Chapter 11
Translator: True Detective
Chapter 11. Opening
The image that the word festival gives is generally harmonious.
A day to escape from daily life and be soaked in joy. A moment where taboos and rules loosen for a while. A ritual to celebrate each other being alive and enjoy peace.
Generally, festivals are accompanied by food, alcohol, music, and dance.
Like unhygienic chicken skewers or a trot singer's performance.
But in the North──
"The strong lead! The weak follow! This is the law of the North!"
It seems blood, iron, and axes accompany it.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Hundreds of axes and shields drummed the ground.
Bwuuuoooo-!
The sharp melody of horns rang out madly.
All noise became pressure and struck the eardrums.
"Die! Die and prove yourself! That is the way of the North!" "Spill blood! Until the earth is dyed red!" "The ancestor spirits are thirsty for struggle!"
…Actually, maybe succession is just an excuse, and they are just happy that a venue for legal violence has opened.
A circular arena built with ice and bones.
A structure that looked like the Roman Colosseum reinterpreted in Northern style.
Wild boars were being roasted whole on a pile of firewood stacked like a mountain. Demonic beast skulls hung like trophies on the walls, and battle axes were crossed in an X shape on every pillar.
Barbaric.
I am seriously concerned about the interior designer's aesthetic sense.
'Right, let’s think positively. Just because it’s a Romance Fantasy doesn't mean we have to go to balls every day. Sometimes a wild date course like this isn't bad.'
At that moment, an old elder climbed onto the podium. An old man with a beard reaching down to his waist. Wrinkles deep enough that his eyes were barely visible. A staff topped with a skull in his hand.
It is the visual of a typical tribal shaman.
"Warriors! The blood of Grombalt calls you!"
The old man's voice rang out resoundingly as if he used amplification magic.
"Dying of old age in bed is a warrior's shame! A warrior must die holding an axe! Die holding an axe! Only then will the ancestors open the gates of heaven! The soul of a coward shall wander the ice hell forever!"
Wooooooh―!
The warriors filling the spectator seats stomped their feet in unison and roared.
They drummed their shields, the floor, and the railings with their weapons.
Bang, bang, bang.
"Those who fear death, retreat! This is the place for warriors!"
I am a cultured intellectual who grew up in modern civilized society. An educated person who even graduated from university.
I don't have a speck of intention to agree with such barbaric agitation.
But my heart is thumping on its own.
This isn't a brain problem. It’s a body problem.
"From now on, the Axe Festival begins!"
Along with the referee's declaration, the first event was announced.
[Shield Splitting]
The first gateway to prove the qualifications of a warrior.
An event name that is simple and ignorant beyond measure. Literally splitting a shield.
Oak that grew enduring the harsh cold of the North. A combat shield made by reinforcing it with steel.
They say it’s hard to even make a scratch with a normal sword.
An object closer to a fragment of a castle wall than armor.
"First challenger! Blood Wolf, Ulfric Grombalt!!"
The first batter is the dog uncle… no, Blood Wolf Ulfric Grombalt.
Waaaaah!
Ulfric walked out to the center of the arena waving his hand arrogantly.
"Warriors of the North! Behold my fangs clearly!"
He glared at the placed shield with glistening eyes, then drew the sword from his waist.
Schwing.
It’s a famous sword. A blade with blue frost aura swirling around it.
"Heup!"
A silver flash brushed past the shield.
Seogeok―!
Not a dull bursting sound, but a sharp cutting sound rang out.
The steel shield, looking easily 10 centimeters thick, was cleanly cut in two.
"Waaaaah!" "As expected of Blood Wolf Ulfric!" "The Grand Duke's seat is yours!"
The audience cheered. Ulfric sheathed his sword with a satisfied smile.
After that, the strongman show continued.
A massive warrior called Brynjolf came out with a two-handed axe and completely smashed the shield. Not split, but exploded it. Fragments flew everywhere, and the audience went wild for that wildness.
Freya poured a barrage of attacks with twin swords, carving an X into the shield and severing it. A technique type.
There were those who failed too. Cases where the axe got stuck in the shield and wouldn't come out, wrists were sprained, or axe handles broke.
They exited lonely amidst merciless boos and ridicule.
