Chapter 19
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: Pretending to Be Human Today Too
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The match started right away.
Contrary to my worries about her barely scraping into contender status, Rusla advanced smoothly, racking up victories.
‘They said extensions could drag on for up to four days... At this rate, it'll definitely wrap up in three.’
Not even close to needing overtime—the matches were so lopsided they weren't worth speculating on.
“My word, Helmet Fighter! She's putting on a show that defies her record entirely! Knocking down every opponent in her path!”
Helmet Fighter—Rusla's bouts mostly ended in a single strike.
She'd slip inside the guard of aggressive foes to hit vital points for the win, or hurl her sword at those hanging back to probe for weaknesses, creating fatal openings.
It was an efficient style honed from the training I gave her and her spars with Ivan.
‘The players' skill levels are lower than I expected.’
Seeing her cruise to victory so easily left me feeling a twinge of guilt toward Rusla. If I'd known it'd be this straightforward, I wouldn't have driven her so mercilessly in training.
“Yes, match over! Day one of the arena concludes!”
And with that, the first day wrapped up.
There were eight officially registered players, Rusla included, and all advanced as expected. Add in twenty-four civilian entrants who passed, and the bracket filled out at thirty-two competitors.
‘Thirty-two, they say—but the civilians are just there to fill spots.’
The bracket made it obvious they'd rigged things so not every general participant got bounced immediately.
Now the draws would mix, so by the final four, it'd be players only.
“Time to head out.”
“Yes, Princess!”
I rose from my seat, guided by the staff and Liribel. As we made our way out of the arena, a bizarre energy hit me, and I froze mid-step.
‘What was that?’
I whipped my head around, scanning the crowd. But with spectators swarming the players, the strange vibe vanished in a flash.
‘So ominous... utterly repulsive.’
It felt like brushing past a sewer overflowing with rot.
But visually? Just masses of onlookers and carts hauling players' gear.
“...My imagination?”
Liribel approached, having caught my mutter.
“Something wrong, Princess?”
“Nothing. Let's go.”
“Right! Oh, better to exit that way.”
“Why?”
“Some pai... ugly young noble's kicking up a fuss at this door. Path's blocked—other route?”
‘She nearly said “punk” there.’
Probably one of the snickering nobles from earlier.
I played it off and kept walking.
The next day—day two of the arena.
Main bracket, trimming down to the final four.
Rusla dominated her opening bout.
This opponent had some chops, so it didn't end in one hit. Still, he folded in under a minute.
“Un-be-liev-able! Helmet Fighter unstoppable! She claims victory over last tournament's champ! Decades of arena grit—will today be his swan song? A golden debut if there ever was one!”
The announcer was all in on Helmet Fighter now, spinning her tale effortlessly.
‘Not bad. Yesterday's gaffe forgiven.’
Liribel, right behind me, nodded along with a mutter.
“Thumbs up for you.”
What stamp?
No interest in asking.
‘But something's off. At this player level, Rusla should've snagged a win before now.’
Arena pros didn't enter every event. Over ten majors and minors a year meant they rotated.
Rusla's prior skill? Bottom half of that pack.
In civilian-heavy draws, even middling Rusla could've taken one, or so I'd figured.
Yet zero crowns.
She wasn't that feeble, deficiencies aside.
‘Definitely some scheme afoot...’
Still, no way they'd pull an obvious stunt with a princess watching.
That's what I thought while spectating—
‘...There it is again.’
That repulsive aura from yesterday's exit welled up from somewhere.
Chills raced down my spine; gooseflesh prickled my arms beneath my cloak.
“Liribel.”
Veil crimping my view, I called out.
“Yes, Princess?”
“Anything odd around? Intruders? Suspicious objects...?”
A beat later, she replied, troubled.
“Doesn't look like it. Call staff?”
“No need.”
Ominous hunch gnawing at me. I waved Liribel back and swept the arena again.
‘Too crowded to isolate. Where the hell...?’
Frantically searching—
“Alright then, round of sixteen opener! Helmet Fighter takes the field!”
‘...Why her?’
Rusla's entrance revealed the source.
‘Why are you holding that?’
Flawless up to now, Rusla staggered in like she'd pounded booze.
Murmurs rippled—stamina crash?—but I knew better.
‘Holy power infused.’
It leaked from the sword clutched in her grip.
Not just that.
Armor. Boots. Shield. All of it.
The foul aura? Rusla's gear.
‘Arena-supplied stuff across the board.’
Fair play meant uniform equipment—from the venue.
Sudden realization: yesterday's vibe came off the gear carts.
‘Why? Why arm her with this now? Demons like Rusla can't channel power through it...’
A chat with Rusla replayed.
‘Forfeit the win, and they'll switch contracts.’
‘What kind?’
‘Dunno details... but boss wants me as his underling.’
That eerie abandoned-mine deal, motives murky.
Rusla's pride, crushed by endless flops.
Baobhan Sith gifts.
Blood drain. Masquerade. Mind-break.
Clues collided in my head.
‘How'd I miss it?’
Sloppy in the human realm.
Humans sense no mana, so can't spot demons—assumed that.
Figured the contract-pusher noble was baseline human.
‘Fixated on concealing Rusla's secret. Wrong play. Unmasking theirs mattered more.’
One piece clicked; the rest snapped into place.
How'd the noble pinpoint a Baobhan Sith haunt in the wastes?
Underground lurkers—humans clueless. Pinpointing stealthy nests? Probability slimmer than slim.
And that ‘throw the match, join me’ clause?
Need muscle? Snag kin as leverage. No fuss. Felt engineered to grind defeat into the target.
Tying threads, prime suspect—no, demon?
‘Baobhan Sith.’
Like Rusla.
One clued in on dens, breed quirks, gunning for brainwash via utter defeat.
Kin turning kin to thrall.
Glaring in hindsight. A nudge, any clue, and I'd have cracked it.
‘Even mulling their raid origins a bit deeper...!’
I bit my lip bloody. As if to spite me, Rusla's foe pressed with brazen confidence.
“Oh no—! Helmet Fighter crumbling! Another heartbreak repeat? That tragic flaw in clutch bouts...!”
‘No—this is Rusla's to win.’
Not her caliber. I'd drilled her; I knew.
No demon wars? No holy-power scars. She'd chalk it up to personal failure.
‘Big matches always brought baffling flubs.’
‘Wrong. Rigged.’
Blood trickled from my lip. Under her helm, a clear droplet fell.
Defeat redux. Decades of the same script.
No payback to her savior—just crumple.
‘No. Won't stand for that ending.’
The desperate claim shots.
Toilers reap rewards.
Vowed human life to prove it.
Thus—no watching my charge fall.
“Liribel.”
“Yes?”
“Handkerchiefs. Stockpile 'em.”
Ignoring her quizzical stare, I intoned slowly.
"Shadow..."
⟨ Shadow Magic ⟩
Target: the whole damn arena.
Huge enough uproar to halt play.
Mana drained after ages; shadows pooled at my feet, awaiting orders.
"Overturn it all."
The shadows engulfed the arena.