Badronel Colosseum (4)
When I decided to build up experience in the arena, I imposed a single restriction on myself.
Unless the situation truly became desperate, I would not use the Mesugaki skill's provocation ability.
For a skill tucked away in a modded trait, the taunt power of Mesugaki is strong enough to shatter the game's balance entirely.
It works on people at my own level, on people far stronger than me, and even, in the end, on an evil god.
And that's not even getting into what happens to the one being taunted.
This ability outright incinerates a person's reason, making them move like an NPC in a game.
It forces them to act on pure instinct, driven by a single thought: I will teach this insolent brat a lesson.
Of course, it isn't without limits. However broken a skill may be, a mental status effect is still a status effect, and it can be resisted through sheer individual willpower.
Just like the Second Queen, who kept her composure even in the depths of her fury.
In other words, you'd need to be a monster on the Second Queen's level just to manage a coherent thought once your reason has evaporated.
...By the way, is it just me, or is the King of Soladin's taste genuinely a little strange?
The First Queen is a formidable opponent who showed up in the game as a genuine threat, and according to Benedict, the Second Queen would have commanded her own family's knight order if she'd never married into the palace.
Strong women. A warped appetite.
...Could it be that the reason the King of Soladin laughed off Lucy's tirade was...
Ahem. Anyway, back to the point. Imagine spamming a skill this powerful all over the arena.
Forget getting used to blade-on-blade second-by-second trades of feints and reads with all manner of opponents — all I'd prove is, once again, that I'm a rotten-water veteran through and through.
So I'd planned to fight with my mouth firmly shut unless things got truly dire.
<Look how red your face has gone. Your reason left you long ago, has it not?>
...Couldn't this just be me being slightly annoyed?
"I certainly hope your skill matches all that arrogance."
<You call that merely annoyed, speaking in a voice steeped in such fury?>
I couldn't bring myself to argue with Grandpa. The rage I could feel radiating from my hand as it gripped the axe was anything but light.
Haaah. Fine. From now on, no greetings, no chatter. Just keep my mouth shut. Otherwise this is never going to work.
<This should be amusing.>
Oh, you mean my reputation getting demolished in real time? Thrilling, thanks.
Just look at the stands. They're glaring daggers at me like I deserve to be put down on the spot.
Is it really so offensive that someone who looks this weak picked a fight with Baut...?
<And what do you take yourself for, pray? You are nothing of the sort.>
Then what am I, exactly?
<Have you forgotten what you explained not long ago? The people of this land worship the strong.>
What does that have to do with anything?
<It means that once you shatter that bald buffoon, every last one of them will flip their attitude on its own. Would that spectacle not be positively delightful?>
Grandpa's mischievous chuckle proved swiftly contagious.
He was right. Picturing those faces — the jeers dying mid-breath, mouths fishing around in stunned disbelief — was genuinely, deeply enjoyable.
"Combatants. Are you ready?"
"Ready."
Yep.
"Can't you see that I am? Or are the eyes on your face decorative?"
"...Then we shall begin."
No sooner had the referee declared the start of the match than Baut — baldy, I mean baldy— Baut came charging at me with terrifying momentum.
A headlong rush fueled by total conviction that raw strength alone would flatten me.
It was the kind of honest, dim-witted attack that didn't even deserve a mention of Iron Wall. Watching it sail in, I smiled and channeled Divinity into my shield.
A downward strike carrying the giant's full strength — a blow meant to split a man like firewood.
Anyone faint of heart would have squeezed their eyes shut, imagining the hideous aftermath.
Not me.
I knew that sort of attack couldn't leave so much as a scratch on my shield, so I met it head-on, standing proud.
Claaang!
The instant axe met shield, a collective gasp rippled through the stands.
Not shock at the carnage an axe might have wrought — astonishment at the result produced by a small little girl.
Seeing the bewildered eyes beyond the axe hurtling off into empty air made my mouth itch, but I forced it down.
If I kept running my mouth any further, this baldy's eyes might genuinely roll back in his head.
