Victory Speech and Loose Ends

After the duel between Lucy Aln and Rasha came to an end, and a brief rest was declared so the half-ruined Colosseum could be repaired, a Church informant hiding among the spectators chewed over his thoughts, recalling the string of miracles Lucy Aln had displayed mere moments before.

When His Holiness had ordered him to watch Lucy Aln fight in the arena and report back, he had taken the command as a note of caution.

It was common knowledge that Lucy Aln harbored hostility toward the Church.

It began with the countless atrocities the Church had committed in the Aln territory in the past, and even now, having heard that she had been more or less reformed thanks to the Saintess's grace, she showed no hesitation in publicly demeaning the great Chief God as a loser.

Despite the boundlessly merciful Chief God extending His love even to such an unbeliever—granting her the ability to wield divine magic and even gifting her the mace of the legendary holy knight Ruel—Lucy Aln had repaid it not with gratitude but with nothing but blasphemy, and among the people of the Church she was judged to be beyond redemption. Some of the more radical voices had even raised the argument that Ruel's mace was wasted on such a little brat who knew nothing of the great Chief God's grace, and that sentiment had gathered support among a certain few.

The problem was that, separate from her being an unbeliever, Lucy Aln possessed overwhelming talent.

Skill so dominant that she could single-handedly flip the public's judgment of her as "the Shame of Aln" through nothing but her own ability.

Credited not only with reproducing the feats of Benedict Aln but possibly with bringing even greater glory than he had, Lucy Aln was a person who would one day exert tremendous influence over the fate of the continent.

And so the Church informant had assumed his task was simply to record what degree of success Lucy Aln achieved here, and to determine whether reconciliation might be possible—or whether the bud should be cut off before it ever bloomed.

But after witnessing the battle between Rasha and Lucy Aln, he realized he had been laboring under a colossal misunderstanding.

The divinity Lucy Aln had shown when deflecting Rasha's attacks was nothing like what a mere believer could possess.

A warmth far deeper and gentler—it resembled, almost exactly, the divinity the heroes of legend were said to have wielded.

In hindsight, it was hardly surprising. Would the great and wise Chief God truly have passed a hero's weapon down to an unbeliever out of pure mercy alone?

Lucy Aln was not simply a blasphemer. She was a human being whose blasphemy was merely a veneer, concealing something else entirely beneath it.

Perhaps the reason the Saintess chose to remain at Lucy Aln's side was because she had glimpsed exactly that.

Well. It made no difference to him either way. That judgment belonged not to him, but to the venerable Cardinals residing in the Holy Land, and to His Holiness the Pope.

While the crowd continued to buzz over the astonishing spectacle that had just unfolded, the Church informant slipped quietly out of the arena—so that he could pass this information on through a contact of the Church of the Chief God.

"Hey. You there, priest. Stop."

The moment he stepped into the back alley, a woman's voice rang out from behind him. Less a human voice than the low growl of a beast.

Having heard a similar voice not long ago, the Church informant broke into a cold sweat and carefully turned his head.

"...Strong-Hunter."

Rasha. The Strong-Hunter. A madwoman who would commit any atrocity for the chance to fight the strong.

Why is she talking to me?

She had attacked Church paladins and clergy many times before to satisfy her own amusement. But compared to those she had assailed, he was utterly insignificant. There was no reason whatsoever for him to catch Rasha's interest.

Why? Why would Rasha—

"You're one of the Church's little errand boys, aren't you? What's your rank?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean."

"Don't even think about lying, idiot. Keep it up and I'll pry that mouth open myself. And that's a hassle."

At Rasha's threat, the informant swallowed hard. If she truly meant it, someone like him would have his neck wrung without even the chance to struggle.

Under normal circumstances he would have gladly accepted eternal silence, but not now. He carried information that had to reach the Church. For the moment, then, the right move was to humor whatever Rasha wanted and slip away.

"Your guess is correct. I am with the Church, acting under His Holiness's orders—"

The informant's voice never finished the sentence. Before his words could reach their middle, Rasha's hand had already seized his throat and twisted.

After his lifeless body—dead without ever even registering its own end—crumpled to the ground, Rasha stretched, then shuffled lazily out of the alley.

Haaah. Now that was a satisfying day, for once.

Meeting that little brat who would one day, when all her talent bloomed, give her a fight even better than Benedict. The full power that still-raw brat had shown far exceeding her expectations. Crossing fists once more with Benedict, one of the precious few who had ever handed her a defeat. There wasn't a single part of it that hadn't been fun.

If only it weren't for those bastards who, too ignorant to know their place, had come sniffing after her prey, she could have skipped off laughing.

Rasha had first noticed their presence around the time she entered the arena to fight Lucy. While she was observing Lucy from the stands, evaluating her as she did all strong opponents, she had spotted others watching the girl too.

And they were a varied bunch. No fewer than five carrying the Chief God's divinity. Two tangled up with black magic. Beyond them, plenty more nursing little schemes of their own.

