The Duel Festival (1)
Ninety-nine sacred flames had been lit!
That brief scrap of news set the entire Holy City buzzing. As if to prove that a rumor with no legs runs fastest of all, word raced through every street and square.
A festival! A festival was about to begin!
A glorious festival for the most honorable of warriors!
The Pantheon had already made every preparation to hold the celebration at a moment's notice, and so they moved at once, summoning every challenger.
Come forth, challengers!
Come to the arena of glory!
Priests and paladins walked the Holy City late into the night, delivering the festival details to every contender. The festival would begin tomorrow morning. Do not be late, they urged again and again.
Knock, knock—!
"Umm..."
No answer came from inside. Pink-haired Priest Ruel tilted her head, then rose up on her tiptoes and knocked once more.
Knock, knock, knock—!
Was no one home? But the list she had been given clearly named this forge as the residence...
After a moment of fretting, Ruel carefully pushed the door open. If no one was there, she would at least leave a letter explaining the festival.
The forge door creaked slowly inward.
A chill of cold, dead air met her. She took a cautious step inside—and from beyond an inner doorway came the sound of loud, boisterous voices.
Ah, they're in there!
Ruel's face brightened and she hurried toward the noise. But the closer she drew, the slower her steps became, until at last she stopped dead.
Through the doorway came a man's raucous shouting, and with it a familiar, nose-stinging reek of liquor. That smell... it was the same liquor she had smelled in the Holy Land!
The instant she recognized it, Ruel's face went pale.
Memories of the Holy Land flashed through her mind.
A tavern. Liquor. Angels. Muscles... muscles... an endless parade of muscle and beards... bulging, rippling muscle, veins twitching and writhing... A-Angels? Muscles? Curling beards?
"U-uugh..."
The unpleasant memories spun her eyes in circles.
Ashen-faced, Ruel staggered back toward the forge exit—then, driven by her duty to deliver the festival news, forced herself to return.
"A l-letter..."
With her eyes still whirling, she somehow squeezed out every last scrap of willpower and scrawled a note, then bolted out of the forge as fast as her legs would carry her.
And the letter Ruel had poured her soul into writing...
"Hm? What's this?... Some kind of scribble?"
...was casually tossed aside by Leon, who could make nothing of the worm-like squiggles on the page.
The morning of the festival dawned beneath a brilliant sun.
"That Your Majesty would travel so far to grace this occasion is a great honor."
"Not at all. I am the one who should be grateful—arriving unannounced, and still receiving such a warm welcome."
"Hahaha. How could Your Majesty ever be a mere guest? Beneath the Six Gods, we are all family."
Caesar, Emperor of the Holy Romanian Empire, and Priest Antonio sat in seats with a fine view of the arena, chatting amiably.
The moment word of the Duel Festival reached the Empire, Caesar had cast aside every affair of state and raced to the Holy City.
As they passed the time with idle conversation before the festival truly began, Caesar casually asked Antonio a question.
"Sir Antonio. Once this festival concludes, is a baptismal ceremony scheduled by any chance?"
"A baptismal ceremony, Your Majesty? Nothing is planned at present... May I ask why?"
"Well, you see—my son and I wish to receive baptism, and I would prefer it be done here in the Holy City."
Caesar gently ruffled the hair of Julius, who clung close at his side. The boy was a plump-cheeked little fellow with curly golden hair.
The royalty and nobility of various nations, who had been eavesdropping intently from a discreet distance, changed expressions at the news that the Emperor himself intended to be baptized.
The Emperor, baptized! And alongside the Crown Prince, no less!
Antonio gave a warm, easy laugh.
"Hahaha. If Your Majesty desires a baptismal ceremony, we shall make time even where none exists. I will select an auspicious day soon and inform you."
"Mm. My thanks."
"It is nothing. Incidentally, Your Majesty—have you given any thought to a baptismal name?"
"A baptismal name? No, I haven't considered one."
