Badronel Colosseum (3)
While Lucy was methodically making her preparations to enter the Colosseum, the ones left behind in the Aln Knight Order lay sprawled across the training ground floor, taking what rest they could.
It was hardly a posture any of them could afford to be caught in outside — nobility though they all were — yet not one of them saw fit to point it out.
Reality was simply too barren for the likes of noble honor to matter.
“Once lunch is over, we'll have to roll ourselves half to death again until supper.”
“...Your Highness. Did you truly have to bring that up?”
“The Patran young lady speaks true, Your Highness. Let us rest in peace while we still can.”
The instant Arthur broke the silence, the children of House Patran and House Burrow beside him pounced on him in rebuke. Yet Arthur's spirits did not flag in the slightest.
“Up before dawn, running until we vomit our guts out. After breakfast, conditioning the body until passing out sounds like a mercy. So tell me — what exactly is waiting for us after lunch?”
“Because I would rather not imagine it, please, for the love of all that is holy, stop.”
“And after dinner I already know what comes — sparring with the knights until the very edge of sleep. And because they're oh-so-gracious to us poor children, they grant us a full three hours of rest. Three whole hours! What heartwarming generosity!”
“Your Highness. Will it take a spearpoint through you before you stop?”
“And yet Lucy Aln, the one who threw us into this godforsaken hell, wormed her way out of it claiming she had 'her own business' to attend to. That damned woman!”
Profanity had slipped past Arthur's lips, but neither Jackal nor Joy could bring themselves to rebuke him for it. His fury was, to any observer's eye, perfectly justified.
What finally calmed Arthur after his long bout of grumbling was a remark Joy ventured with care.
“In a way, it may be a blessing that she left. If the Lady Aln had stayed, things would be far harder than they are now.”
“...That is true.”
Arthur conceded the point without protest.
If that girl had been beside us the entire time — hauling people forcibly to their feet while spitting every insult in existence — we wouldn't even have the leisure to hold this conversation now. Come to think of it, it truly is better that she stay away for a long while. It wouldn't be bad at all if she stayed gone until training ended entirely. Besides, what difference would her training alongside us make anyway? If it were Lucy Aln — someone thoroughly accustomed to the Aln Knight Order's regimen — she'd have worked us to the bone and then volunteered to grind herself twice as hard on top of it.
“Joy. What did she say she was leaving to do?”
“The arena in the Tersha Empire. She said she would be participating in it.”
The arena of the Tersha Empire, is it. Arthur recalled visiting the place as a child, following diplomatic envoys on missions of friendship.
Nobles who gladly staked their very lives to display their strength to one another. Victors and vanquished alike clasping hands over an honorable duel, smiling all the while. And the spectators who roared with delight, swearing that one day they too would step onto that stage.
And into that stage, Lucy Aln would walk.
'Hey, heeey. How's it feel to get utterly wrecked by a girl way~ smaller than you?'
“...I pity her opponents.”
Imagining a line so very like her, Arthur pitied whoever would stand across from her. What would go through the mind of someone who entered the arena for an honorable duel, only to receive a torrent of abuse from a girl hiding behind a shield? And what despair would await them when they shattered without landing a single wound on her, their pride trampled into the dirt?
“I pray it does not escalate into a diplomatic incident.”
Praying fervently that no high-ranking noble would fall among Lucy Aln's victims, Arthur heard footsteps approaching in the distance and slowly hauled himself upright.
“Your Highness.”
“What is it, Frey? Have you finally come to rest as well?”
“No. Break time's over.”
“...Already?”
“NoOoOoOoO...”
“O God in heaven...”
Frey, who genuinely relished the Aln Knight Order's training, could not comprehend the three souls flailing in despair before her.
The people of the Tersha Empire revered the strong.
Regardless of the standing an individual held, it was considered courtesy to respect anyone who was sufficiently powerful.
