At the End of Hell (4)
"Urgh—"
A face flushed crimson. The reek of liquor rolling off him in waves even from a distance. A stumbling, weaving gait.
By any measure, Lionheart looked every inch the classic drunk.
This was the result of his stubborn insistence on walking into the arena on his own two feet instead of riding a cart — so Adam clutching his head in despair behind him was hardly surprising.
"Haah... I wash my hands of this. I told you not to. You were the one who said you were going to drink last night."
"Hic! Come on, man. I'm not drunk, okay? Hic!"
Every time he opened his mouth, a foul, damp stench of alcohol poured out. By the time Adam had half-dragged, half-propped Lionheart up to the arena entrance, someone was already waiting for them.
"I knew it would come to this."
"Hic! Huh...?"
"...We're finished."
Antonio stood with his back to the arena gates, a thick scripture held in one hand. His expression was infinitely gentle — so merciful, so soft, that it looked as if he would warmly embrace any sinner who came before him.
And that, paradoxically, was terrifying.
Adam even had the illusion of something vast looming behind Antonio. An overwhelming presence.
I'm going to die.
Adam's survival instinct screamed it.
His body moved faster than thought.
Without a shred of hesitation, he dumped the Lionheart he had been supporting straight onto the ground.
And fled.
"Leon, I'm sorry! A man has to save himself first!!"
Whoosh—
Dust trailed behind Adam like a tail as he tore back the way they had come. Antonio merely watched him go. His target was not Adam.
It was the paladin sprawled face-down on the ground.
A twitch.
That old man who couldn't even lift his head — as if he knew he was in the wrong — was the one Antonio had come for.
"Get up."
He spoke quietly.
Lionheart, still face-down, pretended not to hear and did not move.
"I said get up."
"Ahem. Ahem."
Only when the low voice was laced with pure murderous intent did Lionheart finally scramble to his feet. He stood there awkwardly, carefully avoiding Antonio's gaze.
Hic! Hic!
Hiccups kept bursting from Lionheart's mouth. With every passing second the spectacle grew more pathetic, and Antonio's eyes grew colder.
"Haah..."
"No, listen, Tony — just hear me out. I really did try to prepare piously yesterday, all right? I even purified myself with a bath, and I stayed up late reading scripture—"
"Enough."
"I'm not making excuses—"
"I understand. I've heard quite enough."
The words were polite, but Antonio's face made it clear he believed not a single one of them. Lionheart was nearly dying of injustice, but what could he do?
This was the karma of his everyday conduct.
Antonio looked at him with pure pity, then heaved a long sigh. Pressing a hand to his temple as if a headache were blooming, he said:
"First, get the liquor out of your system. You can't be that far gone, can you?"
"Wellll... that might be a bit difficult?"
"By the Six Gods — how much did you drink?!"
"Ugh."
"Haah— come here. I'll do it for you."
Antonio's hands settled against Lionheart's back. With his eyes gently closed, holy power flowed from Antonio into Lionheart's body.
Lionheart did not resist. He accepted it.
Hissss—!
Cloudy steam billowed up from his body in thick clouds, carrying with it the sharp stench of hard liquor.
Antonio had used holy power to drive the alcohol out — a technique of such refined control that ordinary priests and holy knights could never hope to match it.
As the liquor that had filled his body drained away all at once, Lionheart's mind began to clear. He drew a deep breath.
"Hooo... ah! Now I feel like I might live!"
"Lionheart, for the love of the gods, pull yourself together. Please..."
"Haha! I've got nothing to say for myself. Still, everything I said earlier was the absolute tr—"
Thwack!
"Guh..."
The teaching of the scripture cut off his pathetic excuses. The lesson was so painful it radiated from his ribs into every corner of his body.
Lionheart's mouth snapped shut.
"I— I'm sorry..."
"If you understand, then be quiet. My head is throbbing."
The sight of Lionheart meekly trailing after Antonio into the arena was a picture of pure, abject misery.
I'd finished the overdue cleaning and run through the piled-up laundry, and now there was nothing left to do. Lying in bed staring at YouTube had gotten boring, so I fired up the game again.
The loading screen passed, and the familiar temple came into view.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Dwarves bustled about, hard at work. One was mining ore in the mineshaft; another was hammering away at the forge.
I watched them with deep satisfaction.
That's right. Work hard and bring home the gold.
It was the feeling of a landlord watching his tenant farmers toil. Every bit of labor these little guys put in turned straight into gold.
Waddle-waddle.
One dwarf was toddling off somewhere on his tiny legs. I followed him with my eyes and saw him approach the egg sitting out on the grassland.
Then he grabbed hold of the egg and started bawling his eyes out.
He seemed deeply, profoundly wronged about something.
"What the...?"
Had someone been bullying him?
The dwarf sobbed his heart out for a long while, then — once he'd calmed down a little — wrapped his arms tightly around the frost egg.
Boing—!
