TSMRG 17

TSMRG

Posted by Aashi, Released on September 5, 2025

Chapter 17

The moment the North Sword Duke, Damon, appeared—dressed in splendid black ceremonial robes and adorned with a beautiful laurel crown—everyone respectfully knelt down on one knee.

“We greet the North Sword Duke!”

Their voices thundered in unison, creating a sight that was nothing short of magnificent.

Watching that, Luin muttered inwardly:

‘No wonder they call Reinhardt the sky of the North.’

[At least that clan head is worth watching. This generation, though? Completely hopeless, rotten to the core.]

The ceaseless muttering of the Sword Spirit—constantly evaluating the skills of those around them—was giving Luin a serious headache.

Even earlier, while talking with Freon, the Lord of Snow Peak, the Spirit had butted in:

[What a pity this one is. His foundation isn’t bad, but he’s never received proper guidance.]

The Spirit would keep remarking how much better these people would be if he were the one teaching them.

Tap!

[Ow! Why did you suddenly hit me?!]

Unable to endure it any longer, Luin had nudged the sword at his waist, causing the Spirit to react furiously.

‘Please, be quiet for once.’

[Quiet? Hah! It’s not like I’m saying anything wrong. None of them are even worth looking at. This Reinhardt generation is trash—utter trash! Nothing but dung!]

If anyone overheard him, they’d be shocked speechless. Luin could only sigh inwardly and shake his head.

[That’s why you must inherit my teachings. Spread Reinhardt’s dignity to every corner of the continent—]

Boom!

At that moment, the North Sword Duke finally entered the banquet hall and seated himself at the central seat prepared for him. As he did, the great doors shut behind him.

Slowly raising his hand, he declared:

“Rise.”

At his command, everyone who had been kneeling with bowed heads stood once again.

“This banquet is for the children who passed the Sword Assembly. Today’s stars are not I, but they. Do not concern yourselves with me—enjoy yourselves to your hearts’ content.”

At his calm proclamation, the guests lowered their heads and answered:

“Thank you, my lord.”
“As you command.”
“We obey your will.”

Different voices, different tones, but all held the same meaning.

As per Duke Damon’s order, none regarded the banquet as stiff or formal anymore; they began to enjoy themselves freely.

Laughter and chatter filled the hall once more, and the atmosphere steadily grew lively.

Of course—

“He still dares to stay here shamelessly.”
“Tch, if he had any sense of face, he’d have left long ago.”
“Like father, like son—so reckless.”
“And what of the one who took him as a protégé?”
“…I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, Lord of Snow Peak. I thought better of you.”
“To think the once idol of swordsmen has become a dog of power. Pathetic.”

—there were still plenty whispering slander about Luin and Lord Freon.

And then—

“Ahem!”

Someone cleared their throat loudly, interrupting the gossipers.

“Huh?”

The group turned, startled as a burly figure pushed his way through.

“Who dares—oh?”
“Wait, isn’t that Heinz?”

Absorbed in badmouthing, they had failed to notice who had cut in until they saw the middle-aged man with striking blond hair and beard.

“My apologies. It’s been so long since I attended a banquet like this that I had trouble finding my way.”

He scratched the back of his head with a booming laugh.

“O-oh, no problem.”
“Hahaha, indeed. Just be careful, you nearly knocked us over.”
“Speaking of which, wasn’t Baron Kuril looking for us?”
“Ah, right! Let’s go quickly—you mustn’t keep people waiting.”

Forcing awkward laughs, the group excused themselves with pale faces and left in haste.

As the worst offenders slipped away, Heinz muttered with a shake of his head:

“Pathetic.”

Then, brightening, he strode toward Luin and Freon.

“Freon!”

“…Heinz.”

Lord Freon’s stiff expression relaxed a little as he greeted him.

“Quite popular, I see.”

“If you’re here to mock me, you can keep walking.”

“Hah! Look at you. You don’t say a word back to them, but you snap at me without mercy.”

“It’s not that I couldn’t, but that they’re not worth my time.”

“Of course, of course. Always so lofty, our proud Bright Blue Sword.”

Chuckling, Heinz slapped a hand onto Freon’s shoulder.

“…Haa. Fine. Thank you for helping.”

“Hahaha, think nothing of it. I didn’t do it to hear thanks.”

Waving dismissively, Heinz then turned his gaze to Luin.

“So, you must be the son of the famed Kavel?”

“Good day, sir.”

Luin bowed politely.

At the same time, the Spirit whispered in his ear:

[Hmm. Not bad. His foundation is decent, training solid. But his potential hasn’t fully awakened yet. Tch. What a pity.]

And then Heinz said with a grin:

“And the boy who’s been keeping my daughter awake at night?”

“…Excuse me?”

Catching Luin completely off guard, the remark soon clicked in his mind.

‘Ah, so this is Maylin’s father.’

Heinz Reinhardt. Though only from a distant branch family, his skill and talent were said to surpass many of the direct line. He even commanded his own independent battle unit, the Azure Wind Division.

“Just a joke, just a joke,” Heinz quickly waved his hand. Then, lowering his voice, “But if you ever meet my daughter, don’t tell her I—”

“Dad!”

