Chapter 31 : Chapter 31
Chapter 31: The Banquet Hall (1)
“Has Janya arrived?”
“Yes. They said she returned in the morning.”
Deban said on the way to the west annex.
“What? When?”
“They said it was yesterday morning.”
“Morning? That’s before I was attacked, isn’t it?”
Really? Simurtr was greatly surprised.
Did she just give the order and return?
“Yes. So it seems she doesn’t know the result.”
“What kind of nerve does she have?”
Simurtr clicked his tongue at her arrogance.
He didn't know she was so clueless about her own standing.
“Does she have something else she’s counting on?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
“She must have something, right?”
“Maybe not. She didn’t know the extent of your skills, Sir Simurtr.”
“Still, wouldn’t she have prepared a safety net? She’s a count’s daughter, after all.”
“They said she was a graduate of the Imperial Capital Academy.”
“Were her grades good?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a stalker.”
“Aren’t you something similar?”
“Janya wasn’t the target of my mission.”
“True.”
What gave Janya the confidence to return to the main castle?
Of course, from her perspective, Simurtr’s death was a certainty. His known achievement was merely that of an Expert.
‘It unintentionally became a bait-and-switch.’
Medeoban’s measure to prevent discord had, instead, caused it. By concealing his achievements, the intensity of the attack prepared by Janya was lessened.
“Well. It makes sense. The Knight Captain was among the knights. And there was even a Degrate. Objectively speaking, it’s right that I should have died.”
“That’s true.”
“If I died, there would be no evidence.”
“But I was there.”
“You would have been dead too.”
“Ah.”
“Then what about me?”
“You would have foolishly returned, following Juyce.”
The collapse of the Northwest's Short Slumber was a situation that occurred because he had noticed the ambush first.
If Simurtr hadn't probed first, the grand affair would have happened somewhere Ael wasn't present.
“Indeed. They were all wearing armor. There was no crest, but still.”
They were advertising that they were knights.
They must have thought he couldn't possibly withstand it, since a Sword Master Knight Captain was involved. The armor was proof of the confidence that came from such certainty.
“It was a bit shoddy, though.”
“Because they were in a hurry. It would have been more perfect if Juyce hadn't been caught.
Well. They probably thought they would succeed anyway. Since if they killed me, there would be no evidence either way.”
“That’s true. Huit isn’t that burdensome of a land. Even as a vassal of Bahab, it doesn’t hold much weight.”
“See? Ael. You need to learn that kind of confidence.”
She had considered Simurtr's death a certainty.
He didn't know if it was the Knight Captain’s confidence or Janya’s idea. In any case.
“No. It failed. I think it’s better to learn from you.”
“No. We don’t know that yet.”
“What?”
That confidence. Simurtr understood Janya’s. Although she fell for the unintentional bait, if it hadn't been for that, Janya would have succeeded.
“I have a bad feeling.”
Simurtr felt a sense of unease.
Thanks to him hiding his achievements, Janya made a rash judgment and failed. Stupid Janya. If he had only faced the knights of Jabad, Simurtr would have ended his thoughts on Janya right there.
“Suddenly?”
“That last guy is bothering me.”
“Swordsman Juyce?”
“Wanna die?”
“No.”
…Phantasmal Ability. That young and weak Degrate.
His existence continuously unsettled Simurtr's nerves. The fact that he couldn't catch the one who fled first also bothered him.
“Janya has something she’s counting on.”
Janya’s ambush this time was utterly poor.
In another territory, not even Jabad. And with Jabad knights at that.
The effect of hiding his achievements was significant, but it was still an undeniable fact that it was sloppy.
“That’s why it was so sloppy.”
Carelessness belongs to those who have something.
One becomes lax because there is something to believe in.
Because even if they fail, they have other means.
“Degrate?”
“Yeah.”
“But why Degrate? What do those assassins have to gain by joining hands with Janya?
They’re already in an alliance with the main castle.”
Degrate had no reason to help Janya. Ael was certain. This was so strange that even her brother, Jahar, would be suspicious.
“We’ll have to talk about that at the banquet.”
Janya had a backer she trusted.
It could be Degrate, or it could not be.
‘After seeing a Phantasmal Ability, how could it not be, though.’
The fact that he took his own life without delay upon being subdued was consistently creating other possibilities. It was an act a Degrate would never commit.
‘There’s no kin who values their own life as much as a Degrate.’
They prioritize their own lives over the target's death.