An hourglass appeared above the frost egg. The sand that had been trickling down slowly began to fall just a little faster.
So this is what it meant by growing through care and affection?
I remembered the line from the egg's description. It seemed that when the workers looked after the egg or hugged it, the hatching sped up.
Click-drag. Drop. Click-drag. Drop.
I grabbed every dwarf who had been off drinking somewhere and dumped them next to the egg. One of them dangled in midair for a second before landing hard on his rear with a thud.
Thud!
He rubbed his backside, staggered to his feet, then toddled over to the frost egg and hugged it tight. It must have felt nice and cool — he even nuzzled his cheek against it.
The surreal spectacle of a ring of muscle-bound dwarves all clinging to a frost-rimed egg was complete.
...That's a little gross, actually.
Rattle! Rattle!
Rrrrrumble—!
The frost egg shuddered and vibrated. If it looked a bit like it was thrashing around trying to escape the dwarves, that was probably just my imagination.
Confirming that the hourglass sand was falling faster, I switched over to the Coliseum UI.
Two people still needed their trials.
Next in line was Leon — the old man whose name had, at some point, started displaying as Lionheart.
If you're going to rename him, at least make it Leonhart. What kind of name is Lionheart?
How does a person's name end up meaning "lion's heart"? It bugged me every single time I saw it. The second a name-change item dropped, I was using it on this guy first.
So what trial should I give him?
From everything I'd seen so far, Lionheart's combat power was pretty high. On the first day of the event, he'd wiped out enemies in an instant even while completely wasted.
In a straight fight, he probably wouldn't lose to anyone.
Scroll. Scroll.
◈ Trial of Water
◈ Trial of the Battlefield(Recommended!)
◈ ...
◈ Trial of Alcohol(Not Recommended!)
◈ Trial of Regret(Recommended!)
◈ Trial of the Senses
"Whoa. First time I've seen a 'Not Recommended.'"
Right next to Trial of Alcohol, the words Not Recommended were stamped in bold. I'd seen recommendations before, but never a warning against one.
Thinking back on the absolute state Lionheart had been in so far, it was a fair warning. Getting carted in dead drunk, bolting out of the arena to throw up — honestly, I hadn't expected the vomiting.
"Hmm..."
The last time, with the Trial of the Back Room, I'd learned something important: don't get cute. When the game recommends something, there's a reason.
This time I wasn't going to play veteran and second-guess it. I quietly picked what it recommended.
Trial of Regret...
Challenger: Lionheart!
Whoooosh—
Wind howled through the Coliseum. Dust rose in thick clouds, lending the place an inexplicable grandeur.
Lionheart emerged through the haze of dirt, his expression genuinely serious.
My eyes caught the main shaft strapped across his back. At its tip was a massive... a truly massive blade.
"A spear...?"
It was no mere spear.
It was far too enormous to call a spear.
"A halberd?"
A long shaft ending in a thick, brutal axe-blade. A sharp spear-point, and beneath it a crescent-shaped axe edge that gleamed with a vicious light.
The weapon Lionheart had brought out was none other than a halberd.
An old man and a halberd.
The combination was so perfect I slapped my knee.
Why hadn't I thought of this myself?!
White-haired Lionheart standing there with a halberd looked exactly like Guan Yu. And I had never even considered such a classic concept.
A painful oversight.
Rrrrrumble—
Then the ground of the Coliseum shook, and the Trial of Regret began.
Rrrrrumble—!
The earth trembled. Lionheart focused every sense in his body. The heavy weight of the halberd in his hands was vivid and clear.
He had never been particularly fond of this weapon — his master's keepsake. Whenever he took up the halberd, the scar by his eye would throb.
Why did I bring this?
A moment's whim.
He could have brought the longsword Adam had lent him. He could have borrowed something else from the forge.
The reason he hadn't was, perhaps, a desire to atone before the god.
He was a sinner. When he died, he would almost certainly go to hell.
If they would not send him, he ought to volunteer for hell himself. That was the kind of sinner he was.
Whoooosh—
A fierce wind whipped up a sandstorm that swallowed him whole. He could not see an inch ahead. Lionheart recited scripture with devout care.
O Sixth God... grant this sinner of many sins...
"...eon...t!"
...that I may not yield to darkness and temptation, but walk in the light—
"...eonheart! Lionheart!!"
Lionheart's eyes snapped open at the sudden sound of his name. Who was calling him?
Someone beyond the sandstorm was crying out for Lionheart with desperate urgency.
"Lionheart!!"
"...Who is calling m—"
"I'm over here!!"
A booming voice cut him off from somewhere ahead. His heart seemed to drop straight into his stomach.
That powerful, open-hearted voice. How could he ever forget it?
It can't be... it can't—!
He charged through the sandstorm.
Lionheart was a baptismal name. A baptismal name was granted to only one person. The sole exception was when the one who held it had died.
Aside from the saints, only two people in history had ever borne the baptismal name "Lionheart."
Leon — himself.
And—
Master...!
His master.