Chapter 139
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 139
Chapter Title: The Arena's Barbarian Warrior
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The day of the final match had dawned.
Having tuned my condition to its peak, I headed to the arena early in the morning. Power surged through every inch of my body. I was confident I could smash any opponent that came my way.
As this was the Barbarian's last match, putting on the best show possible was the mark of a true professional. It would be my final gift to the fans who had cheered me on all this time.
Pop!
Before entering the arena, I ran through a quick body inspection routine to check my form. Straight arms, tensed legs. Perfect balance. My trained muscles kept everything steady, and the right power flowed through my precise movements.
Good. No issues at all.
Peak condition.
I relaxed my stance, did some light stretches, and stepped into the arena.
The underground space was refreshingly cool.
Sharp air.
"Where's Durban?"
I hadn't heard the full details on the match concept last week since I'd turned down the arena's offer and left right away. Durban was nowhere in sight. I'd just pick up my costume and get the rundown from him at the same time.
"Heh heh heh, Durban ain't here."
"What do you mean?"
As I looked for Durban, a gladiator stepped out from the shadows, arms crossed, letting out a creepy chuckle.
Wait, he was there? I hadn't sensed him at all.
He had the vibe of a pro assassin.
"He said just put on the gear over there."
"Something happen?"
"Who knows. Looked busy. Heh heh heh!"
There was a box with the costume where the gladiator pointed. Whatever. I was a pro—I could improvise. Reading the concept from the outfit alone would be enough to cook up a scenario in my head.
I stripped down and checked inside the box.
"Hm?"
Rarely, it wasn't clothes but actual armor.
Looking closer, it resembled the gear gladiators wore.
What the hell?
I'd turned down the offer, hadn't I?
Eh, whatever. It was still a costume. Just a different concept, I guess. They weren't throwing me into the main event or anything. If anything, armor beat rags. My previous outfits had been fun but offered zero protection.
Clank.
I picked up the armor.
"Ho?"
Chain mail sleeves that ran from shoulders to knuckles. They looked like they'd protect my arms well, but there was no chest plate. Pure classic gladiator style.
I slipped the chain mail over both arms and secured the straps. The links allowed freer movement than expected, with soft leather lining. It had weight, but no hindrance to arm motion.
Then I pulled on the long leather boots plated with iron at the shins and insteps, and finally wrapped the chain skirt—fixed to a belt—around my waist.
Today's gear was seriously solid.
"Not bad."
I geared up fully and tested my mobility.
Just like my peak condition, the armor offered great freedom of movement.
This setup would reliably guard my arms with chain mail and my legs with chains and plates. Upper body and head exposed? No big deal. I'd always fought like that.
No injuries today, that's for sure.
Good gear breeds good combat power.
With metal cladding my body, confidence welled up naturally.
Time to fight hard today.
Just wait for my name and make my entrance.
"Dressed like that, you don't look like a rookie anymore. Heh heh!"
The watching gladiator spoke up.
"Yeah?"
"Wish you'd join us for real already. Heh!"
"Sorry. Got my day job."
"Heh heh heh... What a shame... Heh heh!"
I always thought the same—this gladiator uncle and I could never hold a proper conversation. He laughed like a broken radio, that cackle piercing every exchange. Was it to interrupt or emphasize? No clue.
If that laugh had a color, it'd be purple.
Purple, the color of death.
Anyway, today was the last I'd see this guy.
Barbarian! Enter!
The match time arrived. I cracked my neck—crunch. Drew my sword. Propped the sheath against the wall for easy grab later. Gripped the hilt tight and rotated my wrist.
Nice grip.
I gave the gladiator uncle a casual wave, then ascended toward the arena. Sunlight poured from the exit like the god Abraxas himself. Then I was the chick breaking from the egg.
Perfect. Today's me was Birdman Kim Katt.
The Birdman soaring to victory for his god, the Birdman driving his beak into human skulls to suck out brains!
Rooooaaar!!
Thunderous cheers welcomed me.
I took my place in the arena.
"Who dares stand against meee?!"
My shout pierced the arena, echoing. True acapella—this pure human voice dominated without any instruments!
"No no no nooo! Today's Barbarian! Of all things! Came out in normal clothes! Unbelievable! I can't believe my eyes!!"
The announcer freaked at my sane outfit.
Makes sense. I'd worn nothing but freakish getups before. Never anything normal. I raised my sword high in response.
