Chapter 249
Chapter 249
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 249
Chapter Title: Chapter 14. One Empire, Three Legends (8)
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“Waaaaah!”
“Benard Pang! Benard Pang!”
“You were a true warrior, beastman! You are a fighter!”
“Krung! I swear on my father’s sturdy soles—you pleased the spirits of Kun Tagiz!”
“Kieek! Traitor, chaos! Perfect chance! Finish him, beastman!”
Cheers erupted as people reached out from beyond the stands.
After a brutal fight, the troll—with a shard of broken armor lodged in one eye and half a sword buried in its calf—cried out in surrender.
Of course, Borca, who had battled a properly trained troll, was far from unscathed himself.
The Professor, who had exited the arena early, waited for Borca. As the fighter walked out calmly amid the crowd’s roars, he collapsed the moment the gate closed. The Professor quickly supported him.
“Ugh... Thanks.”
“Jeez, you idiot. You’ve got another match in two hours. What if you get hurt? I told you to stop at the knight and tag in with me for the troll.”
“A gladiator shines brightest when spilling blood.”
“You’re something else. Give me your arm. Bite down. One, twooo—!”
Crunch!
“Grrrrraaah!”
As the Professor counted to three, Borca bristled his fur against the lightning-like pain shooting from his eyes.
“Three. Rotate it slowly. Movement’s a bit off... but the emergency fix seems solid. Shoulder’s the only thing dislocated after being grabbed by that troll’s grip? You’re lucky.”
“Grrraaah... On purpose. He was nimble for his size, so no choice but to go for the eyes. Trolls have a habit of chomping the head first once they catch prey. They often hoist up anything grabbed with both hands.”
“How’d you know that?”
“The guy in the cell next to me went that way. All three of them. Good friends.”
Sweat-soaked, ragged body. The odd metallic tang in his exhausted throat, the limited vision from the brass helmet.
Borca felt it—he was back as a gladiator. This time, by his own choice, donning the helmet. The acrid iron stench, the humid heat of his breath. Without trying, memories of life as Benard Pang seeped in quietly.
The Professor frowned at Borca testing his reset shoulder uncomfortably.
“...128 fighters, 64 teams. Six wins to the top. But that means three days of back-to-back fights with no real recovery time. My body’s half blown off, I’d be fine by match time. Not you. Accumulate injuries like that, and you won’t show the ‘proper match’ you talk about. From next fight, just go werewolf form. Gladiators fans’d love getting shredded by claws over swords, right?”
“No.”
Borca respected most of the Professor’s words, but on gladiating, he had his own firm convictions.
It wasn’t some grand “respect for the noble forest’s power” reason he didn’t fight as a stronger wolf.
Humans just drew bigger crowds.
Gladiator bouts were life-or-death battles, but also stages for the audience’s entertainment.
A little over a year into slavery, after a hard-won victory, he read the expectation in their eyes amid cheers for the feral werewolf. A dark anticipation for the day that mighty beast’s head rolled under a greater gladiator’s hand.
“...The arena’s a battlefield and a stage. On stage, heroes and villains divide naturally. A beast with sharp claws and fangs suits the villain role, no matter the show. And famed villains always get their heads chopped at the best moment.”
You can’t win forever. He had to survive to leave. Defeated gladiators lived or died by the crowd’s wish—life or death.
So he fought human. For popularity. To make them expect his comeback challenge in true gladiator style when scheduled defeat loomed.
Using those chances to challenge again, climb to the top.
Futile in the end, but Benard Pang survived to the last thanks to that name and fame.
Becoming a gladiator the crowd hoped lived, not died. That was how Borca lasted eight years in that hellish pit.
“...To even touch the hem of the pit master’s cloak in just six fights, gotta use everything. Right?”
“Hmm... So you’ll stick to human form for the whole tourney?”
“Yes.”
“For popularity?”
“Mmm.”
“Not ‘cause the kids might recognize you?”
“...”
Borca fell silent at the sudden jab. Helmet hid his face, but the pause said enough.
“Sigh. You and him, both so complicated. So you’ll keep human form, keep getting hurt and breaking...”
The Professor tossed the limping Borca into the carriage with a sigh.
“That’s a problem. Rules say no leaving the carriage or arena till day’s matches end. Werewolf shoulder’s fine for daily stuff, but intense combat? It’ll pop right out.”
“Everyone’s in the same boat, no? We might even have fewer injuries.”
“Damn it, ‘same boat’ my ass. Didn’t click seeing that flashy full plate gladiator armor? They’ve got backing. No-backup scrubs like us gotta stay put to avoid DQ. Backed ones hit temples, hot springs, massages—full VIP, faces oily shiny. Bet my saint seat they do. Show up ragged and hurt, I’ll yell ‘Roharam bastard—’ myself.”
Second match confirmed it. That bullheaded orc just frowning at clear rule breaks? If clueless, maybe, but knowing and swallowing it meant real pressure. Probably tribe-wide stakes. This Hau Numan pit tourney was tradition in name, proxy war for eight factions and outsiders eyeing control.
