“O-o-oh...”
The royal capital of Zeros. The city, frozen in anticipation of the Holy Sword Festival, was steeped in an atmosphere of thrilled excitement.
It did not dazzle the eyes with neon brilliance like the border metropolises. And yet the endless rows of shops along the stone pavements, the children laughing and running everywhere, and the wooden swords and cloth dolls hung all over the place recreating the legends of Valloren’s founding made it feel as though the entire city had sunk into the warm atmosphere of a fairy tale.
Only Cheonmae, who was used to traveling constantly, remained relatively calm. The other platoon members, not to mention Rietta and Yuria, could hardly stand still, constantly glancing around. Anticipation was written all over their faces.
— ...Big sis.
Yuria carefully tugged at the edge of Rietta’s clothes, pointing at a sweet shop selling holy-sword-shaped treats.
— I wonder what it tastes like?
Before Rietta could even guess, a booming laugh rang out from behind the stall, the hearty owner chuckling warmly.
— Young ladies! You must have come to see the sights? Quite the difficult journey in times like these.
He lifted up a holy-sword-shaped cookie.
— This is “Heinz,” Valloren’s traditional delicacy. We bake it with generous amounts of honey and nuts. No festival is complete without this delicious treat.
— I-I see...
For a moment, having been mistaken for ordinary tourists, Rietta and Yuria exchanged strange looks. But then, as if on cue, they burst into laughter and immediately began poking Cheonmae insistently in the side.
— Damn it all... — Cheonmae muttered irritably as she pulled out her wallet.
— I-it’s good!
— This is way better than I expected. Gunther, want to try some?
Levain, who had been silently watching them, lightly nudged Gunther with a faint smile.
— I wonder if maybe we should suggest the mayor hold some kind of festival in our city too?
— ...I think it’s worth at least making the suggestion.
For some reason, Gunther was certain Mikhela would like the idea. Ever since she had regained her strength, she had thrown her whole heart into turning the city into a place fit for people to live in.
“Now that I think about it... where is she right now, and what is she doing?”
He was not too worried, knowing she had not gone alone but with her personal guard, yet deep down Gunther still wanted her to return to the city as soon as possible. With that thought, he looked around.
“Somewhere around here.”
This was close to the meeting point with Servan and Seril. However, with the street packed full of people, finding the twins was no easy task. It seemed that because the war had not erupted in full force due to the Reality Rewrite, the festival had become even grander than usual.
Tap—
— Sir Gan!
Turning around, Gunther saw Seril, her arms piled high with “Heinz.” She was dressed in simple clothes completely unfitting for the daughter of an influential family. Behind her stood Servan, loaded down with every kind of snack and trinket obviously bought from the stalls. The moment his eyes met Gunther’s, Servan let out a heavy sigh and began handing the items out to the platoon members one by one. Seril, meanwhile, nodded with a very satisfied smile.
— These are the spoils I prepared.
— ......
— Is something wrong?
— No, nothing.
Seril and Servan explained that they had come to the capital to participate in the holy sword extraction ceremony. They added that for heirs of the Round Table families, appearing here was a matter of tradition. At those words, something strange flickered in Gunther’s eyes.
“In that case... I might run into Albern or the other descendants of the Round Table.”
Gunther recalled the mighty knight with the long spear and noble character. Even if that event now officially “did not exist,” the memories of them scrambling together to save the Barkel family’s lands still remained vivid in his mind. Albern was someone whose affinity had advanced all the way to the unlocking of personal bonds.
“According to the system, the bonds themselves are still preserved, but...”
How exactly that would manifest remained a mystery. If bonds influenced even altered relationships... then perhaps there was hope that his connection with Tarsha had not been erased completely either.
— ......
Gunther turned back to his companions. There was a barely perceptible emptiness in this familiar scene. Blanc stood alone, staring absentmindedly at the noisy street.
“Kid, give that here. Real cookies are supposed to crunch!”
“A-a-ah, Gunther! Tarsha burned my cookie with lightning!”
If only Tarsha were here. They would surely be having some similarly ridiculous exchange right now. She would have enjoyed this festival more than anyone. Laughing, chatting, and swinging her staff around in every direction, bumping into passersby.
Gunther let out a quiet sigh. Unaware of his complicated feelings, the platoon members enthusiastically bombarded Servan with questions.
— By the way, it’s surprising that foreigners are allowed to participate in the Holy Sword Festival.
Rietta’s question drew Gunther’s attention.
— The one who pulls out the sword can become Valloren’s leader, right? Giving a foreigner that chance seems unbelievably radical.
Servan answered without hesitation.
— The holy sword cannot make a mistake in its choice.
— The sword chooses on its own...?
— In fact, the third king, Cedric, was a foreigner. When the kingdom was in danger during the Great Dead Invasion of the Northern Sea, he drew the sword and stopped them. After that, he ruled wisely for a long time.
Servan’s gaze naturally shifted toward the royal castle. Toward the place where Sword Hill stood, with the artifact embedded there.
— In Valloren’s long history, the holy sword’s choice has never once been wrong. That is why we hold the festival even in times like these. Anyway, it would be wonderful if someone managed to draw it this time... Hey, why ask if you’re not listening...?!
But Rietta did not seem to hear Servan’s complaints. Tilting her head, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. Her brows furrowed as though she had seen something strange.
