Chapter 253
Chapter 253
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: One Empire, Three Legends (12)
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If the one you serve is the God of Light, then His Imperial Majesty is the god of this world. This is a letter penned on behalf of His direct lineage, the Second Prince. Thus, I command you to humbly accept it, as per the words of the one you serve.
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"....Do we really need to finish reading it?"
"It'd be best to at least grasp what it says, wouldn't it? Let's see.... The Empire has no intention of standing by while the Church of Light claims ownership of imperial territory. But neither does it plan to add even a sliver of honor to the Empire's sun-like prestige by beheading some dubious saint."
"Even a magic-using atheist by birth wouldn't insult a cleric that badly."
"Wow. It's like they took every single thing you're not supposed to say in noble speech and crammed them all in."
While the group recoiled at the arrogance dripping from every line, the Professor continued reading the letter.
"In any group, making enemies is a step backward, and antagonizing the Empire is a full sprint toward ruin. Though the Light has unavoidably encroached on imperial affairs, the Second Prince conveys his words: since this is fate, let us align our steps. He has no desire to blame those lost in illusions, singing of happiness, but even in their delusion-filled minds, the Empire's majesty must be firmly etched."
"Wow.... What the hell...."
"If the Light wishes to expand its influence, it should root itself in the imperial capital, not some petty frontier city of barbarians—that is how to truly amplify its light. Should the children of Light not spurn the Second Prince's benevolence, he promises not to turn his back when he ascends the throne. The Prince possesses the qualities of a hegemon and will greatly aid the Church's endeavors in the future. In particular, should you find the Light's embrace insufficient compared to the prestige of the Saint of Blood, why not come into the Empire's fold.... Heh heh, it's giving me indigestion; I can't finish it. We can just pretend this letter never existed."
"Agreed. To send such an insulting letter to you, known for your devout faith. It's less a letter and more a duel gauntlet. Of course, the Church of Light does have a somewhat weak presence in the Empire. Its power is far inferior to the East, and many older nobles still remember how it had fallen so low it was called the 'Holy Laborers' or 'Holy Mercenaries' seventy years ago. But this.... This outright brands every follower of the Light as delusional lunatics."
"You idiots can believe in whatever pathetic local god you want; we don't care. But hammer these four words into your empty skulls: Em-pire. Em-per-or. If you ditch your worthless god and come crawling to the Empire, we'll take you in.... Damn, blasphemy against the divine, Empire supremacy, and an invitation to self-excommunication all in one. Masterful prose that'd have even bedridden believers leaping up with torches."
Before any church members outside could catch a glimpse, the Professor swiftly burned the letter, then tapped his fingers on the desk as he spoke.
"It's one or the other. Either the Second Prince and all the nobles around him are utter morons with turnip heads who know zilch about political rhetoric. Or there's a reason they need to provoke the Church and drag its representative—me—into the tournament finals."
"The latter."
"Has to be the latter."
"Even a dimwitted Second Prince would attract nobles eager to exploit his weakness. It strains belief that they'd all be stupid enough to send crap like this."
"Gruk. This letter smells off to me too."
With his companions in full agreement, the Professor nodded. There was no way the architect of Hounuman's intricate absorption policy would send something this idiotic—there had to be another motive.
'Let's see. A saint who devotes his body and soul to the will of the gods. That's the image of me I've projected outward. The pinnacle of fanatical Roharam devotees, bordering on zealotry. If I were truly that saint, I'd have stormed straight to the marquis's estate the moment I got this letter. Raging to slaughter them all.'
[Exactly. The Hounuman diocesan holy knights, already on high alert for my movements, would swarm in. It'd recreate the semifinal battle right in the marquis's domain. Or so they'd imagine.]
'Right. That's what they'd expect. So why aim for that? To have Marquis Bildebrandt killed by the Church? Absurd. To get us disqualified? Then the marquis's knights forfeiting makes no sense.'
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
His pondering deepened, his thoughts sinking into the subconscious. There wasn't enough material or intel to divine the enemy's intentions. In that case, first examine not the foe, but his own actions. What had the Church of Light— their target—done to provoke this blatant antagonism?
The intel from the local bishop. The boy priest's testimony about distributing potion vials. The arena. Slaves. Non-humans and beastkin.....
Tap.
"Yggdrasil. On our way to the semifinals, were you up to your usual 'hobby'?"
"Yes. I'm not one to indulge in sloth."
"Good. Then you scoped out Marquis Bildebrandt's territory along the way. What race was most common there?"
"For a human domain, beastkin and orcs far outnumbered humans. Goblins and humans dominate commerce, accounting, and civil service, while orcs and beastkin handle menial labor and other demeaning jobs. Rumor has it the Empire encourages this to instill slave mentality in beastkin."
"That's not a rumor; it's fact. Plenty of beastkin and orcs in the marquis's turf.... Next. We advanced due to the marquis's forfeit. Who rose on their side?"
"Their match started an hour before yours, Professor. After a fierce battle, the wolf beastkin siblings made it to the finals."
"I see.... Those two—are they popular in Hounuman?"
"Immensely. They're a rare case of surviving the arena for years, and their trajectory clearly aims for the arena throne. Beastkin with memories of human oppression go wild for their relentless climb upward. This is their third finals appearance. Oh, one odd detail: this year, only the elder sibling, Tushan Dalrun, competed in all matches. They registered both names but he's fought solo the whole time."
"Right.... Gunning for the tournament win all by his lonesome...."
[Marka Dalrun: Severely injured.]
The goblin intel sheet said the younger sibling was badly hurt. He'd seen Borca fretting over letters from the ailing younger one with every delivery. With their freedom on the line in this arena tournament, if one couldn't even participate and the other couldn't be dissuaded from going alone....
