Whoosh—
The cloth concealing the “something enormous” slipped away, and two completely different reactions swept through the onlookers. Only a few let out quiet, awed breaths, while most exchanged confused looks, unable to understand what they were seeing.
— ...What is that?
— Stone... ore? No, look, those are sword marks!
A gigantic boulder, several times taller than a person. Its surface looked so hard that it seemed as though it would ring like metal if struck. And all over it were countless intertwined scars left by blades.
That was when Gunther, who had been carefully studying the mass, frowned.
“Strange.”
The first, oldest marks were shallow. They barely scratched the surface, as if left by the hand of an inexperienced swordsman. But gradually the traces grew deeper. They literally bit into the stone, carving through it, and some even pierced the rock completely, emerging from the other side.
— Could the trial really be to leave a mark on that stone?
— Damn it, if you don’t have aura, don’t even bother. I’ve never seen ore like that.
— Don’t tell me... even if the Arders are famous for bone-crushing exams, this is beyond excessive...
Albern waited until the noise died down, then spoke again.
— This stone is the very one on which Valloren’s founder honed his skill in life.
In an instant, the atmosphere changed. The grumbling of dissatisfaction turned into reverent awe. Even the ordinary citizens of the kingdom who had come to watch the spectacle instinctively straightened their backs. The founder was that significant a figure. The man who laid Valloren’s foundation and defined the code of chivalry; a legend whose swordsmanship, according to the tales, had reached the heavens.
The fact that the stone preserving fragments of such a person’s insight had been brought out as the object of a trial vividly showed just how much effort the kingdom had poured into this Holy Sword Festival.
Albern respectfully gestured toward the boulder.
— The name of this trial is “Trace.”
Behind the helmet visor, his eyes burned with passion as they swept across the challengers.
— What do you feel when you look at these scars? Inexperience? Persistence? Hope? Or perhaps anger, despair, or enlightenment?
After a brief pause, he laid out the core of the test.
— I’ll say this in advance: there is no correct answer. You need only express through your sword... through your weapon, the images you read from these traces.
Then he bowed toward the raised platform behind him.
— Before these honored individuals.
Only then did the participants understand what the empty space ahead had been meant for.
Shhk—
As a group of people slowly stepped forward, the entire plaza erupted into applause as one. Veterans of knightly orders, famed masters of sword halls, and judges sent by the great Round Table families. Their gazes, heavy with the burden of years lived, scanned every participant. Though their bodies had aged and left the battlefield behind, their experience and discernment were sharper than any young fighter’s.
— Hah, right from the start this is no joke.
— ...All right, let’s do this.
The mood of the crowd changed instantly. In truth, few had seriously expected to draw the Holy Sword and become king of Valloren. Most had simpler goals: career and fame. The festival was the perfect showcase, a chance to catch the eye of the kingdom’s elite.
— There is no time limit. You may study the stone as long as you like. When inspiration strikes, step before the judges. But remember: you only get one chance, so be prudent.
Whoosh—
Albern’s spear shot high into the sky.
— Then let it begin. I hereby declare the 378th Holy Sword Festival since Valloren’s founding open!
The moment those words rang out, the crowd of participants surged toward the stone. Gunther slowly followed after them.
“So it’s about feelings and images...”
He had come here for one reason only: to take the Holy Sword. But the trial itself was beginning to stir genuine interest in him.
“This could become a clue for stat growth.”
Gunther swept his gaze over the boulder once more. Thanks to the trait Wisdom of the Warrior (or perhaps Flawless Talent), the moment he saw the scars, a vague image began to take shape in his mind of how exactly the founder had moved before this stone.
“...What the hell? Why does this feel so familiar?”
Of course, the level was incomparable—the skill on the other side was absurdly high. Yet the essence itself, the logic of the movements and the direction of thought, felt strangely similar to his own.
Still, because of that, the weight he had felt the moment the trial was announced disappeared. He had a premonition that he would pass even if he simply demonstrated ordinary knight swordsmanship. But Gunther wanted to get to the bottom of this strange déjà vu.
[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats coughs quietly]
“...And what is that supposed to mean?”
Suddenly, a memory surfaced. That day when the platoon fighters and the Round Table knights had held a sparring match. Back then, the King of Knights had taken one look at the opponent’s sword and said:
“This is only a pathetic imitation of the style I created.”
And then, as if it were nothing, pointed out every flaw in the technique.
“Don’t tell me you bastard are somehow connected to the founder too?”
[He says it would be better for you to realize that connection yourself]
“...Fine.”
Gunther smirked at the absurdity of the situation.
“You could at least have not made it so obvious.”
[Alphonse of Red Street snickers]
Gunther let out a quiet sigh and returned to studying the stone. Countless traces. Small and deep. Hesitant and precise.
“What is it?”
Something was slipping away, almost brushing against his fingertips, yet refusing to take shape.
...And then.
— Ha! If all you people are going to do is stare, then I’ll go first!
Everyone’s attention snapped toward the source at once. A warrior with an axe strode forward, radiating confidence.
“...Yuria.”
Yuria proudly took her place before the judges. A small but solidly built frame; taut muscles rolled beneath her skin with every movement.
Honestly, Gunther still found it hard to get used to it. To the fact that the sickly girl trembling at Seren Mayra’s altar had become this. ...Still, what mattered was that she had grown up healthy.
One of the judges spoke.
— Very well. Young warrior, what did you see in these scars?
