The Festival Opens (2)
Buzz!
My phone gave a light tremble as the payment confirmation arrived. Thinking of what little remained in my bank account made my stomach twist a bit… but I was still okay for now.
It was razor-thin, but for the moment… for the moment, I was fine.
Ta-da!
Claim your Daily Gift Package rewards!
A package had arrived in my mailbox. From now on I would receive five gifts a day for ten days—fifty in total.
They came randomly from a pool of fifteen types, but ten days was enough to collect every single one.
Draws and random rewards always set the heart racing, no matter the kind. With a little flutter of excitement I opened the first reward.
Ta-da!
◈ Ornately Decorated Dagger ×2
◈ Sparkling Golden Bracelet
◈ Soft-Textured Cloak
◈ Antique Picture Frame
Right out of the gate I got a duplicate, but only one type had repeated, so it was a solid start.
I registered every item I had received as merchandise. Being premium gifts, they ought to be worth enough to raise the odds of attracting hero-rank adventurers.
Shopping at the Mystery Shop would probably have to wait until evening or night.
They said faith accumulated faster now, so if I let it build that long I should be able to clean out at least one shop.
“What time is it?”
I had only meant to cool my head in the backyard and play for a short while, but when I finally looked up I realized I had been sitting there quite a long time.
A quick check of the clock showed forty minutes had already slipped by. I shot to my feet and hurried back into the office.
Luckily no one seemed to have noticed I had stepped out—or if they had, they were pretending not to. No one said a word.
“Whew—”
For reasons I could not explain, the workload seemed to have grown even heavier. I spent the rest of the day wrestling with it.
No matter how hard I clutched my head and groaned, the endless stream of documents showed no sign of shrinking.
…Looks like I am going to have to work overtime today.
When men gather, a few topics never fail to surface.
Women, money, entertainment, old memories… Yet just as they say a man remains a boy no matter how old he grows, every man carries an object of admiration deep in his chest.
And everyone wants their idol to be the strongest.
It is only natural that drunken men will argue in deadly earnest over “Who is the strongest on the continent?” until they end up rolling on the tavern floor.
Ding-a-ling~
The old door creaked open and a cheerful little bell chimed.
The tavern was thick with the sour reek of sweat and stale vomit, mixed with the scent of beer and warm stew.
A stranger ducked his head low so it would not strike the lintel and stepped inside.
He was wrapped head to toe in a robe, yet his massive frame and the solid build visible through the fabric stood out at once. Something bulged on his back as if he were carrying a heavy load.
The stranger entered quietly and made for a corner seat.
He shook the snow from his robe, settled into a creaking chair, and a freckle-faced waitress soon approached.
“Welcome~ What can I get for you, sir?”
“It’s freezing out there. Bring me some drink and something hot to eat.”
After giving his order to the waitress—who gave a little sway of her hips as she turned—the stranger fished a single coin from his robes and tossed it to her.
Her hand darted out, caught it, and her smile grew even warmer.
“Right away~ One beer and a mutton stew for this table!”
She wove expertly between the tables, dodging the drunken gropes of the patrons with practiced ease.
Thanks to that single coin the beer arrived swiftly. The stranger sipped it slowly while listening to the conversations of the drunks.
“No, I’m telling you that doesn’t make sense! How the hell does a fist beat a hammer?!”
“You dodge it like whoosh! Then—wham!—you smash the handle and the hammer breaks, see? That’s how you win, you idiot!”
“You little—does that even make sense?!”
“Zibanov’s fists can do it, you bastard.”
“Ha… One swing of Lionheart’s hammer and your teeth would go flying. What are you talking about?”
As usual, the drunks were locked in a heated debate over who was stronger.
Their faces were flushed a deep red; they had clearly put away a great deal already.
“So you’re saying if Zibanov and Lionheart fought, Lionheart would win? That one-eyed old man? That’s pure bullshit.”
“Bullshit it is, you bastard. Bullshit.”
“Whatever. Why am I even talking to you?”
A third man who had been quietly drinking between the two finally spoke up.
“Then why not just go to the Holy City and see for yourselves? Lionheart’s bound to be there—they’ll definitely throw down.”
“Go see what?”
“Haven’t you heard the rumors? They’re holding some huge… what was it, Festival of Duels? Something like that, big as anything, in the Holy City.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ugh, dense bastards. You think a Duel Festival just happens in the Holy City for no reason? Why would that boring, stiff city suddenly throw a festival of combat?”
“…Maybe the soft priest-boys got bored?”
