Badronel Colosseum (7)
Rasha.
Strong-Hunter.
To the warriors of the continent, that name was the stuff of legend. For her to declare a duel was, in itself, proof that one had joined the ranks of the continent's mighty — and so whenever Rasha revealed herself, every sword-wielder in earshot would tense up with a strange mixture of dread and hope, wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, she had come looking for them.
With fame that echoed across the entire continent, naturally her way of fighting was known to a great many people as well.
For example: the Strong-Hunter Rasha, it was said, opened every fight by unleashing a devastating single blow to take her opponent's measure.
BOOOM!
Rasha's fist met Lucy's shield with a sound like the sky cracking, sending a shockwave rippling through the arena floor as a cloud of dirt and dust bloomed upward.
Through the churning haze that stung their eyes and scraped their throats, coughs and muttered curses rising all around, most of the spectators had already decided how it would end.
It was true that Lucy Aln had shown considerable skill up until now. Her level had already climbed well past that of an ordinary student — she was, without exaggeration, ready for the battlefield as she stood.
Her shieldwork in particular was so refined that even the veteran champions of the colosseum would have found it a bitter chore to crack open. Her guard was not the sort of thing that would crumple helplessly before some ordinary opponent.
But this opponent sat squarely inside that category of "not ordinary."
The single blow that had once silenced the countless warriors who called themselves strong. The overwhelming strike that had delivered nothing but futility to those hoping for a drawn-out contest.
As the expectation of defeat settled over the arena, the stands grew cold and quiet. One man cursed the money he'd thrown away for nothing. Another chuckled that the champion of this match had already been decided. And a third was working himself up, voice trembling with excitement, about getting to watch Benedict tear into Rasha —
— when the dust cleared, and what it revealed was a shield planted squarely against Rasha's fist, and Lucy, still dragging the corner of her mouth up into a smirk.
"You blocked that?"
"You asked me to block it and came running at me like an idiot, so how was I supposed to not?♡"
What on earth had happened? Had Rasha held back? Had Lucy Aln been hiding her true strength all along?
As the crowd buzzed with one theory after another, the genuinely powerful — Benedict chief among them — were quietly replaying the last few seconds in their minds.
Lucy didn't go all out just now. My daughter never even drew out the best defense she could have mounted.
And yet Rasha didn't pull her punch either. That woman swung with the full intent of turning Lucy into paste.
By all rights, Lucy should have gone flying shield-first into the arena wall. The only reason she stopped that fist at all is because her shield art has crossed into the realm of miracles.
It moved before Rasha's fist could even finish its arc, meeting it at the very instant before the strike reached its apex, smothering the impact — so breathtaking it would be easy to believe she glimpsed a thousand possible futures and chose the single best path among them.
Have I been failing to understand what my daughter truly is?
No. Up until the training days with the knight order, at least, Lucy never showed anything close to this.
A few days ago she could hold her own against the other knights well enough — but she was nowhere near capable of reenacting a scene out of myth.
Simple coincidence? Or a miracle granted by the Chief God who watches over her?
I don't know which. But one thing is certain: if Lucy can keep performing the way she is right now, then surviving one full minute is not impossible.
"Haha! This is turning out more fun than I expected!?"
While Benedict's eyes went red-rimmed with a fragile flicker of hope, Rasha drove Lucy back, blow after relentless blow.
Sometimes with destructive, mountain-crushing force. Sometimes at speeds too fast for the eye to track. Sometimes with a chain of strikes so overwhelming that simply keeping her face turned toward it felt like too much to bear.
Not a single one of those attacks was easy pickings for the Lucy of this moment — and yet she ground her teeth together and blocked them anyway, as if determined to prove that that first miracle had been no accident.
And so, second by second, the mood of the colosseum began to turn over.
The ones who had called the match for Rasha fell silent. The man who had bet on Lucy Aln went wide-eyed. Before the miracle being wrought by someone the world called weak, voices rose and rose — until, at some point, the crowd forgot whose side they'd wagered on and found themselves cheering for her, all of them, together.
And in that very moment —
Rasha curled her lips upward.
Her fist slipped past the shield for the first time.
It sank into Lucy Aln's side, and from her body came a sound no human being should ever make —
— and then her frame, defying gravity as it hurled through open air, slammed into the arena and shook the whole building to its bones.
Once again, silence ruled the colosseum.
*
By the time I wrestled my scattered consciousness back into place, the first thing to greet me was the pain.
Ghhhk. God, this hurts like absolute hell.
Bones broken, obviously. And judging by the blood crawling up my throat, something internal was damaged too.
It wasn't as though this was my first or second time experiencing it, so I forced my eyelids up and cast Mercy of Armadi.
"Ngh—hhk!"
The shattered body snapping back into its rightful place wrung a scream straight out of my throat, the mended flesh demanding payment in agony.
Grandfather. How many seconds have passed?
⟨Twenty-three.⟩
That's... quite a lot, actually.
I'd never believed Rasha would keep up her monitor-crossing, player-reading style of fighting forever. Anyone would start feeling suspicious after watching their own attacks get countered as if the other person had peered into the future.
Still — half the minute was survived. Now I just had to endure the other half on my own strength.
Staggering upright, I dredged up every last drop of the divinity I'd been hoarding inside my body.
Even if it meant blacking out the instant this fight ended, I had to throw everything on the table. There was no other way I was lasting.
"Daughter of Benedict. When exactly have you ever fought me before?"
"Oh, never, obviously♡ Duuuh♡ Why would a cute, delicate little girl like me ever bother with a muscle hog like you?♡"
"Right? So that trick back there was your own doing, then. Good. I like you even more."
