Chapter 11
"Eldred."
"What?"
"What meaning does any of this have?"
Riyan asked while showing the blood staining his hands.
It wasn't monster blood.
It was the blood of fellow humans.
Eldred looked completely unimpressed.
"So what?"
"I don't care about killing monsters. But these people..."
"They're deserters."
"But even so..."
"They're still human. Is that what you're trying to say?"
Eldred laughed.
There was unmistakable mockery and contempt in it.
What followed was a kick.
Riyan's head snapped to the side.
He worked his mouth for a moment before spitting out bloody saliva.
But the gloom in his eyes remained.
"What a ridiculous bastard."
"What's ridiculous?"
"Who are you to judge someone else's life?"
Eldred gave him a cold look.
"Who the hell are you? Insolent brat. Who gave you the right to decide the value of life and death? Do you want to become a god? Or now that you can swing a sword a little, does everything in the world look beneath you? You proudly carry around that half-baked head of yours as if it's something impressive."
Eldred quietly looked around.
Corpses covered the area.
Most of them had been charged not only with desertion, but also vicious crimes such as looting civilians.
Yet every one of them looked young and terrified.
"Stop thinking so much. You'll only exhaust yourself. Guilt? You're trying to indulge in a luxury. If you still can't endure it, look away from the individual. Look at the structure instead. Then gain enough power to change that structure. I'm not telling you to bow your head and submit to everything."
Eldred tossed aside the cloth he'd been using to wipe his sword.
It fluttered weakly through the air, covered Riyan's face for a moment, then slid down.
"Don't stare at the trees. Look at the forest."
Riyan gave a faint nod.
Yavrik. I'll respect the life you've chosen.
The elixir took effect quickly.
Energy exploded throughout his body.
It didn't merely replenish the strength he had spent fighting Yavrik.
It pushed him beyond what his current body could normally contain.
The faint blue energy appearing before his eyes was proof.
Power his body couldn't contain was leaking out through his gaze.
The preparations were complete.
At the same time, Riyan felt heat filling his head.
His heart began pounding with an intense surge of exhilaration.
It truly was an elixir made by barbarian tribes.
Hadn't they also burned through their own bodies, rampaging across battlefields on that overflowing vitality?
Riyan now felt the same.
His brain seemed ready to burn.
A violent desire rose inside him, telling him he wouldn't calm down until he charged forward and tore out his opponent's throat.
Riyan bit his lip.
Keep your head cold and your heart hot.
He suppressed the surging emotions.
Just as Eldred had taught him.
He would destroy his enemy with a cold mind.
"I'll crush you!"
Yavrik charged.
He looked like a crimson wolf tearing open its jaws.
Riyan concentrated his energy into his legs.
A tingling sensation swept through his entire body.
It felt like drinking powerful liquor and suddenly becoming aware of every nerve running through him.
Seeing Riyan simply standing there, Yavrik smiled in triumph.
He was certain.
That rat who had spent the entire fight darting around had finally entered his range.
Years of ruling the Arena whispered to him.
It was time to see blood.
A crimson arc rushed toward Riyan.
Whoosh!
But as always, certainty was followed closely by a shadow called betrayal.
BOOM!
The axe blade smashed into the dirt and buried itself deep into the ground.
Yet the sight Yavrik had desperately wanted to see was absent.
There was no Riyan split cleanly in two.
That rat... Where? Behind me?
He hadn't even seen him move.
A chill raced down Yavrik's spine.
He spun around.
A figure entered his vision.
Riyan had one hand planted against the ground.
His upper body was lowered.
His sword hung loosely in his right hand.
Every time Riyan breathed out...
A faint mist escaped his lips.
Evade.
Revolve.
A technique as simple as its name.
Avoid the enemy's attack and take their back.
Rush in.
Flash.
His body moved with equally simple directness.
Cut.
Sever.
The sword swept out and drew its path.
Slash!
Riyan felt the chilling resistance against his hand.
A faint smile appeared.
The War of Races.
Throughout that endless conflict, Eldred had taught him many things.
Of course, those lessons had not been carefully organized into steps and polished over time.
A battlefield and systematic education were about as compatible as searching for chastity in a brothel.
