Chapter 246
Chapter 246
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: One Empire, Three Legends (5)
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“So that’s what you were up to until this hour... You’re entering the tournament? And that’s why you’re so late registering?”
“That, and there were all sorts of fun things around. Oh, here, a gift.”
The Professor dumped a heavy sack onto the table, already laden with food.
“Mithril, roughly 5kg, two sheets of top-grade Venir Lion hide, and the jewelry... I’m not sure about their value since greenskins process them so crudely. Oh, that one you’re holding. It looked expensive. It was the prize from the arm-wrestling contest—the organizers followed me crying, begging me to take it. They said they never thought I’d win.”
“...This looks like tiger’s eye stone? At this size... A ring for a large demi-human? Or a small bracelet?”
“Nah, it’s a nose piercing. The guy I beat in arm-wrestling yanked it right out of his own nose and handed it over. They believe that breathing in with a tiger’s eye ornament fills you with valiant spirit.”
“Eek!”
Lucilla jolted in horror upon learning its prior use and dropped the jewelry. Borca deftly caught the flying tiger’s eye piece mid-air and held it out as he spoke.
“I figured the boss had his reasons for rushing off. Just look at all this stuff on the table—it’s worth a chest full of silver coins.”
“Exactly. Even if it looks like I act without thinking, there’s always a purpose.”
“The money’s great, and earning the title ‘Professor of Monstrous Strength’ in Hawnuman in less than half a day is impressive. But... why in the world did you drag me into this?”
Borca eyed the metal necklace around his neck with utter incomprehension and thrust it forward. A cheap chain held a small rectangular plaque engraved with “Borca Dalun / Werewolf - Tusk Claw.”
Naturally, the Professor wore an identical one around his own neck with his name on it.
“Hm? Oh, that... The martial tournament requires teams of two. They said I had to bring one more person. Here, take a look.”
The Professor’s finger pointed at each companion in turn.
“Two old mages who huff and puff after a few seconds of running.”
“A teenage merchant girl.”
“A troll shaman.”
“An elf specialized in ranged combat, unfit for the circular colosseum.”
“A former gladiator who rolled around arenas for years, a werewolf expert in gladiatorial tournaments.”
“So, out of this group, who’d make the best partner for a two-man tournament team?”
Without anyone asking, all eyes naturally turned to Borca.
“Even so, Notum could—”
“FYI, mages and shamans don’t fit the vibe of a tournament honoring great warriors. They said you’d get stoned even if you win.”
“Ugh...”
Truth be told, he was confident he could win with anyone from the group. It was just that, in the rush, Borca was the only one whose location he knew.
With thirty minutes left until registration closed, upon being told to fetch another teammate, the Professor bolted to the public post office at the city gates without looking back. Ever since learning about letter magic, Borca made a daily morning ritual of it—but the morning’s chaos had made him skip it, so he had to be there.
Sure enough, at the only place in the city reachable by grand mage letter magic—the public post office—Borca stood in line clutching two letters to his chest.
That was why the ever-dutiful Borca, who carried out any order faithfully, was so troubled. In the time crunch, the Professor had basically kidnapped him, leaving him unable to send today’s letters to his kids.
“The tournament starts tomorrow morning and runs for three days in a tournament format. Sixty-four teams, a hundred and twenty-eight elite fighters. It’s so big the Empire can’t handle it all, so the best from countless tribes on those plains the Empire left to its vassals are all gathered. Plus wandering knights chasing glory, great warriors from merchant guilds wanting to saddle barbarian tribes with debts, and agents from nobles eyeing steppe treasures. I don’t think we’ll lose, but it won’t be a cakewalk either.”
The Professor stuffed a huge bite of food from the innkeeper into his mouth. His relaxed demeanor made the others anxious instead.
Especially Lucilla, who still believed the group had turned back because of her.
“Three days... Isn’t that delaying us too much? Today, plus three more days, and three days to the capital. Factoring in time there... Our trip to the elf forest will be at least a month later...”
“I’ve thought of that too. The Lordric front is holding steady, so we have time. Of course, I’m not planning to waste it lounging around.”
The original goal included the tournament prize, but he also wondered if he could recruit some of the hero units he’d meet during it.
But hearing about the Tusk Claw tribe revealed plenty of suspicious tales beyond that.
“Krung! This year, twice as many warriors showed up! Warriors strong and burning with victory lust—ten you could count on fingers! No, more!”
“Sounds like over a hundred... Special prizes this year?”
“Strange monsters multiplying on the steppes! Safe grazing lands shrinking, so starving human tribes multiplying, even greenskins struggling! They’ll win the tournament and demand a spot among Hawnuman’s eight tribes! Those eight hold the fertile lands around the city! They’ll stake their tribes’ fates!”
“Wait... The ‘anything you want’ from the city includes governing rights?”