"Weak bastard! Get lost from the North right now!" "Your axe isn't even as good as a kitchen knife!" "Go home and suck more milk!"
A cruel neighborhood.
The process is not important.
Only the result is everything.
To break, or be broken. That is the dichotomy of the North.
And finally.
"Next participant! Her Highness the Princess's champion! The Knight in Black Armor!"
My turn came.
I slowly stood up from my seat.
Clatter.
The sound of armor clashing sounded exceptionally loud.
Lucia looked up at me. Her eyes were shaking.
Is it worry? Or expectation?
'I'll be back.'
Saying it only in my heart, I threw myself down to the arena.
Thump.
Landed lightly.
"What is that black bastard?" "Isn't he an outsider?" "Look at the state of that armor. Did he come to hold a funeral or something?" "I heard he’s the guy the Princess brought?" "He looks flashy though."
The spectator seats murmured.
Wariness rather than curiosity. And a bit of disregard.
The territoriality of 'How dare a mere stranger interfere in the sacred ritual of the North?' is felt blatantly.
I ignored those gazes and looked at the shield placed in front of me.
It certainly looks sturdy. The surface is rough, the thickness is substantial, and it reeks of iron.
'I just need to split this, right?'
Simple.
I hesitated while trying to draw the greatsword on my back.
Thinking about it, everyone used weapons.
Ulfric used a sword, Brynjolf an axe, Freya twin swords.
Then it would be standard for me to split it using a weapon too, but…
'Isn't that too cliché?'
It’s a picture already shown by everyone before. Doing the same thing has no impact.
I wanted to show something special, different from others.
Only then can I catch the heroine's eye. A kind of differentiation strategy.
Then.
'Let’s go barehanded.'
Right, a man is fists.
Showing that weapons are merely support.
I approached the shield slowly.
Grabbed the top of the shield.
And applied a little force.
Squeeze.
Creak.
A strange sound occurred.
"……?"
The shield… went in.
Like pressing clay, the steel sunk in following the shape of my fingers.
'What is this, is it defective?'
They said it was the pride of the North. Said it was steel. Why is it so soft?
Is this the power of Strength Stat SS?
Breaking something like this is proof of a warrior?
'Ah, this is too easy.'
Too weak. It feels like it would snap if I tap it.
I intended to stage a scene of coolly smashing it with a fist, but this won't look cool.
But it’s awkward to just let go.
After contemplating for a moment, thinking 'Whatever, I don't know', I just kneaded it in my hands.
'Anyone can split it. But changing the shape is the realm of delicacy.'
Good. Let’s change the route. Not destruction, but sublimating it into art.
I pressed the shield firmly with both hands.
Crunch, crack, snap.
The metal screamed. The sound of wood crushing was heard. But it didn't break.
I carefully controlled my strength and rolled the edges of the shield inward.
Folding, folding again, and clumping.
Reviving the memory of making a ball out of clay in art class when I was young.
Round and round. Prettily.
Crumple crumple.
The steel plate bent, and the thick oak crumpled.
"……."
Before I knew it, the inside of the arena became quiet.
The noisy shouts disappeared like a lie.
Screech. Squeeek.
Only the grotesque noise of metal being crumpled.
I pressed the last protruding corner firmly with my thumb to finish it off.
Complete.
On my hand now lay not a shield, but a lump of metal sphere about 30 centimeters in diameter.
A quite dense iron ball.
'Hm, not bad.'
Although not a perfect sphere, it has quite a formative beauty for something made on the spot.
I lightly threw the made iron ball up with one hand and caught it.
Thud.
A heavy resonance.
I looked around the spectator seats.
Everyone dropped their drinking glasses, spat out the meat they were eating, and looked like their eyeballs were about to pop out.
'Why is the reaction like this?'
Is it perhaps a rule violation? They said split it, but I clumped it, so am I disqualified?
Anxiety struck.
The referee was also frozen with his mouth wide open.
Even after waiting, there is no reaction.
In times like this, let's appeal confidently.
'I believe this sufficiently satisfies the passing conditions. Since the shield lost its original function. The change in form is a secondary issue.'
"Boring."
