The Drunken Spectacle
“Heard the story?”
“What story?”
“Some crazy bastard showed up in Sector 3, right?”
“Crazy bastard?”
Two men chatted over skewers of kunse meat in Airs’ food district. Both were laborers from the city. The area bustled with stalls where people could buy food and eat at the provided tables and chairs. It was past lunchtime, so the streets were relatively quiet.
“Yeah. Sector 3’s been in an uproar because of him.”
“New gladiators pop up all the time, but what’s so special about this one?”
“The madman fights his matches stone drunk.”
“Drunk? Plenty of fighters take a drink or two before a bout. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s not just a drink or two. You know Ruban’s liquor?”
“Ruban’s? That’s not liquor, that’s poison.”
“Exactly. Last match, he downed an entire bottle in one go before stepping into the arena.”
“What? That’s impossible. Who here hasn’t tried Ruban’s brew? No one could chug a whole bottle like that. You’re making it up.”
“Right? I thought the same.”
“It’s true.”
A third man joined them, carrying a rolled sandwich of bread and meat. He sat down beside them.
“True?”
“I heard the rumors and went to see for myself the day before yesterday. It’s real. That bastard really fights drunk.”
“Maybe it was just water?”
“I’m telling you, it’s real. He’s got this signature performance. Right before entering the arena, he downs the whole bottle in one shot at the entrance. And then, you know what happens?”
“What?”
“The women go wild.”
“Wild? Why?”
“Why do you think? Because he’s ridiculously handsome. Bring every actor in Airs here and none of them would hold a candle to him.”
“That handsome?”
“Yeah. Really handsome. Word is every rich man in Airs has already sent inquiries trying to buy him. Some even say they don’t care about buying him outright—just one night together.”
“Damn… I’ve got to go watch a match soon. He’s really that good-looking?”
“I’m telling you.”
“So he’ll quit the arena soon, right?”
“Not a chance. This is Airs, the city of gladiators. Once you’re marked as a gladiator slave, your fate is sealed here. Do you think arena owners are ordinary people? They’d guard their assets even if a blade were at their throats. That’s the rule of Airs.”
“Which arena is he at again? Roccom’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, Roccom. I bet the old man’s stomach is churning right now. They say some serious offers have already come in.”
“Why not just sell him?”
“Then Roccom would have to shut down the arena business. And not just that— the Association wouldn’t stay quiet either. Once you start bending the rules like that, everything falls apart. Who’s going to bet money if matches can be rigged that easily?”
“Fair enough. Forget that—tell me more about the drunk gladiator. So he drinks and then…?”
“Right. He downs the bottle, then the real show starts. He throws the empty bottle into the stands.”
“Throws it?”
“Yeah. Sometimes it breaks, but this time someone caught it. Then he drinks whatever’s left in the bottle. That proves it’s really liquor—and deadly strong Ruban’s at that.”
“Isn’t Ruban’s more like trash than poison?”
“Same difference. Drink it and you’re poisoned either way.”
“So he drinks the whole bottle and…?”
“What do you mean ‘and’? He staggers into the arena, swaying with every step. Thud, thud.”
“And then?”
“He fights. At first he gets pounded while stumbling around. But then, at some point, he snaps out of it and counterattacks. And it’s weird—his counterattack is strange. Then the opponent goes down.”
“Stone Fist, huh?”
“Stone Fist is right. One punch and they’re finished. His durability is insane too. He takes a beating for ages while staggering, yet walks out afterward without a scratch.”
“Incredible.”
“Go watch next time. People are already saying the vengeful spirit of a fallen kingdom possesses his fists.”
“Is he big?”
“No. Lean and wiry. That’s what makes it even stranger.”
Liscal, who had stepped out for lunch, listened to the men’s conversation and gave a bitter smile. The smile came because nothing they said was wrong.
‘This is getting out of hand. At this rate, the rumors have already spread across the entire region.’
Liscal stood up without finishing his meal.
Muslan truly fought his matches drunk.
And he won.
He had already secured seven consecutive victories.
Was the schedule lenient?
Far from it.
Liscal had deliberately packed the calendar to the brim. There had even been days when Muslan fought on two consecutive days.
Were his opponents weak?
Not at all.
From the third match onward, only fighters who had properly learned boxing were sent in. Among them was even a direct disciple of the Fist King Basqun.
The final match in particular had featured the highest-ranked boxer across all of Airs, borrowed specifically for the bout.
That so-called top boxer now had a broken jaw and no idea when—or if—he would return.
‘This is driving me insane.’
“I never should have shown him favor after the match with Abey…”
Liscal muttered bitterly to himself. The fight against Abey had been truly magnificent. That was why he had used his authority to provide proper medicine. Thanks to that, Muslan had recovered to his pristine condition as if the wounds had never existed.
It was rare for medicine to produce such flawless healing, yet Muslan had returned to his original state as if he were some kind of lizard.
