Badronel Colosseum (6)
The colosseum gates swung open, and a tiny girl stepped into view.
When she had first shown herself in this arena, doubt had clouded every eye in the stands. Just how strong could a girl that small possibly be? That had been everyone's verdict.
But Lucy Aln had blasted that doubt to pieces by proving her strength, again and again, until victory upon victory had made it clear she was a human worthy of respect.
And so the gazes fixed on her now carried a genuine reverence for her prowess. The crowd believed—truly believed—that even against a monstrous opponent, she would not fall.
"Lady Foul-Mouthed Angel! Give Strong-Hunter a taste of her own medicine!"
"Even the Beast couldn't break your shield!"
"Angel! I bet everything on you! Show us something!"
"You can do it! Fight!"
Endless waves of cheering spilled out on the promise of a legendary match—yet Benedict, seated off to one side of the stands, wore an expression blacker than a thundercloud.
Anyone watching would have found it strange. This was Benedict, the man whose doting on his daughter was so shamelessly on display it drove people away, and here he was not only failing to cheer her along with the rest of the crowd—
—but glaring at her with a deep furrow between his brows.
"Count Aln. Will you not be cheering for her this time?"
When Count Badronel voiced his bewilderment, Benedict finally managed an awkward smile.
"Heavens, no. How could I possibly not cheer for my precious daughter?"
"Of course, of course. It is only that your expression looked rather grim."
"...I'm worried."
Benedict did not doubt Lucy's talent.
Setting aside his fatherly love entirely, she was an unmistakable genius. How else could a child who once struggled just to climb a flight of stairs have earned, in barely a year's time, a reputation as one of the finest divine talents in the kingdom?
At the same time, Benedict believed in her skill.
The Lucy of today was strong enough to pass the entrance trial of the Aln Knight Order even with her name struck from the record.
His usual fussing was nothing more than a father's worry for a beloved daughter—never doubt of Lucy Aln as a warrior.
But this opponent was simply too bad a matchup.
Rasha.
A madwoman who had roamed the entire continent challenging renowned champions, and survived countless battles besides.
Among all the strong ones Benedict could remember, she had left one of the deepest impressions.
Even after all these years she hadn't weakened in the slightest—if anything, she'd grown stronger, and the Lucy of today was simply no match for her.
"Haha. Do not worry, Count Aln. As you yourself have witnessed, Lady Rasha knows her limits. She is hardly the sort to inflict a wound on the young lady that cannot be undone."
At the count's smiling reassurance, Benedict could not bring himself to nod.
He knew. He had once traded fists with the woman called Rasha in days past—how could he not know her temperament?
It was true that Rasha loved fighting, but she wasn't particularly fond of drawing blood. The trouble was, the reverse was equally true: if it served the fight, she would spill as much blood as she pleased.
He knew this all too well, and so he could not shake the worry.
Rasha is the kind of person who might harm Lucy just to drag me into a fight.
If that woman does something unpredictable, will I be able to respond in time?
Can I stop her before Lucy is ever in danger?
Just as his dread for his daughter was settling into his bones, the colosseum gates opened once more, and Lucy's opponent made her entrance.
Rasha.
There was no end to the words used to describe her.
"The Weakling Factory!"
A nickname earned because she sought out champions everyone acknowledged, smashed them flat, and thereby turned them into the relatively weak.
"The Festival Crusher!"
A title that arose naturally from her habit of charging headlong at any strong opponent without a thought for the chaos left in her wake.
"The Humility Injector!"
"Battle maniac!"
"Crazy bitch!"
"Hey! Crazy bitch is just an insult!"
Rasha's voice rose above the endless string of titles, and laughter rippled through the stands.
Then, the moment a single voice called out the one title that truly summed her up among all the rest, the atmosphere transformed.
"Strong-Hunter!"
A single word that laid bare the principle behind everything Rasha did—the way she had chosen to live her life.
"Strong-Hunter!"
"Strong-Hunter!"
"Strong-Hunter!"
Walking to the center of the arena as the chant thundered around her, Rasha glanced at the eyes trained on her with something like irritation, let a laugh slip loose, and raised one leg high.
BOOM!
The instant her foot came down, the earth let out a scream, unable to bear the agony.
"WEAKLINGS, SHUT UUUUUP!"
As the colossal roar swallowed every other voice in the colosseum, the spectators fell silent one by one.
And after a long moment of perfect stillness, Rasha flashed a grin and turned her gaze toward Benedict.
"Hey! Benedict! I've got a proposal!"
"You needn't shout for me to hear you. I would appreciate it if you simply spoke like a normal person."
"I thought about it all night yesterday, see!"
Whether Benedict's brow twitched or not, Rasha paid him no mind whatsoever and barreled on.
"Your daughter versus me—the outcome's obvious and one-sided, right? That's boring!"
"What are you getting at?"
"One minute! If your daughter lasts one minute against me, she wins! But if she loses, you fight me instead!"
A reckless proposal only someone utterly confident in her own overwhelming strength could make.
Benedict frowned at the fact that his daughter was being treated so dismissively—yet at the same time, part of him welcomed the offer.
It gave Lucy hope, when ordinarily she would have had not even the slimmest chance of victory, and more attractive still was the assurance that Rasha wouldn't harm Lucy when her real goal was luring out Benedict himself.
Coldly considered, there was no reason to refuse.