"Ordinarily one takes the name of a saint, but given that Your Majesty is also an Apostle, using your given name should pose no difficulty."
"Oh? Is that so. Tell me—is Antonio a baptismal name as well?"
"It is. And the name of Hero Kenis, whom Your Majesty has met, is likewise a baptismal name taken from an ancient saint."
"Fascinating. Do all who belong to the Pantheon operate under baptismal names?"
"Not all. It signifies the severing of worldly ties and devotion to the gods—but some use baptismal names, and others keep their original ones."
Kenis, raised as an orphan from the start, had never had a true given name to begin with.
Their conversation halted as a great drumbeat rolled out across the arena.
Boom—! Doom-doom-boom—!
A massive drum thundered through the entire stadium. That most primal of instruments, the one that most resembled a heartbeat, swallowed the dueling grounds whole.
Boom— doom-boom— boom! Doom-boom!!
The drumbeats quickened. The hearts of the spectators packing the stands raced faster still, and the atmosphere boiled over with heat.
Step, step, step—
At last the challengers appeared in the arena with firm strides. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by the crowd's blazing fervor, their faces showed a touch of tension.
"May the grace of the Six Gods be upon you!"
A golden-haired paladin serving as master of ceremonies strode into the stadium and cried out in a great voice.
"May the grace of the gods be upon us!!"
The crowd answered as one. The roar of thousands upon thousands became a vast resonance all its own.
"This is a glorious day! In the name of the Six Gods, the day of the festival watched over by the divine has dawned!"
Whether he had reinforced his throat with holy power or not, his pleasant, clear voice carried distinctly to every corner of the wide arena.
"Who shall become the most honorable and strongest warrior? Beneath the name of the gods, who shall claim the glory of the greatest fighter?"
— "Kenis, Kenis, Kenis!!"
— "Frigaaaaa!! Kyaaaaah!! Big sis, take me!!"
— "Iscal is so handsome!!"
The spectators screamed the names of their favored warriors with wild abandon. The arena seethed, ready to burst. The paladin hosting the event carried on with practiced ease.
"Challengers—! Welcome!! Ninety-nine sacred flames burn bright, and at last the hour of the festival has come! The august Six Gods watch over you! For your honor and your glory—fight, and be victorious! Now—let the Duel Festival begin!"
As the host's words ended, brilliant flowers of every color cascaded from the sky above the arena, lifting the mood still higher.
"And now, allow me to introduce our battle-hardened warriors!"
At the very front of the challengers stood a woman with blazing red hair.
Kenis raised her greatsword high toward the heavens.
"Hero of the age! Champion of the gods! Agent of Miracles—! The Hero, Kenis!!"
At the dazzling string of titles that made one want to bow one's head, Kenis felt her face flush red of its own accord—but she held her pose steadfastly, refusing to let it show.
"Hey, you hear that? Hahaha! Agent of Miracles, they said."
Friga, standing beside her, seized on the opening at once and began to tease. Her delighted grin did not last long before it crumpled into a look of pure misery.
"Ruler of the Mythic Age! The battle-hardened warrior who slew a fearsome dragon! Dragon Hunter! Dragon Slayer, Friga!!"
"Dragon Hunter, they said, my lady. Hunter! Ahahaha!"
"Hah, damn it. Of all the things they could have picked, why did it have to be hunter..."
Friga hung her head. Kenis kept murmuring "hunter" at her, needling her relentlessly.
Of course, to outward appearances both women stood with solemn dignity, gossiping only loud enough for each other to hear.
The host raced through the introductions of every challenger, keeping the pace. One name was missing, but he meant to glide smoothly into the next segment for the sake of the flow.
That was when a battered old cart rolled into the arena.
Creaking and groaning, it dragged behind it a massive man sprawled flat on his face. The host's eyes twitched violently.
That hulking fellow—surely he wasn't the final challenger?
What is that reek of liquor...!
