Duel Festival (3)
"Waaaaaah!!"
The crowd's cheers punched straight through the screen. Even with the volume turned all the way down, the roar was deafening.
"Ugh... ow."
Everyone except the twenty warriors poured out of the arena in a rush. Only twenty remained standing in the vast stadium. Among them was the late-arriving drunkard.
He still looked completely out of it, staggering with his face flushed bright red. Looking at him, you had to wonder if he was really a Paladin at all.
The Paladins I knew were noble, sacred, apostles of justice who couldn't stand the sight of injustice! That was the vibe. But this guy...
"...Huh? What? Is it already my turn? Haha! Come at me, you brat! I'll strip the flesh from your bones!"
What kind of villain line was that?
Across the wide dueling grounds, each pair fought with a decent amount of space between them. The one that drew every eye was the drunkard, sword raised while completely wasted.
He could barely stand straight, lurching from side to side—it was a spectacle. The others had plenty of personality too, from the guy draped in animal pelts to the one covered in strange rings, but none of them left an impression quite like this character, who had managed the perfect combo of showing up late and being blackout drunk.
"This is a genuinely insane concept."
I zoomed in a little on the drunkard's match to watch. Everyone else was locked in with serious intensity, and here he was alone doing a drunk-fighting routine. The aggro was off the charts.
"You come first, brat!"
"I'll finish this in an instant!"
Still swaying on his feet, the drunkard kept taunting his opponent with absurd confidence. The other man answered shortly and charged. The drunkard lurched, swung his sword—
"Huh?"
The charging opponent collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap.
...What? What just happened?
The Paladins—the backbone and greatest fighting force of the Pantheon.
The Pantheon's long history was a struggle against demons, a record of war that purified and burned away all that was wicked. At the vanguard of every battle that washed demon blood with blood, three Paladins always stood together. Sometimes a Paladin would fall in martyrdom against the demons and leave a seat empty, but the number was always restored to three.
Among the current Paladins, the youngest: Demonic.
The seasoned veteran who had survived long years of war: Lionheart.
And the mysterious third Paladin whom no one had ever seen.
The public knew there were three Paladins, but beyond Demonic—who was always stationed in the Holy City—the other two were largely unfamiliar. Lionheart, the most free-spirited wanderer among them, was forever running off on some journey. As for the last one, even Demonic himself did not know the name or face.
One wandered constantly and the other was a complete enigma, so the name Lionheart had become known only to the very old and devout, or to those who belonged to the Pantheon itself.
It was no wonder so many people tilted their heads when Lionheart announced his own name.
What the hell? That old man? They said he was the strongest challenger, but he's completely wasted right now?
The warrior paired against Lionheart gripped his sword tightly.
His opponent was a thoroughly drunk old man who could barely stand. The man had claimed to be a Paladin, but the warrior had never heard of any Paladin named Lionheart.
I can't let my guard down... He might be pretending to be drunk to make me lower mine.
The warrior held his sword firm and studied Lionheart.
The rumors about the old man were outrageous. Some said he had caught the overseer's sword on a tiny blade shaped like a necklace. Others claimed he had simply overwhelmed the overseer with a look. Rumors always grew fatter and more false the more mouths they passed through, but the part about him being overwhelmingly strong was probably true.
The warrior's heart hammered hard. His opponent was dead drunk and careless—but composure was the privilege of the strong. He had no such luxury.
First strike wins! I'll close in fast!
The man was completely plastered. A full-power, lightning-fast sword stroke should land.
Lionheart shuffled forward with his sword, still reeling, and called out toward the warrior.
"You come first, brat! I'll give you the first move!"
"Hah! I'll finish this in an instant!"
An opponent offering the first strike. No reason to refuse.
The warrior kicked off the ground and shot forward. His thighs swelled as if they might burst; his entire body, packed with power, exploded into a sprint. He held his lowered sword so low it nearly scraped the earth, dropped his hips, and launched himself like an arrow.
Thud-thud—!
Lionheart was still swaying like a total wreck.
A faint sense of victory seemed within reach. He had closed to point-blank range. If the old man had failed to read the fastest movement he could produce—
What...?
Lionheart's eyes were looking straight at him.
