Chapter 237: The Way of the Predator (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 237: The Way of the Predator (1)
Chris's actions were a blatant breach of etiquette.
After all, this was imperial territory.
With the Emperor of the Valhalla Empire looking down from his seat, Chris had dared to pay his respects to Roman Dmitry first. The atmosphere froze instantly. Even those who had been cheering for Chris's performance just moments ago snapped their mouths shut, warily reading the Emperor's expression.
Just then, Roman Dmitry raised his hand.
Acknowledging his subordinate's loyalty, Roman accepted the gesture. Only then did Chris shift his gaze to the Emperor.
He did not kneel.
Nor did he offer his sword.
It was pure insolence.
The faces of the high-ranking nobles in the seats of honor flushed crimson, but none dared to utter a single word before the Emperor spoke. Valhalla was no different from Kronos. In this empire, where the Emperor wielded absolute, omnipotent power, no one dared to raise their voice in his presence.
"Did you say your name was Chris?" the Emperor finally spoke.
While the Emperor of Kronos gave off a violent and emotionless impression, the Emperor of Valhalla spoke in an incredibly languid voice that completely belied the reputation of the 'nation of warriors.' His appearance was equally unimpressive. Perhaps because he neglected physical training, his body was gaunt, and his sunken eyes looked as if they were shrouded in perpetual shadow.
"Yes, I am Chris."
"Impressive. It is no easy feat for a foreigner to conquer the Eve Festival stage, yet you actively claimed the heads of our warriors and emerged as the final victor. I expected a tedious match where everyone merely sized each other up, but thanks to you, I witnessed an exhilarating show."
"Thank you."
"There is no need to thank me."
The Emperor of Valhalla smirked.
A strange hint of madness flickered in his expression. Even without doing or saying anything particularly extreme, he exuded an aura that left everyone on edge.
"By the way, why did you pay your respects to Roman Dmitry first just now? Ah, I don't mean to reprimand you. I have no intention of forcing imperial etiquette onto a foreigner. I am simply curious. It is not often someone acts as you did with me sitting right in front of them."
His demeanor was almost frivolous. To that light, weightless voice, Chris replied:
"...Because this stage was for my liege. Just as the warriors of Valhalla risked their lives on the Eve Festival stage for Your Majesty, I, too, risked my life for my lord. There is no other reason."
"Hoh."
The Emperor of Valhalla murmured in admiration. A faint spark of heat flared in his sunken eyes as he looked at Chris.
"An outstanding talent at such a young age, coupled with blind loyalty to your lord. You are truly a fine asset. Since ancient times, Valhalla has been a nation that treats talent with the utmost respect. The world whispers that this country does not welcome 'outsiders,' but in truth, those rumors only apply to 'talentless outsiders.' Valhalla is willing to do anything to recruit a talent like you. Wealth, honor, women—whatever you desire. For the truly gifted, Valhalla is nothing short of heaven."
His smile widened. He no longer held Chris accountable for his insolence, but the conversation was taking a strange turn.
"How about it? If you swear loyalty to me right here and now, I will grant you a reward that far eclipses whatever Dmitry promised you for winning the Eve Festival."
The Emperor of Valhalla's offer.
This, too, completely crossed the line.
* * *
Gasps were stifled all around.
To openly poach someone's subordinate right in front of their lord was a breach of etiquette so severe it made Chris's earlier actions look trivial. It was an incredibly sudden move. Had Chris not known exactly what kind of person the Emperor of Valhalla was, he might have been flustered by the situation thrust upon him.
The Emperor of Valhalla.
The 14th son of the former Emperor—who had fathered a staggering twenty-three sons—he was a cruel tyrant who ascended the throne through a bloody war of succession, personally taking the life of his youngest sibling, a mere child.
On that dark day, a bloodbath had swept through the imperial palace. Holding a sword dripping with gore, the current Emperor of Valhalla had slaughtered every single member of the imperial bloodline except himself.