“Krung! The strongest warrior’s tribe deserves the great steppe warriors’ unclaimed lands! Hawnuman’s eight were originally all orcs, his descendants, but now two goblins, one human, five orcs!”
Recalling the Tusk Claw orc’s words, the Professor sliced the steaming meat pie on his table into eight pieces. Green spices symbolizing orcs on five. Pepper for goblin gray-green skin on two. And for the last, the human-held slice...
Crunch!
He stabbed it mercilessly with his fork.
“The ‘anything’ prizes are broader than I thought. Not just tribal relics, money, gems—intangible rights in Hawnuman count too.”
Thus, steppe tribes displaced by presumed Mutation Blood monster invasions staked their futures on the tournament. Greedy nobles and merchants joined to seize Hawnuman lands, free from imperial law as a vassal state.
“One human who snagged a spot among the eight is from far-off Marquis Bildarant. I took a peek—the lands assigned to them near Hawnuman were all planted with narcotic crops. If they lack power to use the land and rights, they can sell to desperate tribes. Homeless tribes will pay anything for those rights.”
“Hmm... The prizes are bigger than expected. A tournament to accept strong tribes on the imperial border to block interference turned into a chance for the Empire to infiltrate...”
“Too much reverence for tradition caused this mess. But it gave me ideas on what to gain here.”
“What?”
“Hm... Honestly, I don’t know what to do with the prizes yet. More like, I want to use the tournament itself. Our goal is reinforcements for Lordric, right?”
Gathering tribal reps flooding in as outsiders and pitching an idea? They’d be called lunatics or imperial meddlers and chased out.
But talking in the arena? With many entrants, it’d run three full days. Fighters waiting around, chatting with neighbors or those nearby—who’d complain?
And they weren’t just warriors—they represented tribes. In a strength-worshipping culture, their tribal influence was huge.
“Chamber Maids, rooted, suck life from surroundings to spawn mutants. If three settled on displaced tribal lands, four or five tribes’ grazing steppes turn to wasteland. Barren as desert, no grass grows. So this tournament crawls with reps from landless folk. Over there, past those mountains, Lordric has empty lands from noble massacres? Can’t we connect them nicely?”
“You don’t mean... Bringing steppe barbarians to Lordric?”
The Professor nodded at Lucilla’s words.
“To get land, earn merit. Hereditary fiefs need huge merit—not single wins. Lordric’s in a war for national survival? Perfect excuse to enlist them for titles. We’d borrow even a cat’s paw right now.”
Noise wouldn’t be absent. Nomads forced to settle one fief? Different laws, culture, customs—plus relocating whole tribes far away? Many would balk.
“That’s why! I have to sweep the tournament.”
But no balking compares to tribes scattering like family torn apart. No Hawnuman land means annexation or outlaw raiders on claimed turf.
They’d bite at his proposal.
“Worth delaying three days, right? Steppe warriors are cavalry from age five to seventy? Their horsemanship tops Lordric knights. Charlotte’ll shout ‘We’re saved!’ on sight.”
He shoved a massive turkey breast into his mouth. Otman, having cast soundproofing magic, nodded eyes closed.
“Makes sense. Solid logic. Steppe tribes raided imperial lands endlessly—barren steppes couldn’t winter them. They’ve long coveted fertile inland soil. With a chance to talk... We could enlist them.”
“Exactly. We’re not here for prizes—we’re stealing steppe folk.”
Tribal reps gathered desperately in one spot? Couldn’t pass up this chance.
Having devoured a turkey like magic, he lifted the plate of eight pie slices and popped them in one by one.
“Of course, not giving up the grand prize. Let’s think step by step. Less than a day in Hawnuman—who knows what treasures it hides.”
“Heh, greedy as ever.”
“That’s how the world works, right? Mmm~ Rattura.”
The Professor waved at the innkeeper over the cleared table. For the festival, they offered [Special Turkey Set! Free if finished in 5 minutes!]. The owner, pale-faced, brought the third refill as Hyde whooped in his head.
Watching, the Professor toasted the great system that guided Lucilla to this inn—in his mind.
****
The next morning.
“Snow, huh?”
The Professor woke to white flakes outside the window. Tournament day one, and snow. Festivals usually hit warm spring/summer or post-harvest fall—this felt off from typical 3rd-world culture, in many ways.
Descending the stairs, the bustling first-floor inn held only Otman at a table, glaring at something on his plate. Others still slept.
“Aigoo~ Good morning. Dry area had me worried about condition, but perfect—snow.”
“Indeed. Water mages should avoid low-rainfall spots—hard to draw moisture. Snow’s a boon for you, Professor.”
“Petty last luck point, but decent. What’re you doing?”
“Well... Heard of local specialty fish, asked for one uncooked...”
“Hm... It’s a fish, right?”
“Cooked ones at the next table confirm it’s fish. But this... Ugh. No clue.”
For some reason, their gruff server brought a mud ball like an ostrich egg. Peeling revealed slimy fish inside—explaining Otman’s dilemma.
