The Long Vacation (15)

The announcer’s voice rang out, bright and theatrical.

Those lines sound the same no matter where you go. Chrome listened with a feeling that hovered somewhere between familiarity and absurdity, then turned his gaze to the opponent standing before him.

The man showed neither the pressure of having every spectator’s eyes on him nor the slightest spark of excitement before a fight. Not a single shard of positive emotion could be found on his face; he simply stared at Chrome with the same gloomy expression he had worn from the beginning.

Ligret had called it a “temporary measure,” but the way he held that quarterstaff was rock-solid. There wasn’t a single gap to exploit.

“It’s a nice day. Why not crack a smile? You’re making me depressed just looking at you.”

“…….”

In a way, the silence was exactly what he had expected. After all, the previous opponent—a back-alley thug—had hurled every piece of trash talk imaginable, yet the man hadn’t even pretended to hear it. As expected, the only real answer is force, Chrome thought, shaking his head. Too bad that’s Ligret’s specialty, not mine.

Before the announcer could finish the word “start,” Chrome was already surging forward. Just as he expected, Shimark thrust the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠quarterstaff out to cut off his path.

The staff measured roughly one point eight to two meters. Chrome’s club was barely a meter long. No matter what he tried, he would be completely outranged. The same went for the magic shield interference he had used against the knight earlier; it was useless unless he closed the distance first. As long as he couldn’t narrow the gap, Chrome’s disadvantage would remain. That was how most of the crowd saw it.

The quarterstaff stretched out like a barrier. Chrome swung his club without mercy, and at the same moment the tip of the weapon flared with magical energy—the precursor to a spell cast through a magic tool.

Shimark did not panic. He had seen this move in the previous match. Predicting it had been easy. He poured magic power into the quarterstaff to reinforce its durability and relaxed his body to absorb the impact.

The explosive force Chrome had displayed was, at best, equivalent to a low-tier flame spell. Direct contact with a human body would carry decent power, but it lacked the destructive force needed to shatter objects. A quarterstaff strong enough to chip a decent blade even in its normal state would never break from a low-tier spell once reinforced with magic. And even if Chrome increased the explosion’s output, the fact that he had to swing it by hand meant he would only blow himself up.

Chrome must have targeted the weapon because closing the distance was difficult. A naïve judgment—nothing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠more.

Shaaaaah!

Then, as if to demonstrate exactly who had been naïve, the quarterstaff froze solid.

“What…?”

It looked as if someone had planted a stick in a giant snowbank and poured water over it. The arena floor and the staff were now fused together. For the first time, genuine bewilderment slipped from Shimark’s lips.

Not heat—cold. Not a flame spell, but an ice spell. And its output was far beyond that of a simple low-tier spell. In a dry environment like this, a low-tier spell could never generate a mass of ice so suddenly.

Shimark’s assumption that the output could not be raised had been only half correct. Raising a flame spell’s power would have endangered Chrome himself. But cold had no such backlash. As long as he avoided a direct hit, it was perfectly bearable.

Shimark struggled desperately to free his weapon. Chrome, however, had no intention of simply watching. A barrage of low-tier magic arrows flew at him. Shimark threw himself aside, dodging them with surprisingly light movements for someone who had not strengthened his body with magic. While evading, he organized his thoughts.

Chrome carried no other visible weapons. Losing the staff was annoying, but once the ice melted it could be recovered. Chrome’s club, on the other hand, had been destroyed by the spell’s aftermath and could not be restored. The magic arrows would be dangerous if they landed, but their accuracy and firing speed were mediocre. Avoiding them posed no great difficulty.

If he simply dragged the fight out, victory would be his.

Having reached that conclusion, Shimark’s aura grew noticeably calmer. Chrome sensed the change immediately. The surprise attack had succeeded, but the follow-up had failed, and the arrows were unlikely to hit. Judging by the man’s footwork, even a bare-handed rush would be pointless.

That left only one option.

“Ha, damn it. I really didn’t want to do this. It’s going to look so stupid.”

With a short sigh, Chrome hurled himself forward alongside another volley of magic arrows. Shimark, who had expected him to keep distance and fight a ranged battle, felt a flicker of confusion but still flicked out a light checking jab. He used only a gentle blow rather than a heavy strike—precisely because he remained wary of another trick. After watching Chrome’s performances throughout the tournament, it was the only sensible choice.

Thud!

Which was exactly why Shimark was the one thrown off balance when the jab landed so easily. He had assumed it would be blocked by a magic shield, yet the strike connected cleanly.

Impact after impact rained down on his guard. Chrome gritted his teeth and kept pressing forward. Without technique, without flair, he simply slammed his entire body forward and seized Shimark.

Then he kept pushing—forward, forward, forward.

“Y-you bastard!”

Only then did Shimark realize what Chrome was aiming for. He struggled wildly, but bewilderment quickly overtook him. This boy was supposed to be a mage, even if a pathetic one. Where was all this strength coming from—!

“This is the Rabaul style!”

With a shout that would have made the man himself protest, “I am not that barbaric!”, Chrome shoved Shimark completely beyond the arena boundary. Shimark stared down at his feet with a dazed, empty expression.

Looking at that hollow face, Chrome offered a single, concise remark.

“That gloomy ‘I’ve-seen-the-end-of-the-world’ look really doesn’t suit you. This one’s much better.”

“H-how dare you… with such a cheap trick…!”

“Who was the one who fell for that cheap trick again?”

“You bastard!!”

For a brief instant, a haze-like aura rippled around Shimark’s body. Chrome didn’t miss it. But the phenomenon lasted only a moment. As if he had realized something, the haze vanished. Shimark’s enraged expression smoothed away, returning to the same gloomy mask he had worn at their first meeting.

“…….”

With an attitude that made it hard to believe he had been furious only seconds ago, Shimark turned his back on the arena without ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a word. He ignored the announcer’s declaration of victory. Chrome grumbled to himself.

What a guy with zero sense of showmanship. At a time like this, you’re supposed to drop a foreshadowing line like “You’ll regret this” or “We’ll meet again.” It’s basic etiquette.

It didn’t take long for Chrome to receive the report from the Midas Trading Company agents who had been tailing Shimark: they had lost him.

Deep in darkness where no one’s gaze could reach, the gloomy man threw himself to the floor.

“I have failed to carry out the mission entrusted to me! Please punish this foolish sinner!”

Thud! Thud! Thud!

He lowered his body as though in worship and slammed his forehead against the ground again and again, begging for forgiveness. Anyone who had watched him in the tournament would have been stunned beyond words. The resigned, gloomy face and the dignity of a powerhouse who had defeated numerous skilled opponents were completely gone. All that remained was grief and despair rising from the depths of his soul, self-loathing and rage. Veins bulged across his reddened face, mixing with blood from his torn forehead until he resembled a demonic spirit. Bowing like a slave before an absolute being, he looked utterly wretched.

Just as it seemed he might crack his skull open and die, a voice drifted from the darkness.

The androgynous voice—impossible to tell whether it belonged to a man or a woman—overflowed with warmth. It carried a mysterious power that soothed the heart simply by being heard.

Shimark—no, the man called Dube—cried out in anguish.

“No! It is absolutely not so! Everything is the result of my own inadequacy! How could the Apostle possibly bear any sin!”

At those benevolent words, tears streamed down Dube’s face. He trembled with overwhelming emotion.

“Apostle…!”

Evil had begun to move.