People often said Valhalla was the only true counterweight to Kronos.
Yet, even knowing this, the reason other nations hesitated to fully embrace Valhalla wasn't just its isolationist culture, but the terrifying rumors of the Emperor's madness. Kronos was only considered the absolute worst because of its overt ambition for continental conquest. Valhalla was merely the lesser of two evils, hardly a good alternative. However, unlike Kronos, Valhalla rarely crossed foreign borders. Because of this, those ignorant of Valhalla's bloody internal affairs often held a romanticized view of the "nation of warriors," viewing the Valhalla Empire in an unconditionally positive light.
The reality of this "lesser evil" was far more radical than anyone imagined. In a dog-eat-dog world where the strong devoured the weak, the very pinnacle was occupied by a madman.
"Chris, make your choice."
Even so, everyone had to agree that the Emperor's offer was incredibly tempting. Choosing him meant an instant, meteoric rise in status.
While everyone acknowledged the Emperor of Valhalla as a ruthless tyrant, the reason he maintained his absolute power was that he rewarded true ability with overwhelming, disproportionate compensation. The claim that his empire was a heaven for the talented was no exaggeration. The main reason prodigies from across the continent flocked to Valhalla through the ranking system was the allure of the heavenly life granted to that select few.
Between the Conservative Faction and the Progressive Faction, the Emperor maintained a middle ground. Though he sided with either faction depending on his whims and the situation, one thing remained certain: both political forces were comprised of talents worthy of the empire.
All eyes converged on Chris.
Everyone was certain of his answer. No matter what kind of country Valhalla was, there was no reason for someone personally chosen by the Emperor to refuse to defect. The moment he accepted, heaven would unfold before him.
Valhalla was a nation where the winner truly took all.
However, Chris's response defied all expectations.
"...I am sorry, but I must decline."
"Why?"
"The version of me that Your Majesty deems valuable would never have grown to this point without my liege's teachings. Therefore, the value Your Majesty seeks lies not in me, but in my lord. Since I merely manifest my existence as the sword of Dmitry, I cannot accept Your Majesty's offer."
For Chris, the absolute priority was a pure, unadulterated desire—the desire for strength.
No matter what riches Valhalla offered, he did not believe they could make him stronger than Roman Dmitry could. Furthermore, Roman Dmitry was a liege who made his subordinates truly valuable. The benefits and treatment the retainers received in Dmitry instilled an absolute faith that remained unshaken, even before the mighty name of Valhalla.
Chris's response was perfect.
At the polite refusal—which simultaneously brought immense glory to his lord's name—the Emperor of Valhalla shifted his gaze to Roman Dmitry.
It was amusing.
Seeing Roman Dmitry accept Chris's answer as if it were only natural, the Emperor of Valhalla felt a strange, twisted sense of kinship.
"If you insist, then there is nothing to be done. With this, I declare the Eve Festival stage concluded! And to the victor, Chris, I shall bestow a vast fortune that you could not spend in a lifetime!"
It was the Emperor's grand proclamation.
His reward for the victor was absolute. At his shout, which seemingly cast aside all petty emotions and grudges, the people of Valhalla shook off their tension and erupted into thunderous cheers.
This was exactly the kind of nation Valhalla was.
* * *
The Eve Festival ended.
At the hour when everyone had returned to their quarters to rest and prepare for tomorrow's main festival event:
Slap!
Viscount Jonathan's head whipped violently to the side.
Marquis Belfir, his face flushed crimson with rage, spat his anger at him.
"You miserable bastard. You assured me that on a stage excluding rankers, Gonzalez's victory was beyond a shadow of a doubt. So what the hell is this result?! A foreigner from another country took the crown! And I, who boasted in front of everyone that we would eliminate Roman Dmitry's subordinate, have been reduced to an incompetent fool spouting empty words before His Majesty!"
"I-I am sorry... Gack!"
Slap!
"Shut up."
