Chapter 7 : Chapter 7
Chapter 7: The Selection Ceremony (1)
When I dream.
Sometimes. No, I often see the same thing.
“Choose. Will you live quietly without both your arms? Or will you die?”
The bastard looking down at me said.
He’s the one who’s now called a hero.
‘Damn it.’
The boy cursed. He remembers all the lines that will follow.
It is a memory of his past life. The moment of his death.
After the assault on the Doom Species’ fortress.
“Then I’ll die.”
Exa said. His past self. His vision widens. Though he’s bound so tightly he can’t even turn his head. This is because it’s a dream.
“If you cut off just one, I’ll live.”
“One arm is not enough.”
“I said kill me, didn’t I?”
Exa clicked his tongue. Because there was no reason to live without his arms. No, in the first place, he had no intention of begging for his life.
“That would be difficult. You must lose both your arms in the battle with the king of the Doom Species.”
“I’d rather croak than do that.”
“That is the final mercy.”
“No. Kill me.”
“Death is not permitted for you.”
I know the reason why.
“You must be the one to report the head of the king of the Doom Species.”
That bastard.
And those men and women who are standing guard on all sides, laughing, just in case.
“You want me to be a clown?”
They intend to cut off the arms that hold the sword and display him merely as an ornament, to boost the morale of the allied forces.
Fearing that if they killed him, the war would end in defeat.
“Are you that scared of me?”
But if they leave him as he is, Exa’s fame will only grow. No, it already has.
“……”
Those four. Exa sneered at them.
The boy, watching the memory as a dream, also laughed.
Because the reality that those four, who had backstabbed him out of fear of a single person, were being called heroes was laughable.
“A fitting end for a lowly bastard.”
He clearly remembered having quite a few disgusting and useless conversations.
But he has never seen those memories again in his dreams. Because dreams only present the most intense moments. The meaningless scenes are omitted.
“It must be that one’s roots cannot be helped.”
The one who had been watching his back drew his sword and approached.
There is no stopping in a dream. Omission is also a flow.
And the scene that is about to come is the most intense of all.
“I’m better than you guys.”
The sword cut off his left arm. Exa felt not excruciating pain, but regret. The rest of his life without an arm would be like torture. What meaning is there in a life where he can’t even hold a sword?
As the sword was about to cut off his right arm, Exa thrust his neck into its path. It was the moment he woke from the dream.
***
“If you need anything, just say the word.”
Aran had said that and left the annex.
It was the greatest goodwill Aran could show. The Aran that Simurtr knew was a person who wouldn’t say such things unless it was a serious matter.
“That was already a month ago.”
Time flows quickly.
It feels similar to the time during that busy, busy Doom War.
No, perhaps it might even be faster.
Because they say that time flows slower the more you submit and adapt.
For Exa, who was used to the battlefield, the world after his reincarnation still didn’t feel real.
When he closed his eyes, the Doom Species would still flicker in his vision.
“I need to get a grip. The Doom Species aren’t the priority in this life.”
He was adapting. Didn’t the traitors appear in his dreams every night?
Simurtr forcefully erased the images of the Doom Species that came to mind. From now on, when he closed his eyes, the first thing that should come to mind were the traitors.
“The 4th Star.”
He opened his eyes and sat up. The water from the bathtub overflowed onto the floor.
A total of four rotations. The mana wouldn’t go any further. It had reached its limit. It meant that Simurtr’s current Star-Breaking Style was at the 4th Star.
“Not bad.”
He should be able to use sword force soon.
The burden would be considerable, but it would be possible for a short time.
‘It’s a huge improvement compared to two months ago.’
When he was caught in the execution chamber, he was only at the 2nd Star.
‘In a way, it’s faster than my past life.’
16 years old.
Exa in his past life had reached the 4th Star of Star-Breaking Style at the age of 19. Simply comparing their ages, the achievement in this life was satisfactory.
‘Though I achieved it in two years back then.’
The speed of growth couldn’t be helped.
The support itself was on a different level.
The inner core of a deep-sea creature? That thing Aran had painstakingly obtained was something his master treated as a snack.
‘No. It wasn’t quite a snack, was it?’
Anyway.
The master had fed his disciple all sorts of elixirs. They were there if you dug through the rice at every meal.
No matter how high-quality the inner core of a deep-sea creature was, it wasn’t enough to overcome that sheer quantity.
‘It’ll get faster now.’
For the reincarnated Simurtr, it was a trivial problem.
Once he reached a certain level, elixirs eventually have their limits. From then on, he would be able to reverse the speed of his past life.
Hadn’t he already been down this path once? It would be strange if he wasn’t confident.
“Young Master.”
A voice echoed in the room. It was Meram’s magic. Simurtr roughly dried himself off and went down to the first floor.