“Feel like it’s magically safe to eat?”
“Dunno... Gills say aquatic, but gutting shows lungs. Best skip. ‘What if?’ anxiety weakens mage certainty, and botched spells feed the doubt. Bit sick of it, but waterweeds and cloud shrimp to fill up again.”
“Sigh, you make your own troubles. My disciple eats roast meat and snacks fine, casts no problem—still think that?”
Otman shoved the odd fish aside, pulled dried waterweeds from his robe, and smiled bitterly.
“Decades-old prejudices don’t shift easy.”
“Stubborn mage. Do you. Where’re Borca and the rest?”
“Aldrich and Lucilla to market selling yesterday’s rare fruits and golden beetles. Notum’s sleeping. Borca said arena warmup after ages— but clutching letter scraps, so he’ll take time.”
“Everyone’s busy. Oh, where’s Yggdrasil? Had questions.”
“Yggdrasil... Look around. Missed her morning, but near you. Probably there. Living diligently, as you say.”
Otman scanned, waved—water spirit power? Yggdrasil peeked from the inn corner.
[She’s turning full stalker lately? That village auntie didn’t entrust her to you?]
‘I did nothing. Really.’
[For ‘nothing,’ she’s changed tons since the forest. Elves at 70 are kids, right? ‘Nothing’ disqualifies you already. Adults bear educational responsibility for kids. Especially as your tacit guardian.]
‘Hm...’
Hide’s words conjured the matriarch’s lone eye and terrifying warhammer. She’d ordered Yggdrasil to learn humans through him—too faithfully, logging his every move.
Suddenly, he pictured yelling ‘Fate mage, die and join her!’ beside Yggdrasil droning ‘Your mother’s a goddess, so dying dog-like sends me to her. Blessed.’ Enraged matriarch smashing his head.
‘Ugh... Too lax ain’t good.’
[Right? Especially a pure-blank-slate elf. Might be too late. Elves don’t change easy.]
More anxious, he beckoned Yggdrasil. She pattered over, sat opposite, fueling his dread.
“What’re you doing over there?”
“As always, observation and learning. Since you found my last actions unpleasant and creepy.”
“So... You hid with spirits to watch me?”
“Yes. Busted now, unpleasant again. I’ll seek stealthier methods next.”
Big trouble. Noble hero’s descendant, half-elf Narim caste—the innocent Yggdrasil vowing pro stalker research!
Water spirits around her fidgeted ‘This right?’ gestures.
[Oof. Too late.]
‘No! Still time to revert her...’
“Oh. Yesterday tailing you, Professor, spotted goblins plotting shady stuff—ambushed them. Said it’s useful fighter intel.”
“Y-You ambushed first... And took their stuff?”
“Judged them fair game. Didn’t kill, bound tight, left on main road—lucky goblin rescued quick.”
Yggdrasil handed yellowed stained paper, smiling proudly at her achievement.
The matriarch’s warhammer full swing felt imminent.
‘Robbery! Elf stalker to elf robber! Yggdrasil, what...!’
Hide rolled laughing inside; Otman’s face screamed ‘No way.’
Determined to sternly teach and dodge the hammer...
“Uh... G-Good job...”
“Thank you.”
Unfolding the paper, dazed praise escaped him. Praise affirming the young robber elf’s actions.
Otman’s face twisted like beholding utter madness—naturally.
“Professor! Even non-blood, Yggdrasil learns from you—what nonsense! However valuable the paper, wrong’s wrong!”
“No, I know... But this... It’s... Really well... Well done, no other word?”
Glancing at the yellowed paper, an eye-catching name stopped him scolding Yggdrasil.
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『Open Ribcage Tribe』
- 1. Blue Mane Tusan
- 2. ....
- 3. Blue Mane Marka
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Blue Mane Tusan. Blue Mane Marka.
Tusan. Marka. Tusan and Marka.
‘Ha, Hide. Dig memory. This... That one I remember?’
[Here. Check yourself. Recent memory.]
Giggling Hide sifted glowing monster memories, tossed one.
『Ahh, Dahlia, Tusan, Marka... Wait. Coming to meet you soon...』
Memory of first meeting Borca. Beaten in pecking order, charging ‘kill me’—mumbling those names.
Later learned Dahlia was dead wife; Tusan and Marka...
‘His... Borca’s lost kids. The names in his daily letters.’
Found. Seeing his daily torment, wanted to help—but lost in vast Empire. Now plastered on tournament roster, Hawnuman affiliates.
“Good... Really good, so fetch Borca now...”
“The werewolf? What message?”
“Forget letters—deliver in person! Hurry! Now!”
Unrelated to main quest, but hoped by all including Professor. Pure heavenly luck.
He couldn’t chide Yggdrasil over luck’s final gift.
Borca’s lost kids breathed same city—as Open Ribcage Tribe, imperial vassal Hawnuman gladiators.
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