After that, victory after victory.
Impressed by the performance, Liscal had extended kindness, but the consequences were now hitting hard. Pressure from above had intensified.
He had been stalling with excuses, but the problem remained. After lunch, he had to meet Roccom, the arena owner.
With a heavy heart, Liscal returned to the arena. He had eaten outside for the first time in a while, yet felt no satisfaction.
As expected, Roccom’s summons came the moment he arrived. Liscal moved forward with his nerves tightly wound.
“Liscal.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The clients are applying quite a bit of pressure. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“No need for long explanations. Who could have known Muslan would perform this well… Still, failing to recognize his value is partly your fault as well. You understand?”
“Yes. I understand. I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”
“I wouldn’t punish you over something like this. I know how dedicated you’ve been. But the matter of Muslan can no longer be overlooked.”
“Then…”
“Send him to fighting matches.”
“Fighting matches…”
“I know. He’s still a Caterpil, so he can’t enter proper fighting bouts.”
“Yes.”
“But we can make it possible. We’ll match him against fighters of similar age.”
“You mean to establish fighting matches within the Caterpil division?”
“Exactly. I’ve already finished discussing it with the business owners of Sector 3.”
“They…”
“It’s not a loss for them either. Thanks to Muslan, interest in Caterpil matches—which were previously seen as open bouts—has surged.”
Caterpil matches.
In other words, boys under sixteen could only participate in boxing. In the past, children and adults had fought with weapons in life-or-death bouts without restrictions, but such cruel matches were now limited. It was the only way to reduce the number of gladiator slaves dying in the arena.
“Yes. It’s true that interest has increased. Even today at lunch, I heard people talking about Muslan.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“He really is an amusing fellow. Heh.”
Roccom was a stern old man. His face was lined with wrinkles, yet his eyes and movements showed no sign of age. His physique matched: tall, with a straight back.
“Drink.”
At Roccom’s gesture, a servant approached Liscal and lowered himself. Since no invitation to sit had been given, Liscal remained standing. The servant knelt on one knee so Liscal could receive the tea. Liscal accepted the cup.
“Thank you.”
“Since Caterpil matches have gained new vitality, Sector 3 will allow fighting bouts even in the Caterpil division. Fighting is different. Fighting. Unlike boxing. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes. It is different. Very different.”
Liscal spoke with a meaningful expression.
“Anyway, that’s how things will proceed from now on. Make sure to inform Muslan as well.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Boxing would have been easier for him… As you know, fighting is far more brutal. Death is much more painful too. Isn’t that right?”
Roccom asked. Liscal savored the sweet tea.
“It is. But there is one concern…”
“What concern?”
“Most fighters capable of proper fighting bouts are at least Caterpil age or older.”
“We’ll match him against peers. It won’t be a Caterpil match. We’ll create a new division for those twenty and under. And since it’s not just us—Sector 3 as a whole has agreed—there won’t be any backlash.”
Backlash was inevitable. However, because the entire sector was implementing it rather than Roccom Arena alone, they could suppress any opposition with force.
“I see.”
“But about that Muslan fellow.”
“Yes.”
“Is he really just physically strong?”
“What do you mean by that…”
“Where is he from? Maran, right? Maran. The kingdom of magic.”
“That is correct.”
“I’m asking if he might be using magic. Or at the very least, mana breathing.”
“If there were traces of magic, the referee would have noticed, and the magic detector would have caught it. And if he used mana breathing, light would definitely shine from his eyes. No matter how little he circulated, it wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.”
“True enough. If that were the case, he would have been caught.”
“Yes.”
“Still, isn’t it too strange?”
“There are occasionally such cases. People born with innate divine power. There are even stories of those who became Flame Knights through that inborn power.”
Liscal said. Roccom let out a small laugh.
“Haha. Liscal, you sometimes put too much faith in rumors.”
“Pardon? What do you mean?”
“Do you really believe someone can become a Flame Knight through innate divine power alone?”
“Are you saying it’s an exaggerated rumor?”
“I’ve seen a Flame Knight fight before. It was… well, I was just grateful he wasn’t from the Empire. Even regular knights are the same. You know what kind of power a knight wielding proper mana breathing possesses. Yet you think someone can become a Flame Knight—the pinnacle of knighthood—using only innate divine power?”
“It must have been an exaggerated rumor.”
“That’s what I believe. So according to you, Muslan is one of those cases?”
“Yes. I believe Muslan is of that type.”
“And yet no one knew about it?”
“He had no reason to use it. After all, he’s from the kingdom of Maran, and wasn’t he the crown prince there?”
“Haha… Even if Maran was a kingdom where magic was extremely advanced, are you saying the crown prince never once held a sword until that age? I can’t understand it at all.”
“There seems to be some secret, but it doesn’t appear to be related to magic.”
“Hmm… Anyway, keep a close watch. I think there’s something there. Something…”