Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Waaaaaah!"

Inside the shaking carriage, Riyan could already hear the distant roar of the audience.

A rough hand landed on his shoulder.

Berka.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Look outside. Every one of those people came to watch today's matches. Why don't you wave?"

Riyan's indifferent gaze moved across the streets of the Imperial Capital.

Crowds lined both sides of the avenue to watch the carriages carrying fighters.

People scattered flower petals.

Some put fingers to their mouths and whistled.

Each welcomed the procession in their own way.

The fighters responded just as differently.

One even climbed partly through the roof opening of his carriage.

He caught a rose thrown toward him and flashed a smile.

"Oh! He caught it! He caught mine!"

"Kyaaa! Good luck!"

The fighter certainly looked like the sort who could inspire that reaction.

Glossy golden curls.

A rose tucked beside his ear.

He looked almost like something from a painting.

Berka noticed too.

"Fighter from the Verso Training Center. They call him the Rose Fighter, I think. Bastard fights more battles in beds than in the Arena, but the title's grander than he deserves. Can't complain, though. Sponsors keep pouring money into him."

"Sponsors?"

Berka snorted.

"Nothing special. 'I want to praise an Imperial gladiator through art, so I'd like him to model for a painting or sculpture.' Or, 'I was inspired by his swordsmanship, so I'd like to invite him to spar with my household knights.' Things like that."

"That isn't all."

"Of course not! Nobody outside can verify what happens during those visits, so why would the excuse matter? In the end, they usually wind up in the noblewoman's bedroom. Why? Interested?"

Berka reached out.

He grabbed Riyan's chin and turned his face from side to side.

It wasn't forceful.

More teasing than anything.

Riyan sighed and let him.

"The age of giant, muscular, virile fighters ended a long time ago. These days, pretty faces sell better. Like that Rose Fighter, or Rose Whore, whatever he is. With your face, you could sweep up half the noble ladies in the capital. Interested? If you are, I'll support you completely."

"No, thank you."

"Men, then?"

Riyan slowly removed Berka's hand and ignored him.

Apparently Berka hadn't been serious either.

He let his hand fall and sighed.

"Right. What does any of that matter? We don't even know whether you'll survive today."

As though he could never grow tired of it, Berka once again began explaining why choosing the first position in the Winning Streak Battle was incredibly stupid.

Riyan had heard it so many times that it sounded almost like a lullaby.

He looked away.

Not toward the cheering crowd.

Toward the beautiful streets of the Imperial Capital.

The passionate support of the public...

Yes.

He didn't need it.

Not yet.

Riyan tilted his head and touched his lips.

The public was dangerous.

Hadn't they played a part in his death during his previous life?

The frightened king's betrayal had come from the same problem.

The public created people to worship.

Then projected their own will onto those figures regardless of what the person themselves wanted.

Calling it worship might even be inaccurate.

It wasn't much different from an irreverent priest imprisoning a god inside his own beliefs and using only the god's name.

But that also made the public an overwhelmingly powerful force.

Riyan understood that.

It couldn't simply be pushed away because he didn't want it.

Then the approach had to change.

If it couldn't be rejected, it had to be handled well.

In his previous life, Riyan had failed to do that.

He wouldn't repeat the same mistake.

So not yet.

For now, there was no reason to inflate himself the way the Rose Fighter did.

The right time would come naturally.

Berka knew nothing about Riyan's thoughts.

Apparently losing interest, he turned and snapped at Haral sitting across from them.

"And what the hell happened to your arm today? You knew what day this was, yet you showed up with it broken. Slip on the stairs because of the rain?"

"No, this happened dur..."

"Dur? What?"

Haral had been about to explain his spar with Riyan.

He glanced at Riyan.

Then sighed.

"Nothing."

"How boring. Anyway, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"You trained him. What do you think? Can he win? Forget winning. Can he at least make the fight look good? We need entertainment. He can't just die instantly."

"Do you really have to say that while he's sitting right beside you?"

"Look at you. Since when did you treat slaves like people? And where do you think your salary comes from?"

"..."

Haral rubbed his forehead with his uninjured right hand.

"Fine. Fine."

"So?"

"How good is that bastard?"

Haral glanced at Riyan.

Riyan was still quietly looking far outside.

Haral sighed.

Then waved dismissively.

"Start looking for nobles."

"Looking for nobles? Why?"

"We'll need to sell that bastard for a fortune eventually, won't we?"

Sell him.

Berka understood immediately.

Haral was saying Riyan had the potential to become a Champion.

A small light of hope entered Berka's eyes.

Matches held under the name Imperial Judgment were the red and sweet pleasure the capital offered to the Empire's people.

At the same time, they were theater.

A way to ensure the public focused on who would spill blood before their eyes instead of questioning Imperial failures, corruption, or mistakes.

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

"Dodge! My dog is faster than you!"

And the master directing that theater was the Arena Supervisor.

As always, the old Supervisor stood on an upper balcony with his unpleasant expression.

It offered the best view of the Arena.

The place itself was hidden.

A thin veil-like membrane surrounded the terrace.

The inside remained dark, with not even a candle lit.

No one outside could look in.

But those inside could clearly see the Arena below.

At the center of the terrace sat someone who had the Supervisor standing beside him like a statue.

"Starting with a hunt?"

"Yes. A pride of lions brought from the plains of Cormo. We captured the whole family together, so it should be entertaining."

The Supervisor answered respectfully.

