Arbitrary Preliminaries (2)
Aspen thought Nathan was joking. So she deliberately twisted her expression into a scowl. “I figured you were out for revenge on our house, but there’s no scheme blacker than this. That match is important. Why would you want in when you don’t even know what’s riding on it?”
“Exactly because it’s important.”
“Who told you?”
“Informants I can’t name. Interrogating random people about who leaked the info to Nathan Maia won’t get you anywhere. My source is quite capable.”
Aspen bit her lip, fighting back laughter. Informant, my ass. From her perspective, Nathan was simply handing her a pretext to draw out her true feelings. If she wanted to see him rest for a while the way she and Benny hoped, now was the time to knock him flat.
Nathan guessed the misunderstanding Aspen was nursing, but he didn’t bother correcting it.
“I’ve always respected how your competitive spirit just explodes out of you, Nathan. Still, that decision belongs to Benny. I’m not yielding my spot.”
“If I crush Asterion and flatten every reserve candidate too, Benny will decide for herself.”
“Asterion won’t get his turn. You’ll be beaten senseless by me and hauled off to the infirmary on pink sheets. Benny will love that.”
“Quite the detailed delusion. Come on, then. For the next two weeks or so, I’ll beat you so thoroughly that every time you remember today you’ll sink into despair and sob your heart out.”
“You’re detailed too.”
The secretary watched the pair laughing with unmistakable delight, her face a portrait of surrendered comprehension.
Aspen slowly waved the tip of her two-handed sword, closing the distance. It was time to properly confirm—and reconfirm—what each had seen and endured while apart. How much they had changed. And, childish as it sounded, perhaps the most important thing of all: their standing when blades were drawn.
“Win and go ask Benny. Lose and spend the next two weeks resting quietly.”
Aspen offered a nod of acknowledgment. Nathan returned it. Without words, they thanked each other—for surviving, for still being here. Then, without signal, they crashed together at the same instant.
“You must have felt it too—it won’t be easy. I don’t know how much stronger you’ve gotten in four years, but I haven’t been idle either—!”
“Was I slacking?”
Benny regarded Aspen, who was muttering blankly to herself, with open pity. The Somnus mask made the silent rebuke even more potent. Aspen awkwardly avoided the expressionless square box staring at her while rubbing the small lump on her forehead. The other two couldn’t escape the gaze either: Gelter, whose hair had been hacked into a mess after his own sword was used against him and who now hid the disaster beneath a cap, and Asterion, whose face was swollen with bruises after challenging Nathan to a bare-handed bout.
The narrow carriage seat, crammed with one Cretian and two humans, groaned every time the wheels jolted. Awkward silence filled Galarhorn’s automatic carriage.
“Even thinking about it again, it’s absurd. How did all three of you get wrecked in a single day?”
“Do not speak disrespectfully before the Prince of Cretios, lesser race.”
Asterion growled, his 3.5-meter frame awkwardly folded inside the carriage. Then he added in a tiny voice, “Apparently.”
“The real problem is accepting the fight after being provoked, you blockhead. You couldn’t stop it, so why join in? Are you all insane?”
“I’m not. I… I didn’t want to fight. Even when I tried to run, he chased me like mad.”
Gelter recited the words in a gloomy voice, completely drained of will.
“You’re lucky. Only two hours with your eyes off him.”
Nathan’s rampage had occurred while Benny tended the patients. In that short window, three fighters had their spirits broken and withdrew. If Benny tried to field someone else, Nathan looked ready to hunt that gladiator down as well—unless they pinned him and sedated him. He had walked the line carefully, making an effective protest without crossing into outright disqualification. A silent objection to Benny’s attempt to protect him.
Benny raged, tore at her hair, sighed, kicked the wall, and finally surrendered to Nathan’s stubbornness—before he could shatter the morale of every Galarhorn gladiator.
“Yeah. It was inevitable. Aspen’s already fighting as a gladiator of her own will. We couldn’t keep holding Nathan back forever.”
“But I thought he’d at least rest a little before acting. I never expected him to make his point in such a vicious way.”
When Gelter grumbled, Benny raised her voice.
