Chapter 195
Chapter 195
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 195
Chapter Title: Martial Dragon Tournament (4)
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West side of the circular arena.
In one of the waiting rooms prepared for the third-years, a chilling echo reverberated.
Scrape—scrape—scrape—.
At the center of the waiting room knelt a boy with short red hair, Michel Ang.
Scrape—scrape—.
The eerie sound dominating the room was none other than the noise of him sharpening an axe blade on a whetstone.
Scrape—scrape—.
His upper body rocking back and forth, Michel's movements repeated in mechanical fashion.
The reverent posture as he honed the edge evoked the image of a religious ritual.
Beside such a Michel lay another axe, its blade already perfectly sharpened.
Scrape—.
Moments later, Michel's movements came to an abrupt halt.
“…….”
Holding the axe vertically, he inspected the razor-sharp edge with his fierce, glaring eyes.
Satisfied with the blade, Michel rose to his feet and promptly stripped off his upper garment.
Revealed were his bulging, rugged muscles.
But he didn't stop there—he dipped his index and middle fingers into a bowl he'd brought beforehand.
A thick, dark red, sticky liquid clung to his meaty fingers.
Splat—.
It was beast blood, nothing else.
Casually, Michel smeared his bloodied fingers across his bare torso.
Stroke—stroke—.
Using his hulking chest muscles as a canvas, incomprehensible geometric patterns began to take shape.
At the same time, Michel's aura slowly shifted.
It was a far cry from the calm demeanor he was usually known for as the "Butler of Gunter Rider."
As he filled his upper body with these blood-drawn sigils one by one, Michel recalled Yuri Holland's voice.
[Don't get too uppity, you lackey.]
He knew it full well.
People called him a "butler" to his face, but behind his back, they sneered at him as a parasite, a slave, or worse.
Even knowing all that, he'd brushed it off before.
Because what they said was true.
But recalling the day Yuri Holland had thrown those words right in his face made Michel's anger surge inexplicably.
It wasn't just because the one who'd said it was a junior, not a senior or peer.
Nor was it solely because he'd taken the insult without even landing a counter and blacked out from a single blow.
It was simply… because the one who'd said it was Yuri Holland.
‘That guy… didn't he say he had no family or faction?’
According to the intel, Yuri Holland was a drifter.
Exactly how or by whose recommendation he'd entered the cradle remained unclear, but it was certain he'd been sponsored personally, not by any family.
And that fact… filled Michel with petty rage.
‘He has no idea what sacrifices my tribe made to get me into the cradle, or what life I've lived for my tribe…!’
Those born into fine families.
Those with solid backing—being insulted by them didn't faze him.
They had different possessions, different privileges anyway.
They lived in a world apart from his.
So he could ignore them, pay them no mind.
But Yuri Holland was different.
In a way, he was cut from the same cloth as Michel.
A survivor in the cradle without family backing.
The difference between them, though… was that Yuri Holland possessed dazzling talent Michel lacked.
For someone with such talent to dismiss the sacrifices and efforts Michel had made from nothing as "lackey" work.
‘…You weren't allowed to insult me like that!’
Stroke—stroke—.
His fingers, fueled by fury, continued their work.
Finally, Michel's torso was covered densely in blood-red sigils.
And right on cue, the black-armored attendant's command rang out.
“Michel Ang, enter the arena.”
Hearing this, Michel plunged one hand deep into the earthen bowl and withdrew it.
Drip—drip—drip—.
Watching the blood droplets fall from his fingertips, Michel vowed.
‘I’ll win and advance, and then…’
His blood-slick hand swept from his forehead down his face.
‘I’ll show you exactly what my struggles have amounted to, Yuri Holland!’
Murderous intent flickered in his wide, glaring eyes.
His body, smeared with blood like tattoos.
Michel was no longer the figure known as Gunter's butler.
He had transformed into the ferocious tribal warrior once called the "Child of Blood."
Clank—.
Grabbing his twin axes, Michel stomped toward the arena.
‘My opponent this match is Arin Helga, right?’
She was one of the people who hung around with Yuri Holland.
Not that it mattered much.
Whoever it was, they were just another obstacle to crush.
Thus, Michel planned to go all out.
‘Her main weapon is a bow… If I close the distance, victory is mine.’
The battlefield was a confined space, unfavorable to archers as well.
Close in, or focus on defense until her arrows ran out.
There were plenty of strategies against bow users.
The moment he pondered how to handle Arin.
Michel passed through the entrance.
‘Where is she!’
The instant his foot hit the arena floor, he scanned the surroundings for her.
But she was nowhere in sight.
‘Did I enter first?’
Confirming Arin hadn't yet entered, Michel's eyes gleamed as he bolted straight for the arena's center.
‘I need to claim the center!’
Standing at the heart of the circular arena exposed him to easy attacks from Arin.
But conversely, no matter which entrance she emerged from, he could charge her immediately.
In other words, he could preemptively close the distance.
‘Good start.’
Gripping his twin axes, Michel sprinted while staying alert to his surroundings.
His speed was so blinding that he reached the center in a flash.
And at that moment.
‘There she is.’
The entrance at the 2 o'clock position.
A deep blue shadow flickered within.
Instinct told Michel it was Arin.
‘Coming!’
As expected, a blue-haired girl burst out from there.
Arin emerged with her white bow already drawn taut.
