Chapter 62
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: Tournament Bracket
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Underground tavern slayer.
Should I be happy about earning a nickname like that?
Anyway, I wasn't in a great mood.
For five straight days, I'd been fighting in that tavern, and starting from day two, gamblers had shown up.
Marcel was one of them.
Pretending to root for me, he'd bet big on my wins and raked in a fortune.
"I'm just padding your ego while lining my pockets."
He'd said it with that infuriating grin.
It pissed me off so much I kicked him in the shin again and stormed back to my room.
Still, it wasn't a total waste.
I'd gained a more objective view of my own abilities.
I was pretty damn good now.
I could scatter lightning to throw anyone off-balance, no matter how strong they were, and twist their sense of distance with my Silent Sword in that eerie way.
On top of that, my sword was unusually short, so when combined with the distorted distance perception, it caught opponents way more off guard than I'd expected—they let attacks slip through too easily.
Rather than overpowering them head-on with raw strength, I could unnerve them with unfamiliar sensations and turn them weak.
"...I never realized until now."
It wasn't a lack of real combat experience on my part.
I'd just never known my own abilities fully because I'd always avoided direct confrontations.
Why risk a head-on fight when I could circle behind and slit their nape? It was the obvious choice.
That's why I'd started doubting my own skill.
"27 wins, 1 draw, 1 loss."
Beating those 27 was a breeze.
I drew once—with someone on the verge of silver rank, from what I'd heard.
And the one loss? That was the final day, when Marcel stepped in, beat the crap out of me, and settled all the tavern's bets.
In other words...
"I'm not just top-tier bronze—I'm halfway to silver."
Sure, silver ranks varied wildly in skill, and I still fell short of Marcel or Shan.
But I figured I was right around that level.
Of course, this was all about short-term fights.
My edge came from disorienting opponents and clouding their judgment in the moment. The longer the fight dragged on and they analyzed me calmly, the sharper my odds of losing would get.
"Still, this is more than enough."
As long as the tournament in two days didn't throw some insane curveball my way, I could take first place without breaking a sweat.
Marcel was a smug bastard, but just like he said, my confidence was surging.
There were tons of people weaker than me—way more than I'd thought.
I knew boosting your ego by looking down on the weak was ugly and pathetic, but I wasn't out to be pure or saintly. No point picking fights with the streets when this was the easiest fix.
Marcel must've known that too—that's why he'd pushed me into this.
After five days of nonstop brawls, my body was throbbing. I figured a full day of rest would sort it out, so I took a quick wash and crashed into bed.
The saint had vanished to meet his family, while Shan and the temple folks kept holding secretive meetings.
Marcel had been looking after me, but even he had to prep for the tournament and stepped out.
Left alone, I stared blankly at the ceiling.
Counting the wood grain aimlessly, sleep came rushing in.
By the next day, the whole capital was buzzing.
Visitors poured in from outside, and the shops brimmed with energy.
It hadn't been long since that whole mess, so eyes were still sharp and wary.
But at least it didn't feel as gloomy as before.
The tournament and festival prep—two weeks in the making—was nearly done, with final construction noise echoing everywhere.
With crowds thickening, security was tight: not just the usual guards, but castle soldiers out patrolling the streets too.
Plus, the Adventurer's Guild had posted security quests for non-competitors.
Those adventurers in blue armbands everywhere? Them.
Security forces had swelled nearly fivefold.
Even so, stopping all crime was impossible—and the scene I'd just stumbled on was proof.
"Guess pickpockets love festivals."
The thief was slick; the woman hadn't even noticed her coin pouch was gone as he bolted. I kicked him down.
"Gah—!!"
With a short yelp, the pickpocket hit the ground, glared up at me, and whipped out a tiny knife to threaten.
"You little shit, I'll gut you!"
The growing commotion drew eyes. Folks turned, then hung back at a distance, watching with interest.
No running—just spectating.
Not right in the head, that one. But then again, not that weird. I shrugged and pointed at him.
"What're you gonna do with that unsharpened junk? Can it even cut fruit?"
He towered over me by at least four heads and was thick around the middle too.