“I have prepared a small meal.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You need to maintain your condition.”
Simurtr looked at the dining table. The amount was noticeably less than usual. She was more conscious of the selection ceremony than Simurtr, the participant.
“How many people are coming?”
“Why do you have to ask that?”
Meram was busily moving for the Young Master, but she didn’t even give Simurtr a glance.
“Are you still mad?”
“I am not. I am just saying that because I do not think it is necessary for you to know.”
It was because he had kicked away Aran’s goodwill a month ago.
“Hey. I told you I’ll pass even if you don’t worry.”
“Then you would not need to know how many there are.”
Simurtr could roughly guess Meram’s emotions. After living together for about 7 years, it’s natural to be able to figure it out.
The fact that the end of her sentence was polite meant that he had to apologize right away.
“Sorry.”
“There are 15 people, including you and the direct descendants.”
The reaction was swift. As soon as she received the apology, Meram turned her gaze to Simurtr.
“They say the environment will change. I heard news two days ago that an illusionist entered the castle at the request of the Senate of Elders.”
As if she had been holding it in all this time, Meram began to spill the information she knew.
It was all information that Aran had subtly let her know.
The elixir from before was also like that. Aran was openly supporting Simurtr. It was a rather pleasant fact for Meram.
“An illusionist?”
“Yes.”
“To that extent? Didn’t they just hold it at that sacred mountain over there?”
“…How do you know that, Young Master?”
“I heard it on the street.”
The current Sword Master, Orde Mectera, is not trustworthy. Medeoban had said so. The source was Aran.
He had developed a distrust for his son, Orde, due to this incident. He probably intended to change the environment of the test completely.
“Then we’ll be doing it in an illusionary world?”
“…Probably.”
Meram clicked her tongue slightly.
She often felt it, but this Young Master knew a lot. For someone who was exiled, he had a wealth of knowledge.
He said it was because he had lived reading books, but Meram had never seen a book in the estate of exile. That Young Master spent much more time in the yard than in the study.
“But why an illusionist? Is he from the fairy race?”
“No. It is Degrate.”
Fairies are not beings one can easily see.
Meram had never seen a fairy in her life. But the same went for Degrate. What was strange was that it was all the same.
“What? Then he’s not an illusionist, he’s an assassin.”
“Doesn’t Degrate also possess the power of the fairies?”
“Still. Strictly speaking, he’s a degraded version of a fairy. A half-breed.”
“How do you know that, Young Master? It is the first time I have heard of it.”
“I saw it in a book.”
“What book.”
“No one knows. I burned it.”
“……”
Degrate of Illusions.
The family that people first think of when they hear the word ‘assassination.’ An independent group that had maintained its family line for hundreds of years without belonging to any nation.
The name Degrate brought nostalgia to Simurtr. The Baperr unit. In Exa’s unit, there had been a descendant of Degrate.
“Do you perhaps know who… no. Never mind.”
But Simurtr folded his curiosity.
He had reincarnated and made it his life’s top priority to hunt down the traitors. He had no intention of needlessly causing trouble for his unit members.
“Do you not need to pack anything else?”
As Simurtr, who had finished his meal, stood up, Meram asked. It was time to go to the selection ceremony, but he showed no sign of packing anything.
“Do I have to?”
“Tsk. Again.”
“This is Mectera. This is all I need.”
A sword.
The symbol of Mectera.
Exa in his past life had also lived by this.
***
The Selection Ceremony.
A stage where the branch family members, chosen as supporting actors, make the 17-year-old direct descendants into main characters.
‘But it’s an opportunity for the branch family members too.’
The branch family members do not consider the test shameful. Because an outstanding supporting actor becomes the main character.
If they show potential comparable to a direct descendant in the selection ceremony, Mectera will adopt that child as their own.
‘It’s a challenge to try.’
It is the confidence of the main estate.
That no matter what talent comes, they cannot surpass the Mectera bloodline.
‘If they can’t become the Sword Master, they become the head of a new branch family.’
Mectera has countless branch families. Though I don’t know how many were destroyed in the Doom War. Anyway.
A branch family is the trace of an adopted son who failed to ascend to the position of Sword Master.
If Exa in his past life had not been exiled and had not ascended to the position of Sword Master, a new branch family called ‘Exa van Mectera’ would have been born.
‘Well. Not that it would happen.’
Simurtr let out a hollow laugh as he thought of a branch family with his name.
‘The Selection Ceremony.’
This was the first time he was participating directly.
Because Exa in his past life had not earned the right to participate in the selection ceremony.
‘Because sword ki is a condition.’
The place he arrived at was the grand training ground. A public training ground for the exchange between the Sword Orders. It was quite different from the past. It must be because it was rebuilt after being destroyed during the war.
‘It’s real.’
14 people. Meram’s information was accurate.
