Chapter 227: The Valhalla Empire (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 227: The Valhalla Empire (2)
There was a saying in Valhalla.
Even a pot-bellied man walking down the street was once a warrior who drank blood on the battlefield.
The drunkard was no exception.
Even with his nose crushed and bleeding from being slammed into the table, the drunkard immediately snapped his head back up. His face was already stained with crimson. It was a situation where most people would have collapsed, groaning in agony, but the drunkard merely spat out a mouthful of pooled blood with a fiercely distorted expression.
"Pah! You son of a bitch, you threw the first punch?!"
No more words were needed.
The drunkard lunged forward like a madman.
He tried to tackle Chris to the ground, but Chris simply stepped aside and drove a fist straight into his stomach.
Thud!
"Gah?!"
His eyes bulged.
Despite the excruciating pain, the drunkard gritted his teeth and unleashed a flurry of punches at Chris. He clearly possessed physical resilience and willpower far beyond that of an ordinary man. He was fiercely determined to take Chris down, but all that awaited him was a merciless counterattack.
Crack.
A blow to the ribs.
A slap to the face.
As Chris kicked the staggering drunkard in the stomach, the man crashed miserably into a table.
"You bastard!"
"Get him!"
The tavern erupted into utter chaos in an instant.
The drunkard's companions—who had been snickering and watching from the sidelines just moments ago—leaped to their feet, realizing the situation had turned serious. There were three of them. Accustomed to street brawls, they swung their fists with decent speed, but a single punch from Chris sent their worlds spinning.
Thud.
Crash!
It was a one-sided slaughter.
Before the three men could even react, they were knocked flat. Chris kicked the faces of anyone who still tried to get back up. Blood splattered. Unconscious, they could no longer charge at him.
Valhalla.
This empire had its own way of life.
Disputes were settled through duels, but their methods for determining victory and defeat differed from other nations. There were only three acceptable outcomes: death, a complete inability to fight, or the final option—admitting defeat and surrendering.
Therefore, simply bleeding and falling to the ground did not decide a battle.
Because the people of Valhalla hated shouting 'surrender' more than death itself, the drunkards only stopped attacking once they lost consciousness. It was a grim scene. The tavern, peaceful just moments ago, was now a complete wreck, littered with shattered tables and bleeding bodies.
Yet, the tavern owner's reaction was calm.
Seeing the man accept the destruction as an everyday occurrence, Roman Dmitry placed a gold coin on the table and stood up.
"I will pay for the disturbance with this gold coin. Also, where is the most bustling area in Paulo?"
A gold coin.
Upon seeing it, the tavern owner's face lit up.
"Oh, thank you so much! I will personally guide you to Paulo's busiest district!"
Even if they were the proud people of Valhalla, in the end, humans were just humans.
* * *
Following the tavern owner's guidance, Roman Dmitry and his party arrived at a crowded square.
"This is Paulo Square. It's the center of the city. Since you can reach anywhere in Paulo from here, it's always bustling with people. Just in case, let me warn you beforehand: you must not cause a scene here like you did at the tavern. I run a business catering to outsiders, so I can let most things slide, but the extremists here might do who-knows-what if they see a Valhallan being attacked."
It was a sincere warning.
With his face covered by a cloth, the owner hurriedly left the square, terrified that someone might recognize him.
Roman Dmitry looked around.
The people of Valhalla seemed to be in a peaceful mood.
Much like any other country, they mingled freely. Merchants called out to attract customers, and vendors hawked their wares. The problem was that foreigners did not fit into this peace. Merchants clamped their mouths shut whenever outsiders approached, and some locals even pinched their noses and scowled.
In truth, Paulo was not usually this extreme.
As a border city, it had far more contact with outsiders than the rest of Valhalla. But during festival periods, their xenophobia reached its absolute peak. The festival honoring the souls of warriors was a privilege exclusive to Valhallans. However, many foreigners flocked to the empire to experience the event, and their mere presence did not sit well with the locals.
These outsiders were not warriors.
Only those who had shed blood on the battlefield deserved to enjoy the festival, yet foreigners dared to treat it as mere entertainment. To the people of Valhalla, this was utterly unacceptable. They refused to let foreigners consume Valhalla's sacred culture, making any visit during the festival season a dangerous endeavor.
Roman Dmitry walked through the crowd.
People parted before him with visible disgust, whispering to their companions and openly displaying their hostility. It would only take a split second for that xenophobia to ignite into violence. The moment a single person with a dangerous glint in their eyes stepped forward, the mob would unleash its fury upon the outsider.
It was an interesting country.
A nation called an empire, yet utterly lacking the dignity befitting one.
If Kronos was a nation unable to control its intense greed, Valhalla was a nation that had yet to cast off its savagery.
The chaos of the Salamander Continent is no coincidence. Kronos and Valhalla. Because the two pillars ruling the continent are neither fair nor just, the land is doomed to suffer endless war and violence. People say Kronos is responsible for the chaos, but Valhalla's savage nature and their bystander attitude share the blame.
He came to a sudden halt.
This trip to Valhalla was the starting point of a new paradigm.
Before the war truly ignited, Roman Dmitry would make his presence known right here.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Standing in the middle of the square, under the suspicious gazes directed at him, Roman Dmitry raised his voice.
"I am Roman Dmitry, the successor of the Dmitry Duchy! If there is anyone who wishes to challenge me, step forward!"
* * *
The atmosphere instantly shifted.
If it had been mere discrimination and wariness before, Roman Dmitry's declaration provoked outright, bloodthirsty hostility.
The man standing before them was Roman Dmitry.
The rumored Aura Swordsman.
Normally, people would shrink back in fear at such a title, but Valhalla was different.