The moment she crossed the threshold from entrance to arena, she released the string.
Pew—!
One sound, but three diverging trajectories.
Seeing this, Michel heightened his focus to the extreme.
Whoooosh—.
The two hand axes spun like windmills in his grip, as he warily eyed the slowed scene with sharpened gaze.
Then, two arrows appeared right before him.
Clang-clang-clang—.
Sudden as teleportation, but Michel—already on high alert—shattered them to pieces effortlessly.
Yet he didn't relax his focus or tension.
He'd already confirmed Arin had loosed three arrows.
‘Where's the last one?’
For arrows loosed simultaneously to arrive at different times.
Impressive archery in itself, but what shocked Michel more came next.
Swoosh—.
In the sluggishly flowing time.
As he scanned the air for the third arrow, something odd snagged his senses.
It hugged the ground low, racing toward him at high speed.
Feeling it, Michel's skin crawled.
‘This is?!’
He'd assumed any arrow would come from above, as arrows do.
But Arin's third arrow.
It flew nearly skimming the dirt.
Realizing this, Michel hurriedly guarded his ankles.
But then.
Skeek—!
The third arrow ricocheted off the ground at a 60-degree angle.
Seeing that impossible trajectory, Michel's eyes bulged.
‘What kind of freak archery is this?!’
Not content with skimming the floor, it changed direction mid-flight.
Was this really the archery he knew?
Stunned, Michel couldn't just gape.
He focused utterly and twisted his body sideways.
‘Move… move! Faster!’
Puk—.
Twisting with all his might, the arrow aimed at his heart struck his shoulder instead.
Michel exulted.
‘Got it!’
Quick thinking had averted a fatal wound.
His shoulder hurt, but it was manageable.
Now he had one task left.
‘Where's she at?’
Michel's awareness sought Arin.
There, far off, she slowly entered his view, drawing her bow for the next shot.
Michel smirked triumphantly.
‘Impressive archery, but now that I've seen it once, it won't work again!’
He recognized her archery defied common sense.
And its irrational variability.
From now on, he'd consider every possibility and prioritize defense.
Just as he prepared to charge her with that in mind.
Pew—pew—pew—.
Left triceps, right scapula.
And right calf.
Agony hit three spots simultaneously.
‘…Kuh?!’
Michel froze, dazed, not grasping what had happened.
In that interval, Arin released her drawn string.
Pew—pew—pew—.
Left knee, abdomen, right wrist—three more arrows embedded.
Thud—.
Unable to run, Michel dropped to one knee.
Even then, he still hadn't comprehended what hit him.
‘What the…?’
He'd clearly seen the last three arrows fly from Arin.
But the three that struck from behind first.
He couldn't fathom when she'd loosed those.
‘Did I… miss her movements?’
No, impossible.
Focused on dodging, he'd kept conscious watch on Arin.
He was certain.
After the initial three, her only shots were the last three.
‘Then when the hell did these three from behind…?’
What sorcery turned six arrows into nine?
As confusion swirled.
A hypothesis flashed through Michel's mind.
His face hardened.
“No way… You don't mean it was all an act from the start?”
What if he hadn't arrived first?
What if Arin Helga had entered earlier, then pretended to enter late to lower his guard?
‘Then… it all makes sense.’
If she wielded such bizarre archery, controlling arrival times of simultaneous shots.
She might pull off the impossible.
And Michel's guess was spot on.
‘Success!’
Her pre-laid trap working perfectly, Arin beamed.
The moment the entry command dropped, she'd sprinted to the arena like her soles were aflame.
First thing upon entering: loosing three arrows skyward.
Then back to the entrance, hiding in shadow until Michel appeared—then acting like she'd just arrived.
Had Michel been even slightly late.
Or the timing off by a bit, she'd have wasted three precious arrows.
But she'd executed flawlessly.
The result?
“Guh!”
48th Cohort rank 3, Michel Ang—on his knees.
Less than 10 seconds after the match began.
* * *
With Squads 7 and 8 ending in lackluster byes.
Knowing Arin's weapon was a bow, the crowd expected Squad 9 to fizzle out with Michel's win.
But the scene unfolding in the arena left them speechless.
“…….”
“…….”
Michel Ang, seven arrows in his body, kneeling.
Arin Helga still aiming her bow at him.
The underappreciated archery within the cradle had produced this.
A first-year overwhelming a third-year with near-divine skill.
Most riders were stunned.
Amid it all, only Yuri's group remained unfazed.
“…You can't grasp how terrifying those devilish arrow paths are unless you've faced them yourself.”
“Honestly, now… I don't want to fight Arin barehanded, sir.”
“Starving.”
Theresia and Gunter assessing Arin's archery from experience.
Poppi nodding in agreement.
They all knew.
Excluding Yuri, Arin showed the steepest growth among them.
Knowing full well her archery's progress, they couldn't deny it.
As the three nodded in acknowledgment.
“Tch!”
A tongue-click from the side.
Eyes turned to the source.
There sat Yuri, chewing jerky like a delinquent.
Frowning at Arin, still holding her drawn bow.
“That dumbass! What're you standing there gawking for? Ram more arrows in while you can! What if he gets up? Tch tch.”
At his words, as those around shot looks of ‘No way he moves after seven arrows?’ back to the arena.
“Ah……?”
“Wha—?!”
As if he'd heard Yuri, Michel was rising to his feet.