And in proportion to how deeply they favored strength, the Tershans' contempt for the weak ran just as deep. Anyone weaker than oneself was expected to show respect as a matter of course — and anyone who failed to show it would be made to pay the price, without fail. Mercy could not exist here. To be ignored and laughed off by the weak was not goodness but frailty. The strong — differences of degree aside — must always exact a price from the weak. Unless, of course, one wished to be dragged down to the weaklings' level. Count Badronel, taught the meaning of honor by his parents from the cradle, understood this truth better than anyone alive.
Which was why he had laughed off Benedict Aln's immediate insolence out of respect for the man's strength — while, on the other hand, quietly tracking Lucy Aln's every movement. He had hoped she would obtain the right to enter the Colosseum. So that the price of her insolence could be collected.
And just now, Lucy Aln had done precisely as Count Badronel wished, and won her entry into the arena.
“My son.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I trust there is no need for me to say it.”
“Worry not, Father. I will not disappoint you.”
After his son slipped out of the study, Count Badronel leaned back in his chair, tilted his face toward the ceiling, and curled his lips upward.
“I suppose I should be devoting my thoughts to finding some way to stem the wrath of House Aln.”
It did not occur to him, even once, that his son might lose.
Leaving Benedict to lie dead on his feet where he stood, I stepped out onto the street and entered the shop managed by the Newman family once more — this time to confirm exactly who would be taking part in the Colosseum.
If this were merely about racking up experience, I'd have charged in first and thought later, but with a mission handed down by the great and noble Lady Armadi resting on my shoulders, no such luxury was permitted.
I have to win this tournament and see my stat window. Non-negotiable!
I do, personally, want to know just how strong I've become right now — but there are things I simply can't do unless my stats clear a certain threshold. And just to calculate how much more growing I'll need for that, I have to complete this mission no matter what.
“A list of the participants you should keep an eye on, my lady.”
The moment I stated my request, the Newman man produced the documents without a wasted motion.
“Would you care for explanations on each individual?”
'No, thank you.'
“Just make yourself scarce and stop being a nuisance, you crusty old geezer.”
“...Yes. Of course.”
After the Newman man retreated with an awkward smile, I propped my chin on my hand and studied the list. Many names on it I knew.
It went without saying. The Tersha Empire's Colosseum was a feature that existed quite properly inside the game Soul Academy. I hadn't memorized every NPC's name flawlessly, but I remembered the ones who would stand in my way.
For example—
Baut, written midway down the participant list, was a man who swung around a great axe most fighters wouldn't even dream of lifting. His movements weren't fast, but each blow carried devastating force and a wide reach — a genuinely troublesome opponent.
How to beat him? Stay calm. The stronger his attacks, the wider the openings he leaves afterward — respond with composure and he goes down without much trouble. Whether that holds true now that it's real, I can't say. But in the game, that's how it was.
The one called Dial was another handful. He tormented players with the spirits under his command, and gamers nicknamed him the Shotgun Maker. Fight an arena opponent who keeps smacking you and darting off like some damn player, and the curses come flying out of you all on their own.
The counter is to eat his attacks and break through. His damage per hit is low, so trade blows with him kill-or-be-killed style and he drops easily enough.
Besides them: Farke. Gav. Ham. Arsha. Hanan.
“This one is entering the arena as well?”
As I recalled name after name from memory, a voice at my side made me flinch and hunch my shoulders.
“Ah. My apologies, Lucy. I caught sight of a name I'd once crossed blades with, and it slipped out before I knew it.”
The great Benedict doomsday weapon — still unable to break free of the aftermath of Operation Papa Hates Me — offered an apology the very instant my eyes met his.
But I can't forgive him yet. I explained everything so patiently, so kindly, and he didn't even pretend to listen. If the tavern patrons hadn't stepped in, I'd have been treated as the complete villain of the piece. Remembering the injustice of that moment, forgiving him now would be far too soon.
Should I ask him to give me some space? Hmm. No — too obvious. Better to simply turn my head away without a word.
My prediction proved correct. The moment I turned my gaze back to the list without so much as a twitch, the great mountain of Benedict crumbled.
“This papa was wrong. Please, forgive your papa.”
“...”
“Luuucyyyy.”