Their subordinate assassins might be different, but their blood relatives are like that.
‘If it were right after being attacked, I might not know.’
But not now. The probability of it being Degrate was low.
Simurtr was half-convinced. But even so… his thought of having to visit Degrate remained unchanged.
“This older sister is leaving. I’ve brought my little brother here.”
As the west annex came into view, Ael turned back the way she came.
She said she was going to prepare answers for anticipated questions before meeting Arnea.
“You. Are you really going to transfer to the 6th Sword Order?”
Simurtr asked Deban, who was still guarding his side.
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
Deban had personally caught his interest. A sense of greed had also developed.
If he had been an ordinary sword-freak, he wouldn't even have had such thoughts. It wasn't that easy to find such talent in Mectera.
“I’d like that very much.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Deban smiled brightly. Simurtr gave up on interpreting it. He was a man whose expression was hard to read. That's why he liked him.
“When this is over, I’ll be going on a mission with the 6th Sword Order. With you.”
“Are you saying I need to do well on that mission too?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m on your side, Sir Simurtr.”
“I can't become the Sword Master, though. Even so?”
The Sword Order. The swordsmen of Mectera, maintain neutrality.
They do not participate in the succession contest.
But no matter how strict that rule was, no matter how crazy they were for the sword to be called sword-freaks, they were still human in the end.
Inside, they want to become people that others like. Just as the swordsmen of the past had liked Exa more than Gerehk.
“Hey. You have to get your words straight.”
Deban casually scanned Simurtr from top to bottom. Ten knights, including the Knight Captain. The traces of the Sword Aura that tore apart the inn. The skillfulness that subdued the Phantasmal Ability.
Deban now knew Simurtr's true worth. Simurtr, who had already been highly evaluated, was, upon seeing him now, evaluated far too low.
“You’re choosing not to, aren’t you? It’s not that you can’t.”
A 16-year-old Sword Master. Deban had never seen such a history. The record for the world's youngest Sword Master was Exa Mectera at 19 years old.
Weren't even many connoisseurs criticizing that as an embellished record? Since the hero Exa only accepted mana at the age of 17.
Yet Simurtr was a full three years faster than that.
“That’s not important. What’s important is the result. I have no intention of becoming the Sword Master.”
“It doesn’t matter to me either.”
Deban answered nonchalantly.
Whether he became the Sword Master or not, it was of no consequence.
He never had much interest in worldly success in the first place, and hadn't he found the great answer that was Simurtr?
“I don’t want a high position either.”
“Then?”
“A Sword Master?”
“You have the 3rd Head of the Sword, don't you?”
“She’s far away. In position. And in age.”
The Heads of the Sword are busy. As the leaders of the swordsmen, they have more than enough work to do. Deban didn't have the time to learn anything from her, let alone spend time with her.
On the other hand, Simurtr? His current skill might be less than the 3rd Head of the Sword, but he had plenty of time to get stronger.
He would one day become a powerhouse who surpassed the 3rd Head of the Sword.
He wasn't that busy either. He had just completed one mission. And hadn't they decided to do the next mission together?
“And I’m close?”
“Don’t you like me too, Sir Simurtr?”
Deban smiled. Simurtr said, just in case.
“Bullshit. I’m going to marry a woman.”
“I plan to do the same.”
“I don’t need a lover either.”
“Among the swordsmen, there’s no one easier to handle than me.”
“So you’re asking me to take you in?”
“Yes. And raise me, too.”
That must be his true intention.
Finally encountering Deban’s true feelings, Simurtr grinned. What he wanted. Deban had answered, a Sword Master.
For now, he wanted the teachings of a Sword Master, and soon he would want the achievement of becoming a Sword Master himself.
“I’m skilled at teaching. Probably even more so than Captain Saana.”
A voice full of conviction. Simurtr was confident.
Hadn't he taught most of his squad members in his past life?
“Suddenly?”
“That way, you’ll drool even more.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You were making it obvious.”
“That’s true.”
Distance emphasizes a person.
Simurtr, whose level was less distant and who was younger, was more accessible than the 3rd Head of the Sword, whose level had advanced far and was older.
‘He has no choice but to become impatient.’
That was the reason Deban was being so obvious.
Someone younger than him had reached the level of a Sword Master. An unprecedented achievement and record. Talent must have played a large part, but there was no way he wouldn't be curious about that experience.
“So, I just need to do as I’m told on the next mission, right?”
In the end, it was Deban who spoke again.