The man drained his beer in one long pull, clearly frustrated by his companion’s empty-headed reply, then continued.
“Is that even an answer? Rumors travel so damn slow around here…”
He finished speaking and took another sip.
The explanation had stopped right at the interesting part, so the two men who had been arguing earlier grew restless and crowded in.
“So why is there a festival in the Holy City, huh? Don’t just sit there—spit it out.”
“I’ll buy you another round if you tell us.”
Having secured free drinks, the man finally opened his mouth at a leisurely pace.
“So, uh… you heard about the building that just sprang up in the Holy City? They say the Six Gods raised a massive structure right there.”
“No? First I’ve heard of it…”
“Ugh. Anyway, a building rose up, and wouldn’t you know it—it’s a gigantic arena. Word is it’s so huge and grand that tens of thousands can fit inside at once. And over the entrance there’s an inscription…”
By now the other patrons had stopped their own noisy chatter and were leaning in to listen.
“An inscription that says what?”
“Ugh. Must be getting old—my throat’s gone all dry…”
A chorus of boos and jeers rose as the man stalled again. The tavern filled with noise, yet he calmly stroked his throat.
It was a clear signal that he was thirsty.
“Damn it, fine! Send a drink over to that table!”
Someone finally cracked and ordered more beer. Looking satisfied at the growing collection of mugs, the man resumed his tale.
“The words say: ‘Fight! Triumph! Seize your honor and glory!’”
“Fight? For honor and glory?”
“Exactly! The gods raised the building and are preparing a tournament to decide the most honorable and strongest warrior! Now do you get it?”
“So… the continent’s finest fighters will all gather in the Holy City?”
“That’s it! Exactly!”
“Whoa. Then we absolutely have to go see it, don’t we?”
Before long the entire tavern was buzzing with talk of the Duel Festival that was about to take place in the Holy City.
The stranger who had been listening quietly seemed to ponder something, then suddenly rose to his feet.
He walked straight over to the man who had been explaining the festival.
“Mind if I ask you one thing?”
“Huh? Who’re you?”
The man who had been drinking merrily spun around. The stranger’s bulk was so great that looking up from a seated position nearly made his neck crack.
“Miss, another round for these gentlemen here.”
The stranger called the busy waitress over, ordered drinks, and dropped heavily into an empty chair.
The men eyed the unfamiliar figure with a touch of wariness even as they accepted the free beer.
“It’s nothing much. I overheard your talk earlier… this Festival of Duels—how long has the rumor been spreading?”
“Uh… a little over a month, I think.”
“A while, then. Has it started yet?”
“Don’t think so. From what I hear, the festival begins once every sacred flame in the arena is lit.”
“Hmm… I see. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
Still deep in thought, the stranger stood once more and headed for the door.
Stepping out of the warm, shabby tavern, cold wind knifed through the gaps in his robe.
A blizzard was painting the entire world white.
He pulled the robe tighter and set off across the crunching snow.
From now on he would have to move quickly if he wanted to arrive on time.
“Sir! Sir!”
A voice called after him. The freckle-faced waitress was hurrying toward him.
“Sir! If you wander around on a snowy night in the north you’ll freeze solid and no one will ever find the body! Come back inside!”
Touched by the stranger’s concern for a complete outsider, the man gave a gentle smile.
He understood her worry, but it was no great problem for him.
“Miss, do you believe in the Six Gods?”
“Uh, yes? I… I do.”
Ever since Friga, the princess of Montegros, had been chosen as an Apostle of the gods, the number of people in the north who worshipped the Six Gods had steadily grown.
The waitress was one of them.
“I see. Forgive the liberty…”
The stranger strode closer, rummaged inside his robe, and drew out a small rosary. The emblem of the Pantheon glittered upon it.
He took the waitress’s hand firmly and offered a prayer.
“I give thanks for the warmth of a heart that worries for a stranger, and I pray that the Six Gods will light your path ahead.”
“Uh… what?”
The sudden blessing left the waitress blinking in confusion.
A strong gust of wind and thick snowflakes soon whipped the stranger’s robe.
“S-sir, your eyes…”
Her pupils went wide.
Hair as pure white as the falling snow, a firm gaze weathered by years yet unyielding, eyes filled with conviction.
And the left eye that looked upon her held no focus at all.
Something gray and cloudy filled the pupil.
“The night is cold. Go back inside.”
“Uh…”
Leaving the waitress behind, the stranger walked slowly into the blizzard.
The raging snowstorm seemed ready to swallow him whole, and before long even the trailing edge of his robe vanished from sight.