Chapter 8
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Sponsoring the Helmet Fighter
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Practice match over, the gladiators headed to their respective lounges. They passed by snickering at the Helmet Fighter's sorry state.
Meanwhile, the Helmet Fighter brushed the mud off her armor and trudged back last.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from her, so Loreil asked, puzzled,
"If that fighter's caught your interest, Your Highness, why not sponsor her?"
"Sponsor?"
He nodded and explained further.
"The arena officially allows sponsorships for fighters. If they win, you get back more than you put in."
"...That's gambling."
"You could put it that way."
It was essentially betting money on predicting the outcome.
Of course, there were other perks too.
The top sponsor could join the fighter on the podium at victory or get a private meeting in their lounge, and so on.
Naturally, popular fighters all had fixed sponsors.
"It's a system that drives the matches too. Because..."
"It's not just the thrill of betting—you share in the glory of victory. Losers' sponsors feel the sting of defeat, spurring competition for sponsorships. And the organizers rake in easy fees."
"...Exactly."
Loreil's eyes widened. He hadn't expected such worldly talk from me.
But I was more concerned with the Helmet Fighter's true nature than his reaction.
"Sir Loreil, if I sponsor her, can I meet her one-on-one?"
"Yes. She has no sponsors, so that's possible."
"Won't imperial sponsorship look like favoritism?"
"Not at all. Others have sponsored before. More importantly..."
Loreil chose his words carefully.
"Your Highness, do you have the cash for it?"
"...Ah."
"Given your situation, I doubt the main palace is funding you."
The Emperor wouldn't aid me over something trivial. To him, I was useful if I thrived, disposable if not.
Caught off guard by this hurdle, I pondered.
'But I can't just ignore that Helmet Fighter.'
I couldn't leave someone flaunting a demon emblem alone.
I wanted to probe why she had it—and above all, fix that abysmal skill.
Whether we were connected or not, no soldier bearing that emblem should show such pathetic dueling.
'Only one option left.'
After long thought, I steeled myself. Pride be damned, I grabbed Loreil's sleeve.
Putting on wide-eyed innocence (hidden by my veil), I said,
"Sir Loreil. Lend me some money?"
"...Pardon?"
"We're comrades, right?"
So lend me a bit, interest-free, no collateral.
Loreil gaped, frozen like a statue—uncharacteristic for him.
After twists and turns, the visit wrapped up. The next day,
I returned to the arena.
Thankfully, with the Emperor's permission, I could leave the palace without Loreil.
This time, Liribel accompanied me, pouch of gold coins in her arms.
'Glad he lent it so easily.'
The gold was borrowed from Loreil. Flustered at first, he flushed, shook off my hand, and said,
'F-Fine. Just let go of my hand.'
Odd expression, but by morning, a pouch brimming with coins arrived.
Quite a sum. Fitting for the prime minister's heir—generous hand.
'Even sent escort knights.'
I glanced at the two knights trailing behind.
Knowing I'd head to the arena alone, he'd dispatched his own as guards.
'Fair enough—the sub-palace knights aren't trustworthy.'
The sub-palace had knights and soldiers, of course. Not loyal to me, but dispatched from the main palace.
In other words, potential assassins.
Loreil's gesture was genuinely appreciated.
'Though a bit burdensome.'
His knights: a middle-aged man and a young one with sharp, narrow eyes. The younger's gaze especially unnerving.
Likely tasked with watching me, he never looked away.
Ignoring the prickling stare on my back, I stopped at the arena office and paid the sponsorship fee.
The clerk startled at the veiled woman, but upon learning my identity, bowed hastily and accepted the gold.
Then I headed straight to the fighter's lounge.
I'd already confirmed from staff the Helmet Fighter was inside.
"Liribel, wait here a moment."
"Y-Yes!"
As I moved to enter alone, the young knight spoke up.
"Your Highness."
"Yes?"
"Isn't the fighter alone in there? It might look improper for Your Highness to enter."
'Right, could seem unseemly.'
A man and woman alone in a room didn't bode well.
Pondering options, the middle-aged knight asked,
"Going to see the Helmet Fighter?"
"Yes."
"No issue then. No rumors will fly—go ahead."
"...?"
Reason unknown, but he seemed certain. He murmured briefly to the young knight and stepped back.
Curious why it was fine, but it suited me, so I quietly opened the lounge door.
"......"
Inside the stark room, the Helmet Fighter tended her gear.
She paused, looked up at me. Still wearing her helmet indoors, face hidden.
I cleared my throat briefly and explained.
"I am Princess Deyna Ripeon. I've become your sponsor for this arena."
"...Greetings, Princess."
Finally grasping it, she bowed politely. Her voice higher than imagined.
"You're the fighter nicknamed Helmet Fighter, correct?"
"Yes."
"No introduction?"
"Ah."
She seemed to realize late, flustered a moment, then slowly began.
"I'm Rusla. Thirty-two years old, single, like spicy food, and my salary is..."
"No, no need for all that."
"Understood."
I cut off the excess; she bowed again.
'She seems a bit odd.'
Conversation turned bewildering from the start.
I'd planned gentle probes on her recent form and matches to draw out her identity... but abandoned it after the intro.
Better ask directly.
'First, block sound from leaking.'
No Loreil, so no mana-sensitives around. I cast a soundproof spell over the lounge, then addressed Rusla again.
"Some questions—will you answer?"
"Taught to be courteous to sponsors."
'That's a yes.'
I cleared my throat and continued.
"That odd ornament on your belt—what is it?"
"Ornament..."
She froze, then bowed her head in long silence.
"...I can't say."
I sighed at the expected response.
'Can't reveal the emblem's nature—or some other reason?'
No choice but hardball.
I feigned a heavy tone.
"As your sponsor, I dislike my fighter wearing that. Use the Sun God's emblem for the tournament."
"......"
"Black lion? Too ominous. Far from victory too."
"Victory...?"
'She reacts to that.'
To draw her out more, I sharpened my tone.
"Heard black lions symbolize defeat. Isn't the Sun God far superior to such a foolish emblem?"
"...Take it back."
"What?"
"Take it back. Insult me all you want—but not Him."
'Him?'
Me, perhaps?
Needed more intel.
"Is the one who wears that loser's emblem your master? No wonder your record's poor, following trash like that. You need better judgment in lords..."
"Enough—!"
In an instant, head-low Rusla lunged at me.
"I said!"
Her hand shot toward me, laced with killing intent—to grab my throat or strike my head? Speed and power unnatural.
'Oops!'
The swift attack made me instinctively dodge sideways, countering with a fist on reflex.
Warrior's instinct.
Problem: I evaded; she didn't.
"Gahk!"
My mana-charged fist smashed her helmet aside.
Bam—!
She rolled across the floor, crashed into the wall, and stared back, hand to cheek in a pitiful pose.
"...?"
Face blank, as if clueless what happened.