“That’s right.”
Simurtr grinned and nodded. The reason didn't matter. What reason could one attach to wanting to become stronger?
‘As long as he doesn't come at me.’
There was no animosity, and he was very useful. For now, that was enough.
***
Jahar returned the next morning.
And the day after that, at noon, Arnea.
“How annoying.”
Around the time Arnea returned.
Simurtr was in his room, tending to his internal injuries.
“Aren’t there any more elixirs somewhere?”
The internal injuries were… not major, but they were a major problem.
That was how Simurtr assessed the internal injuries he had sustained. The overload on his body had already healed, but the scratches on his mana circuit were not healing.
“This really sucks.”
If it were his body from his past life, it would have been fully healed by now. This body was not that sturdy.
Other things were different, but durability was the biggest problem. Compared to his body from his past life, all he could do was sigh.
The 16-year-old Exa's body from his past life was incomparably sturdier than Simurtr's current body. Exa, who was an orphan, was born with a Strong Body of unknown origin.
“I’m not even hoping for a bloodline.”
The master of all swords. The Mectera bloodline boasted an outstanding hexagonal balance.
The Dujeu of the Sword Tower are born with a Strong Body.
This is a characteristic of bloodlines called prestigious families in the world. The traits they possess are repeated over and over, engraving themselves into the blood.
“It’s strange.”
The successors of the Star-Breaking Style. They were born with the destiny to handle immense mana amplification.
This meant they had no choice but to become experts in training the body that must become the vessel for it.
“This shouldn't be like this.”
Simurtr had undergone such training since he was young. He had been tempering his body to create one suitable for the Star-Breaking Style.
Yet, it was more fragile than the 16-year-old Exa’s body. And that was even before he had met his master.
For a body trained with the Star-Breaking Style in mind to be weaker than a body that was simply trained.
“I did as my master said.”
His master couldn't have been wrong.
This was the insurmountable limit of physical talent.
Starting with overall durability, to physical strength, agility, and even the range of motion of his joints. It was all utterly ordinary.
He wasn't even hoping for the hexagonal balance of a Mectera, yet this body didn't have a single outstanding feature.
Knock, knock.
As he was thinking, he heard a knock.
“What.”
Since his return, Simurtr had not once spread his Sword Net.
It was to preserve his circuits, and anyway, the sound knocking on the door was almost always Meram's.
“The Sword Master has arrived.”
“What?”
Meram’s familiar voice. But at the unexpected words, Simurtr furrowed his brow.
“Why?”
“You should ask him yourself.”
Creak. As the door opened, Simurtr, who had been sitting on the floor, had no choice but to stand up.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Next to Meram was Orde.
“Not bad.”
As Simurtr bowed his head, he subtly glanced at Meram. Meram was smiling, looking satisfied.
The fact that the master of Mectera had come in person must have made her quite happy.
‘She must be thinking I’ve finally been acknowledged.’
This was the first time this had happened.
“That’s a relief. Consuming this will make you feel better.”
Orde took a small box from his bosom. A pungent smell wafted out.
“It’s a high-grade elixir from Basor.”
Basor of magic.
Mectera detests them, yet they do not hesitate to use the items they create.
Weren't the elixirs in the main castle's repository also made by the Magic Tower?
‘They think that’s the role of those backroom spellcasters.’
Research and invention.
That is the value Mectera sees in spellcasters.
The spellcasters Mectera detests are the combat mages who insult and belittle the sword.
Because every time they meet, they bluster on about how magic is superior.
“Thank you.”
Simurtr carefully received the box.
It was because he was in front of the Sword Master. Orde. Come to think of it, he had never properly faced him.
‘This is the first time since I was five.’
Even when he left for the exile mansion, Orde did not visit the west annex. It couldn't have been because he disliked him.
‘It must have been because he didn't have the courage to see his banished son.’
That tone, that behavior, all his words and actions resemble Medeoban's. It's not out of respect.
“The date for the banquet has been set. It is this evening.”
He was imitating his father to act the part of the Sword Master.
Yet, it wasn't perfect. A slightly kind Medeoban. That's what Simurtr thought. His heart was too soft to impersonate his father.
“I understand.”
“…Yes. Let’s discuss the details then.”
At Simurtr’s calm reply, Orde’s tone trembled for a moment. He made eye contact, and his pupils were trembling as well.
As expected. He was afraid of his youngest son. It wasn't a matter of skill. He was engulfed in the fear of whether his youngest would resent him.