He struck the Viscount's cheek once more.
During their last meeting, the conversation had proceeded in a much calmer atmosphere, but in the face of such a humiliating failure, things were entirely different.
The Emperor of Valhalla was a strict meritocrat. As the mastermind behind this botched plan, Marquis Belfir could not escape responsibility.
"Do you have any idea how delighted those Conservative bastards were the moment Chris won? If we repeat a failure like today's, His Majesty will side with the Conservative Faction instead of us. That is an unacceptable outcome! Valhalla's future cannot be content with merely repeating its barbaric history in the Southern Jungle."
Currently, Valhalla stood at a crossroads. They had to choose whether to march toward a new future or remain stagnant while prattling on about tradition.
Recently, with Marquis Belfir at the helm of the Progressive Faction, they had been forging a cooperative relationship with the Kronos Empire. However, the Emperor of Valhalla was a man who could change his mind at any moment. Therefore, they desperately needed results to prove that their counsel was correct. If defeats continued to accumulate, it would inevitably provoke the Emperor's lethal displeasure.
Valhalla was a unique nation in many ways. Even though the Emperor possessed absolute power, he had no concrete vision of his own for the country's future.
The violence continued.
When Marquis Belfir finally caught his breath after beating the man for a long while, Viscount Jonathan hastily adjusted his posture. Kneeling on the floor, he spoke in a desperate voice.
"My Lord Marquis. Please, give me just one more chance. I will set the stage to ensure Roman Dmitry's defeat, no matter what it takes."
This was his last chance. The moment he fell out of favor, he would not survive in Valhalla. To those accustomed to failure, the empire was never a kind place.
"No, there is no need for you to move."
It was a cold voice. Wiping the blood from his hands with a silk handkerchief, Marquis Belfir recalled the report he had received moments earlier.
"Barbosa has begun to move in earnest. So, you had better pray for his success. If even Barbosa fails, I guarantee you will not survive the consequences."
One day before the main festival.
There was still a chance to turn the tables.
* * *
Immediately after returning to his quarters, Roman Dmitry took some time to rest. Knowing that he usually enjoyed warm tea, the servants brought in light refreshments and drinks.
However, one of the servants carrying the tray leaned in and spoke in a hushed, secretive voice.
"Do not consume anything."
Roman Dmitry instantly looked at the man. While the other servants stepped out to fetch more items, the servant spoke urgently.
"Barbosa has made his move. I do not know exactly what trickery he has employed, but from now on, you must be extremely careful with everything you eat and drink. Keep this in mind: Barbosa's opponents have always fallen helplessly to underhanded tricks that never came to light. Even so, do not raise your voice to try and prove his foul play. The festival stage is tomorrow. Even if there is poison in this tea, while you waste time trying to prove it, Barbosa will brand you a coward who fled the festival stage and force the matter to a close."
He glanced around. The other servants had not yet returned. He quickly added:
"I am someone who deeply respected Lord Morales. We form a single faction, and we do not wish to see a warrior like you fall to cowardly schemes. I will not force you to trust us. But if you remain cautious of everything in Valhalla, you will at least be able to face Barbosa in a fair fight."
His voice was completely sincere. It had nothing to do with political factions. As a staunch follower of Valhalla's traditions, he had heard from Sanchez exactly what kind of person Roman Dmitry was. Regardless of his nationality, Roman was a warrior worthy of respect. If a man like Roman Dmitry fell to cowardly tricks once again, the servant felt he would never be able to accept being a citizen of Valhalla.
That was why he had mobilized his people. Through like-minded individuals, he had discovered that Barbosa was making his move today.
Now, his role was finished. At the very least, he had set the stage for Roman Dmitry to fight fairly.
Seeing the other servants returning, the man quickly changed his expression and prepared to withdraw.
But at that exact moment, the servant's face froze in utter shock.
"...?!"
Roman Dmitry was drinking the tea, tilting the cup as if deliberately showing it to everyone.