Chapter 230: A Festival for the Festival (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 230: A Festival for the Festival (1)
It was a blatant provocation.
In a sudden surge of anger, Sanchez reflexively reached for his hilt.
But that was as far as he got.
He couldn't draw his blade.
Roman Dmitry stood perfectly calm, exuding no presence at all, but a sharp, suffocating aura from behind him pricked Sanchez's nerves. It was Chris. Chris, too, rested a hand on his hilt, and instinct screamed at Sanchez that the blond swordsman would draw faster than he ever could.
Sanchez swallowed hard.
As a disciple of Morales who had reached the 3-Star Realm, this paralyzing dread was entirely foreign to him.
‘...Is this the true power of Dmitry's Flash?’
He had heard the rumors. The man once known as the Flash of Cairo. Rumors spoke of a handsome blond man among Roman Dmitry's followers—a swordsman who severed heads at a speed the naked eye could barely track. Chris had proven his worth in the war against Kronos. With his overwhelming martial prowess, cutting down enemies in rapid succession, Chris was no longer an unknown figure on the continent.
But the people of Valhalla had paid little heed to such tales.
As was always the case with battlefields, there was a tendency to exaggerate absurd achievements. Just like the rumor that Roman Dmitry had cleaved through a massive army to cut down Knight Commander Gustavo in a single strike, they assumed Chris's reputation was pure hyperbole. It was only natural. Compared to Valhalla, Cairo was far too small a world. History dictated that a transcendent being capable of defying common sense could never be born in a place like Cairo.
Yet, reality stood right before his eyes.
With his mouth running dry from merely facing Chris, Sanchez had no choice but to acknowledge the man's strength.
‘The rumors weren't exaggerated. While I can't be sure if Roman Dmitry is truly strong enough to overwhelm Knight Commander Gustavo, if his subordinate has reached this level, I cannot deny that the stories are rooted in truth. If so, he is an even more incomprehensible man. Does he truly believe he can defeat Barbosa with pure strength alone, devoid of any political schemes?’
Slowly, he withdrew his hand.
He acknowledged their strength. But even so, he still didn't believe Roman Dmitry was a worthy opponent for Barbosa. No matter who this foreigner was, Valhalla's festival was a sacred stage reserved solely for the warriors of Valhalla.
"Do not regret the words you just spoke," Sanchez warned.
He would find out the moment they arrived in the capital. He would learn exactly what kind of consequences his arrogant promise to accept all challenges would bring.
* * *
Marin, the capital of Valhalla.
While Paulo, the border town, had felt somewhat underdeveloped, Marin was a magnificent city. Its massive walls and Valhalla's unique architectural style perfectly reflected the empire's prestige. Upon entering the capital, there was no repeat of the friction that had occurred in Paulo. A welcoming party had been sent in advance, allowing them to bypass the complicated entry procedures and step straight into the city.
"It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Viscount Jonathan, and I have been tasked with guiding you, Lord Roman Dmitry."
"I am Roman Dmitry."
Following their guide, they arrived at the reception room of a grand estate, presumably a guest residence. Roman took a seat. As he sipped the tea poured by the servants, Viscount Jonathan watched him with a peculiar expression.
"I heard of your declaration through Sanchez, Lord Roman Dmitry. That you intend to accept the challenges of Valhalla's warriors to prove your qualification to face Barbosa. Are you certain about this? I can keep the masses quiet for about a day, but if you do not retract your words now, things will become quite difficult for you."
"That is for me to handle," Roman replied calmly.
"Tsk, tsk. If you say so, my hands are tied. However, keep in mind that the warriors of Valhalla are willing to risk their lives just to stand on that stage. To die in Valhalla while receiving the blessing of the gods is the lifelong wish of our warriors. And if their opponent is Barbosa? That is the ultimate blessing."
Jonathan took a sip of his own tea. Savoring the astringent aroma favored by the people of Valhalla, the Viscount smiled and shifted the subject.
"To get straight to the point, the festival is scheduled to begin three days from now. As you may know, the Eve Festival is held the day prior. In Valhalla, we hold a tradition that blood must be shed during the Eve Festival to ensure the success of the main event. The format is simple. The noble families of the Valhalla Empire each select one swordsman to represent them, and a total of thirty warriors fight simultaneously on a massive stage. There is no surrender. You are either the last one standing, or you die. The warrior who emerges as the final victor receives Valhalla's blessing directly from His Majesty the Emperor."
Roman had already heard of this.
Thirty warriors. The sole survivor, standing atop twenty-nine corpses, held a position of honor in Valhalla that rivaled even the participants of the main stage.
"To grace the Eve Festival, why don't you send one of your swordsmen to participate, Lord Roman Dmitry? As a side note, the swordsmen in this thirty-man battle must not be registered on the continental rankings. Swordsmen of that caliber deserve a stage where they can focus on individual martial prowess rather than a chaotic free-for-all, wouldn't you agree? I hear the one called Dmitry's Flash would be quite suitable..."
He let his voice trail off deliberately.
His intention was blatant. They wanted Chris on that stage. It was clear they intended to butcher Chris—hailed as Dmitry's greatest swordsman after Roman himself—in front of a roaring crowd before the main event even started. It was an offer any sane man would refuse. Having risked entering Valhalla, there was no reason to jeopardize a core asset like Chris.
However, Roman Dmitry smiled.
Meeting the Viscount's gaze, he didn't retreat a single step in the face of such naked malice.
"I will do as you wish."
"As expected, you are very decisive. In that case, please rest comfortably here until the day of the Eve Festival... Ah, wait."
Viscount Jonathan smirked. Roman Dmitry was a bellicose man. He was quite to Jonathan's liking, but in Valhalla, the price of pride was one's life.