"My! Opponent! Who?!"
Clang!
The opposite gate opened right away.
Who was today's foe? Goblin? Kobold? Troll? Bring it! I was invincible today! No matter who, I wouldn't lose!
"His opponent is none other than our long-time executioner, the famed—!!!"
What? Executioner?
"One-eyed from that last sinner bout, the aged orc!!! Berberja!!!"
Rooooaaar!
Berberja! Berberja!
Orc! Orc!
I knew I was screwed.
"That rotten Durban..."
The crowd's roars filled the air. From beyond the gate crawled—no, strode—a hulking green-skinned orc.
"Berberja! Our idol, famed for executing wicked criminals! The merciless orc! Berberja himself!!!"
Fuck my life.
I'd heard of orcs but never seen one.
Thud thud. The orc fully emerged. My blood ran cold. Escape? Glanced back—gate shut. Arena walls? Too high.
...Nowhere to run.
"...Fuck."
My chilled body tolled death's knell.
"You motherfucking bastards..."
Survival instinct surged to the max.
"Will today be Berberja's retirement bout?! The executioner orc who's culled sinners in this arena for years! Lost one eye in the last sinner gladiator match!"
The announcer's spiel rang hollow.
"But heavens! This old orc couldn't overcome his wound and fell ill! Executioner orc no more, for age has caught him! This might be our send-off for death's-door Berberja!"
Did Durban screw me?
Or punishment for rejecting the offer?
Wait, orcs were low-level monsters, right?
The contract said trolls, goblins, kobolds, and other weak small fry. This was blatant breach. Orc a weak small monster?
Bullshit!
But yelling contract here wouldn't help.
"Who will win?! New star Barbarian Warrior Katt, or our undying executioner Berberja?!"
The crowd was hyped.
The noise thundered in my ears.
Bang!
The orc's gate slammed shut.
No exit.
"Match! Begins!"
I'm fucked. Really fucked.
I felt it deep. Never seen an orc, but they were tough, brutal bastards. Human-like, but monsters all the same.
I looked straight at the orc.
Aged orc. One-eyed orc. Executioner orc. Sick orc. Berberja. Shorter than me, but shoulders like boulders, muscles still ripped. Bloated gut looked rock-hard.
Worst, tusks jutting from his maw, sunken nose. Shorter due to hunch? Skeleton built that way? Weight class matched mine.
This the sick old orc?
Thud thud.
Berberja advanced slowly. In his grip: thick black club, jagged old hand axe. Wearing just leather undies.
My armament outclassed his. But no other intel. Urge to flee boiled. No escape. Only way out: kill the orc.
Like always.
Gulp.
Throat dry. Unease. Dread. Fear's black tentacles squeezed me.
Win?
Fight?
Flee?
...Fuck.
No clue where to start.
I backpedaled, wary of Berberja's moves. Couldn't gauge distance. One axe toss, and a slip meant death.
Stalemate dragged. Announcer yapped, crowd screamed.
The orc sensed my hesitation.
Bad.
Then—
"Snort!"
The orc grunted.
"What? Snort?! You fucking pig, did you just snort?! "
"Snort!!"
"You son of a bitch!!"
That 'snort!' ignited rage. Orcs snort, so dragons 'kraaaah!' or some shit? Make sense, asshole!
"Kiiiiyaaaa!!"
I roared back. Enough cowering pre-fight. I win. Me, Kim Katt, savage hero who felled even the ruinous Dryad!
I can win! Old, sick, one-eyed!
Lose and die.
Only winners leave alive!
Win or nothing!
"Snoooort!!"
Berberja bellowed back.
Grip sword tight, stance low. Muscles tense. Breathe deep. My weapon: bastard sword. His: club and axe.
Mind the axe toss, and my superior gear would crush. Humanoid monster—physical limits applied.
Whoosh!
I kicked off.
Power lacking? Speed compensates.
Suicidal charge.
Nothing easier than a cowering foe. Want to survive? Rush and attack. Executioner orc—more match experience than me.
But real combat? I'd match it.
My three years: monster deathmatches!
"Hwanung!!"
No god to pray to, so I invoked the tribal deity Hwanung. Buddha? Pacifist. Jesus? Church once in elementary.
Hwanung it was.
"Snoort!!"
I swung.
"Kiiiiyaaaa!!"
Me and Berberja clashed.