No muscle on those flabby arms—just jiggling fat. Never worked out a day in his life.
Not a chance he'd match me.
"You punk-ass brat... I'll snap your tendons and sell you to a brothel!"
"Big talk... so why aren't you moving?"
His words screamed instant violation and sale to the highest bidder, but he wasn't charging.
His limbs trembled—something was off.
I met his eyes.
Sunglasses hid mine, but his pupils shook violently all the same.
"F-Fuck off, now!"
"Oh... that was supposed to scare me, huh."
But after the hell I'd been through, cheap intimidation like that just didn't land.
Standing there would've gotten him nabbed by guards or adventurers eventually, but I wasn't keen on leaving a knife-waving thug intact. I stepped forward.
"Y'know, you look familiar."
Back when I first got dumped in this world.
The first thug who'd tried to bully me—the one I killed first.
Size, looks, skill level. All the same.
He'd terrified me back then. Now? Pitiful didn't cover it.
No need to draw. I swung the sheathed sword.
Even with my weak strength, scabbard beats bare flesh every time.
I shattered his finger bones.
"Gaaaaah—!!"
No proper defense—he dropped the knife, clutched his hand, and wailed like a newborn.
Pathetic sight. His phlegmy howls grated, so I shoved the scabbard in his mouth.
A few teeth cracked. Blood poured.
Gagged, he thrashed, then a foul stench hit as he pissed himself.
"Ugh... disgusting."
I yanked the scabbard out, wiped the spit and blood on his clothes, and snatched the coin pouch from his pocket.
"I helped you this time, but don't count on it next. Keep your pouch in an inner pocket, not the outer coat."
"Thank you."
I returned it to the woman blended in the crowd. She thanked me with a weird smile.
Didn't look like simple joy at getting her money back.
"Um, hey."
"Y-Yes?"
Something off-putting prickled my senses. Normally I'd bail after a job well done, so her follow-up threw me—I stammered like an idiot.
"You're the Underground Tavern Slayer, right?"
"...How'd you know?"
"...What a weird question. Nobody stands out like you."
She listed my tells one by one.
Unkempt black hair sticking out every which way, soft and doughy-looking skin, a body curved smoothly without a hint of muscle definition, leather pouch and dual swords at my waist.
Oversized coat and shirt that didn't fit.
And pants so short they might as well not be there.
"That obvious, huh..."
She nodded.
Then grabbed my hand and beamed like she'd won the lottery.
Wasn't bothering me.
Had my Gloomy Aura weakened or something?
I dared to hope for a second, then tsked inwardly and waited.
"My husband's been bragging about cashing in big betting on you!"
"Pardon...?"
"I was furious at first when he said he gambled, but 20-to-1 odds? Had to say thanks! So grateful!"
"...Y-Yeah... sure... thanks..."
No clue what to say. I forced an awkward smile, and she vanished.
20x... Probably my first duel in the tavern.
I looked weak as hell back then—massive underdog on day one.
That bet screamed beast's instinct.
"...Can't really judge the gambling when it paid out 20 times over."
Still, I'd known about the nickname, but not that it was this recognizable.
"Am I... famous now?"
Five days of nonstop slaughter in the tavern making me famous. Good or bad?
I stood there shaking off the unease with a sigh and kept walking.
Who knew.
Two days until the main tournament.
But the brackets were out today—who I'd face first.
At the plaza, I checked the sheet...
"What the hell is this...?"
First opponent: Hector.
"Shit..."
Tavern brawls had filled me in on the rumors—and he was one of the stars.
Hector.
Noble-born, wood-plaque adventurer chasing dreams. Figured he'd be competing, but not against me.
Trained in his family's secret swordsmanship—top of bronze ranks.
At just 14, his body hadn't filled out yet, limiting his technique.
Pure sword skill? Silver-rank genius.
Why still apprentice? Same as me.
Talent, but missing other quals.
"...Wasn't this supposed to be a free ride?"
Nothing ever went smooth. Sick of it.
"Ugh..."
My body shivered at the foreboding of a brutal fight.
But I didn't think I'd lose.