'Their condition must be pretty dire. Tushan absolutely won't cry surrender this time.'
Alright, intel gathered—now think from the enemy's perspective. The A-grade provocation letter enrages the saint, who storms Bildebrandt lands in the god's name. The Light's followers prove their name's not for show, going berserk. Unlike the marquis's people, guarded by two master knights and soldiers, the unprotected laborers—orcs and beastkin—get swept up and suffer innocently.
One more thing. In the finals, the saint clashes with a wildly popular beastkin gladiator who's resolved to fight to the death without surrender. True to form, the Church folks willing to accept sacrifices for divine will slay the unyielding beastkin gladiator to the end, and the saint claims victory.
'They think I've come to expand the Church in Hounuman under divine orders, so that's plausible. A truly devout saint carrying out God's will would've butchered not one beastkin but a hundred without blinking. All their schemes point to turning beastkin and non-humans against the Church. And the Church's recent drastic shift—from shunning non-humans to embracing them. If those who cozied up suddenly go mad, slaughtering beastkin and orcs and trampling their idols....'
"Looks like the Second Prince is tighter with the underworld than I thought."
Tap.
The Professor's fingers, pounding indentations into the table, stopped as he reached his conclusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Hounuman's a criminal paradise, with same-day delivery on fresh drugs to boot. Naturally tangled with the shadows."
"We talked about that in the carriage yesterday...."
"True. But think about it—drug peddlers wouldn't stick to just that, right? All sorts of illicit goods, like.... slave trading, say."
Borca's face flushed with disbelief, shock, and rage at the words.
"Not just trading—slave traders with the muscle to wipe out entire packs of powerful forest werewolves and kidnap their young. That's no small operation, and pulling it off without a trace demands stealth and precision. Not easy amid back-alley types who betray over breakfast. Unless it's part of an organization with ironclad discipline."
As the werewolf's fangs and fur bristled in anticipation of what came next, the Professor delivered his verdict.
"The Second Prince didn't pull in the underworld—he is the underworld. At minimum the brass, maybe even the boss. Drugs and slaves? Secure the supply, and it's riches beyond dreams. Money alone can't buy everything, but piles of silver that look like scrap metal make the impossible routine. The Prince lacked political chops but built and sustains his power with absurd wealth."
A throne aspirant would've expanded his forces aggressively. But upkeep balloons with size, and suddenly—brakes screech on his prime slave trade racket. The Church of Light, which turned a blind eye to slave trading while oppressing non-humans, now glares fiercely and hauls in slavers.
Slave lines from the East snap shut, threatening to shatter his money-glued empire.
"So they aimed to trash the Church's image in Hounuman, non-human mecca. Look—they say they've changed, but deep down, same old. And if the winner exercises rights, they're snatching the city too? Fuels even more backlash."
"B-but then what about Hounuman? The Second Prince's faction and Bildebrandt didn't win."
"That's why the letter preempts it. They see the Church coveting imperial turf. Religious encroachment on political domain. If the victorious saint demanded governance as they imagined, the Prince's bloc would've raged over the Church infringing on rights. Can't ditch the entire Church in the Empire over one spot, so rights evaporate, and Bildebrandt gains fame and slyly swells influence opposing the oppressive Church. Hm, solid plan. Way smoother than repeatedly winning tournaments to gobble land—lets Hounuman lean their way naturally."
"In the end, a meaningless scheme."
"Exactly. They didn't know their daily-wage saint has zero divine power."
That provocation letter doesn't even piss you off—just pity for the 'delusional tryhard.' If any churchgoer saw it, things might've unfolded as the Prince predicted, but sending it to the saint for max drama backfired from the start.
"If we don't react to the letter, the antsy Prince's side will move first. They might get really aggressive then, so we'll have to meet them head-on."
"Hm.... So we're forfeiting the finals? You've achieved your nomadic tribe goals, but...."
"Of course we go. Perfect timing—they've sent a challenge. Hey, Borca, the last one's yours."
The Professor picked up the grubbiest of the goblin's letters and handed it to Borca.
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If you call yourself a warrior, a fighter, let's settle it with full power in the grandest arena. I'm the superior one, so I'll face you alone. A true warrior wouldn't tarnish an honorable stage with shame.
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Unlike Marquis Bildebrandt's letter, rife with schemes and subtext, this filthy scrap was a transparently clumsy taunt.
"Blunt as a club. Borca, your kid's in rough shape. Gotta win or die, but 2-on-1's tough, so he used his head, huh? Wanna play along? Who's going? I'm fine either way. Arena sounds fun. Of course, with the marquis and Prince unpredictable, need someone sharp, quick on their feet, strong enough for two master knights.... Not underselling your skills, though?"
"....I'll ask you to handle it. I'll take the arena; you cover the outside."
Borca swept his eyes over the letter bearing his son's clumsy effort, then tucked it away.
'Tomorrow noon. Tomorrow noon. Twenty-one hours from now. Noon strikes.'
Recalling his children's faces from long ago, Borca's heart sank, the group's low chatter fading from his ears.
The final goal of his life. His children and his vengeance targets—all in this city. The werewolf's slowly settling heart sharpened, grew cold and keen.
The gladiator helm's ridges rippled across his mind like waves.
Each time emotions threatened to burst, he'd gaze at the shadowed world through the chill helm, calming himself.
Made to endure the unendurable in this world.
Compromised on the uncompromising.
Abandoned his human and beastkin identity to survive.
And now, the moment he'd discarded everything for was less than a day away.
Amid the scrape of chill metal, Borca pressed all those feelings deep into his chest.
After enduring fifteen years, counting awake through twenty-one hours was nothing.
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