— What did I see?
A broad grin spread across Yuria’s lips.
— Madness!
Before she had even finished speaking, she burst forward. She drew the throwing axes hanging at her belt. Scarlet aura flared along the blades. And before anyone even had time to gasp—
Whoosh—!
Yuria hurled an axe straight at the stone.
— Psycho!
— Hey, brat, what the hell are you doing?!
The crowd was horrified. Not only because of the sheer suddenness, but because of the outrage: she was damaging an object they themselves still needed to analyze. Yet the organizers did not utter a single word, nor did they even try to stop her.
Clang—!
The aura-charged axe bounced helplessly off the stone the moment it touched it. At the same instant, it returned perfectly to Yuria’s hand. She puffed out her chest and laughed.
— That’s mithril, isn’t it?
— Oho, the young lady has a fine eye.
Gunther remembered that the Fifth Platoon members had helped in Nest. She had surely worked in Dramcrow’s forge as well, so her knowledge of ores had to be first-rate. Incidentally, in <Forgotten God>, mithril held legendary status. A mysterious metal impossible to process with modern technology.
— Chopping at mithril over and over again...
Yuria’s gaze, full of strange admiration, remained fixed on the boulder.
— From shallow scratches to wounds that pierced all the way through. To cut mithril like that... his palms must have burst into blood every single time, his bones shifting and forgetting their shape. And if after all that he still didn’t stop and left behind ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) thousands of traces...
Yuria clenched her fist.
— That’s not just persistence.
— O-o-oh...
— That’s madness.
A quiet murmur of approval passed among the judges.
— And when it comes to madness, no one understands it better than I do.
Gripping an axe in each hand, Yuria began slicing through the air.
Whoosh—
From the very first movement, it was crude. Weight transfer, center of gravity—everything was far from calculated. The axes stabbed more than they chopped, and the trajectories formed no elegant pattern. No system at all.
But. The movements did not stop for even an instant.
Whenever it seemed she was about to lose balance, she swung even harder. Even at angles where it was impossible to put force behind the strike, she did not change her grip. Before one blade had even finished its motion, the next strike was already layering over it.
The spectators, Gunther included, instinctively understood. This was not an efficient combat technique. This was not an attempt to protect oneself.
“...This is a technique for a fight to the death where you take the enemy with you.”
Angles the arms should never endure. Trajectories where the wrists should inevitably snap. Chains of blows no one would ever choose if they were thinking about the next step.
And yet the axes never stopped. It looked as though she was not swinging weapons, but herself. Literal “madness” was what made these movements possible. The crowd gasped.
Watching this, Gunther once again remembered the scars on the stone.
“Madness...?”
No. Something was missing. That explanation alone was not enough.
And then—
— Enough.
A low voice echoed from the judges’ seats. From the whispers around him, Gunther understood who it was. The former commander of the royal guard. The hero who had stopped Luthien’s surprise attack and protected Laska Plain. They said Valloren would have fallen long ago if not for him.
Whoosh—
Yuria stopped spinning. The girl slung an axe over her shoulder and looked challengingly at the judges.
— Well?
— I’ve seen enough.
The old man declared in a detached tone:
— Failed.
— Huh?! Why the hell?!
— The interpretation of “madness” itself is not entirely wrong.
His voice was quiet, but it admitted no argument.
— But it has no core. And that is worse than a completely wrong answer.
— What the hell do you—
The old man’s wrinkled eyes stared straight at Yuria.
— From the outside, it may indeed look like madness. To spill blood, break the body, keep chopping until the end...
— ......
— But that is only the result. Not the cause.
After a pause, he pronounced the verdict.
— Therefore—failed.
— Uuuuuugh!
Yuria slumped her shoulders and trudged back, dragging her axes along the ground.
“The core? The cause?”
Gunther turned the old man’s words over in his head. If madness was the result, then what had been the root cause?
Meanwhile, several more participants stepped forward. Most displayed ordinary techniques, but some of them suddenly received a “pass.” The criteria only became more obscure. Yuria pouted resentfully, but it seemed she had already forgotten the failure a minute later, now enthusiastically watching the others perform. ...Well, her stress tolerance really was enviable.
— ...Gunther.
Someone approached him while he was studying the stone.
— Rietta?
Interest flared in Gunther’s eyes. He had already noticed since last evening that something was off about her. In the morning she had seemed calm, and while they were filling out applications she had even joked that she would sign up for the festival for fun despite being a mage-telekinetic. But now everything had changed. She looked as though she had seen a ghost; her anxiety was snowballing. The tips of her fingers trembled faintly, and her gaze kept darting.
Gunther immediately turned away from the stone and took Rietta by the shoulders.
— Rietta, what happened?
— I... I have to say it. I think I saw someone. No, I definitely saw him... yesterday too. It’s not a mistake.
Her speech was disjointed, completely unlike her. There was clear, naked fear trembling in her voice.
— Who did you see? Is it someone you know?
Gunther’s mind instantly kicked into full gear.
Rietta’s circle had always been extremely small. She had spent almost her entire life in Audrey House, and after that under Night Raven’s wing. Every single teacher from Audrey House had been personally slaughtered by “Raymond,” and the children had been rescued. And now she was saying she had “seen someone” in Valloren. It was unlikely to be an archbishop like Masiu—she would have said so directly. ...So who had she seen?
“Don’t tell me.”
Gunther sharply turned toward the spectator stands.