...Ah. I ended up calling him baldy anyway.
But what can I do? That head gleaming in the sunlight is just so damn eye-catching.
Even as my mind wandered through nonsense, my body seized the opening without hesitation.
With the great axe flung wide, my mace slammed into Baut's exposed midsection, and something inside him cracked.
"Ghhk!"
Baut clenched his jaw and gritted through the pain — but his body had other ideas.
Shattered ribs sent the frame that anchored the weight of his great axe swaying, carving out a fresh opening.
I didn't miss it. I hefted the mace again.
First a sweeping blow to the knee to collapse his stance — then, as he sank down and his head dropped right in front of me, I swung the mace at his face.
Baut squeezed his eyes shut, foreseeing a terrible future — but his prediction missed the mark.
The mace that should have demolished his skull came to a clean, perfect stop just short of his nose.
"Pffh."
A man with a face like a bandit lord, cowering so completely he can't even open his eyes. There's only so much laughter a girl can contain.
Shoving my forehead against his with the head of the mace to topple him over, I turned my gaze toward the referee.
Only after our eyes met did the referee snap back to his senses, scrambling to raise his voice.
"The winner! Lucy Aln!"
These were people who'd cheered the winners of every match before this one — so why so quiet now? A troupe of actors performing to empty seats would make more noise than this.
"That's my daughter! Magnificent, Lucy!"
...
Ahem.
Yeah. Benedict shouting all by himself is filling the entire arena. At this volume, I don't think anyone else's praise even needs to bother showing up.
Day two of the arena matches. Count Badronel's expression as he surveyed the fighters clashing blades down in the pit was decidedly not a pleasant one.
It wasn't because any accident had occurred.
This round of the Colosseum was proceeding more smoothly than any before it.
The crowd drawn in by the name of House Aln hoped to display their honor before the object of their admiration, and the smiles blooming on the faces of the event's organizers told the story well enough.
Nor was it because the tournament had failed at the box office.
Not a single empty seat in the stands, with spectators packed clear up onto the stairways — proof enough of how much attention this arena had drawn from every corner of the Empire.
"Is that the daughter of House Aln?"
"Exquisitely beautiful, isn't she?"
"She's supposedly terrifyingly strong? She doesn't look it."
"Just watch. You'll see."
The reason for his sour mood was exactly one thing: the girl who, by merely showing her face, had monopolized the attention of every soul in the stands. Lucy Aln.
When Lucy had first entered the tournament, Count Badronel had been quite certain she would never climb to any respectable rank.
By every rumor, she undeniably possessed talent far beyond her years — but even so, she was a Soladin brat who hadn't even graduated from the Academy.
How could someone like that hope to survive long among the strong of the Tersha Empire, for whom combat was a lifelong vocation?
Ideally, she'd hold out until she met his son; but even if she fell before then, Badronel had considered the sight entertainment enough in its own right.
His expectations, however, had shattered on the very first day.
Baut, a fighter who had always posted respectable results whenever he entered the arena, had collapsed before Lucy without landing a single proper blow.
Anyone who hadn't watched the match would have sneered that she'd simply been lucky — but Count Badronel, who had witnessed every moment of it, could not bring himself to say such a thing.
He had seen that shield casually deflect a strike carrying Baut's full strength.
He had seen those eyes lock onto the opening and the mace come flying without a heartbeat's delay.
He had watched the seamless chain of consecutive strikes and caught an involuntary sound of admiration escaping his own lips.
Badronel conceded that the rumors about Lucy were not exaggerated in the slightest — and further judged that beneath the gossip mongers' wild hype, she may in fact have been underrated.
Personal feelings aside, the feat Lucy Aln had displayed deserved every ounce of recognition it received.
Lucy Aln's victories continued after that as well.
Dial, the spirit-user who'd drawn sneers for scoffing that winning was winning no matter how you did it, found himself stalled before Lucy Aln's shield and fell in abject helplessness.