His right pupil was fixed on the warrior, perfectly still and calm.
Since when?
Every hair on the warrior's body stood on end as danger screamed through him. He had wrung out every scrap of power he possessed and charged with the fastest motion he could manage.
And a man that drunk had still kept up with him?
The warrior clenched his teeth. Even if the old man had seen it, reacting while that drunk should be nearly impossible. It wasn't over until it was over!
"Hyaaah—!"
KRAANG—!
The floor of the dueling ground cratered lightly under the force of his explosive step.
Speed is power! Faster!
Speed became weight, and weight became force. His sword, loaded with wind, surged toward Lionheart's chest like a rising wave—
"Whoops."
Shiiing—
The blade was gently guided along the flat of Lionheart's longsword and sent veering off into empty space.
Sparks sprayed as the edge rode up the longsword with a sharp charrk, then stopped dead against the crossguard.
Completely caught, the warrior's sword was led in a full circle by Lionheart's longsword. The strike had been harmlessly deflected.
An astonishing parry. When his full-power attack dissolved so smoothly, the warrior's eyes went wide.
A big attack that misses always leaves an opening. With all that force poured into a blow that simply slid away, the warrior's body was full of gaps.
"A bit emotional, but not a bad strike!"
Lionheart spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then brought the pommel of his longsword down on the warrior's temple.
"H-how— urk!"
The warrior's eyes rolled white and he crumpled. Lionheart grinned down at the fallen man.
"Haha! Live long enough and you pick up all sorts of dirty little tricks."
Rolling through every battlefield taught you plenty of techniques whether you wanted them or not. This was one of them.
"Though against people who've eaten a few more sword meals, it gets a lot harder."
The warrior's mistake had been charging in blindly to end it in one blow. If he had dragged it out into a long fight instead, Lionheart—still drowning in hangover—might have had a harder time of it.
"Ahhh—!! The very moment I speak, we have a winner from the thousandth duel pair!! The victor is none other than—Leon!! He knocked his opponent out in an instant and showed us an overwhelming fight!!"
The announcer's declaration of victory. From the stands, voices rose chanting Leon's name.
"Leon! Leon! Leon! Leon!"
"That grandpa is awesome!!"
"Wheeee—!!"
Lionheart scratched his head. He had rushed out in such a hurry that he had forgotten his helmet entirely.
Gurgle—
An ominous sound only he could hear rumbled up. It was like the blast of a trumpet announcing disaster.
Lionheart's face went white as he clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Ugh! Uuugh!"
A little vigorous movement and his stomach was already sending word. His complexion turned ashen. Everything he had eaten the day before was reversing the proper order of things and trying to come back up.
He sealed his mouth with desperate force, but...
Ah, the mysteries of the human body. Some things simply cannot be refused.
If—if I throw up here!
The entire Holy City was watching. Tens of thousands of people. If he vomited here—right here—he would never be able to show his face again.
N-no!!
What goes in must come out. That is the way of things.
Sometimes it does not come out the bottom, but the top. And that is a calamity no one can defy.
Lionheart swore he felt one of the greatest crises of his entire life as he bolted for the edge of the dueling ground.
His body, pushed to the brink, moved faster than it ever had—
"Bleeeargh!!"
—and he just barely avoided the unprecedented disaster of vomiting in front of tens of thousands of spectators.
Having fled the Coliseum and emptied every last scrap of the previous day's meals in a quiet corner, Lionheart looked as if he had aged another ten years. His face was haggard.
"Hah... haaah—"
He gasped for breath, bracing his trembling knees with both hands. Not only his legs—his hands were shaking too.
Was this just from throwing up?
No.
Lionheart knew.
Behind him.
"So. Are you finished?"
A freezing chill sank into his back.
His skin prickled as pure danger screamed a warning.
It was behind him. Right at his back.
But there was nowhere to run.
"Have you finished throwing up?"
Behind him stood death.
Death had approached without a sound and claimed the space at his back. Lionheart closed his eyes in humble acceptance.
This is my karma...
He did not turn around. Looking would only make it hurt more.
"You!!! Damn!!! Bastard of a wastrel—!!!"
And then the enraged High Priest's iron fist exploded against Lionheart's back.