blacksmiths looked amused, while Victor and Charlot exchanged glances and shrugged.

Neither refuted him. It was true, after all, that they were older than Randel.

"A junior swordsman can show that kind of nerve now and then."

"True. Nothing wrong with what he said. This tournament isn't about finding the strongest swordsman anyway."

"Right. All he needs to do is give me inspiration. Nothing else matters."

"Ah, I see..."

"Well then, no need to be afraid."

Hearing Charlot, Victor, and Vulcanus, the swordsmen nodded, understanding.

They were right. This wasn't a time to decide who was strongest.

If anything, it was closer to a chance to introduce yourself to Vulcanus and the other blacksmiths.

Of course, nothing inspired quite like overwhelming strength, but that wasn't the whole story.

The swordsmen began to think it over. What should they do? How could they best make the case for their own strengths?

A few found their own answers.

The most confident among them stepped up onto the stage.

Victor said, "Confident, aren't you."

"Honestly, I don't have the confidence to beat you. But I do have the confidence to catch Lord Vulcanus's eye."

"What, are you going to pour your future into your sword too, like Sir Randel? Are you going to call me an old man in a roundabout way? Is that what you're going to do?"

"That's..."

"Hahaha! I'm joking. Anyway, let's both do our best."

"Yes, sir!"

"Are you two done talking? Starting now."

Victor nodded. His opponent nodded too. With Vulcanus's voice, the second match began.

This time, too, the result came fast.

Clang!

"Ugh!"

Victor's sword sliced past his opponent's blade and stopped at his throat.

The relatively young swordsman broke into a cold sweat.

A chilling glint flashed in Victor's usually kind eyes.

"Sorry, but I have no intention of letting a junior swordsman take my sword."

"..."

The pressure pouring off Victor, reaching not just his opponent but everyone waiting below the stage, visibly deflated the confidence of the swordsmen still in line.

* * *

Clang!

"Whoa!"

"Again!"

"One hit again..."

"One-Strike Randel, my foot. One-Strike Victor fits him better now."

"I can't believe the gap is this big..."

Thirty minutes had passed since the tournament began.

Not a short time, but not a long one either.

When swordsmen of similar skill met, a bout could sometimes drag on for over an hour without a decision.

Naturally, nothing like that was happening in this tournament.

Forget an hour, not a single match had even lasted a full minute.

Victor, the very first to take the stage, was crushing every challenger in a single blow.

Boom!

Sometimes he shattered an opponent's blade with a heavy sword.

Whoosh!

Sometimes he overwhelmed them with a quick strike faster even than Randel's.

Swish!

And sometimes he toyed with them using an ever-shifting blade.

It was, in every sense, skill no one could match.

Boom!

"Guh!"

"Anyone else want to come up?"

Having beaten yet another challenger, Victor asked with a warm smile.

No one could hold his gaze.

Watching the scene, the onlookers shook their heads and murmured.

"It's over."

"Yeah. No answer for that."

Already seventeen swordsmen had trudged off the stage in defeat.

Among them were skilled Gold Plate mercenaries and even some renowned as Experts, but not one of them had managed to fully unleash their own swordsmanship.

Only Victor kept proving himself, again and again.

Under the crushing weight of his presence, standing like a mountain, the challengers waiting below the stage quietly slipped away one by one.

It looked as though the owner of the Numbering Sword had already been decided.

Of course, that wasn't the case.

The eyes that had been fixed only on the stage all this while began drifting downward.

And they landed on one man standing below the stage.

More and more gazes turned that way as time passed, until nearly every spectator was staring at his face.

The man who calmly accepted that attention, Charlot, gave an embarrassed smile and said, "So it really comes down to me, huh."

"Yeah. No one else. Quit slacking off and get up there."

"Watch your mouth with your older brother. Sir Randel's thrust should've put a hole clean through you."

"Randel's thrust was sharp, all right. Enough talk, get up there already. There's no one else left to challenge."

At his brother's words, Charlot nodded.

He'd expected as much.

Unless a Master had entered, there was no wildcard left.

The tenth Numbering Sword would belong to them without question.

Of course, there was still a chance Vulcanus wouldn't announce a winner at all.

But Charlot's towering pride left no room to consider that possibility.

'Together, we could take on a Sword Master.'

Charlot closed his eyes. He recalled, one by one, the hardships he and his brother had endured together.

Not many among those who'd reached Expert could be called lazy, but he doubted many had trained as hard as they had.

'Good. Let's show them something to remember.'

Let's make that stubborn old dwarf's eyes go wide.

Let's show everyone that they were the true owners of the tenth Numbering Sword!

Just as Charlot steeled his resolve and opened his eyes, a young man caught his attention.

"Airen, are you going up now?"

"Yeah."

"Not waiting for Georgu?"

"Doesn't seem like he's interested."

Barely twenty, if that.

Pale skin that looked like it had never known hard labor, a gentle face, and blond hair to top it off.

He looked, in every way, like someone who'd never done a single day of rough work in his life.

And yet Charlot could tell that the man before him was a swordsman, and a high-level one at that.

It wasn't something he'd judged from bone structure, muscle quality, breathing, or gait.

He simply knew.

The air around the blond young man felt as solid as poured iron.

Others might not have noticed, but Charlot could feel it.

'Interesting.'

And impressive.

That said, it stopped there.

He didn't feel like he might lose, or that he'd struggle.

That would defy common sense.

Unless someone had picked up a sword from the moment they were born, a swordsman that young simply couldn't pose a threat.

Charlot smiled faintly.

Thinking he saw something flicker in the young man's eyes, he said, "A talking cat. Fascinating. A pet?"

"Ah, she's my master."

"...What?"

"My Sorcery master."

"Ah... my apologies. Sorry about that."

"I'll accept your apology! It's understandable if you didn't know!"

The cat's voice came from behind him. Charlot laughed again. Master or not, she was cute.

Watching the exchange, the young man laughed too.

He said, "If you're heading up to the stage, I'll wait."

"Ah, don't worry about it. I was thinking of going up since there didn't seem to be any challengers left, but if you want to go first, be my guest. Hey, Victor, that's fine, right?"

"Of course it's fine with me. Well now, quite the young junior we have here..."

Up on the stage, Victor's expression showed surprise. His brother seemed to have sensed something too.

Charlot nodded.

'Maybe one of the three blacksmiths' swords will end up going to this young man.'

Of course, most people didn't think that.

The crowd watched the young man climb slowly onto the stage, wearing puzzled expressions.

He looked far too mild to be a challenger.

And too young.

He wasn't even carrying anything in his hands.

That was the part Charlot and Victor both found strange as well.

Victor was about to open his mouth to point it out.

Vulcanus suddenly shot up out of his chair.

And bolted onto the stage like a madman.

"Blacksmith, sir?" Victor called out to him, flustered.

But Vulcanus paid him no mind.

He stared only at the blond young man's face, unblinking.

The intensity in his gaze was uncomfortable enough that Victor had to call out to him again.

"Vulcanus, my good man, could you please explain what's going on..."

"I've decided!"

"Gah!"

"Ugh!"

Vulcanus roared.

The sound was so loud that a few onlookers near the stage jumped back in shock.

His voice sounded like a hammer striking iron.

He raised both hands and gripped the young man's shoulders, Airen Farreira's shoulders, tight.

Then he laughed. Airen looked flustered, but Vulcanus didn't care in the slightest.

Voice brimming with excitement, Vulcanus shouted again, "I said I've decided! The owner of the tenth Numbering Sword is this young man right here!"

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