Hanan, the son of a prominent noble house who'd spent his years wandering under the pretense of training, managed to land a handful of meaningful strikes — but ultimately failed to break past the shield and crumbled.
Gav, the famed pugilist, burrowed inside her guard and attempted a brutal infight brawl, only to be worn down and felled by Lucy Aln's relentless regeneration through her own magic.
And so, as the final bout of the first day drew to a close,
Count Badronel reached a firm conclusion: he had gravely underestimated the blood of House Aln.
"Oh-ho. So Badronel's son and Lucy finally meet."
"...So it would seem."
Watching his son stride into the arena, Count Badronel forced a smile — but his heart churned with pure anxiety.
Everything he'd observed of Lucy Aln the day before left no room for doubt: she possessed overwhelming talent befitting a child of House Aln.
Physical capabilities of knightly caliber, born from a frame too small to imagine them.
Shield mastery of such crushing refinement that it had broken the spirit of every opponent so far.
A mace that conjured the decisive blow the very instant an opening appeared.
Every one of them formidable, but the most dangerous of all was her composure.
The imperious, aggressive tone. The eyes that looked down on her opponent. The grating laugh that set one's blood boiling on hearing alone — all of it made her hard to read. But having watched her battles unfold, Badronel was certain: Lucy Aln's true strength lay in that calm.
She never grew impatient, no matter who stood across from her.
She never lunged in rashly.
The sight of her, orchestrating flawless victory from behind her shield, belonged less to a young girl than to a grizzled veteran knight — and so Count Badronel simply could not convince himself his son would win.
In raw physical ability, my son is unquestionably superior.
He has far more experience in battle as well.
So the advantage should lie squarely with him — and yet why is it that I cannot, for the life of me, picture my son standing victorious?
"Damn it! This accursed shield!"
"Pfft. You're looking awfully desperate? But what's flailing going to change? You think swinging that sword like a kid playing knight is going to scratch my shield?"
Several minutes into the bout, Count Badronel bowed his head deeply, unable to bear the sight of his son's humiliation.
He didn't need to look to know the outcome. As long as his son kept dancing to Lucy Aln's tune, every advantage he'd possessed was already meaningless — the boy would exhaust himself hammering on that shield and lose on his own fumes.
"Try harder. Who knows, if your effort is admirable enough, I might just throw the match for you. Hmm?"
"Silence! My sword is not yet finished!"
"Does my voice bother you? Then shut me up. Can't? Can't manage it? Then sit there quietly and listen, like a good little loser."
By the time the fight had tilted into outright one-sidedness, Benedict — who'd spent the whole tournament cheering Lucy on — began casting wary glances at Count Badronel beside him.
"Er, that is, Count Badronel. Our daughter doesn't say those things out of malice, it's just that, in the heat of battle, emotions run rather, ah, intense—"
Each well-meaning word of comfort only deepened the sigh in Badronel's heart, yet the Count forced a smile all the same.
Benedict Aln was a man owed boundless respect.
"It is quite all right, Count Aln. You needn't console me."
"...Still."
"When my own son falls short and your daughter is endlessly exceptional, what consolation could I possibly require?"
While Count Badronel strained to keep his composure, the match was decided. The victor was Lucy Aln; the defeated, sprawled across the arena floor, was the eldest son of House Badronel.
"...In that case, I can only pray your daughter claims the championship."
He meant it. Her strength had to be proven beyond all doubt — only then would the humiliation about to befall his house weigh any lighter.
"I'd like that too, but I'm afraid it seems unlikely. Our daughter is, without question, a genius, but she still has plenty of rough edges."
"There is no need for modesty, Count Aln."
"No, no. Count Badronel, this is not modesty. Merely the plain truth, spoken aloud."
Under ordinary circumstances, Benedict would have carried on in a fashion that made bystanders wince — but today was different.
With eyes far colder than the ones he turned on his daughter, he quietly studied the tournament bracket.
And there, written upon it, was the name of a man who had once crossed blades with him, long ago.