Perhaps even the giant who had never known defeat looked pitiable as he groveled so shamelessly. The Bald Knight, waiting behind us, chimed in under his breath.
“U-um, my lady? The Lord Count means well, truly—”
'Excuse me. Quiet, please, Sir Baldy.'
“Shut it, Baldy. You're so tone-deaf that even your hair ran away because it couldn't stand you.”
At my razor-edged tone, the Bald Knight shut his mouth — but in his place the other two, Carl and Erin, leapt to Benedict's defense one after the other.
“My lady, the Lord Count has reflected on it quite thoroughly, I assure you.”
“She's right, my lady. Might it not be best, in your boundless mercy, to grant him your forgiveness now?”
...Uuugh. Anyone else I could ignore, but when those two — endlessly, hopelessly friendly to me — say the same thing in unison, there's no way I can not hear it.
I chewed on my lip for a moment, then turned my head toward Benedict, who by now stood one breath away from bursting into tears.
“Papa♡”
“...Lucy.”
“If you pull another boneheaded stunt like this, then next time I really won't forgive you♡ No matter what a dummy-dumb—”
“Luuuuuucyyy!”
Before I could even finish, Benedict burst into tears and threw his arms around me, liquid spraying from every inch of his face. At first I struggled to escape the slathering mess, but the current me had no hope whatsoever of breaking free of Benedict's monstrous grip. Before long I simply resigned myself, and quietly patted his back until the flood of paternal woe ran dry.
“There, there. Ahem. My apologies, Lucy. Your worthless papa was in the wrong.”
'Please, just stop.'
“It's fine. What's one more day of a dummy father doing dummy things?”
“Hahhk. To have doubted such a good girl as you — this worthless papa cannot so much as lift his head.”
Haaaa. There'd be no end to it if I tried to soothe him half-heartedly, so better to just change the subject. He'll calm down once we're talking about something else.
'More importantly, a moment ago you said...'
“Anyway, my dear dummy Father. You said you'd crossed blades with one of the losers here just recently, didn't you? Talk. I'll graciously hear all about every stupid thing you've gotten up to in the past.”
On the day the Colosseum opened, Count Badronel, his congratulatory address concluded, watched the bouts of the various champions at his leisure from the high seats.
The quality this time is higher than usual. Benedict Aln's public appearance in the city has clearly left its mark — it is only natural for fighters to wish to display their strength before a powerhouse spoken of as a legend across the entire continent.
“Ohhh! At last, it is Lucy's turn!”
Turning his head at the sound of Benedict Aln's excited voice, Count Badronel studied Lucy as she walked out through the gate.
The quality of her armaments is excellent. The shield gleaming in the sunlight is sacred enough to recall the legends of old, and the mace — utterly untouched by rust — is beautiful enough to draw gasps from anyone who handles weapons, and precisely as beautiful as it is unsettling. Yet beside the armaments in her two hands, her armor is sorely lacking. Not a poor piece by any means, but its quality trails her shield and mace by a clear margin. What manner of confidence is this? On a battlefield, the equipment one must mind above all else is, nothing more and nothing less, one's armor. Well — setting that question aside, she is obscenely beautiful. With her mere appearance she is stealing not only the spectators' eyes but her opponent's very soul. If that girl climbs high enough, this tournament will surely outdraw any before it. A pity, though. Her first opponent is a poor draw. Baut of the great axe is no man so shabby as to lose to a girl like that. For him to be eliminated before my son even meets her is truly troublesome — and yet, in another way, rather exhilarating.
While Count Badronel counted Lucy's defeat as certain, Baut, standing across from her, barely gathered his senses and turned toward her.
“I look forward to our match, Lady Aln. I trust it will prove a fine bout.”
When Baut — unmistakably a powerhouse to any eye — offered his greeting first, voices praising his magnanimity erupted from the stands.
But those voices did not last long.
“Yeah, let's have a good one, Baldy. Though I doubt it'll be much of a bout — there's no way your loser, slow-as-molasses axe is ever gonna touch me♡”
For Lucy's reply to that greeting had turned the entire Colosseum into a library.