You Know Me?

Benny had told him it had been over a hundred and fifty years since she first began crafting prosthetic limbs. A business that had to stay hidden from the eyes of the Heavens. So while they always tried to recover the prosthetics whenever a wearer died or switched to a newer model, it was impossible to retrieve every single part without fail. At the very least, it seemed clear where some of them had ended up.

The dwarf grumbled as he laid the mechanical torso against the wall behind the counter. A masterful modification. And a clever ruse. If you didn’t know dwarves, you wouldn’t suspect anything from the appearance. And if you did know them, you wouldn’t suspect a thing because the beard had been shaved off.

“So your plan is to disguise yourself as an elf and hide among them.”

“Don’t interrogate me.”

“I can’t even begin to guess the specifics of your plan, so I won’t ask. I saw how hard you were acting outside to match my performance.”

Whether they were trying to carve out a new path or simply keep their legacy alive, Nathan wasn’t sure. But it clearly wasn’t a scheme cooked up by one person alone. It had to be a plan the dwarves of Sorgheim had all taken part in. The clumsy, hesitant way the shopkeeper outside had wrecked the display had felt far too performative. Unlike the way they had treated Vandveer’s corpse hanging out front. That had been drenched in mockery and disgust.

The dwarf’s face hardened the moment he realized Nathan had seen through it.

“I hope you’re not planning to snitch. If you’re thinking of selling us out—”

“No. I came here to buy, not to sell.”

“Are you going to threaten me and take it by force?”

“I’ll pay a fair price. I understand why you’d be on edge in a situation like this, but I can’t help feeling a little hurt.”

The dwarf, who had been huffing angrily, eventually dragged a chair over in front of Nathan. Then he quietly went to a corner and began boiling water for tea.

The precious week of immunity he had been granted was ticking away. Yet Nathan sat obediently and waited.

When the dwarf brought out the teacups, he warned him not to pick it up until it had cooled. It would feel like molten iron to a human hand. But Nathan lifted the cup without hesitation.

“I heard that in dwarf culture, it’s rude not to take a sip right away, whether it’s liquor or water.”

“That’s etiquette from beneath the surface. You really did your homework from one to ten. So, who told you who I am?”

“It wasn’t that I deliberately researched the etiquette. I just had the chance to learn it once. And as for your identity… I really did guess it just from your face. It seems the lords of the mountain tend to underestimate the observational skills of other races.”

Despite holding the teacup without the slightest tremor, Nathan only blew on it gently before drinking. The dwarf spoke with a look of lingering suspicion.

“You came to look at weapons?”

“What else would a knight be looking for?”

“Don’t you already have a better blade? You brought out something absolutely insane for the first match of the gladiator fight.”

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Morbi’s sword. Nathan gave a bitter smile.

“It’s a bit awkward, but I still haven’t made peace with that sword.”

“Peace? With a tool?”

“I killed its owner, you see.”

The dwarf shook his head, assuming it was a joke.

“Only old men believe metal can house a soul. You’d have to be at least a hundred years older than me to spout such nonsense. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠always thought swallowing too much iron dust naturally leads to superstition.”

Nathan grinned back as if playing along.

“I wasn’t joking.”

“If you’re from Galarhorn, you shouldn’t be short on weapons. Stop wasting my time, pick any damn thing off the wall, and get out. I won’t even ask for payment.”

“‘I won’t even ask for payment.’ The lords of the mountain would never say something like that. Not unless the buyer was a great benefactor or it wasn’t wartime.”

Nathan lowered his head while still seated. Not to match eye level, but as if leaning in to conspire.

“What I want to buy is your resentment.”

“What would you even do with the resentment of a shaved, liquor-soaked beard? Just pick something decent.”

“Can I really stake the survival of this district on just any weapon? You know I’m fighting for this entire street, don’t you?”

“Will anything change if Galarhorn wins? In the end, it’s still under the grip of those pointy-eared bastards.”

“Since I don’t even have a single hair on my chin, let alone a beard, I’ll just stake my two balls on it. As long as it remains under Galarhorn’s ownership, you won’t lose the territory you built with your own hands. We will buy your resentment. The nameless Vandveer. And the price will be—”

Nathan set a heavy pouch on the table. Through the open gap, a mass of silver coins gleamed.

“With the blood and tears of those pointy-eared bastards we’ll skin and fry alive.”

When Nathan pushed the pouch toward the dwarf, the dwarf frowned but reluctantly peered inside. It was their custom to check the payment even if they had no intention of accepting the deal.