A loud, familiar voice cut through the air, and a golden-haired girl appeared.

“M-Maylin. You’re here.”

“What are you—oh? Luin?”

Her face, bristling with anger at her father, softened in surprise when she spotted Luin. She walked right over.

“Hello, Uncle Freon. Long time no see.”

“Yes, long time, Maylin.”

Having met Freon before, she greeted him warmly, then squinted at her father.

“What were you talking about?”

“What? Nothing, just greetings. Isn’t that right, Luin?”

“….”

Heinz smiled awkwardly, clearly a terrible liar. Luin said nothing.

‘This man has no talent for acting.’

[Indeed. Far beneath his supposed potential.]

For once, Luin found himself agreeing with the Spirit.

Then Maylin turned to Freon:

“Uncle Freon, what was my dad really talking about?”

“About you.”

“Me? What did he say?”

Eyes blazing like they’d shoot lasers at her father any moment, she waited. Freon replied without a flicker of expression:

“He said you’ve been troubled ever since obtaining the Black Dragon Sword.”

“Eh? Oh…”

Her lips closed as complex emotions filled her eyes. She looked at her father.

“I told you, didn’t I? There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t believe in such curses.”

Her voice was firmer and more resolute than ever. Heinz faltered for a moment, but then nodded with a calm expression.

“Yes, Maylin. I believe in my daughter.”

The two exchanged a heartfelt gaze—until Maylin suddenly frowned.

“…But on my way here, I saw you talking with Luin, not Uncle Freon.”

“Ahem. Maylin, why don’t we go greet Uncle Pallen over there?”

Heinz swiftly changed the subject. Maylin reluctantly nodded.

“Fine. But before that—”

She turned to Luin.

“Luin.”

Standing before him now, she spoke with a serious look.

“What?”

“I’m sorry about before.”

Her sudden apology caught him off guard.

“I shouldn’t have stubbornly clung to only my own perspective. I should have considered yours too. I was immature. So, I apologize. Sorry.”

“….”

For a moment, Luin just stared, dumbfounded.

‘Hah. She gives thanks when she wants, apologizes when she wants… always on her terms.’

Finding her self-centeredness strangely amusing, he met her eyes. Her golden hair and aquamarine dress harmonized beautifully, radiating both nobility and beauty despite her young age. Still—her darting eyes betrayed her nerves.

An age-appropriate gesture.

“…Very well. I accept your apology.”

He nodded, and Maylin beamed.

“Whew. At least you accepted this time—whether gratitude or apology.”

“What?”

“I was afraid you’d refuse me again.”

So openly confessing her fear in front of others, Maylin earned approving glances from both her father and Freon.

And then—

“But hey, Luin.”

She leaned closer, smiling brightly.

“What did my dad just say to you?”

“….”

Like a hunter who never missed a chance to snatch her prey, she cornered Luin without hesitation.

Heinz’s smug expression instantly shattered.

Meanwhile, elsewhere—

“…To think you’ve raised three such fine sons. I’m envious.”
“Not as fine as the Count’s own children. Until next time.”
“Hahaha, indeed.”

Following his father Oswell, a boy was steadily becoming the true star of the banquet: Seron.

At his hip hung the Sword Saint’s Sword, recovered during the Sword Assembly.

Everyone who met him spoke of the legend of the Sword Saint returning, calling him the next Sword Saint, or even the Sword Saint reborn.

“Seron, all eyes are on you. Do not lose focus.”
“Yes, Father.”

Whenever his concentration wavered, Oswell’s sharp voice would snap him back.

Seron did his best to maintain the expression of someone dignified yet humble, spirited yet tinged with melancholy.

‘Gods, this is exhausting.’

Inwardly, he sighed deeply, fed up.

‘What’s so great about this Sword Saint nonsense anyway?!’

Ever since obtaining the Clear Sky Sword, the endless chatter about him being the Sword Saint had driven him mad.

But—

“Do not let praise from others lead to arrogance. Remember that, Seron.”
“Yes, Father.”

He answered politely to Oswell’s stern admonitions.

“You still have much to learn. Never become complacent. You know better than anyone how your brothers disappointed me…”
“I will remember.”
“I’ve told you many times: you are another me. You must never show weakness. Stand tall before everyone, except your grandfather. Remember, all others are beneath you. Now, we are about to meet Count Andrew. Prepare yourself.”

“….”

Oswell was a man of endless ambition, determined to become Reinhardt’s next head. To him, sacrifice and exploitation meant nothing if they brought him closer to his goal.

His two elder sons, older than Seron, had already failed his expectations and been discarded—though not publicly shunned, as they still commanded their own divisions. But his hopes now rested solely on Seron.

“The one to succeed me is you, Seron—no one else.”

Oswell’s tone was ironclad.

But—

‘I couldn’t care less about any of that.’

Seron had no desire for the clan headship or succession. All he wanted—

‘I just want to swing my sword. Why am I even here?’

—to grow stronger, faster.

But—

“Yes, Father!”

At Oswell’s call, he straightened instantly.

And then a thought crossed his mind:

‘When this banquet ends, maybe I’ll ask Maylin or Selena for a spar.’