Chapter 259
Chapter 259
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: One Empire, Three Legends (18)
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Even with his heavy heart, Borca could not stop his footsteps from quickening.
From the third floor to the second. To the circular arena, then back underground.
By the time he had run so far that he was gasping for breath, the sight that filled his eyes was a scene he had grown sickeningly tired of long ago.
“...A werewolf, huh. Hmph! I get that you pushed past those bastards up there thinking whatever you were thinking to come down here. Get lost. This isn’t a place for outsiders like you. You think we’re down here because we’re too dumb to push forward?”
The boar beastkin snorted, pointing to the wooden cage beside him with its door open.
Wooden bars so frail they’d shatter at a touch. The perfect symbol of the slave gladiators’ misery, and the most insulting lodgings prepared for them.
Slave gladiators lived right beneath the arena, closest to the dirt surface. When escaped beasts, slaves, or fellow gladiators caused trouble, they had to smash their own cages with their own hands, drag the culprits back, and return to these worthless prisons. Otherwise, they’d face the whip. The price of rebellion was death. Not even a chance to swing a claw or meet their eyes—just a hollow end. Fleeting lives that crumbled before a contract in hand and a single word.
At this insult to slave gladiators, Borca strode toward the boar beastkin blocking his path. Unlike the beastkin who rose with a snort, Borca simply thrust forward the bundle of papers in his hand.
“You’ve suffered much. You’re all free now.”
“This is...”
A stir rippled through the underground prison, managed by these prisoner-guards themselves. A prison housing only slave gladiators in wooden cages.
Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.... Flutter.
The boar beastkin’s trembling hand stopped as he rifled through the papers.
“Khuh, kkhuh, puh! Finally, finally!!!!”
The moment he found the worn paper with his name, the boar beastkin snorted and tore it to shreds.
Crack!
Crunch!
“Freedom!”
“The contracts! Those damned contracts at last!”
“Kraaaargh!”
Slave gladiators freed from their contracts began smashing through the paper-thin wooden bars and bursting out.
Leaving behind those racing to shred the contract bundle, Borca pushed through the chaotic gladiators making way for him and stopped before an unbroken cage.
One werewolf with long claw marks across his chest.
Beside him, another werewolf, pale-faced and exhaling ragged breaths.
“Tushan.... Marka....”
Crack!
Kneeling after ripping out the thin bars with one hand. At that indescribable emotion in his call. And,
“Benad Pang. You... no, it can’t be. I saw your end with my own eyes...”
“Say nothing.”
To those unknowable emotions directed at him until the final clash in the arena.
Borca cut him off as Tushan stared at his empty arm and opened his mouth.
What to say first when he saw his children. A question he’d pondered endlessly during lonely nights after leaving the forest. Back when he still clung to hope.
An apology, perhaps. For his failure that cost the whole tribe their lives and left you suffering like this. No, gratitude first? For surviving human hands, enduring the ordeals. Should he brush back their ear fur and tell them their lost parents’ embrace had returned.
Years of thought, words carefully chosen, tickled his throat. So many words he wanted to say, enough to fill three days and nights at the first breath.
“...Let’s go.”
His fur faded from gray to silver-gray, his severed arm. His aged face, the contract in his hand. They stood in for all excuses.
So Borca chose to embrace his son and daughter with his remaining arm.
Fifteen years of longing. Beyond pain and humiliation, the one thing he’d forsaken everything for.
“You’re... alive?”
“Ugh.... D-Dad?”
His son, bewildered in his arms. His daughter, eyes opening to recognize him despite the long years. In that moment, Borca felt fifteen years of pain melt away like snow. The melted pain streamed down his cheeks.
“Let’s go home. To the forest.”
Borca declared his long journey finally over.
Time to return. To the forest he yearned for. Back to where we belong.
****
“...And so. We confirmed Borca reunited safely with his two children. He headed out of the arena carrying his daughter Marka on his back, supported by his son.”
“I saw from afar too. He looked really awkward with his son.”
“As the son who unwittingly severed his rushing father’s arm at stake, it’s a natural reaction. Borca explained it as, ‘He takes after his mother—stubborn, no hesitation in action, so breaking him there was the only answer.’”
“Ridiculous. If he’d just said right there, ‘Hey, I’m your father~ Your old man~,’ he could’ve wrecked the whole match.”
On the half-collapsed roof of the Colosseum, the Professor sat at the edge, facing the winter wind as he listened to Yggdrasil’s report from shadowing them.
“Human emotions... seem terribly illogical and complex. Borca had no qualms using somewhat cowardly means, but oddly, at the end he got stubborn and lost an arm.”
“Of course. Fifteen years with no one to talk to properly but his guilt-ridden self. Tangled up like kudzu roots. Guilt over hastening the tribe’s fall too. Seeing his grown son without him, he probably thought, ‘With just freedom, he can stand on his own now.’”