“If anyone keeps complaining, I’ll throw them out of the carriage. We’re heading into enemy territory! Understood?”
The coldly modulated scolding fell flat; none of the three paid it any mind.
“Yeeees.”
“I wasn’t careless. How did I lose? What did I even get hit with?”
“Don’t yell with that device, lesser race. Cramming myself into this carriage is already giving me a headache.”
Benny briefly pictured herself as a villainous owner.
“Time to meet the opposing side of the gladiator match. Let’s keep our dignity.”
Some time later, when the carriage halted before the Conclave sanctuary, Benny opened the rear partition.
“And especially you, Nathan. Don’t let yourself be intimidated.”
The contract for the gladiator match would be signed at the Conclave sanctuary. Yet the word “sanctuary” felt hollow; reporters packed the front of the building. Through the small window, the scene looked anything but solemn. From the transport compartment separated from the passenger seats, Nathan gave a faint sneer.
“Of course. Who else would I be afraid of besides you and Aspen?”
The face-to-face meeting. On the day both sides’ representatives agreed to hold the match and signed the contract, the gladiators each side intended to field would confirm one another. On the surface it was a ritual for fairness; in truth it was little more than a preliminary skirmish—like dog owners forcing their animals to memorize each other’s scent before the fight. The greeting that promised blood instead of vows excited the crowd imagining the psychological warfare to come. The bigger the corporations and the more famous the gladiators, the hotter the topic. Nathan Maia fit both categories. The media piranhas had no reason to miss this moment. Reporters occupying the front of the sanctuary were wound tight.
“He’s coming—he’s here! What are we supposed to say again?”
“Damn it, did you listen when they told you to memorize it? Just shout whatever comes to mind. Ask if he left parents behind on the ground or something!”
The cornered Galarhorn officials stayed tight-lipped while dozens of reporters hungered for questions. No one expected proper answers. The reporters simply loaded the most vicious questions onto their tongues, hoping to capture an emotional reaction worth filming.
The Conclave guards standing before them gritted their teeth at the jackals behind them and raised their shields.
“It’s nice when it’s quiet.”
But the instant Nathan flung open the transport door and leapt down, the Eleim forgot what they had been about to say.
“What… what is he doing?”
When silence fell because of him, most people would feel embarrassed or apologetic. Nathan had learned that sometimes the silence was satisfying. He grinned.
“What are you looking at, you bastards.”
The rookie reporter, still blank with confusion, decided to follow instructions. He raised his tablet and filmed Nathan. On the forehead beneath the pressed-down helmet, red paint spelled a single word in the Eleim language: Retribution.
“Retribution. Retribution, huh.”
The day before. On a dreary street. Nathan glanced both ways. Not everyone stared, but no gaze was kind. That was expected.
‘The opponent who applied for this gladiator match demanded the shares I hold in the Great Arena. In return, among the things I demanded from them, there’s ownership of a certain Dwarf settlement. Sorgheim—have you heard of it?’
Sorgheim. In the Dwarf tongue it meant “the domain of those who long for home.” Thirty years ago, Dwarves dragged to the Heavens and abandoned had been granted this small foothold by the mercy of an Eleim great house.
The long-bearded exiles thrown into a strange land began crafting anything to survive—from children’s toys and kitchen tongs to hair ornaments noble ladies would flaunt in society. The Eleim had taken much from them, yet they could not steal the skill forged by sweat. The street the Dwarves built grew into a mighty brand, like a pearl forming inside a clam.
Even in the worst circumstances, effort does not betray those who give it everything. The Dwarves who secured their livelihood must have believed that.
‘But that street is about to vanish. If the opponent wins the match and defends their claim, it will happen within a few years.’
‘Vanish? Are they going to rip the land off and throw it to the ground?’
‘The buildings and roads will stay, but it won’t be a Dwarf foothold anymore. The Eleim plan to drive every Dwarf out.’
The head of the Eleim house had not shown kindness. He had merely waited for the pearl to grow large enough to harvest.
‘Did they judge that their apprentices had stolen enough techniques? No one ever asked whether imitation, no matter how skilled, could truly match the Dwarves.’
