The Centaur Festival and the Human Champion’s Challenge
A sound idea, isn’t it?
Ashtien, no matter what… ah…
Ahor pressed her temples with a weary frown, her expression the picture of exhaustion. Vesta shot her a sidelong glance, reading every twitch of her face.
I thought it would work fine.
He had spent real thought on this solution before laying it out.
Before he explained his plan, one question burned in Vesta’s mind: what was the Altangerel Patriarch really thinking? Was he truly desperate to pin every last responsibility on Arin?
That was unlikely. The answer was obvious. It was pride, pure and simple.
Bia, the undefeated champion of the most prestigious centaur clan, the one called the “Golden” for her legendary deeds, had nearly been killed by an orc. The fact had to sting.
And Arin, the milk-sister and right-hand who had been with Bia in battle, was no ordinary woman either.
The Patriarch himself might see things differently, but the world outside the clan would judge mercilessly.
They might find it excessive, yet the centaurs’ society was nothing like human norms.
They had risen to greatness on nothing but a single blade. Men and women who still guarded their names with nothing but steel. To them, martial prowess carried sacred weight.
In short, appearances meant everything.
Then change the perception, Vesta decided. Preserve the Patriarch’s pride and prove it to every centaur on the steppe.
Show that Arin and the Altangerel bloodline were worthy of respect.
The Patriarch’s own words came back to him: “Everyone already knows that Arin was protecting the Khan’s fiancée when she was attacked.”
It was a rumor that had spread far and wide after the Khan’s fiancé defeated an orc champion.
Centaurs might not honor human glory, but they did not know Narinhoon. They had no way of realizing how truly desperate the fight had been.
One lash of the whip across their own legs would snap them out of it. Every mouth would have fallen open in shock.
Regardless, this was Vesta’s plan now.
Arin had fallen into a life-threatening condition after a minor ambush. The centaurs believed it completely.
So prove that ambush had been far from minor. And the only person who had fought alongside her on that field was Vesta.
If the human boy who had stood with Arin in battle was stronger than any centaur warrior, how much would the name Arin rise in their eyes?
Let everyone witness Vesta’s true strength. The crowd would accept it.
She had not been struck down by a mere ambush, but by a fight of supreme difficulty. She had not suffered a fatal wound, but survived only because she was Arin. She had not lost, but saved every last life among them.
Vesta could rewrite that narrative. All he had to do was prove his own ability.
And an ideal stage had already been handed to him.
The Centaur Festival was that stage.
I may be weak in tug-of-war and archery.
But in one-on-one duel? That was Vesta’s unique gift.
I understand what you’re saying. I understand your concern for Bia and Arin. Yes, I understand.
Ahor looked at Vesta the way an elder sister might regard a troublesome little brother.
So where should I even begin?
In the end, it had come down to Vesta wanting to fight centaur warriors.
Ahor had called for reinforcements to persuade him.
Bia. Say something too.
Bia offered no reply. She simply stared at Vesta, eyes sparkling with something like overwhelming emotion.
She must be deeply touched.
To a degree that made Vesta feel uncomfortable.
Bia. Did you hear me?
Eh? What?
Ahor gave Bia a light tap on the arm. Vesta let out a quiet chuckle.
Ahor, you’re the one who’s been worrying about me?
Ahor could not help but feel that look was utterly infuriating. She wanted nothing more than to smack Vesta over the head with a wooden spoon. How could someone smile like that without any sense of self-preservation?
Should I really give him one?
She had been seriously considering it.
Vesta, are you really planning to fight centaur warriors?
Yes, I think it’s a sound plan.
Ahor fell silent, her face troubled.
No matter what race, centaurs were born riders. True horsemen who had become one with their mounts.
They were classified as heavy cavalry even when fighting bare-handed. Not infantry.
I acknowledge that Vesta is an extremely strong swordsman.
That much no one could deny.
Even I would not stand a chance against a blade.
Ahor had trained her body to the bone. She had crossed the line once or twice and possessed rare talent.
Though she was strict in her self-assessment, she never denied her own achievements.
In the eyes of the world she was a legend. After all, a human had become captain of the Khan’s guard—an unprecedented event.
All methods available. Prove that you can protect me.
Yes, I will. Khan.
If she had not possessed such talent, would she be standing here today? Ahor did not place blind faith in her own worth.
She had talent. Genuine, exceptional talent that might even earn the title “genius” from others.
Yet even to her, Vesta’s martial power was distant beyond compare.
His killing blade was beyond the reach of any ordinary human.
Aruk had once called it terrible swordsmanship, and she had been right. It did not follow orthodox forms; it had gone completely astray. Yet perhaps what made a sword deadlier than perfect technique was its deviation, its sheer unpredictability.
And Vesta’s blade carried that very unpredictability—an originality no one else could imitate.
Yes. Ahor admitted Vesta’s strength.
Especially after his recent growth, it had become even more formidable.
But would it reach the centaurs?
Against the frontier’s greatest warriors who had earned respect through nothing but their own strength?
Are you confident?
Right now, yes.
Really?
Before I came to the steppe I would have said no. I lacked experience against riders.
Without experience, one would not know how to face them.
But now I have.
I’ve paid close attention to them in daily life and gained real combat experience. I’ve even ridden one myself, so I can imagine it. I can predict and counter their movements. Know how they will act and how I must respond.
Vesta met Ahor’s gaze with an expression no different from his usual calm.
Ahor shivered.
What is he even saying?
He claims that with months of experience he can defeat centaur warriors. That he is certain of it.
It sounded like a child splashing in the shallows suddenly jumping into the ocean to fight sharks.
Anyone else would have been scolded for such empty boasting.
Yet Vesta was the one who had built the respect Ahor owed him, the one who possessed the insight worthy of a master.
He had never once misjudged a battlefield.
Talent, then?
It was brilliant talent. Not the kind that could make a pure human shoot arrows like an elf.
Like Aruk’s frenzied sword aura, or Asmur’s abnormally swift spear thrusts.
Or perhaps something even greater.
Similar to Ashtien’s own.
Vesta.
Yes, Ahor?
Our opponents are warriors who earned respect solely through raw strength on the open steppe.
Vesta gave a wry smile at Ahor’s question.
I myself am a man who earned the Empire’s admiration with nothing but a single blade.
He remembered.
That day when thousands of spectators and the Emperor themselves roared in celebration of his victory.
*
Are you entering the contest, Uushun?
Uushun laughed heartily and nodded.
What event?
Tug-of-war.
Tug-of-war? Vesta knew Uushun’s strength was legendary, yet she was considering pitting it against centaurs? How reckless.
He did not voice the thought.
He would be spitting in his own face.
The Khan is entering too.
Of course. Archery, he said.
The Khan seemed uninterested, yet the chieftains begged her to compete.
Was it to watch Ashtien’s archery, or to see whether they could break her pride?
She would never lose, of course.
Future already looks bright.
Vesta said with a grin.
I’ll enter too.
Eh?
Uushun blinked in surprise. Strange. There was no event suitable for this fierce competition. Archery was out. Hmm… what now?
I’m going to fight.
…?
Uushun gave Vesta a bewildered look, as if she had not quite heard.