Aran probably told her.
Certainly. There’s nothing as reassuring as the goodwill of a Head of the Sword. In Mectera, a Head of the Sword held power second only to the Sword Master.
‘And if it’s Aran, well. That says it all.’
Simurtr briefly scanned the 14 people.
All of them were at the realm of sword ki, skilled enough to earn the qualification of a knight if they went outside.
And yet, their faces were quite young. Unlike his past life, the overall level might have risen.
‘I have to compete with these guys.’
Most of them were his age. At most, 20.
He wasn’t too keen on the fact that he had to fight with young brats. If the name Mectera hadn’t been attached to his name in his past life, he would have left Mectera long ago.
“Simurtr!”
The star of this selection ceremony raised his hand high. Beside Ael was the eldest, Jahar.
“What.”
“Come here. The direct descendants originally stand at the very front. That way, the other branch family members can relax.”
“I’m not a direct descendant.”
“You’re not a branch family member either.”
Simurtr was in an ambiguous position.
Lower than a direct descendant, and higher than a branch family member. It was the position of an adopted son that the branch family members so desired.
“Come here.”
Ael brought Simurtr to the front and had him stand next to her. The participants tried to avoid making eye contact with Simurtr.
It was the opposite reaction to when they had been constantly stealing glances at the siblings’ faces.
“He is the fourth young master.”
“Is that the person who……”
“Shh. He’s the center of this storm.”
The intervention of the Head of the Senate of Elders, who had retired from the front lines.
The fall of the maternal family’s power. The storm of blood that had swept through Mectera.
The events of the main estate were naturally known to the branch families as well. There was not a single participant who did not know that the source of it all was that adopted son.
“That aside. You really participated, didn’t you?”
Ael’s eyes shone as she looked at Simurtr. Ael continuously scanned Simurtr’s entire body.
He was thicker overall than Jahar or Beden.
His muscles showed clear signs of being considerably trained, but they were still ordinary.
He didn’t show the characteristics seen in the Mectera bloodline.
‘And yet, he killed an active-duty swordsman.’
His body… was not particularly blessed.
Then what remained was talent. It meant that he had the talent to make up for his physical shortcomings. Ael’s sharp eyes had captured that fact.
“That’s why I came to the main estate.”
Simurtr answered indifferently, but it was different for the one listening. It felt like his words were laced with barbs.
Hadn’t he been greatly hurt by the second wife just a month ago? Moreover, the siblings’ mother was also involved in Simurtr’s exile.
“Uh… um……”
Though she was full of mischief, she didn’t have a shameless personality. Ael was the first to lose her words.
“I am sorry.”
It was then that Jahar opened his mouth.
Just as Ael was about to regret having pretended to know him.
“For what?”
Simurtr looked at Jahar. Black hair and eyes. The colors of Mectera. The mana he possessed would also be black. The same went for Beden and Ael.
But just because the color was the same didn’t mean the eyes were the same. Simurtr had once heard of Jahar’s character.
‘He said he’s upright. So he’s afraid he’ll break.’
Right before Aran had broken down the door of the execution chamber, Jahar had opened his mouth to protest.
“The environment you were in, your exile, your education, all of it has my mother’s fault mixed in.”
‘Oh.’
An unexpected word. Though he was upright, as a human, one tends to be lenient towards their own family. But Jahar admitted it frankly without a single excuse.
“The same goes for the last execution. I knew Beden would go to you, but I did not stop him.
As my mother’s son, as Beden’s older brother, I have a responsibility to apologize to you.”
“Sorry!”
Jahar bowed his head. Ael followed suit. Simurtr looked at the back of the siblings’ heads with a strange expression.
It must have been agreed upon beforehand. Jahar must have suggested it. The first wife wouldn’t have ordered it.
This was an apology that stemmed from Jahar’s nature.
“That’s enough. Stop it. Get up. I said get up. Right.”
It was an unwanted apology. He was reluctant to receive an apology from people who weren’t even the parties involved.
“What’s the point of receiving an apology from kids?”
Jahar and Ael were not guilty.
Though the first wife was involved, there was no way Jahar or Ael were involved.
When Simurtr was sent to the estate of exile, the siblings were only 6 years old.
“You guys have nothing to do with me. What era are we in, to be talking about guilt by association?”
Just because a parent has sinned doesn’t mean it’s passed down to their children. That was the reason the empire’s guilt by association system was abolished. When Beden had crossed the line, they had done nothing.
“Don’t you ever bow your head to me again. Never.”
Simurtr said with a serious face.
He had never been particularly fond of children, even from a long time ago.
***
Children are not needed on the battlefield.
Bait? The Doom Species are drawn to the strong.
Soldiers were in short supply, so there were many boy soldiers. That was the reason Exa disliked children. To be precise, he disliked their circumstances and the look in their eyes.