"Given what you said to Sanchez, resting comfortably might be difficult. I hope nothing unfortunate happens. After all, the Valhalla Imperial Court has its pride. We went through a great deal of trouble to invite you as Barbosa's opponent, so it would be a disaster if the challenger had to be replaced before the main stage. Two days from now, on the day of the Eve Festival, I hope we can meet again with smiles on our faces."
With those final words, Viscount Jonathan walked out.
Roman Dmitry remained in the reception room. As if the warning meant absolutely nothing to him, he slowly savored the rest of his tea with a perfectly relaxed expression.
* * *
The next day.
Early morning.
A massive crowd had already gathered outside Roman Dmitry's guest residence.
"Is Roman Dmitry really in there?"
"Arrogant bastard. Just because he gained a bit of fame on the continent, he dares to covet the stage watched over by the gods of Valhalla? Roman Dmitry has no right to face Barbosa. If he collapses after barely exchanging a few blows, the gods of Valhalla will surely be enraged by the pathetic spectacle."
The previous evening, Sanchez had spread the word of what he had seen and heard. Naturally, the people were furious. They were already highly dissatisfied with Roman Dmitry taking the main stage, and now he had openly provoked the warriors of Valhalla. What an absurd statement. A brat who had only been famous on the continent for barely two years was acting as if he were an overlord, claiming he would accept the challenges of their seasoned warriors.
In truth, Roman's invitation had sparked massive controversy throughout Valhalla.
The public had raised their voices, demanding the Imperial Court reconsider its choice, but the court had declared the decision final. Kronos and Valhalla—both empires were nations where the Imperial Court wielded absolute power. Since the Valhalla Imperial Court told them to watch and judge for themselves, the citizens had no choice but to obey.
But that barely suppressed anger had just been ignited by Roman Dmitry himself.
From this moment on, even if the Valhalla Imperial Court tried to stop them, the warriors intended to see this through to the bloody end.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Roman Dmitry, come out!"
"We have come to challenge you, just as you wished! Come out this instant and face my blade!"
The crowd roared. There were hundreds of them, and their numbers were only growing. The most impatient had gathered before sunrise, but as the morning progressed, the mob swelled. Not all of them were strong enough to face Roman Dmitry. However, as proud warriors of Valhalla, they refused to stand by and watch a foreigner act so insolently.
"Whoa."
"It's Bartolo."
"Bartolo is here too!"
The crowd murmured in awe. Pushing his way to the front, a heavily built man stepped forward. Ranked 89th, Bartolo was an official warrior registered on the Valhalla rankings.
If the rumors of Roman Dmitry defeating Knight Commander Gustavo were true, Bartolo—a mere 4-Star swordsman—would be no match for him. Yet, Bartolo showed no signs of self-doubt. Like the rest of Valhalla, he believed the rumors surrounding Roman Dmitry were entirely fabricated.
In the war against Hector, Roman Dmitry had fought a close battle against Butler. Thus, the rumors that he had defeated Count Nicholas a year later, and then felled Knight Commander Gustavo in a single blow shortly after, defied all martial logic.
Bartolo raised his voice, his tone booming.
"Roman Dmitry! I, Bartolo, shall face you!"
At that exact moment, the heavy estate doors creaked open. The crowd glared with hostile eyes.
Finally, Roman Dmitry appeared.
* * *
Roman Dmitry's expression was perfectly serene.
Even with a furious mob filling his vision, he didn't show a flicker of surprise. He walked forward as if strolling through his own garden, coming to a halt at the top of the steps.
Then, he spoke.
"There is only one day left until the Eve Festival. From now until sunset, I will accept challenges from every single one of you."
It was a declaration that completely dismissed the very possibility of his defeat.
The crowd erupted into a frenzy. They spat on the ground, hurling vicious curses and radiating intense hostility toward the man who dared to look down on them. How could anyone be so arrogant? Naturally, the crowd's expectant eyes turned to Bartolo, the first challenger.
However, the very second their eyes locked, Bartolo sensed his opponent's aura.
Even though Roman wasn't actively projecting his energy, he possessed an intangible, suffocating weight that overwhelmed his opponent with a mere glance. It was a presence ordinary people could never perceive. But as the saying goes, you only see as much as you know. Having earned a spot on the Valhalla rankings, Bartolo instantly realized that Roman Dmitry was far stronger than anyone had anticipated.
Even so, backing down was not in his blood.
With a fierce snarl, Bartolo stepped forward.
"I will be your opponent."
Thud.
He raised his weapon. Pointing his massive battle-axe at Roman, he began to slowly circle him.
The duel had begun.
Despite his overwhelming size, Bartolo carefully assessed the situation.
‘According to Sanchez, Roman Dmitry already caused a scene in Paulo before arriving in Marin. They said he slapped the wildmen until they submitted. Well, Roman Dmitry, you won't get the same result here in Marin. Even if I lose to you, no amount of violence will ever force a confession of defeat from my mouth.’
His eyes gleamed sharply. The crowd was watching. Like every other citizen enraged by this foreigner's audacity, he had no intention of letting this insult slide.
In an instant, he lunged.
Seeing Roman's lukewarm stance, Bartolo decided that striking first was his greatest advantage. His Aura exploded with a thunderous roar. Bartolo's charge was blindingly fast. Despite his massive frame, his sharp movements—honed on countless battlefields—closed the distance in the blink of an eye.
A Valhalla ranker.
A true warrior.
The warrior bloodline that the empire praised so highly was, in a single instant—
Spurt!
—sent stumbling.
As a fountain of blood sprayed into the air, Bartolo stared at Roman Dmitry, his eyes trembling with sheer disbelief.
And as his consciousness rapidly faded into darkness, Roman Dmitry's cold, indifferent voice echoed across the silent courtyard.
"Next."