Among the silver, the dwarf found something. He tilted his head in confusion and rummaged through the pouch. His fingers moved faster and faster as they stirred the coins. What was caught between the silver was blood and flesh.

The dwarf pulled out a handful of severed elf ears with a trembling voice.

“What the hell is this?”

“These are the ones who attacked Ard Vandveer four months ago. You don’t have to believe me. I’ve simply told you the truth.”

It was a manner of speech more dwarven than the dwarf himself. As if he had learned it somewhere. Because of that, the workshop owner grew even more suspicious.

“How can I trust those words?”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way to verify it anymore. Due to unavoidable circumstances, they’ve all gone on a long journey to a place where they can no longer testify to anything.”

Several of the dead men’s earlobes slipped from between Vandveer’s fingers and fell with a thud.

“How can you be sure they’re the ones who killed my brother?”

“A human body has just over two hundred bones. Coincidentally, so do elves. Apply that fact just a little, and you can learn quite a lot.”

Nathan scratched at the wound on his shoulder and grimaced.

“It was pretty tricky. They kept using magic.”

The Lion Wing Knights had mages too. For example, Izelto knew magic that could force even demons to spit out the truth. And he hadn’t been stingy about teaching it. The name of that school of sorcery was ‘anatomy.’

Having abused the anatomy Izelto taught him just yesterday to locate their hideout, Nathan felt deep regret at having to use such barbaric killing magic. But there had been no choice. You couldn’t afford to hold back when your opponent was a mage.

Cutting ears from skulls crushed by stones was hardly a pleasant task.

“A long journey… you say?”

“If they had quietly accepted their sins and handed over only their ears, they wouldn’t have been issued one-way tickets to their mothers’ sides. If you need a detailed explanation, I can clear my schedule until evening. You might think I simply cut off any random elf’s ears, but—”

“That’s fine.”

The trembling hand set the bundle of ears on the table. The grisly objects tumbled down with a clatter. The dwarf’s twitching beard hinted at his distorted expression.

“Even if they were just any elf’s ears, I would be satisfied.”

That declaration carried a chill. A resentment deep enough to fill an abyss. The man who had lost his brother stared at Nathan in silence.

When Nathan quietly looked down at the table, the dwarf kicked his chair back, stood up, and headed behind the counter. Then, grunting, he opened the door leading to the basement.

“Come down.”

“It would be an honor.”

It was no coincidence that the displays outside had felt sparse. The weapons on display in the workshop had looked decent, but the ones in the basement looked fierce. It was just like this race to feel safest with their most important things buried underground.

Standing among masterpieces that carried centuries of history, Nathan felt the dizzying thrill of a true enthusiast.

“You’ve filled the walls with war.”

“If there’s no reason to hide them, they don’t belong in a place like this. Not a single one is missing.”

The dwarf grabbed Nathan by the collar and led him to the center of the collection. Then he opened a quartz case.

“If there’s one good thing about this world of kidnappers, it’s that you can dig through a junkyard and collect steel from every corner of the world.”

And prosthetic limbs too. Nathan barely held back a laugh as he recalled the massive elf torso the dwarf had been wearing. But the laughter soon turned to shock.

What lay inside the quartz case was a greatsword, yet not a greatsword. It was far too beautiful to be called a mere weapon.

“Total length one hundred and fifty-five centimeters. Blade length one hundred and ten centimeters. Pattern-welded alloy. Forged by layering zolingen, uru, and vanadium steel. An incredible technique. Can you see the letters formed by intertwining the three metals? The pattern-welded steel, twisted like the clouds of Jupiter, repeated a single character in a consistent pattern.

“Avenger?”

“Yes. Avenger is the name of this piece. It’s yours.”

“Uh, so… ‘I pay my highest respects to the craftsman.’ Is that the right response?”

“That’s not the answer I’m supposed to receive. Sadly, it’s not my work. If I had made a masterpiece like this, I’d be jumping around right now bragging about how incredible it is. The one with the right to boast is currently hanging outside.”

Nathan saw the small signature engraved on the hilt. Ard Vandveer’s name was written in the dwarven language.

Nathan thought of the hanging Ard. The reason for the horrific ambush had been absurd. He had been attacked for taking down the corpse of a fellow dwarf who had been hanged for resisting an eviction order. There had been elves’ eyes everywhere. The dwarves had been unable to take down Ard Vandveer’s body.

“The reason I’m handing this to you without taking measurements or considering your requests is because my brother made it while observing your fights. During those four years you were trapped inside.”

The beard, cast in shadow by the light from the basement door, trembled. Nathan pretended not to notice the droplets forming at its tip.