"How dare you cause trouble in Valhalla! I will face you!"
The challenger was a robust man wielding a massive axe.
With a physique reminiscent of a great mountain, his scar-covered face proved he was no ordinary civilian. The crowd parted, forming a wide ring around Roman Dmitry and the challenger. The stage for the duel was set. Without waiting for a signal, the axe-wielding man charged forward like a madman.
Rumble!
Aura flared.
The man was an Aura Swordsman.
Though his power couldn't compare to Roman Dmitry's, he looked fierce enough to devour his opponent alive.
Whoosh!
He swung his weapon.
The massive axe sliced through the air, but Roman Dmitry dodged the attack without even drawing his sword. The chilling sound of splitting wind echoed through the square. Stepping aggressively to end the fight in a single exchange, the axe-wielding man pressed his assault. He completely ignored defense, targeting only Roman's vital spots.
He was undeniably bellicose.
Even with Roman Dmitry clearly holding the upper hand, the man demonstrated what it truly meant to be a warrior of Valhalla.
However, he had chosen the wrong opponent.
Roman Dmitry dodged an incoming strike, swept the man's leg, and slapped him sharply across the cheek as he stumbled.
Slap!
His head whipped to the side.
Blood erupted from his mouth, splattering across the cobblestones.
It was utterly humiliating.
Struck across the face like a misbehaving child despite wielding a deadly weapon, the man gritted his teeth. His face flushed crimson with rage. In Valhalla, disgrace was far harder to bear than death. His muscles swelled as if they might burst at any moment, but no matter how fiercely he swung his axe, he failed to land a single clean hit.
And without fail—
Slap.
Another sharp slap to the cheek.
At first, he thought it was a coincidence, not an intentional insult.
But the second slap made it glaringly obvious: Roman Dmitry was making a mockery of him.
"You bastard!"
His anger exploded.
This was a blatant insult.
In Valhalla, treating a warrior with respect was an unspoken law, yet he was being humiliated like a toddler. His face was already a bloody mess. The man charged like a rabid beast, swinging his axe with reckless abandon, completely disregarding the slaps raining down on him. But there was a limit to what sheer willpower could achieve.
Slap.
His head whipped back, and he swung his axe.
Slap.
His head whipped back again.
Desperate, he lunged forward, attempting to grapple Roman Dmitry.
Slap.
His legs wobbled.
His mind spun.
His vision blurred from the repeated impacts. The fiercely burning will of a warrior was being utterly crushed beneath overwhelming might. Yet, strangely, he did not lose consciousness. Even though the impacts felt powerful enough to tear his face off, no matter how many times he was struck, he just wouldn't pass out.
Slap!
Slap, slap!
Ultimately, he fell to his knees.
He was only human, after all.
Unable to offer even the slightest resistance against the relentless, humiliating onslaught, the man needed a way out.
"...I surrender."
Only then did Roman Dmitry lower his raised hand.
* * *
"Boo!"
"You'd be better off dead!"
"You pride-less bastard! Don't disgrace Valhalla!"
The crowd jeered mercilessly.
By choosing to surrender, the warrior they had cheered for just moments ago was now viewed as an absolute disgrace.
The axe-wielding man felt deeply wronged.
Only the one receiving those blows could possibly understand.
The mind-numbing, concussive shock of those slaps was a sensation he had never experienced, not even on the bloodiest of battlefields.
"Get out of the way. I will show him the true will of Valhalla."
A new challenger stepped forward.
Unlike the previous fighter, he was slender, but the jagged sword scar running across his face and his razor-sharp gaze marked him as a venomous bastard. He, too, knew he couldn't defeat Roman Dmitry. The rumored Aura Swordsman who had bested Knight Commander Gustavo was not someone an ordinary warrior could hope to match.
However, surrendering was a different matter entirely.
Even if he lost, he intended to show this foreigner what an honorable defeat looked like.
And that proud resolve... shattered the moment the very first slap snapped him back to reality.
Slap!
Effortlessly dodging a dagger strike, Roman Dmitry delivered a stinging slap to the man's cheek.
As his head whipped around, the slender man briefly saw the afterlife.
...What the hell.
The pain was immense.
His head spun wildly.
Staggering, the slender man almost blurted out his surrender subconsciously, but he barely managed to bite his tongue as he remembered the crowd's vicious jeers. Regret washed over him, but it was too late. Now he understood exactly why the previous man had surrendered. Still, he refused to endure the humiliation of yielding before a crowd that valued martial honor so highly.
It's do or die.
He abandoned all defense and lunged forward.
He would rather take a solid hit and pass out.
At least that way, he could lose honorably as a warrior of Valhalla.
But—
Slap.
Slap, slap.
No matter how many times he was hit, his consciousness remained perfectly intact.
Every time Roman Dmitry slapped him, he expertly channeled his mana—transmitting maximum pain while cushioning the concussive impact so his opponent wouldn't pass out. It was an agonizing, baffling nightmare for the slender man. Realizing that this humiliating torment would continue until he surrendered, he finally made a decision.
There's no other way.
Slap.
His head whipped back.
With wobbling legs, the slender man collapsed to the ground, feigning unconsciousness.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
A man who fought to the bitter end and passed out would receive applause from the crowd, even in defeat.
But through his feigned darkness, Roman Dmitry's cold voice drifted down.
"Get up. You haven't lost consciousness yet."
Grind.
"Aaargh!"
A heavy boot ground down on a vital pressure point.
The man leaped up with a shrill scream.
Realizing his pathetic trick had been exposed, his face flushed bright red.
Only then did the horrifying truth dawn on him.
This bastard... don't tell me.
Roman Dmitry.
From the very beginning, his sole intention was to completely and utterly trample on Valhalla's pride.