‘Hint. The lady of that house loves art—and she is also an Eleim purist. She believes rough Dwarf hands lack aesthetic value. You can guess the rest. If you still want to visit, the address is…’
The address was here—the soon-to-disappear foothold of the outcasts. Nathan looked up at a streetlamp with a gloomy expression. Atop an ordinary iron pole hung a special ornament: the corpse of a Dwarf, swaying by the neck. Tongues are longer than they appear. Whoever severed this Dwarf’s tongue must have thought they had cut it cleanly in half, yet the root still dangled, making it look as though only the tip had been removed.
Nathan knew the dead man. Not well—they had met only once—but he would never forget the face. He never forgot favors or grudges.
The hanged man was Ard Vandveer. The Dwarf who had given Nathan a flashbang four years ago. On the thick, short neck barely secured by the rope, someone had carefully hung a sign. It read mockingly: “Retribution for rebellion.”
Under the hood, Nathan’s lips twisted.
“Retribution, my ass. What bullshit.”
After mulling the word a while longer, Nathan moved deeper into Sorgheim, where forges lined the street. An uninvited guest in a loose cloak pressed low. Those who could not guess his identity burned with hostility at the jawline revealed beneath the thick hood. Tall, beardless—probably human or Eleim, though a human wandering freely in the afternoon was unlikely. Even if human, he was probably a servant of some Eleim house. The speculation narrowed on its own.
From every direction, beard strands soaked in drink and defeat trembled. Nathan walked calmly between the spearpoints of silent hostility. Hatred might kill a man, but Nathan believed he would be the exception. Today’s schedule was full; he had no time for formless things. Ahead of him waited a pointy-eared man he intended to make suffer.
Eventually he stopped before a forge whose signboard had been smashed. The wooden plank someone had deliberately torn down and trampled was unreadable. On the wall of the new-looking building, graffiti cursing the Eleim trying to swallow the street sprawled in chaotic lines.
Inside the dim forge, someone lifted their head. A burly blacksmith regarded Nathan with gloomy eyes. At least this one did not seem to have suffered business interference at Eleim hands. That made sense—the blacksmith was tall, with long ears. Nathan tilted his head, then strode inside. From somewhere came the rough muttering of Dwarves: a pointy-ear buying pointy-ear goods.
“Don’t you have anything good?”
The Eleim blacksmith who had been glaring since Nathan appeared outside answered in a voice as heavy and thick as the Dwarves’.
“We’re not open today.”
Nathan snorted and looked the man up and down. His limb proportions were grotesque. Without that oversized head, the body might have passed for normal. With a beard, he could have been mistaken for a Dwarf—an impression as if the Eleim had deliberately sent someone they thought “would get along with Dwarves.”
“Customer’s here, so why not do business? Judging by the dust, you don’t get many chances to sell anyway.”
The owner shuddered and rose.
“What do you need?”
Nathan drove the man mad once more by leisurely scanning the shop. The forge owner glared with bloodshot eyes.
“You’re not even asking what I need.”
“What are you trying to use it for?”
“Revenge for a friend.”
“I don’t sell blades meant for swinging in the street. Go find an illegal staff in some black market.”
“Coincidentally, I’m not someone who can use magic even if I buy a staff.”
Nathan removed his hood.
“Because I’m not a pointy-ear.”
The craftsman facing Nathan’s face gradually hardened his expression. Then he slowly moved to the entrance, closed the door, and locked it. Nathan waited calmly while the man struggled with the old curtain.
“I hope I’m not causing inconvenience.”
“There wouldn’t be any customers anyway except for you.”
The Eleim sat down, huffing, hesitated, then spoke as if testing the waters.
“Do you know me?”
“I don’t. But you know me.”
“Then why did you come looking for me?”
“Because you look a lot like someone.”
“Who?”
“The friend I’m trying to get revenge for.”
After staring at Nathan for a long time, the Eleim pressed a switch hidden beneath his chin. His shoulders, back, and chest opened like petals. From the elaborately painted suit that mimicked an elongated body, the separated head jumped down. The Dwarf who landed roughly on the ground clutched his knees and groaned, then grumbled with all his strength.
“Damn it. Which loose-lipped bastard told you?”