They die the fastest. While being scared, they pick up the armor and spears that belonged to the dead. And in the end, they die.
Whenever he rescued refugees and boy soldiers, Exa would teach them swordsmanship and basic spear techniques.
They would live a little longer.
Aran had called it false hope. He had said that if a Sword Saint showed such mercy, they would harbor useless hope.
‘And that guy even sponsored an orphanage. The world has changed.’
He didn’t want to be greeted.
If it hadn’t been for the war, they would have had a daily routine of playing and sleeping.
They would have held their friends’ hands instead of pieces of flesh and spears.
Even though he had reincarnated.
His basic ideology hasn't changed. Beden also falls into that category. He is only 16, and has plenty of room for rehabilitation.
At least, that’s what Simurtr thought. The fault lies with Janya, who raised him that way.
Even though the siblings were of an age where they would soon become adults, in Simurtr’s eyes, they were kids.
If they had gone to war, they would have probably died as soon as it started.
“Be careful from now on. You don’t know what the second mother might do.”
At some point, Ael’s eyes were filled with goodwill.
“If you need any help, just say so. I will help you as your older brother.”
The same went for Jahar. He held a high opinion of the person named Simurtr.
‘He is magnanimous. Perhaps……’
The position of the successor might suit Simurtr. His bold spirit, and his talent as well.
Though he had never seen his skills, he had reached the realm of sword ki at the age of 16.
A year faster than the siblings.
“All right.”
Simurtr answered roughly. He had nothing to ask of kids. But he had no intention of continuing the bothersome conversation.
‘Not now. After the test. Later, when I’m outside the main estate, she’ll probably start looking for an opportunity.’
Ael’s advice was something Simurtr had already anticipated. With Janya Jabad’s personality, she wouldn't give up easily.
The immediate test would be safe, but she would plot something after that.
“Is that all you have for a sword? Just one? Should I lend you some?”
Ael looked at Simurtr with a newly fed-up expression. Simple martial arts clothes. No subspace pouch in sight. He had really come with just one sword.
Though an adopted son, he was the most Mectera-like. From the first time she saw him in the execution chamber, Ael had come to think that.
“A spare sword? You don’t have one?”
“I have five.”
As Ael and Jahar kept talking to him, someone entered the grand training ground.
The Head of the Senate of Elders, Medeoban, and the current Sword Master, Orde.
And behind them followed the 6th Head of the Sword, Aran.
Simurtr looked at the three of them, then shifted his gaze to the road. There were three people. But four shadows.
‘Degrate.’
If Degrate had intended to conceal himself, that shadow wouldn’t have been visible.
The fact that the shadow was visible meant that he just didn’t want to show his form. But full concealment was a bother.
‘Still can’t catch him.’
And yet, he couldn’t feel his presence or mana. He couldn’t catch it. With his current skills, he couldn’t even detect a Degrate who wasn’t even concealing himself.
‘Orde is a face I’ve never seen before.’
Simurtr ignored Aran’s gaze and focused on his adoptive father. Not his current adoptive father, but the one from his past life.
“Is everyone gathered?”
Medeoban scanned his surroundings. Jahar and Ael. Simurtr. Even when his eyes met with his grandchildren’s, his expression didn’t change.
‘Right. That’s the old man.’
He had felt a sense of unease during the house arrest, but seeing him in person like this, it didn’t seem like anything had changed.
‘He’s gotten quite old. It must be the aftermath of his injury.’
Like everyone else, he cherishes his own blood more than others, but Medeoban’s affection is not based on love.
He cherishes the direct descendants as components of the name Mectera. Medeoban prioritizes Mectera above all else.
‘And on top of that, I’m an adopted son.’
At Aran’s report, Medeoban had cleaned up the main estate, but that wasn’t out of love for his grandson, but because he had to correct the discipline of Mectera.
“Then let’s start quickly.”
Medeoban looked to the side. Not where Orde was, but the opposite side. No sooner had Medeoban finished speaking than the shadow that had been pooling on the floor shot up.
The soaring shadow spread out in the sky like a net. It spread over the participants, blocking the sunlight, and then fell.
‘Damn it……’
A hazy feeling, as if falling into a dream, into sleep.
His vision went dark. He felt his five senses momentarily paralyzed. It was the familiar and unpleasant taste of Degrate, so Simurtr furrowed his brow.
‘What a fucking unfriendly start.’
Not long after, his vision flashed open. He saw not the grand training ground, but a narrow room.
A foul stench stimulated his sense of smell. Thick humidity dampened his skin. It felt like dust was entering his slightly open mouth.
“Save me.”
“Please.”
“I’m innocent……”
Someone’s desperation tickled his ears.
Simurtr and the participants were not in the grand training ground, but in a prison.