“He muttered that it would be good if you swung this blade, and made it while pretending it was just a hobby, just to kill time. Yet he poured every ounce of his strength into it. This is the greatest masterpiece of that stubborn general’s life—a man who never watched his words or read the room in his entire life.”

Nathan slung the greatsword over his shoulder. The balance was astonishingly harmonious, yet it was by no means light. It seemed Vandveer had keenly observed Nathan, who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crushed enemies with the sheer weight of his blade. The pommel was designed like a two-handed hammer. The only flaw was that the weight distribution and length had been tailored to the old Nathan.

Nathan tried resting the blade on his shoulder. The dwarf, having completed the picture his brother had envisioned, looked satisfied.

After showing Nathan a few more weapons, Ard’s older brother expressed regret that there was no armor in Nathan’s size.

“Let me make one thing clear. I don’t believe for a second that you’re going to save this district.”

“You simply decided it was better to hand some of your cherished children over to the great house’s pointy-eared bastards than to let them all fall into elf hands.”

It was an accurate observation. The dwarf’s silence was proof enough.

“Anyway, there’s no time to make armor. And I don’t want to force you into something that’s either too small or too big.”

“We can make the armor on our side. We have a few sets.”

“Galarhorn will probably handle it just fine. However, there is one helmet that would fit your head. Since the sword is a gift from Ard, consider this something you bought from me.”

It was a helmet with a rather aggressive design. The inverted cross-shaped protrusion running from the forehead to the crown was striking.

“Even if it were made thinner, it looks like it would easily deflect arrows. It seems more suited for headbutting contests with a triceratops. Should I smash jaws with this?”

He had learned from the dwarf king of Migelheim how to compliment a maker of war weapons. The savage flattery worked as expected. The older brother of Vandveer—who couldn’t help being a dwarf—twitched the corners of his mouth in satisfaction.

“Yes. Smash their jaws. Turn their lower faces to powder.”

“Wouldn’t that be unfair? This thing has such a thick chin guard that even an axe wouldn’t sink in.”

There was no craftsman who wouldn’t be pleased by a warrior’s flattery. But the dwarf’s smile soon crumpled.

“But something feels missing.”

“What?”

Shy about praise, but ready to argue at the first hint of criticism. A thoroughly dwarven attitude. It almost felt like he had returned to the surface. Nathan asked with a smile.

“Do you have anything I can draw with here?”

“Retribution? That’s what you wrote on the helmet?”

What shocked the waiting reporters was that very word. Retribution. The signs hanging from the necks of Ard Vandveer and the other dwarves who had been strung up on lampposts had borne that word. Written elegantly in black ink—Retribution.

And Nathan had appeared with the same phrase engraved on the front of his helmet. Crude handwriting, red ink. Like war paint a barbarian warrior had drawn in blood.

The high nobility of the Heavens had tried to bury the incident as much as possible. Not out of shame, but to frame the narrative. So that when the dwarves finally snapped under the weight of injustice, they could be painted as violent agitators who had risen without any justification. To do that, they needed to control the reports to some degree. And to control the reports, they had to at least hint at the contents.

Thanks to that, the reporters were well aware of the details of that hate crime. And now Nathan Maia had declared he would avenge it.

This was no longer a simple dispute over the valuable workshop district and arena shares. This was the revenge of the surface races. And a challenge to the Heavens. The bastard was showing his rebellious heart once again.

The reporters, who had caught the scent of a major scoop, found themselves trapped in a terrible dilemma. If they reported this, it would be a massive hit. But to convey it perfectly, they would also have to reveal the controlled story of the dwarves’ serial lynchings. Without that background knowledge, the meaning could not be fully delivered.

Taking advantage of the reporters’ hesitation as they agonized, Benny and the three gladiators followed Nathan down. They quickly entered the sanctuary. Just as the reporters finally came to their senses and tried to shout questions, the sanctuary doors slammed shut.

Liberation from the dizzying swarm of reporters that triggered social anxiety. Benny hid her expression behind her box and let out a thin, deep breath.

“It has the positive function of shutting down any chance of questions. I was right not to stop you. Thank you, Nathan.”

“Don’t mention it. If it was helpful, I’ll have to come up with even more performances like this in the future.”

“Please don’t.”

“Do you solemnly swear that the losing side will honestly provide the compensation promised, and that neither side will hold the other responsible even if one of the gladiators dies?”

The Conclave priest read the contract with his back to the giant statue of the Heavenly God. Benny, seated at one end of the gold-leafed wooden table, nervously tapped her fingers against it.