"You swear you won't harm Lucy?"
"I won't. Why would I? I don't have a hobby of snapping seedlings in half."
"Then I have no objection."
In the end, whether to accept the offer was Lucy's decision to make. She was the one wagering herself, after all.
Seeing Benedict fall silent, Rasha beamed brightly and turned toward Lucy.
"Hey, Benedict's daughter. Whatcha gonna do? It's better than having no shot at all, no? Hm?"
Rasha was absolutely certain Lucy wouldn't turn the proposal down.
Despite her fierce appearance, Lucy Aln was, at her core, a ruthlessly calculating creature.
Those hunter's eyes, watching from behind her shield—no emotion-driven berserker could ever manage a look like that.
Look at her now. Instead of answering right away, she's coldly running the numbers.
"What, don't have the confidence to last one minute? And here I thought you had some backbone. Turns out you're just a petty little coward?"
Impatient with the wait, Rasha added one more jab—and ferocity flared in Lucy's eyes.
"...Fine, I'll accept your stupid proposal, you muscle pig♡"
That's it. That's the way to come out swinging. Young blood ought to have exactly this much fire in it.
"Don't come whining to me after you lose♡ That would be seriously embarrassing to watch♡"
"Kekeheh. Plenty of confidence, huh? You think you can beat me?"
"Why ask something so obvious?♡ I'm not stupid enough to get mauled by a brainless beast♡ I know your brain's been replaced with muscle too, but try actually using what's left of it sometime♡ Muscle Pig-san♡"
Rasha couldn't muster a single word, so tightly was she suppressing the surge of excitement rising in her chest.
Kuh-kuh-kuh. I'd heard rumors her mouth was filthy, but this isn't just filthy. This is another level entirely.
Every single word out of that voice carves rage straight into my bones. That's already in the realm of a divine blessing.
Does she carry something that toys with a person's emotions?
Fun. This is fun.
"Let's see if your skills are as big as that cocky mouth of yours."
Let me see just how dangerous this brat who bleats on about killing our shitty Evil God really is. And just how much potential she's carrying.
<...Young lady. Provoking her like that might have been a rather dangerous choice, if I may say so.>
Grandpa let out an uneasy chuckle at the sight of Rasha's eyes turning all the more murderous.
'It is dangerous.'
If this pushed Rasha's reason clean off the cliff and she lunged at me with genuine killing intent, things would get very dicey indeed.
'But if you want to win, isn't this much risk worth taking?'
The real reason I had deliberately provoked Rasha was because I trusted her.
Rasha had said it herself. That I was the stuff of someone destined for greatness someday. That she had no intention of snapping me before I'd fully grown.
Rasha had promised Benedict.
That she would not harm me.
And if it was Rasha—if it was that lunatic who staked everything on a fight, that madwoman who treated an Evil God like a tool—
—then surely, even mid-swing with a killing blow, she would stop herself partway.
That tiny flicker of hesitation would carve out its own precious sliver of the one minute I had to endure.
Granted, that wasn't the only reason—but even if I explained the rest, Grandpa wouldn't understand it anyway.
<Heh. So desperate to win, are ye. ...I'd scarce believe it, but is there some situation where ye simply MUST win?>
'No, not particularly.'
It was true a quest had been issued, but there was no law saying I had to clear it.
Even if I failed, I could just say a prayer to the Pathetic Chief God and call it done. Losing access to my Status Window was a shame, but it wasn't like I absolutely needed it.
<Then why?>
'Because this is the best play.'
To raise my odds of victory even a fraction, I had to get under my opponent's skin. That was my read, so I provoked her. Simple as that.
After hearing me out, Grandpa hemmed and hawed for a while before letting out something close to a groan.
<Ye've no room to be calling anyone else mad, it seems.>
'Excuse me? Where did that come from?'
Wouldn't you rather claw and scramble and throw everything you've got at it than lie down and lose powerlessly? I'm simply doing my best. Why am I getting called crazy for that?
<Never mind. More importantly—what will ye do if that woman truly loses her mind?>
'Then Father will figure something out. Probably.'
With Benedict glaring daggers from the stands, blue-faced, was I really about to die? I shrugged with that much confidence, and Grandpa exhaled a sigh that was very much meant to be heard.
<No contingency. Ye have no contingency at all.>
'I told you I have one?'
<That's what ye SAY. Haaah. Fine. Do as ye please. It's all because I raised ye so poorly...>
Instead of answering his grumbling, I let it wash over me and began layering on buffs one after another. I had a feeling that anything I said would only fan his complaints higher.
By the time I'd finished every preparation, Rasha rolled her shoulders with a lazy stretch.
"Ready yet, pipsqueak?"
"Use your eyes and see for yourself♡ What, did the muscles spread all the way to your optic nerves or something?♡"
"Haha. Guess I'll have to shut that mouth first."
Watching Rasha swing her arms in wide circles, I raised my shield.
She's emotionally heightened.
She's never fought me before. She tends to
pace herself to draw out the fun, but always opens with a ferocious strike.
Based on all that, her first attack would be one I knew far, far too well.
"Here I come. Let's see you survive this."
Just as I thought.
My prediction had landed true, and as the corner of my mouth curled up, I moved my shield along the instinct carved into my very soul—
—hoping, with everything I had, that the Rasha on the other side of the monitor would stay with us for a long, long time to come.