I pitied them too. The guy steadying his daughter on his back with one arm, the odd distance with his son. If he’d had the other arm, a casual shoulder pat would’ve made a perfect picture.
“No hitches on the way out, right? A ton of escaped guys tagged along. What’s that about?”
“The fallen younger brother seemed like a spiritual pillar for the beastkin gladiators... something like that. Talk of ‘great bloodline heir,’ ‘blue mane,’ ‘roots,’ I heard several times.”
“Hmm... So?”
“Unclear how things will play out, so the freed slave gladiators decided to stick together for now. Stronger bonds among gladiators than expected. Worried about angry ones loose in the city, Borca chose to go with them.”
“Good. Perfect. Beastkin always going on about debts, won’t rest till repaid—they owe us freedom now, so they’ll listen up front. Blue Mane, werewolf great bloodline heir... Feels like missing a lottery, but can’t be crunching numbers as comrades leave.”
The Professor stared long in the direction Borca and the beastkin vanished, then turned to the opposite side. Holy knights from the Bildebrandt marquis house swarmed in. He stood.
“Up we go. They’re gone, time to wrap up. Oh, Yggdrasil. Good work. Beastkin senses make tailing tough.”
“No trouble. I enjoy it.”
“...Say the same to Lady Boss. No ‘learned from who,’ ‘impressed by what’ crap—”
“Hehe. Pick my words, got it. I know by now.”
At the elf whose hobbies and skills had become stealth, tracking, and scouting—her lips curving up—the Professor chuckled, teasing she’d learned to smile.
Crack!
“Eung, heeeing! Cough! Hic!”
“Stop crying, kid. They met their family—we can’t hold them. Make the rest of their time happy.”
“But, but.... Sniff!”
Down below, the Professor scooped up still-sobbing Lucilla, tucked her into Notum’s arms, then cracked his neck side to side.
“Alright, wrap-up time! Empire high noble’s dead, after all! Worst case, they send pursuit after escaped beastkin gladiators. Wipe magic traces. Burn remaining contracts. Lucilla and rest, back to inn~. Yggdrasil, got it?”
“Yes. Here.”
The Professor took the half-smashed ‘Benad Pang’ helmet from Yggdrasil, set it in the blood-soaked marquis’s room, placed it beside one of the dead mercenaries crushed under him, and slammed it down hard.
Crunch!
As the Professor admired the dented helmet, Aldrich muttered nearby while stowing the soul jar.
“Done. Sent all vengeful spirits back where they belong. Wreck the scene beyond recognition—no necromancy’ll figure who was who or what happened.”
“Okay, good! Let’s go~. I’ll finish with the Order, then rest.”
“W-Wait! I... Sniff! Got something!”
Before the Professor’s final smash-up, Lucilla toddled over from Notum’s back, hiked her skirt.
“Hyah! Bad guy!”
Thwack!
Her tiny foot booted the dusty marquis’s head, sending it flying out.
“Phew! Done! Let’s go!”
“Uh.... Yeah.... Sure.”
Twitching at the watermelon-crack sound below, the Professor shook his head at Lucilla wiping blood off her little shoe.
And.
Boom! Rumble rumble—!
His final blow swept the pillars below. The Colosseum, built on countless gladiators’ blood, began to collapse.
****
Rustle, rustle rustle—
=========
[Hero’s Progress Report]
Operation Area: Valtin Empire Northwest. Vassal state,异族 city Haunuman.
Reporter: Hero, Saint, Roharam Representative異族 Harmony Envoy Captain Professor.
Objective: Purge of evil.
Key Progress:
1. Immediately after rescuing Saintess from Storm Hill and handover. With wind mages’ aid, boarded airship to Elf Forest. Day 3 of travel, emergency landing from accident.
2. During reorganization post-crash, felt ‘Unknown Light Guidance’ and infiltrated Haunuman. To approach most naturally before evil hid roots, allied with gladiator ‘Benat Pang,’ entered arena tournament.
3. Upon identifying evil’s nature, cooperated with Haunuman parish to raid Bildebrandt marquis house. Encountered and battled inquisitor ‘Red Mute.’ Swift response: No civilian casualties except 478 actively aiding inquisitor.
4. Fierce battle ended in Red Mute’s retreat. Post-investigation: No direct evidence of marquis house-Mutation Blood collusion, but deep ties to empire underworld revealed (Attachments 1,2,3: slave, drug, empire-banned goods smuggling ledgers). Holy comms: Third Princess side promised immediate action.
Conclusion:
* Through events, Order showed cooperation and sincerity to Haunuman’s異族. Orcs, beastkin generational turnover forget past Order sins—expect new Roharam faithful among them. Light of Loharam upon them proves Roharam’s異族-friendly policy genuine.
* Bildebrandt house (one of Haunuman’s 8 tribes) falls; Open Ribcage Tribe chief ‘Tolkhanu Vaitl’ missing—Haunuman chaos accelerates. Order claims credit for bloodless resolution + ‘Saint Professor’s’ arena win rights, recognized as Haunuman mediator. Expect other six tribes’ cooperation expanding Order influence.