Today too, the words flowing from my mouth were inevitably arrogant beyond measure.
"What are you trying to prove with this kind of thing? It’s at the level of a suckling's toy."
I threw the iron ball in my hand onto the floor.
Boom―!
Cracks spread across the ice floor as the iron ball embedded itself.
"Is it perhaps still insufficient? Instead, the next material will be your head."
The referee's face turned white like a sheet of paper.
He hurriedly picked up the flag dropped on the floor and raised it high with trembling hands.
"S-Shield… Splitting… No, Crushing? Anyway, P-Pass!"
'Ah, it’s a pass. That’s a relief.'
As expected, asking politely works well.
Passed the first gateway.
It’s a smooth start.
"Wh-What is that……." "Shield into…… a ball……?" "Is… Is that human?" "Even a troll can't make a shield like that…" "Monster… Monster……"
Murmurs burst out from the spectator seats.
Hm.
The Northern dialect is strong so I can't hear well, but the atmosphere seems roughly complimentary.
"Hiek…!"
The sound of someone screaming a familiar scream from the spectator seats.
Lucia hurriedly avoided my gaze as soon as our eyes met.
'…She must be shy.'
Well.
If her knight shows such a strongman show in front of everyone, as a girl, she might be a bit embarrassed.
'Festivals are certainly fun.'
Shrugging my shoulders, I exited the arena.
Lucia Von Astellia, with her hands on the railing, was looking down at the arena below.
The scene that unfolded in the middle of the arena just a moment ago is still vivid in her eyes.
A man who didn't split the shield but crumpled it.
A Black Knight who kneaded steel and oak like dough.
And the one word he spat out while throwing the result onto the floor.
"Boring. What are you trying to prove with this kind of thing?"
It was certainly impressive, but at the same time, an act that touched the nerves of the Northerners.
She glanced at the surrounding spectator seats.
As expected, the gazes were not kind.
"That black bastard, is he looking down on us?" "I heard he’s the guy the Princess brought? An Imperial bastard ignores the North?" "Insulting the Axe Festival. Unforgivable."
Growling spectators.
Hostility spread like a wave.
'……I'm screwed.'
She could hear the sound of the favorability she had barely built up piercing the floor and plummeting underground.
Lucia's gaze turned to the opposite side.
The west gate of the arena was opening slowly.
The heavy iron gate creaked open, and a huge figure revealed itself from within.
'……Big.'
It looked like a mountain was walking out.
A massive man holding war axes in both hands and wearing a bear skin cloak on his shoulders.
On his exposed forearms and neck, battle tattoos entangled in red and blue shone ferociously.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Every step resonated on the ground.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The spectator seats also responded to his appearance.
Hundreds of axes drummed the ground.
"Brynjolf! Brynjolf!" "Winter Boar!" "Barrier of the North!"
Shouts filled the arena.
"Unlucky, Sister."
Next to her, Freya clicked her tongue.
"To face such a monster from the first round. It’s clear Ulfric pulled strings."
Brynjolf. Winter Boar.
A living legend of the North.
Owner of overwhelming physique and strength to the point where rumors circulate that frost giant blood is mixed in.
A veteran who has guarded the northern front lines for 40 years.
'……Can he win?'
Strength went into Lucia's hand.
The fingers clutching the railing turned white.
'I know the Black Knight is strong.'
He tore wolves. He sliced a Frost Bear. He slaughtered a herd of Abyss-contaminated beasts alone.
'But those were all demonic beasts.'
Monsters without reason.
Beasts that rush in according to instinct.
Different from the elite warriors of the North.
40 years of actual combat experience. Countless martial feats piled up. Plus frost giant blood.
'……Can he win?'
Anxiety writhed in a corner of her heart.
What if he loses?
Lucia recalled Ulfric's face.
The yellow eyes she met in the tent yesterday.
The gaze glistening with greed.
'……He said the North would become independent.'
Ulfric is ambitious.
He covets his brother's seat and dreams of separation from the Empire.
But independence requires justification.
Legitimacy is needed.
'And I am…….'
Lucia Von Astellia.
The Empire's 1st Imperial Princess.
'……A perfect tool.'
The calculation was finished.