Because of that, what Riyan learned had been simple.
Completely practical.
Destructive.
Concise.
Riyan called it the Eldred Style.
Eldred himself had never created any formal system.
But those scattered fragments had gathered inside Riyan's mind and eventually become a single path.
Splurt!
Yavrik's severed left wrist flew through the air.
Blood sprayed behind it.
A sharp emptiness accompanied the pain.
Yavrik's eyes burned red.
"Aaaaaagh!"
A roar filled with pain and rage.
Riyan simply returned to his stance.
A brief moment passed while they caught their breath.
Through the cloud of rising sand, Yavrik suddenly saw something flash.
Between the dark crimson energy...
Two faint blue points appeared for an instant.
For a moment, Yavrik wondered whether they were light coming from Riyan's eyes.
He immediately dismissed it as imagination and focused again.
Monster. That bastard is a monster. I can't keep dodging. I can't drag this out any longer!
Yavrik had once ruled the Arena.
He abandoned the idea of perfect defense.
It was late considering everything he had already lost, but it was still the correct response.
Even if he had to give up bone, he would take flesh.
With that thought, he swung the battle axe.
For the first time since the fight began, Yavrik finally felt something connect.
Joy surged through him.
It bothered him slightly that the impact had come from the shaft rather than the blade.
And he felt a sharp sensation near his ankle.
But what did that matter?
What mattered to Yavrik was that he had finally landed a hit.
Got him!
A moment later, however, his world tilted without his permission.
He stared in confusion.
Thud!
Yavrik's knees buckled.
Both Achilles tendons had been severed.
Unable to support his enormous body, he collapsed sideways.
Boom!
At the same time, the Masterpiece slipped from his weakened grip and crashed onto the Arena floor with a heavy impact.
Yavrik looked empty.
Of course, his opponent wasn't doing much better.
Riyan staggered.
Then dropped heavily to the ground.
Even in his miserable state, Yavrik felt a thrill at the sight.
That was only because he didn't know what Riyan was thinking.
Three... maybe four broken ribs. I can barely breathe.
Riyan had deliberately avoided the terrifying axe blade and instead allowed the comparatively blunt shaft to strike him.
He could have dodged.
But that would have complicated what came afterward.
He had a plan.
This was merely one step in it.
Fortunately, the countless spars with Haral had helped.
Those matches where neither side won nor lost had all been for this.
The delicate, dangerous sense Riyan had refined during those spars proved extremely useful now.
The price was several shattered ribs and vicious burns left by the dark aura of the Blood Wolf Axe.
"...What... are you?"
Yavrik's weak voice reached him.
The blue light that had gathered in Riyan's eyes had already disappeared.
The dust covering the Arena and Yavrik's dark crimson energy were also slowly fading.
"You're asking who I am?"
But Yavrik lost consciousness before he could hear the answer.
Riyan slowly raised his head.
Afternoon sunlight poured through the open sky above the Arena.
Looking up at it, Riyan murmured quietly.
"Knight Riyan."
The Imperial Arena was silent.
Despite tens of thousands of people filling it, they seemed like a single living creature following one shared will.
In truth, they didn't even know how to react.
The terrifying energy released by Yavrik and the cloud of sand had obscured the Arena.
Still, they had seen enough.
Riyan lowering his body into stance.
Several exchanges that followed.
And finally...
Yavrik falling to his knees and collapsing.
"The Butcher... lost."
"Yavrik... Yavrik lost."
One person's murmur began it.
At first, people covered their mouths.
Others grabbed their heads.
Strange gasps escaped throughout the stands.
Then...
"WAAAAAAAH!"
The entire world shook with cheers.
"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
"Finish him! Slaughter the Butcher! Feed him to the pigs!"
"Take his head! Take his head!"
The fall of a long-standing ruler.
The end of an oppressive reign.
The crowd screamed violently.
And all of that desire focused upon the fighter standing in the Arena.
His white hair had become dull beneath the dust.
But instead of executing Yavrik...
"..."
Riyan slowly raised his sword.
And sheathed it.
The meaning of the action was unmistakable.
The crowd suddenly fell silent.
"Th-That bastard...!"