Six or seven lionesses.

One male lion.

The group was evenly matched against the gladiators.

A battle of groups.

But one side wasn't human.

The legendary king of beasts, previously known to most citizens only through writing and oral stories, roared with its mane shaking.

Its growls dominated the arena.

"Second?"

The man watching the battle took a sip of wine.

"One-versus-many. Seventeen criminals against one elite fighter."

"Seventeen?"

"Isn't this the seventeenth anniversary of Your Grace becoming a permanent member?"

"Sometimes you really have a sinister side."

"Thank you."

Grrrr!

The lions moved in perfect coordination.

The male finally charged.

The gladiators' formation broke apart.

A lioness exploited the opening.

Her fangs sank into one fighter's throat.

She shook him violently.

The crowd exploded.

"Idiot!"

"Aah! Aahhh!"

Every time the lioness twisted, blood sprayed from the fighter's torn artery.

Bright red blood.

The lions grew even more excited.

The match ended in victory for the beasts.

All that remained was for the scattered gladiators to be hunted down.

During the short pause before the second event, Marquis Fenric Novale lost interest and turned away.

At the same moment, a slave hidden in the shadows lit a candle.

Then vanished back into darkness as though no one were allowed to even remember his existence.

The Marquis dropped onto a sofa as though this were perfectly normal.

"The last event is that annual Winning Streak Battle?"

"Yes."

"...Yavrik will appear."

"Yes."

"Troublesome."

"May I ask what troubles Your Excellency, Treasurer?"

Treasurer.

The title belonging to the head of the Imperial Capital Treasury Office.

There was a saying:

He can starve a legion merely by putting down his pen.

That alone described the authority of the position.

It was also the foundation that allowed Marquis Fenric Novale to hold a permanent seat on the Imperial Arcana Council.

He had firm control over nearly every major flow of money in the Empire.

People said gold flowed through his veins instead of blood.

Looking beyond the curtain at the crowd, Fenric spoke.

"What would you do? About Yavrik. He's irritating. But if I pull him out now, we lose something useful to chew with. Like a rotten tooth."

"His popularity has declined recently."

"He's too violent. He helped revenue at first. But he's gradually lowering the dignity of the games. We can't simply remove him either. You know he already received a Masterpiece."

"That's true. In an arena of blood and steel, possessing a Masterpiece..."

"Exactly. Blood and steel. But it can't be only that. Too idealistic. Useless for collecting taxes. If that foolish Military Commissioner hadn't approved the Masterpiece, this wouldn't be such a headache. But what's done is done. Soon the audience will grow tired of Yavrik and stop coming."

The Supervisor's body trembled slightly.

Marquis Fenric had just called the Military Commissioner foolish.

The man was widely considered second only to the Grand Speaker of the Council.

But what could the Supervisor do?

The person holding his leash was the Treasurer standing before him.

"In any case, you need an opportunity."

"Exactly. An opportunity."

The Marquis looked at him as if saying:

Do you think I don't know that?

The Supervisor's eye twitched.

"I'll find a solution as quickly as possible."

"Do that."

"Still, today's Winning Streak Battle may offer something interesting enough to ease Your Excellency's worries."

"Interesting? What?"

"Didn't you recently lose one of your favorite collectibles?"

"Ah. The monster? Yes. I lost it because of a match arranged under your supervision."

"...The feed that killed your monster will participate today."

For the first time, a trace of genuine interest appeared in Fenric's eyes.

"Don't test my memory. The report said he was nothing more than a half-starved slave."

"That was true at the time. But Rodus seems to have polished him somewhat. Either way, the promotion worked. 'The miracle slave fighter who slew a monster. Will he create another miracle against the Human Butcher?' That's today's slogan."

"Reasonable. And the main dish?"

"The Rose Fighter, naturally."

"About time he died. He's been moving through noble bedrooms without understanding his place. He's heard too many things. Watching his skull split open with an axe should be entertaining."

Fenric slowly nodded.

A gesture showing at least mild satisfaction.

The Supervisor inwardly relaxed.

Then...

Bwoooooom!

A horn shook the arena.

The second event had apparently ended.

It was the signal for the Winning Streak Battle.

"The thief and the broken rose... Not a bad title for a play."

One fighter who had stolen Fenric's monster.

Another who had learned too many secrets in noble bedrooms.

It was a modest but pleasant amusement.

Fenric stood.

During that short movement, a shadow slipped past.

His wineglass was full again.

"It's beginning."

At the Supervisor's words, tens of thousands began roaring.

"Yavrik! You bastard! Die today!"

"Die! Die! Die!"

Receiving that hostile welcome with his entire body, a massive man nearly two meters tall emerged through the opened gate.

Yavrik.

His body was covered in scars and tattoos.

A massive battle axe more than two meters long rested on his shoulder.

Old blood clung to the blade.

Yet somehow, it looked as though its heat had never faded.

That was because of the dark crimson aura surrounding it.

The magical weapon.

The Masterpiece called Blood Wolf Axe.

Near the joint between handle and blade, a savage wolf carving wrapped around the weapon.

Dark red energy flowed from the wolf's eyes.

It looked like the shape of a wolf with glowing crimson pupils.

"Terrifying..."

Fenric's slow evaluation continued.

Then the opposite gate began opening.

A young man with white hair, made gray by the surrounding shadows, stepped from the darkness.

"...Pitiful."

He wore ordinary clothes.

An ordinary iron sword hung at his waist.