* Many steppe tribes relocated to Lordric Kingdom. Expect high cooperation on defense lines.
* Inquisitor, Bildebrandt marquis deceased. Red Mute fled.
* Ally, ‘Bloodied Benad Pang’ deceased. Latura.
* Hero party next moves to empire capital, plans request support vs. evil god Mutation Blood Queen.
May light fill humanity’s future.
Latura, Roharam.
=========
“Haven’t written one of these in ages.”
[Only upload when needed?]
‘Honestly, no time anymore. Just needed official paperwork.’
In the softly glowing temple.
Surrounded by holy relics, icons, sacred miscellany, the Professor set down his finest quill and neatly folded the report.
“Here. To headquarters.”
“Yes, sir! Saint!”
Haunuman parish. In the guest annex now as holy as the bishop’s office, dressed in snow-white robes, the Professor finished the Order-bound report.
The Colosseum’s collapse, the marquis’s shattered head dropped like a milestone before it—clear message. Rumors spread instantly beyond Haunuman to the empire.
‘Empire folks handle things fast—love that.’
[Yeah. Lordric’d take a week for inspectors.]
That evening—close by or pre-scouting?—empire inspectors arrived.
With mages, they collected the spit-and-dirt-smeared marquis head, sifted Colosseum rubble and wrecked manor, piecing the truth.
Their thorough probe unearthed his corruption and evils like gourds on a vine.
Mid-investigation, they got an imperial letter, muttered ‘No need to probe further,’ and hastily left.
[External pressure?]
‘Yup. Dig to roots, hits princes, empress—can’t leave that exposed. They’ll shred the marquis house to cut tails. Capital-lounging Bildebrandts’ll drop like flies. No heresy proof, so no pyres.’
For reference, Order holy knights obsessively gathered presumed marquis corpse from Colosseum rubble, bullied departing inspectors for the mangled head, stitched it piously, and pyred it.
‘Headquarters’d love the report.’
[Wolfie. Friend worth remembering.]
Rustle, rustle, rustle.
Barefoot, the Professor frowned at petals strewn before him to the temple, robes trailing like noble gowns held by bright-eyed priests.
At procession’s end before the bishop, who dismissed attendants with beaming smile.
“Thank you. Must’ve been unfamiliar.”
“Beyond unfamiliar—humiliating. Nearly shamed the Saint to death.”
“Hahaha. Still, lifelong memory for them? They’ll boast daily hosting the Saint who felled a giant inquisitor bare-handed. Each echo of your name, that pride. Stepping on flowers, swishing robes—you gifted them eternal joy. Bear a little inconvenience?”
“Not little. Anyway, fulfilled your requests—now my favor?”
Grumbling into plain robes from the bishop, the Professor eyed him. Bishop smiled again.
“Truth, ‘fit devotees’ was a jest. Your word, we obey. Two hours ago, shadow comms: mission complete.”
“So... escaped beastkin slaves’ records gone?”
“Yes. Contract mages’ lair—gongma stone cart overturned? Stones flooded contract warehouse... Probably no records left.”
Contract mages’ logs. Last clue to track Borca’s kids and escapees. Arena owner, traders dead; slaves’ contracts suddenly mass-terminated?
Not hard to suspect gladiator involvement in murders.
Many records, took time to hunt—but left alone, they’d surface. So Order handled final cleanup.
“Then... time to go. Stay seated. I’ll slip out quiet.”
“Yes. Busy man, can’t hold you.”
Professor turned in well-fitting robes—tailored to measure?—as bishop farewelled quietly at the door.
“Saint. Know this?”
“What?”
“Seventy years ago, lost our Saintess—our lighthouse gone. No guiding voice, we tread thin ice, trembling lest paths led to ruin.”
Plain yet reverent bishop’s office. Days sleepless handling events, bishop rose, bowed deeply.
“But now, we advance without hesitation.”
“...Saintess still gone?”
“No guiding Saintess, but a Saint to break our legs from wrong paths. May light fill your way. Latura.”
“...Latura. Roharam.”
Creak—
Professor returned the deep bow, strode to waiting carriage.
The bishop sent the Saint’s back vanishing in sunlight long, very long.
Laughing heartily at the irreverent wagon-puller, bishop sat, pen to fresh paper.
=========
....Lost our Saintess, long darkness groping—light arrived. Brilliant as sun, warm as campfire: that Saint’s name restarts Light’s history. Thus, record here Light’s history serving him sans divine guide. He who lit the ink-black path: sacred name Professor. He who parts darkness thorns with bare hands.
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The bishop resolved to record the Order’s history post-Saintess. Sans divine voice, fumbling onward. Past, it’d be shameful ledger of shames—but now, it’d touch that light, even slightly.
Rustle rustle.
His pen flew unhindered.
****
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