Watching from the balcony, the Supervisor gripped the railing.
There were only two possible endings for a fighter entering the Arena.
Win and survive.
Lose and die.
Nothing else.
It was an obvious rule.
Every fighter understood it.
Of course, exceptions existed everywhere.
Occasionally, even someone defeated in that pit was allowed to survive.
But such decisions belonged to legitimate and exalted Imperial authorities.
Not some ordinary fighter.
Especially not in a Winning Streak Battle.
Yet Riyan had ignored the rule.
The Supervisor's eyes turned red with fury.
He shouted toward the door.
"Guards! Go down there right now and bind that fighter...!"
"Shut your mouth."
Someone extinguished the Supervisor's anger.
He spun around.
Marquis Fenric Novale stood there with a cold expression.
The Supervisor swallowed.
"My apologies for the disturbance, Treasurer. I will personally have that bastard arrested and punished for his crime..."
"Crime? What crime?"
"...Pardon?"
"You've apparently sat in that position for too long. Have you grown so used to things that you can no longer see what's in front of you?"
"I don't understand..."
"If you have eyes, close your mouth and use them."
The Supervisor looked toward the Arena.
More precisely...
Toward the crowd.
"Mercy! Mercy!"
"Fighter Riyan showed mercy!"
The Supervisor's thoughts spun rapidly.
The public had grown sick of Yavrik's cruel executions.
In that situation, Riyan's action had become the spark that released years of suppressed resentment.
The proof was obvious.
Only moments earlier, the crowd had demanded Yavrik's death.
Now they had changed completely.
They cheered even more passionately as they praised Riyan.
After organizing his thoughts, the Supervisor nodded.
He had only been confused for a moment.
At heart, he was still an old fox who had survived decades running the Arena.
"I'll go handle the situation."
"Finally understand?"
"May I borrow the name of the Imperial Capital?"
"Do so. In the name of the Empire."
Marquis Fenric Novale nodded.
The Supervisor suddenly looked determined, as though he had received a revelation from the gods.
He bowed deeply and hurried out.
Fenric watched him leave.
Then turned back toward the Arena.
Toward the scorching waves of excitement.
Toward the figure standing at their center.
"An excellent fighter."
A fighter capable of captivating the Empire's citizens inside this arena, which could almost be called the milk and honey of the Imperial Capital, was valuable indeed.
Human senses were sometimes born with a sharpness that theory couldn't explain.
And the people of the Empire, soaked in blood and steel, had spent years watching life-and-death battles.
They had developed an instinct for distinguishing fake from real.
An artificially manufactured fighter meant nothing to them.
To inspire fanatic devotion, a fighter needed natural talent and presence.
And that was something even the absolute authority of the Imperial Treasurer could not manufacture at will.
A being that couldn't be created no matter how badly one wished for it.
Such a being had just been born.
As various emotions crossed Fenric Novale's mind, he saw someone hurriedly climbing onto the platform overlooking the Arena.
Red silk.
Fox fur.
The same announcer who had opened the match earlier.
He calmed the crowd.
Then stood upright, raised his right hand high, and shouted with a booming voice.
"Behold! The sword born by slaying a monster has now saved a lost fighter of the Empire! Death is far too brief a moment to cleanse a corrupted life consumed by terrible arrogance and cruelty! Is it not more fitting that he live, breathe, and reflect upon his sins until the day death finally comes for him?"
The announcer paused for breath.
Then raised his voice again.
"Today, Fighter Riyan forced Fighter Yavrik's soul to kneel before the judgment of the Empire and receive its rightful punishment! Is that not the perfect conclusion suited to his crimes? The strictest mercy, and at the same time the most generous punishment! Thus, honoring that will, the Empire shall spill no meaningless blood today!"
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Hundreds of Imperial guards positioned throughout the enormous Arena struck the butts of their spears against the ground.
The heavy rhythm rolled across the stadium.
Riding that momentum, the announcer raised both arms.
"In the name of the Empire, the Winning Streak Battle is hereby concluded! The victor is Fighter Riyan!"
The match ended early.
Yet the moment the conclusion was declared, every spectator shot to their feet.
"WAAAAAAAAAAH!"
The roar shook heaven and earth.
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