Chapter 50 - The Path of the Hero (2)
“Please don’t think too badly of this place. Plenty of rankers visit just to rediscover the value of struggle.”
“If you wanted compliments like that, you shouldn’t have let people bet on the fights in the first place.”
The manager of Lexion’s underground arena in the 40th floor’s sprawling entertainment district was an orc warrior named Kalson. The moment he showed up at the hotel where I was staying, he started pleading with me not to hate the place too much.
Of course, I already knew that orcs from Floria were a warrior race who reveled in battle and respected the strong. In fact, orc rankers never hesitated to challenge others to duels or test their strength. To them, it was culture. A natural way of life.
But there was something off about what Kalson was saying. Sure, maybe some people came here craving the thrill of bloody combat to push themselves. But the real backbone of this operation—the thing keeping the lights on—was the gamblers. Orcs, humans, elves, beastkin. Visitors of every race and origin treated it like cheap entertainment.
Same old story everywhere.
Tower residents—challengers and locals alike—clashed over cultural differences and habits all the time. But when it came to this? They all fell in line. Desire burned too hot in any creature with emotions to ignore it easily.
“Sometimes, the lure of rewards right in front of you sparks the most dramatic fights.”
“No need to dress it up. We just negotiated a deal.”
“...Fine. Let’s talk details, then.”
He’d tried for one extra word and gotten shut down, so he bowed his head. He didn’t look thrilled, but I wasn’t about to babysit his feelings.
“The date’s locked in. It’s the biggest event in years, so prep won’t be an issue.”
“Don’t care about that. What matters is who I’m facing. So, who’s the one itching to fight me?”
“Garbat. A challenger from the Rakno Mercenary Corps. He’s gone 51-0 over three years in the arena.”
He showed me a photo. A massive wolf beastman, body covered in scars, radiating raw savagery. Gray-furred, teeth bared in a snarl over his crushed foe. This bold bastard had challenged me knowing full well who I was.
“He insisted hard. Said anyone less than him would just be a nuisance to you.”
“Cocky one.”
They’d even said the payout was too low since I was such a heavy favorite—no real money to be made. If he was hitting the arena regularly between tower climbs, he probably wasn’t some puppet jerked around by a constellation. Just a pure brawler who lived for the scrap.
“Handle it however. Doesn’t matter who—it’s all meaningless to me anyway.”
“That’s not all, though. Garbat had the gall to demand a Blood Fang Duel—his wolf clan’s sacred rite of combat.”
“What’s with all the conditions?”
To me, this was just something to wrap up quick and move on. To them? A chance to milk every drop. I let out a dry laugh, then snorted in disbelief when he explained what this Blood Fang Duel Garbat proposed actually entailed.
After Kalson left, I caught a quick nap and checked the gallery. As expected, the users were pissed at Lexion and this Garbat guy.
Some users nailed my intentions perfectly. No point dragging it out; no need. No matter how much this guy had rampaged in the arena or begged for a slave wager, it meant nothing to me.
No one—not me, not a single gallery user—expected me to lose. Reactions stayed chill because of it. Even hobbled by lower-floor stat penalties, reality didn’t bend. A wall several tiers high stood between me and this Garbat, who hadn’t cleared past 125 yet.
Slave? Hell no... I’ll strip him bare and kick him to the curb.
The joking post about him throwing the fight on purpose to become my slave made me cringe for real. This tower had every freak imaginable. The thought it might actually be true sent chills down my spine.
No slaves for me. I’d take everything he had as payment for daring to challenge me and leave him with nothing.
But as I was about to log off and rest, one hyped user dropped a video he’d filmed, claiming it was arena-side intel.
“Won’t Moonlight Sword's power refuse? It wasn’t in the agreement.”
“Haven’t had this much buzz in a decade. It’s an exhibition match—live broadcast to a packed crowd. Think she’ll say no?”
In the clip, Kalson fiddled with a chain etched in glowing, intricate runes while shaking his head at a staff orc.
“I’ve heard the rumors about the Moonlight Sword’s power. Meeting her? Spot on—arrogant, cynical. Someone that proud won’t back down once the crowd’s hyped.”
“If we slap these chains on her and make her fight...”
“Honestly, even with them, not sure Garbat wins. Top rankers are all monsters.”
Kalson sighed and shook his head. Short exchange, but their scheme was clear: on fight day, in front of thousands, slap an unagreed handicap on me to boost their guy’s odds.
The first reply to pop up as I stared blankly matched my thoughts exactly.
Worry started creeping into the gallery. If their plot went off on the day, I might not be able to reject the handicap they’d dangle. I’d already declared no gear—just hand-to-hand. Add stat-draining chains? Gap closes even more.
Serpina jumped in to cool the hype. But their worry wouldn’t happen. If I were clueless, maybe. But I’d figured it out before her heads-up.
Perfect. I was pissed anyway. Time to smash it all?
They’d hand me justification. They started it; crushing them thoroughly was my right.
A user versed in magic or alchemy ID’d the chain from the video.
Slap on the chains, and my senses scramble. Vision, hearing, balance, reflexes—tiny tweaks turn fatal.
I replied directly to that user, straight-up asking for the answer. No one’d think it was me asking.
Verified by others, that confident reply made my lips curl. Knowing the counter ahead? Their trap becomes mine.
Of course, my reliable constellations devolved back into pervs in a flash. But I’d gotten numb to it by now.
As if I’d wear that crap.
I shook my head at the bikini armor pic and panting users. Obviously, just my usual workout clothes.