— ...?
Gunther’s gaze followed hers. The noisy crowd, shoulders brushing, flags and tents swaying. Only ordinary faces.
Rietta stared that way for a little longer, then gave a barely visible shake of her head and turned forward again.
— Big sis? What’s wrong? — Yuria asked.
Rietta shook her head once more.
— No, it’s nothing.
For a moment, she thought she had seen a familiar face. A face so close to her that memories of Audrey House flashed before her eyes without warning. But it was simply impossible for her to meet that person here. She must have just seen someone who looked similar.
As if drawing a line under that thought, Rietta quickened her pace to catch up with the group. Servan continued talking about the Holy Sword Festival.
He explained that not just anyone could climb Sword Hill, and that thorough screening was required to participate. He reminded everyone that the main part of the festival would begin tomorrow and asked them all to prepare. Those were important words. But for some reason, Rietta simply could not focus.
.
.
.
— ...So, Rietta.
A quiet laugh came from beyond the crowd, unheard by anyone.
— You’re looking pretty good.
***
Behind the royal castle. After a long climb along the fortress walls, Sword Hill finally came into view.
The slope was so steep it was hard to believe it stood inside the city. No stone steps, no artificial decorations—only a sheer rocky path rising straight toward the sky. It felt as though the castle was not the true centerpiece here, but that this hill had stood first, and the city had merely gathered at its foot.
And at the very top.
There, the holy sword was embedded.
Ryan, looking up from below at the sword—which from the base of the hill looked smaller than a toothpick—muttered quietly enough that those around him would not hear.
— It’s... more ordinary than I thought.
And it really was. About the size of an ordinary longsword. The details were impossible to make out from this distance, but it did not shine with blinding light, nor did waves of mystical energy pour from it. Just an old sword, frozen in place.
— All right, maintain order! Tourists to the right! Locals to the opposite side!
At the foot of the hill, registration was already in full swing. People streamed in from every direction, eager to test their luck. Gunther and his companions decided to participate as well, but to avoid drawing too much attention as a group, they filled out their applications separately off to the side.
“Wow, there are more serious contenders than I expected.”
There were far more tourists than locals, and among them were quite a few whose inner power was obvious at first glance. Whenever such people so much as moved, murmurs spread through the crowd. Some were clearly famous, judging by the throngs of onlookers trailing behind them. Watching this, Gunther once again appreciated the foresight of Valloren’s rulers.
“This isn’t just a festival.”
Gather spectators to boost the city’s internal economy, stage an entertaining spectacle to calm a populace worn down by prolonged war. On top of that, it was the perfect way to naturally attract strong fighters.
— Entry fee accepted.
...And a very large fee at that, one that would clearly fill the organizers’ treasury.
“This isn’t the kind of amount people hand over just for fun.”
They said the fee would be returned to anyone who passed the first trial, but the difficulty of that very “first” step was infamous.
— After the first trial... you’d be lucky if even one in ten remains, — Servan muttered quietly beside Gunther.
— Sir Servan, you said you’ve participated several times already.
— Heirs of the Round Table are obligated to attend.
Servan continued filling out his form as he spoke.
— There are usually three to five trials. The Round Table families prepare them in rotation. Last year it was us, the ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) Barkels, and this year it’s the first family’s turn, the Arders, and...
A bitter smile appeared on Servan’s lips.
— They have a habit of making the tasks absurdly difficult. In any case, you need to clear them all to earn the right to step onto Sword Hill.
— ...Have you ever held the holy sword in your hands?
— Embarrassing as it is to admit... not yet.
Servan smiled awkwardly. That was unexpected. Even if he was especially close to perfection when paired with Seril, on his own he was still more than a worthy knight.
“So the difficulty really is that serious.”
— They say sometimes the holy sword even speaks to the one who touches it. I’d really like to experience that myself.
Servan clenched his fist, promising himself he would achieve it this year. Gunther nodded in agreement and looked around. The platoon members were almost done registering as well. The line had noticeably thinned.
And at that moment—
Shhk—
Footsteps sounded, as if pressing the very air down to the earth. Scarlet armor flared into view. A long, straight spear towering over its owner, who himself stood nearly two meters tall. Cheers of excitement and anxious whispers erupted all around at once.
— It’s Sir Albern! Red Lion Albern!
— They say just a week ago he was mowing down fanatics on Laska Plain!
— Wow, his aura is even more imposing in person.
The Arder family—the most powerful among the Round Table families, effectively filling the vacuum of power in the king’s absence. As befitted such a leader, Albern enjoyed overwhelming support from the people. Amid the cheers, he climbed onto the platform.
— ......?
Or rather, he froze halfway up. Gunther was certain—their eyes had met. Beneath Albern’s helmet visor, an extremely strange expression flashed across his face. For a moment, he looked shaken. But he immediately regained himself and turned toward the participants.
— First of all, I offer my gratitude to everyone who answered the call and came to the Holy Sword Festival.
A formal greeting. A few phrases about chivalry, tradition, and the significance of this sword. And then—
— Let’s not drag this out.
Whoosh—
Albern’s spear swept in a wide arc. Its tip pointed toward a corner of the square. There stood something enormous covered in cloth, its silhouette promising something utterly outrageous.
— Now then, the first trial.