Bet peeling it’d sprout sweet potato roots of interests and plots. Off the top:
Goblins backing humans to shake orc dominance.
Traditional steppe tribes uniting against empire nobles.
Empire using Marquis Bildrant to rig via tourney, taming rebel tribes.
Alliances, sabotage for those stakes—or all at once.
Eight factions. Nationally: empire vs. steppe tribes. Racially: beastkin, orcs, goblins, humans. Refugee steppe tribes vs. city elites clinging power. Tangled so tight, one sneeze sparks inferno.
This tourney: tacit agreement to sort it before boom.
Pushing to win means facing backed pressure, bribed buffs vs. our bare-handed, ragged gear, no-treatment scrubs.
“How’s that? Win or lose, feels dirty, right?”
“Krrm...”
Borca, quietly rubbing his shoulder, groaned. Pit-savvy as he was, he knew the filthy backroom webs beyond imagination.
Petty bets? Poison in food casual. Bribe teammates, swap beasts. City rule at stake, inter-nation/race? Chaos.
Proving their hunch: two unfamiliar crates in the carriage. Round 2 wins got silver for a good meal, better cart, decent merc gear. No word on heavy leather sack or ornate box.
Borca kicked the ornate box, grabbed the Professor’s reaching arm.
“Better not. Touch it, you’re tangled. Become their pawn regardless of will. Just accepting alerts enemy camps.”
“Really? Then gotta open more. To unravel this eye-straining mess, gotta dive in.”
Welcoming it, Professor hugged the pouch, nodded at box. Borca sighed, pulled it back. Gladiating aside, his captain was scary-sharp on this stuff.
Clack!
“Whoa, what’s all this? Silver, gems... Straight goods screams goblin tribe. Let’s see... [Your splendid fight deeply impressed us. Tourney ends in 3 days, but a warrior like you has endless future. Our ‘Three Fingers’ ready to pay full price for yours. No doubt. We live proving warrior honor ain’t unsellable for gold.]... Pure goblin letter. What’s that?”
“...As you said, captain. Marquis Bildrant’s box. Empire gold, two fine shields. Letter inside. Offers empire citizenship despite my Lordric criminal past, hire by house.”
“What do they want?”
“Throw the match. Beat other tribes’ champs, lose to theirs. Plus, accept and past troubles erased.”
“Reject, they claim dead knight’s blood price. Threat. Unfair matches, fixes, threats. Illegal sports betting 101. Same here. Cooperate, enjoy goblin greed firsthand; no, pay for damages.”
Unfair fights, bribes, fixes, threats. City rule on line—expected.
‘Eagle Claw tribe left champ slot empty to end for same reason. Pure tradition/honor orcs. No support as their great warrior, everyone avoids.’
Proxy war faction banking pure fighter skill? Even I’d dodge.
“Anyway, can’t show kids rag-doll dad after 15 years, so gotta get you treated...”
Hiding it, but Borca winced shoulder still. Professor scanned. Splints around, but undo in hours—useless. Bail, gift-givers rush DQ claim.
“Faction war. Faction war...”
As Professor pondered, bald boy darted alleys, handing stuff to gladiators atop carts. Block tampering, no outsider-fighter meets till end-day—so boy’s stuff for fighters.
“Potion smell. Pits provided for back-to-backs sometimes. One worry down.”
“Looks like plain water? Good for surface, sucks for bone/joint...”
Wait. Flash.
Look close: outfit familiar-ish, despite diff.
Gold thread on sleeves. Fighters chug boy’s potions unquestioned in fix-riddled tourney. Shaved parietal. Innocent eyes, white robes? No way...
Boy approaching opposite alley, handing potions, quick steps. Professor clasped hands, hoping.
“Latu-ra.”
“Hm... Ah! Latu-ra, Ro-ha-ram! Someone serving among gladiators serves Ro Haram! Pleased! Child of Light, Cedric!”
“Oho~”
Boy-priest’s words turned suspicion to certainty. Professor’s face bloomed satisfied smile.
“Looks Light trainee priest. Mind if I ask why church priests join this pit biz?”
“Of course. Outsiders don’t know, but historically tons gladiators poisoned via drinks/food. So our church got host’s ‘gesture,’ volunteer like this. Light priests live shameless before heavens, so all use what we give in Ro Haram’s name unquestioned.”
“Aha... Other churches, yet Light requested. Decent clout in Hau Numan?”
“Heh heh. Hetero-race city, fewer faithful but strong presence. Steppes crowded, most hold ancestor-spirit heresy. Spreading Light, plus rough city gets Hau Numan diocese hefty support. Lately, weirdly more.”
“Hmm... I see. Is that so...”
Professor eyed boy-priest’s innocent gaze through visor, thought.
Light bolstering in hetero-heavy city? Natural. Originally suppress pagans—that’s Light’s job. Suited empire curbing steppe folk, aided settling. Recent surge, face-time tours... New archbishop’s policy: aggressively pro-hetero.
