Chapter 333
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 333
Chapter Title: Don't Have It?
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Senet.
An Egyptian board game handed down from the Golden Age, when human civilization was just beginning to emerge.
But for such an ancient folk game, Senet was surprisingly complex and challenging.
Whether one stick or four flipped over, and how many pieces you moved where—the outcomes could vary wildly.
And the African variant used modified rules that made it even more intricate.
A board three times larger.
Three times as many pieces.
Dice added into the mix.
Combining multiple elements to ramp up the randomness was standard.
Originally, the pieces just moved in straight lines, but now they had special abilities like in chess or go, demanding real strategic thinking. It was a true wargame.
A war on the board.
Thud.
"Three sticks flipped, so move a piece three spaces."
'Letting me throw the sticks? Guess that genius strategist rep's all hot air after all.'
That's why Branga felt certain of victory as he watched the summon amble along lazily.
As a lord, his senses were superhuman.
He could tweak the results however he wanted when throwing the sticks or dice himself.
Just rigging the random elements in his favor was enough to seal the win.
Cowardly? Tough luck—there was no such thing.
In African Senet, anything went as long as it wasn't outright cheating.
If you wanted to nitpick right and wrong, it was his opponent's blunder for not stopping him from throwing.
Roll.
"Whoops, dice came up 6, 6, 1. Double sixes, so I gotta add another piece with the dice effect."
That's why Branga grinned smugly, figuring the game would wrap up faster than expected.
And...
...
...
A bit of time passed.
"Four sticks flipped—advance a piece four spaces."
Rawr!
Following the stick count, the Blade Levit charged forward, brushing past the Red Tiger and spraying blood into the air.
"5, 5, 5—triple effect, so advance again."
As if once wasn't enough.
The rabbit shot straight ahead, flipping through the air and slicing off the neck of the Twin Head Bear—a beast dozens of times its size—with both ears.
"And with the 5 on the dice, attach the rearmost piece to the front one for a defensive formation."
Boom!
Before the bear's massive body even hit the ground.
The mud snake that had slithered up behind the blade rabbit coiled into position, warding off any potential pursuers.
The blond, tanned boy watched it all unfold and casually folded his arms.
Then he spoke flatly.
"Looks like it's over."
"......"
"Keep going if you want. Won't change the outcome."
His initial smile was long gone.
Branga stared stiffly at the sticks and dice, unable to bring himself to pick them up.
He knew there was no path to victory anymore.
Just comparing their pieces told the story—Rimon still had over ten left, while he was down to a measly three.
"...Kid, what the hell are you?"
"Told you who I am earlier."
"Not that. What kinda trick did you pull to make this happen?"
"Trick? Just threw well and moved well."
"You expect me to buy that you crushed a three-time African Senet champ on skill alone?"
"You know Senet's that kinda game, right?"
As if to say, what more do you need?
Branga ground his teeth at Rimon's nonchalant reply.
Of course, he knew it too.
Rimon hadn't pulled any tricks—he'd just thrown the sticks and dice well and moved his pieces well.
The problem was the insane level of that well.
'This kid's controlling the sticks and dice exactly like he wants.'
Just as precisely as he could, as a lord...
No—even more so.
That much, he could understand.
A high-level player with telekinesis or luck-and-sense skills could pull it off easy.
And in that sense, he was no different.
'But what the hell is this technique?'
What Branga couldn't fathom was how, under equal conditions, Rimon had utterly demolished him.
Command skills? He was a pro, handling swarms of summons.
That's how he'd become Senet champ and grown Utopia Guild into one of Africa's two overlords.
But Rimon's skill was on another plane.
At a glance, his piece placements and maneuvers looked riddled with gaps, deviating from standard play.
Branga had dismissed them as amateurish and dove in—only to get counterattacked and take massive losses before realizing.
Those gaps were all deliberate traps.
He'd switched to defense too late, trying to claw back, but that was when hell truly began.
Fortify your defense?
Minefield.
Retreat your pieces?
Endless pursuit chains.
Desperate counterattack?
No one escaped from him.
Any tiniest opening, and Rimon exploited it with some outlandish maneuver.
While he floundered in a no-win dilemma, Rimon steadily picked off his pieces until the score hit 11 to 3.
Even a total newbie versus a pro wouldn't see a gap this wide.
For a champion like him to end up like this? Branga could only stare in blank despair.
"My God."
"The Summon Lord lost at Senet?"
"No way. How's a punk kid beating the lord...?"
The others were just as stunned.
In Africa, Senet was a beloved pastime and mark of refinement—so everyone knew how ridiculous this result was.
"Nation-toppling genius strategist"? Just mockery for being some white woman's boy toy.
No one had taken Rimon's rumors seriously.