'If the Black Knight loses, I am……'
How will Ulfric 'utilize' Lucia?
Political marriage.
That belongs to the better category.
'Or well, you could contribute to the family in other ways.'
Ulfric's gaze came to mind. The sticky gaze scanning Lucia's body up and down.
A Princess mixed with Northern blood. Perfect for the legitimacy of a new dynasty.
Lucia's spine chilled.
Bwuuuoooo―!
The sound of the horn announcing the start of the match cut off her contemplation.
"Axe Festival Main Tournament! Quarterfinals Match 1!"
The referee raised the flag.
"Winter Boar Brynjolf VS Her Highness the Princess's Champion, The Black Knight!"
Two men faced each other from both sides of the arena.
On one side, a massive veteran standing tall like a mountain.
On the opposite side, a man in black armor.
"Start!"
The flag went down.
At that moment, Brynjolf moved.
Kooong―!
Speed unfitting his massive size.
His body, kicking off the earth and leaping, crossed the arena.
"Pay the price for ignoring the North, outsider!"
Brynjolf's roar shook the arena.
The heavy war axe aimed for the Black Knight's skull.
But.
'……Huh?'
Lucia's eyes widened.
The Black Knight didn't draw his greatsword.
He just stood there.
'Don't tell me he froze from fear!?'
Brynjolf's axe slammed down towards the Black Knight's head.
'……No!'
Lucia squeezed her eyes shut.
It was just before the axe blade touched the crown of his head.
A distance less than 1 second from death.
Wooooooh-!
The audience went wild.
Expecting the outsider's head to split like a watermelon.
"The end!"
Along with Brynjolf's shout, the axe fell.
However.
Thud.
A sound that was dull yet somehow hollow rang out.
Lucia squeezed her eyes shut, then carefully opened them when no sound was heard suddenly.
"…Huh?"
A stupid sound leaked from her mouth.
The Black Knight's head was fine.
Rather, he was holding the giant axe blade with his bare hand.
"Th-This……!"
Brynjolf gritted his teeth and pulled the axe handle with both hands.
Muscles bulged. Tattoos distorted.
However.
The axe didn't budge an inch.
"Old geezer. If you're old, shouldn't you retire soon?"
"Y-You bastard……!"
Red glint flashed from the Black Knight's helmet slit.
'Don't tell me.'
A premonition brushing Lucia's mind.
That 'Don't tell me' became reality.
Crack.
The Black Knight applied force to his hand.
Crunch.
"……!"
Steel was crumpling in the Black Knight's grip.
Crunch. Squeeek.
The death throe of metal.
And the next moment.
Kwajik!
The axe blade shattered into pieces.
"Kuh……!"
Brynjolf stumbled.
The Black Knight didn't miss that opening.
The opposite fist was thrust out.
Kooooong―!!!
Black aura exploded.
"Keuhuk……!"
Brynjolf flew all the way to the opposite wall of the arena and crashed.
Boom!
Dust rose.
He didn't move.
"……."
The entire arena froze.
"L… Lie."
Someone murmured from somewhere in the spectator seats.
"Winter Boar… in one hit?" "He broke an axe with bare hands?" "Is that human?"
And that murmur soon turned into a roar.
Ohhhhhh―!
It doesn't matter if it's enemy or ally.
The strong deserve respect.
That is the law of the North.
Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum.
Drum sounds shook the arena.
"Sister. Where on earth did you pick up something like that?"
Freya blinked as if dumbfounded.
"I didn't pick him up… I was picked up."
Lucia answered powerlessly.
The referee's voice rang in the arena.
"Match 1! Winner, The Black Knight!"
Cheers burst out again.
'Anyway, we won. Now just defeat 2 more people…….'
Lucia looked down at her clenched fist.
Her fingers had turned white.
'……I can get the North in my hands.'
In the middle of the arena, the Black Knight dusted off the dust on his hand.
As if it was no big deal. As if it was natural.
And lifted his head to look up at the stands.
Met Lucia's eyes.
Flash.
Red glint shining through the helmet slits.
'…….'
Shiver shiver.
'Please stop staring. Because it’s scary.'
Whether having that monster on her side is fortunate or unfortunate.
Lucia still hadn't made a judgment.