Whatever petty politics—means sizable diocese.
‘Faction war. Nice.’
Done calculating, Professor grabbed next-alley priest’s shoulder.
“Young brother. ...Know my face?”
“No way. Hau Numan born/raised, outsiders I know... Hweh?!?”
Gruffing bored, voice shocked stone-dead at unhelmeted face.
“Uh, uh, wha... S-sai... Saint...? Matches church-down portrait of Blood Saint exactly...”
“Latu-ra. May Light’s grace be with young saintling.”
Unhelmeted Professor smiled kindly; boy splatted flat on cold stone. Real saint. Miracle-worker everywhere, Ro Haram’s living proxy, Blood Saint. Why in barbaric pit?
“G-glory be! What brings Saint to Hau Numan...? No, visited diocese first, proper welcome!”
“Hahaha. Welcome? Undue for mere tool. Here because... Hold. Ear here?”
Professor whispered secret-soft to tear-glassy boy on cold stone, cool as ever.
“His will points here.”
“Gasp! Y-yes! Got it! Of course! Closest to Him!”
GG high church perk: no explaining actions.
In Light, only Norman archbishop above me? ‘God said go here’—all nod. Probe? ‘Hey, I’m saint. Closer to Ro Haram?’
Professor kindly told weeping boy, first witnessing Light’s grand will.
“Urgent message for diocese bishop, but gladiator status makes visiting hard. If not busy, pass my words?”
“A-anything! Command me!”
“Good boy.”
As Professor wiped boy’s tears bending, Borca stepped up offering shoulder, getting it—treatment via boy-priest.
Splash!
[Whoa. Not yet. Back off.]
[Hm? Not? Attendant priest can heal once, right?]
[Tsk tsk. Tightwad. Watch this saint work.]
Message-magic scolded Borca; Professor eye-locked boy, enunciated.
“Tell diocese bishop everything I said. Cold harsh season, suffering folk—church-wide healing rite’d be good, no?”
Professor smiled pleased at boy muttering “healing rite” nonstop.
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Moments later.
Boy-priest ditched potion box, alley-vanished less hour ago.
Solemn bishop led priests, bowed deep reverent.
“Latu-ra. Heard He descends lowest, darkest. Seeing saint in gladiator rags not priestrobes—truth hits, thrilled yet heart aches.”
“Latu-ra, Ro-ha-ram. Where His will is, comfiest seat. So, preparations?”
Bishop turned, gestured grand.
Snap snap snap snap!
“Praise Him! Praise Him!”
“Latu-ra! Latu-ra!”
Light’s sun-moon-star flags crammed alley; exalted priests chanted one voice on holy duty.
“Whoaaa...”
“Saint of Guiding Light requests. How neglect? All to let saint focus His will.”
Bishop bowed deep, retreated.
Priests lined carts, unleashed holy power.
Roughly thus:
“Ahem! Endless strife, many hurt/sick. Need treatment...”
Hint dropped, unwrap Borca’s shoulder bandage—
Fwooooosh!
“Let there be light!”
“Speak, warm as spring melting eternal snow!”
Priests unleashed tongue-thick holy chants,
“Chilly day, snow too. Hope no sad eyes closed by fierce wind...”
Brush exposed arm casually—
Fwoom!
“Beware heretic assault!”
“Evil’s pawn, Mutation Blood plots mankind’s doom!”
Paladins lit heretic pyres, warmed surrounds instant.
“Wearied souls need heart’s peace, courage...”
Roooar!
Stiff-neck stretch-mutter, church choir swarmed, sang blessings.
Host goblins griped bishop; he parroted:
“Just healing gift for cold/sick. Cart happened there.”
“Awakening citizens to heresy via pyre-light. Cart happened there.”
“Religious event only, no other meaning.”
Ironclad shield: healing, blessings, toasty warmth full-body. Professor’s skin flakier-fresh than newborn, gestured stiff Borca relax.
Lifelong rough wolfman only stiffened more at lavish pamper.
“What’s all this?”
“What? Faction war, right? Scrubs scheming felt off. Tolerate line-crosses, but blocking proper treatment? Over line. Gladiators live by body—sequelae terrifying.”
Blocked temple? Brought whole temple. Brats, pick targets for cheek. Now, bribed-pulled gladiators’ factions stare empty temple confused.
‘No hide anyway. Used Professor name—Light faithful’ll spot eventually, no burden outing.’
Downside: Blood Saint fame tanks our odds next. Lucilla’d gripe. She’d bet full on us 1-2, fat winnings.
“Hey, driver! Let’s roll! Under hour left!”
“Y-yes! G-go, Saint!”
Sudden priest/paladins blessing-shower made driver look decade younger, drove smoothest ever. Shoving citizen mobs for free heals/blessings, Professor/Light crew slow-rolled to next venue.
Declaring Blood Saint Professor/Light Church official entry to faction-tangled Hau Numan pit tourney.
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