If you lose, hand over the promised price to your opponent, and do not hold them responsible for the gladiator’s death. The first part was understandable, but she hated the second. No matter who she sent out, she would have to send them off as if they were worthless, unable to claim any compensation. It terrified her.

She had already lost so many friends. The memory of Hodrick’s loss nearly made Benny shudder in front of her enemies. The death of a friend she had known for two hundred years. That event had already shaken her once. Could she endure any more loss? Just how devastating would Nathan’s death be to her? The mere thought made her want to bite her tongue.

In her heart, Benny prayed desperately. For Nathan to win.

“Don’t even dream of it.”

The owner of the dwarf workshop district. The proprietor of the opera troupe and the famous painting workshop. The head of the artistic Wingero family snorted.

“Of course I have no objection to the rules of the gladiator fight, Priest. However, you scrap-covered brat Somnus of Galarhorn. There is no chance my gladiator will lose to you.”

“We’ll see once they fight.”

“It’s against common decency to change gladiators right before the fight just because it’s before the contract ceremony. I never imagined the price would come back to bite me like this, huh?”

Orgetes Wingero, head of the Wingero family, grinned smugly and mocked her. His curled pink beard made it look like he was smiling with two mouths.

The bombshell news that his opponent would be the hundred-battle veteran Nathan Maia had forced the Wingero side to urgently change their gladiator as well. Instead of their retired Sword Saint family gladiator, they had borrowed the best gladiator from the highest connections—the Consul. It must have been an outrageous request. They had probably offered a considerable bribe. Orgetes’ obsession with never losing was clear.

“I heard your new wife publicly announced yesterday that she would divorce you if you fail to obtain the dwarf workshop district of Sorgheim. Without even leaving her husband a hint that she would humiliate him publicly. It will be fun to watch how the assets are divided if I win.”

At Benny’s counterattack, the smile vanished from Orgetes’ face.

“I won’t deny that you dug into my weakness well. But legally, I only need to endure for thirty years. Once that period passes, that bitch won’t be able to divorce me or take a single penny of my money no matter what she does. The same goes for you. You already know who the Consul lent me, don’t you?”

Just the existence of that gladiator seemed to fill him with self-satisfaction. Having regained his smile, Orgetes twisted his face in utmost malice.

“The Knight of Death. Cardon.”

Benny swallowed hard. Down below—beneath the terrace, beneath the room where the elves were signing the contract—he was there. Armor blacker than a starless night, like graphite. A chill radiating from every gap in that thick plate. The steel-slicing Cardon.

Gladiator record: 67 fights, 67 wins, 0 losses. Though his career was short, among those he had cut down were warriors with over a hundred victories. Considering Nathan had finished all one hundred of his battles in victory, Cardon had already slain someone with far more arena experience than Nathan.

And one more thing. That man was the Consul’s gladiator. In the east, where there was no king, the Consul was the de facto monarch, and through that man he had amassed wealth nearly equal to Galarhorn’s corporate value. To transfer such a person to his subordinate through loopholes was absurd.

The other major shareholder of the Great Arena, the Consul, seemed to want to use this opportunity to completely crush Galarhorn.

They pointed out our sudden gladiator change as if it were unfair, but they must have been planning this for a long ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time.

Asterion was an excellent gladiator, but the opponent was an undefeated one. They weren’t on the same level. If they hadn’t switched to Nathan, they might have been caught off guard right before the contract again.

Damn bastards.

Benny tried hard not to show her agitation. Neither Benny nor the temporary owner Orgetes had expected it, but the same was true for Cardon. The undefeated Cardon was also doing his best to hide his panic, just like Benny.

Beneath the terrace where the owners examined the gladiator fight contract, in the plaza of confrontation where the gladiators, bound by golden chains, sized each other up, the Conclave soldiers supervising them could not hide their bewilderment. The one who had always drenched his opponents in instinctive terror—Cardon—was now avoiding his opponent’s gaze.

“Come on, no way. I have a pretty good memory, you know. It’s embarrassing to say myself, but I’m not exactly the kind of guy people forget.”

On the other hand, Nathan was tilting his head and examining Cardon from head to toe. Having gained certainty, Nathan shoved his face close.

“No, seriously. How twisted does fate have to be for us to meet again in a place like this? You really don’t remember me? Did you get into some kind of accident in the meantime?”

“I don’t?”

Nathan didn’t miss the verbal slip. As Nathan’s smile grew wider, Cardon was grateful for the first time in his life for the black vapor that flowed within his abyssal heavy armor. It meant the tightly shut eyes inside the armor wouldn’t be seen from outside.

“Bullshit. The way you’re stumbling over your words while claiming you don’t remember— you abyssal collaborator bastard.”