Before her bout with Lucy, Rasha had noticed all that attention and chosen not to say a word about it.

Considering the value Benedict's daughter held, it seemed perfectly natural that so many would take an interest. And the girl wasn't yet worth the trouble of worrying over.

But as the fight wore on and her estimation of Lucy climbed, Rasha made up her mind to do what the shackled Benedict could not.

Ordinary nobodies don't matter. They'll want to use Benedict's daughter, but they fear Benedict too much to cross the line.

The trash of the Chief God's Church and the black-magic freaks, though? Different story.

The Chief God's Church had rotted straight through to the core—sons of bitches who, far from praising the Chief God's Apostle, would deny her, slander her, trample her, and try to burn her at the stake. And the ones who dabbled in black magic were a disgusting breed who would stake their very ambitions on offering Benedict's daughter up as a sacrifice.

Rasha had no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠intention of letting the bud she'd marked be snapped by other pieces of garbage, so after leaving the arena she had killed the Church informant and the black-magic practitioners alike.

She didn't worry about consequences. If anyone sent people to kill her, Rasha would simply greet them with a smile.

Humming a tune and thinking she might go drinking for the first time in a while, Rasha frowned as a voice carved itself into her mind.

"Cut the crap already, will you? What kind of lunatic snaps off tree branches before the fruit's even set?"

"Haah. Keep running your mouth and I'll start using your name while I smash every other piece of trash out there to bits. Got it?"

"What, that bother you? If it does, come at me. The day you reclaim power worthy of that name, I'll welcome it with open arms. Can't manage that? Then shut up and live as a tool."

Having hurled that razor-edged voice at empty air, she was soon nodding to herself in satisfaction and heading out of the city.

"You said there was an interesting one over in the Archipelago. Guess I'll head there next."

After my fight with Rasha ended, I was given plenty of rest time.

The damage from Benedict and Rasha's clash had been so catastrophic that repairs took ages. Thanks to that, I got to recover my body and refill my completely drained divinity in the meantime.

Granted, I'd only recovered to a certain point and was nowhere near full capacity, but it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wasn't a real problem.

For one thing, Rasha had already smashed every genuinely dangerous participant in this tournament to pieces long ago. And the insight I'd gained fighting her made dealing with everyone else feel like a breeze.

Every remaining opponent was someone I'd run into over and over while people scrambled to set new speedrun records in the arena.

Their attack patterns were carved into my head so clearly I could counter them with my eyes closed, and facing someone who responded to every strike as if we'd fought hundreds, thousands of times before, my opponents could only feel their own helplessness.

And so I managed to seize the championship without much difficulty, but—

'I swore I would NEVER stand on a podium again, agaaaaain!'

Who knew there'd be a devilish little procedure called "victory remarks" left over?

⟨The champion delivers their victory remarks. Isn't that just common sense?⟩

'It may be common sense, buuuut—!'

After putting me through that disaster recently, do you have any idea how much it hurts my heart to stand on a podium AGAIN!?

I am literally, completely tense right now!

I'm more scared right now than I was crossing weapons with my finals opponent!

⟨It will be fine. Did you not say this place reveres the strong? Then even if the champion calls people losers, trash, and scrubs, no one will mind.⟩

'I... suppose that's true?'

⟨And if the worst happens, your dear father will sort it out somehow.⟩

...You were the one lecturing me about having no backup plan, and now you're encouraging me to act recklessly. Is a legendary holy knight really allowed to flip his attitude around like this?

⟨I answered exactly as you wished. Complaining now would be unseemly.⟩

'Ugh. Fine. No wonder Grandpa was unpopular.'

⟨How many times must I say this—I was NOT unpopular!...⟩

Listening to Grandpa shriek with his berserk button mashed actually put me at ease.

Whew. It's fine. No big deal. If things get out of hand, I'll just make an emergency escape. That's all.

Reassuring myself, I stepped onto the podium, where Count Badronel placed a crown of woven leaves upon my head and drew a copper medallion from his coat to hand to me.

"Your armor took quite a beating. Take this and visit the forge in the northern part of my territory."

Huh, this is a reward that wasn't in the game. Did Count Badronel go out of his way for me?

Well, either way, there was no reason to refuse. As I tucked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the medallion into my inventory, the Count offered a brief word of praise for my exploits.

"Now then, as champion, share with us your thoughts on having taken part in this tournament."

Receiving the sound-amplification crystal, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠took a deep breath and carefully opened my mouth.

'Hello everyone. I'm Lucy, eldest daughter of House Aln.'

"Hello, losers-losers who got wrecked by a tiny little girl. I'm Lucy."

The instant the greeting left my mouth, I watched the stands go deathly cold, and I hastily rushed to finish the speech.

'I'm happy I won. That is all.'

"It was such a joy teaching you trash-losers your proper place. That's everything I wanted to say. I've got nothing more for masochist pigs who can't even talk back while a little girl berates them."

Yep. Called it.

Having been through something almost identical recently, I chose not to fumble through the confusion—instead, I bolted before anyone could recover their senses.