The Shuwa and Lukuma chiefs knew he'd barely done any strategizing, mostly just goofed off.
'Experience gap.'
Rose wasn't surprised.
She just gave a wry smile.
To her, this was a foregone conclusion.
No matter how intricate a wargame African Senet was, it was still just a game.
Rimon, on the other hand, had fought in history's bloodiest wars firsthand.
And constantly clashed with the Black Dragon Clan, absorbing their schemes and strategies through brutal experience—Humanity's Last Sword Master.
A player who'd learned war from a game.
A battle-hardened vet who'd mastered games through real combat.
Which one had the edge in a mock war? It was decided from the start.
"Keep going?"
"Urgh..."
Of course, Branga had no clue this blond tanned boy was actually a centuries-old monster, so he couldn't accept it.
But denial wouldn't change the result.
He racked his brain and burned through skills for ages, searching for answers.
Finally, he let his shoulders slump.
"I lost."
"Good game, mister."
"Save the bullshit..."
"I'm serious."
Snagging unlimited wishes off one game? Hard to imagine a better matchup.
Rimon flashed a meaningful smile at his innocent remark.
"So, you won't forget our deal—the winner gets what he wants?"
"Reckon I do. Spill it. Money? Summons? Anything but women, I'll hook you up."
"Seven-Colored Bird."
"Huh?"
"The Seven-Colored Bird. You got one, right?"
So out of left field.
Rimon grinned at Branga blinking like a bull, while Rose wore a faint smile.
With everyone watching, he couldn't back out of a public promise over one bird.
It'd been a nightmare when Branga first came sniffing around, but snagging the bird this easy? Total silver lining.
But right after.
Rimon had to stiffen.
"Don't got one right now."
"...What? Your vice-guildmaster saw it at your place."
"That was back then. Gifted it away after."
"Gifted? The Seven-Colored Bird?"
"Yup."
A woman who loved birds—gifted it years back to score points.
Rimon fell silent at Branga's casual explanation, then asked softly after a long pause.
"To who?"
"Queen's my type—strong as me, feisty too. Keeps kicking my proposals to the curb, though. Real pain."
"...?!"
That moment.
Rose went slack-jawed.
In Africa, few women Branga would flat-out call his equal in strength.
Among players, maybe the Legal Duke he'd once drawn with, or vice-guildmaster Namim.
But Legal Duke was dead, Namim never got the bird—only one fit.
"Mister, you don't mean Egypt's Pharaoh, do you?"
"Spot on."
"......"
"Why you clutching your temples? Headache?"
That was it.
The limit of what Rimon could take.
"You horny bastard! Wrong target! How many times you gonna propose to an enemy leader you've warred with and send gifts?!"
"Kid's young, don't know much. Guys and gals fight first, get close later. Happens all the time."
"Close my ass! What idiot accepts an enemy's proposal?!"
His heart stung a bit for some reason.
And somewhere, a pitch-black-hearted princess seemed to cough faintly.
Rimon ignored it all and unloaded.
Not only was the hard-found Seven-Colored Bird gone.
It'd gone to Africa's most dangerous woman for this dumb reason. Unbelievable.
"Don't get so worked up. I marry that queen, I'll track down another bird for ya."
"Full of shit. That ever gonna happen?"
"Course it will."
Despite eating Rimon's curses, Branga stayed cool as ever.
Just answered with total confidence.
"Queen says she likes strong men. Long as I win this war, she'll take my proposal."
That's what the continental alliance was for.
The other warlord leaders gaped at his breezy explanation.
The grand plan's goal: marriage to one woman. That absurd.
...One woman wore a subtle expression, but her mask hid it.
Anyway, Rimon's blood boiled harder at the bold claim. He was debating just beating the crap out of this so-called lord when.
Whirrrrr.
"Huh?"
"What's that sound?"
"Plane?"
Branga blinked and looked skyward.
Rimon tensed and leaped back.
The instant Rose flipped the nearby table and yanked the Shuwa and Lukuma chiefs behind it.
BOOM!!!
A figure plummeted from the sky, smashing Branga's face with her combat boot's heel and carving a massive crater into the ground.
Winds whipped into a frenzy.
Furniture flew everywhere.
The banquet guests, tumbling in heaps, stared in horror.
Not just from Branga's blood and flesh spraying everywhere.
From the torrent of flames incinerating the gore emerged the perpetrator.
Her fiery red hair matched the blaze wreathing her, her beauty in military uniform making eyes bulge.
"A, a, aaah..."
One warlord leader, too close for comfort, had fallen flat on his ass, drenched in the burning gore. He trembled.
Ignoring the searing pain of his flesh cooking, he gawked wide-eyed—then screamed like a banshee.
"Africa's Tyrant!!!"