Cold sweat slid down the host's back. This was the first festival the gods themselves had prepared in the long history of the Holy City. The flow of the event could not be allowed to break already.
The host forced himself to speak as though nothing were amiss. He even rewrote his script on the spot, so that this too might seem part of the spectacle.
"Challenger who has only just arrived—what is your name!"
The giant of a man lurched unsteadily up from the cart and bellowed.
"My name is Lionheart—!! Heart of the mighty lion, strongest paladin in the Holy City—!!"
The host's face went deathly pale.
What? A paladin? Lionheart?
Without meaning to, the host glanced toward where Antonio sat.
Everyone in the Pantheon knew that Great Priest Antonio had been tearing his hair out over one particular unreachable paladin.
Sure enough, Antonio's face was turning a deeper and deeper shade of purple, veins standing out on his forehead. Sensing the dangerous shift in the air, the Emperor smoothly gathered up the Crown Prince and vacated the seats.
N-no!! Great Priest, you must restrain yourself!
The host screamed inwardly. If Antonio stormed into the arena right now and beat Lionheart senseless, an unmanageable catastrophe would unfold.
Radiating a presence like some malevolent demon, the very incarnation of wrath, Antonio's eyes trembled wildly—then suddenly fixed upon the six great thrones.
He stared at those thrones for a long moment. At last he made the sign of the cross, let out a long breath—hoo—and sat back down.
The host exhaled a silent sigh of relief.
Th-thank goodness...
Had Antonio charged in as well, things truly would have spun beyond anyone's control. Feeling a suspicious twinge in his stomach, the host forced a smile back onto his face and pressed the festival onward.
"In the name of the great Six Gods! All challengers have taken their places! Now—let this great and glorious Duel Festival—begin!"
Waaaaaaaaaah—!!!
At the host's full-throated cry, the crowd's cheers swelled even louder. A Hero, a Dragon Hunter, and now a Paladin as well! Warriors of such caliber gathered in one place for a duel—this was a contest for the ages, with contenders who would not yield an inch to one another.
Whoooosh—!
As if answering the throng's roar, the ninety-nine sacred flames blazed even more fiercely—and revealed something within them.
"H-hey? Look over there! The sacred flames!"
"There's... something inside them?"
What lay within the sacred flames were holy relics wrought of light—sacred treasures beyond any price. A cloak streaming with Star-light, a bracelet set with dazzling jewels, a refined and elegant necklace...
The roaring fire made the details hard to see, but their shapes stood out clearly enough.
At the sudden turn of events, the host's eyes trembled roughly.
"Th-those are...?"
Among the ninety-nine sacred flames, ten burned especially vast and tall.
Within those ten flames rested various weapons, jewels—and a single horse.
And then, from all ninety-nine sacred flames, a resonant voice poured forth.
"Warriors—you are my warriors."
"At the end of glorious battle, savor your victory. You must fight with honor—yet with ferocity."
"I have prepared ninety-nine fruits for you. He who still stands at the last shall taste the sweetest of them all."
"Warriors—fight with honor, and claim your glory."
The god's message filled the arena. The lingering echo of that voice circled the stadium.
Fight with honor, and claim your glory.
Savor the sweetness of victory prepared by the gods!
Grasping the situation, the warriors burned with even fiercer competitive spirit. There were ninety-nine sacred flames in all.
Of all the warriors gathered here, only ninety-nine would receive a divine relic.
And Friga was staring fixedly at just one of the ten great sacred flames.
Through the brightly burning fire, the silhouette of a horse stood out clear and sharp. The flickering flames made the details hard to make out, but the shape was unmistakably that of a horse.
Right beside it, another flame held the shadow of an axe—but Friga's gaze was locked on the horse alone.
A bright red tongue flicked across her lips. Her sharp eyes gleamed like those of a northern predator.
Let's see... that's the tenth sacred flame, is it?
Friga's target ranking was tenth place. And what she was after was one thing only.
The horse inside that sacred flame.