"Ugh♡ Disgusting♡ Sweat-soaked, stinky women are my least favorite thing in the whole world♡"
"Now that slander is unfair. I keep myself quite tidy, as it happens."
Spouting idle nonsense, Rasha began to move.
Forget the in-game knowledge from here on. Focusing on it now would only mean dancing on her strings.
What I had to rely on from this moment was nothing else — only the experience I'd piled up until today, and the voice of Iron Wall, the thing that had kept me alive all this time. Those two things, and nothing more.
BOOOM! The instant Rasha's fist met my shield, reinforced with a fresh coat of divinity, the impact shuddered down through my bones.
It felt completely different from chaining Just Parries off of rotten-veteran knowledge like before. The moment my timing slipped even a hair, it felt like the bones of my shield arm would simply explode.
"Hahah! So you can't actually see the future after all!"
Convinced I couldn't repeat my earlier stunt, Rasha pressed her assault harder, laughing like a beast.
Damn it. She's too fast. I can't respond to every punch. I'm protecting the lethal zones as best I can, but even that doesn't mean much —
— because wherever Rasha's fist lands, it's threat enough.
The pain I could grit through. But the shock accumulating in my muscles and bones was another matter entirely. Keep this up much longer and —
The ominous premonition became reality in an instant. My legs, which had absorbed blow after blow, collapsed out from under me with no warning whatsoever.
My center of gravity lurched, my defense crumbled, and Rasha — as if she'd predicted it — drew her arm all the way back.
The moment I saw mana surging toward that cocked fist, I frantically pulled my divinity together in front of the shield.
A half-baked holy spell would just shatter along with everything else. To stop that fist, I needed a miracle.
With the divinity gathered before my shield, I drew a formation — recreating the old tale Grandfather once told me.
"Now that's an interesting trick!"
The instant her fist punched through the shield of conjured divinity, blood seeped from the corner of my mouth.
Pushing myself this hard, unprepared and out of position, came with a price, and it had come to collect.
And yet my desperate gambit bought something that mattered.
The fresh shield of divinity shattered. Rasha's blow broke through to my shield. My body, unable to bear that monstrous force, was hurled skyward and then hammered into the floor, tumbling across it again and again — but I still had the strength left to move.
Wrenching myself upright out of the swirling dust, I spat out the blood pooled in my mouth and swept the mangled mess of my hair back from my face.
Far away, I could see Rasha closing in.
⟨Listen, girl. A small opening has opened up, so let me ask thee but one thing.⟩
Now doesn't really seem like the time?
⟨Wherefore didst thou read thy opponent's habits so thoroughly at the start, only to cast all that knowledge aside?⟩
...What's that supposed to mean?
⟨Thou knewest full well what tactics thy opponent favors most — wherefore, then, wouldst thou not put that knowledge to use?⟩
Because the second the opponent figures out how I play, that knowledge stops meaning anything, obviously.
The moment you drown in rotten-veteran knowledge, the opponent who's already mapped out your patterns just toys with you.
I've been burned more than once trusting nothing but game knowledge. The colosseum enemies I fought recently were sharp enough to notice something was off after a while — did I really think that same sleight of hand was going to work on Rasha of all people?
Against a strong one past a certain threshold, my rotten-veteran knowledge can be an unexpected variable. It can never be the single decisive blow.
Not unless they're the kind to lose their mind entirely, like Nakrad did.
⟨I grasp thy reasoning well enough.⟩
If you've got something to say, say it fast! There's no time to stand around being mysterious!
⟨Trust me, and do as I say. Put that knowledge in thy head to use — but do not put thy faith in it blindly. Treat it as reference, nothing more.⟩
Are you serious right now, Grandfather?
⟨Just try it first! thou canst complain all thou pleasest afterward — I shall hear every word!⟩
Ugh, seriously?! You think "just try it" is an instruction I can follow out of nowhere?!
The complaints boiled up on their own — but I couldn't spare the breath to voice a single one. Rasha reached me first.
"How much longer can you keep this up, I wonder!"
BOOOM! Pouring strength into my numb, buzzing arm, I turned Grandfather's advice over in my head.
Put the in-game knowledge to use.
She's already aware of it and moving completely differently — how exactly am I supposed to use that?
God, I hate smart people. They all assume everyone else thinks at their level and then explain things like absolute garbage.
"You've got time to be daydreaming?!"
Rasha's voice snapped me back to my senses, and at the sight of the fist screaming toward me, my body moved before my mind could.
Following the knowledge carved into my very soul. The one pride I had ever carried — the knowledge of a rotten veteran.
Ah. I'm screwed. This pattern's been countered ages ago.
Too late to take it back now. Time to figure out how I'm getting up after eating this one —
CLAAANG!
A clear, crystalline ring from my shield burrowed into my ears. Not the dull thud of a caught blow — the unmistakable chime of a Just Parry landing clean.
Why? Why did the parry work?
Dumbfounded, I watched the next of Rasha's fists come flying in, and the reason came to me easily enough.
Rasha's attacks really are nothing like the in-game patterns.
But completely different? No — not quite. Because the in-game patterns were, in the end, built from the attacks Rasha herself favors most.
No matter how much the surface twists, the foundations underneath don't change.
So that's it. The dozens of hours I sank into clearing the Apostle of Struggle barehanded were never wasted. I just never understood how to actually use what I'd learned.
Realizing this, I dragged my mouth into a grin and hoisted the shield high.
⟨Ten seconds remain.⟩
And with the strangest certainty that there was no way in hell I was losing —
...Huh? Wait. Isn't this a death flag?