***
Although the world often treats Sword Masters as inhuman monsters, they are, in the end, human.
They possess the same emotions as others, and no matter how much advice they receive from those around them, they are humans who ultimately do as they please.
Weak, yet strong.
Simurtr once recalled what the swordsmen had said. It wasn't a compliment meaning that a ripe ear of rice bows its head.
‘The former refers to personality, the latter to martial prowess.’
Although he did not participate in the Doom War, Orde had talent. A talent that every swordsman he met acknowledged.
That talent blossomed safely. He possessed skills that were not lacking to hold the position of Sword Master.
‘But he’s not fit to be the family head.’
From Mectera's ideological point of view, there was no particular problem. The swordsmen do not care for such elements.
As long as you use the sword well, what else matters. That thought is always underlying.
‘But it’s also true that he failed to manage his wife and the Sword Order.’
The fault lies with Janya and the 3rd Sword Order, but in the end, the one who must take responsibility is the family head. His heart is too weak to even mete out punishment easily.
There was no way he would be to Medeoban’s liking.
‘He resembles Ejel.’
Looking at Orde, Simurtr recalled his squad member. The youngest of the Baperr unit. Ejel.
Orde resembled that squad member.
Of course, he didn't know what Ejel was like now, but anyway.
‘He cried whenever he saw blood.’
He cried seeing animal blood, and he even cried when killing a mosquito that had sucked his blood.
This meant he cried throughout the entire war. Every time he fought. Because even the Doom Species bleed. The color is the same too.
‘But he killed everything that needed to be killed.’
His disposition was truly weak, but he did what needed to be done.
That was the difference with Orde. They were similar, but there was a crucial difference.
‘If Ejel were the family head, she would have done everything while crying. Without the old man having to step in.’
Without Medeoban needing to do the cleaning for her, she would have done it with her own hands. She would have gone around lopping off heads while bawling her eyes out.
Or she wouldn't have let things get that out of hand in the first place.
‘It’s not really a comparison, though.’
You have to do it even if you don't want to.
That thought is ingrained in their heads.
‘I’m sorry. But I have to kill you.’
When Ejel killed someone, she would often say so while crying. Compared to the other squad members, Ejel was a truly unique subordinate.
A discrepancy between emotion and action. Her emotions were truly unsuited for war, but her actions were perfectly suited.
It was something Exa from his past life had instilled in her. In order to survive the war.
‘Well. It’s not like that’s wrong, though.’
Simurtr thought as he watched Orde’s back walking ahead. An inborn nature isn't a fault.
‘He probably doesn’t want to do it either.’
The Orde he had heard of through rumors was a person without greed. He probably had no intention of becoming the Sword Master.
‘But Gerehk died.’
And because of that, Medeoban changed.
What wasn't a fault had become a fault.
If the family head is weak, the family becomes unstable. That was the reason he mimicked Medeoban's words and actions.
‘But in the end, he’s not Medeoban.’
The influence of his wife being strong in the main family was likely due to that as well. The weak-willed Orde probably couldn't say anything to his wives.
He must have hated fighting. He hated the pointless arguments, politics, and emotional toll, so he ended up giving up on one side.
‘And that’s me.’
Instead of reining in his difficult wives, he gave up on his still young youngest son.
Because a child has no power. He might have even thought he could just appease him later.
Because he's a child. It would be easier than dealing with his wives.
‘I don’t like his handling of it, but still.’
He wasn’t his child. They weren't even related by blood. He was his father on the family register, but he had never thought of him that way.
But he owed him a debt. In any case, Orde had accepted his mother, Anna. He had also allowed for Simurtr, who was in her womb.
If there was something he wanted, he was willing to accommodate. He could grant it as long as it was within the bounds of possibility.
‘If that means I can stop caring about the main castle, then by all means.’
Orde's feet stopped. It was because they had arrived at the central castle. Let’s go in.
Simurtr looked at Orde, who was looking back at him, and opened his mouth.
“Father.”
“Yes.”
Orde's voice trembled slightly, as if he were moved.
“I have never resented you, Father. And I never will.”
To Simurtr, exile had been a rather good environment. If a teacher had been attached to him from a young age, there would have been more than one or two strange points.
Thanks to that, he had gained time to lay the foundation of the Star-Breaking Style.
“So I hope you do not resent me either, Father.”
“…How could I ever resent my own son.”
Orde smiled bitterly.