Death Knight (2): Undefeated No More

The title "Death Knight" might sound majestic at first, but it was by no means a synonym for invincibility. It simply meant he had yet to be defeated. The Great Arena had hosted countless gladiators who boasted of being undefeated. And most of them had lost both their lives and their pride amid waves of ridicule. Even if a defeated fighter somehow clung to life through the mercy of the crowd and their opponent, the moment the title of Undefeated Gladiator was stripped away would inevitably arrive. Still, a few voices cautiously insisted that Kadon might be the exception.

Unlike the Celestial Realm, shielded by the gods from the Abyss, the Lower World—the domain of the old and decaying gods—was a living hell half-devoured by that same Abyss. At least, that was how the Eleim understood it. Therefore, the Death Knight, as the Abyss’s herald, naturally stood at the peak of the food chain.

Eight years ago, when Kadon, the first Death Knight to step onto the blood-soaked sands of the gladiator fights, made his debut, he proved it with a spectacular entrance. Any true fan of the fights remembered that chilling footprint. His debut match where a Morphosis chimera devoured him whole, only for him to rip his way out of its stomach using the creature’s own abyssal regeneration. The two-meter-forty-centimeter orc discovered by the airship syndicate Kysomalos. The legendary moment when that colossal slab of muscle tore a bull apart as a performance, making the crowd tremble just by standing there, before being casually sliced in two. And then there was the Ingr berserker that the frozen-food corporation Erishton had dragged from the northern tundra of the Celestial Realm. Kadon had dismembered the monster—who had supposedly devoured dozens of his own kind in his madness—and slowly savored the act of ending him.

Overwhelming, brutal fights. Sixty-seven victories. Exactly what one would expect from the Archon’s chosen champion. The audience gradually laid down their cups of doubt and began showering him with unreserved praise. When word spread that his next opponent would be Nathan Maia, the cheers bordered on hysteria.

He’s the real thing. If anyone can do it, it’s Kadon. After all, the Great Arena is where the strongest beings in the world gather. Hasn’t Nathan Maia never even set foot in it before?

…Ah.

The Death Knight betrayed every last one of their expectations—by losing his face in the very first exchange and being sent flying three meters backward.

Lawrence felt no particular regret about disappointing the Eleim fans. His brain had been so thoroughly rattled by the blow that he wasn’t even sure how much of it remained intact. The only thought occupying the ruined gray matter inside his skull was the absolute certainty that he could never win.

The collision had begun with Nathan’s provocation. That indifferent stance, the sword arm dangling loosely at his side. Faced with such blatant mockery from an opponent who had only just reached twenty, Lawrence had charged in rage. The price for seizing the initiative was horrific. Perhaps it had never been provocation at all, but pure confidence—the pure confidence that he could rip a Death Knight apart with his bare hands.

Coughing up black blood, Lawrence finally lifted his head long after the fact to see what had crushed him. Nathan peeled the face guard—now crumpled into the perfect shape of a fist—from his hand and tossed it at Lawrence’s feet.

“Take it back, Abyss Knight.”

Lawrence thought, dazed. A fist. Not a cannon, not a battering ram—a fist. He hadn’t even seen the swing.

With newly regenerated eyes still streaming tears of pain, Lawrence shuddered at the clumps of flesh scattered along the path he had been blasted through. For an ordinary warrior, that single punch would have ended the fight.

“You haven’t changed much since I was fourteen, Lawrence. That’s a problem. Looks like you’re definitely going to die today. Even if I don’t kill you, those bloodthirsty spectators will never forgive you.”

Nathan’s words were almost drowned out by the overwhelming roar of jeers vibrating through his skull. If his vision hadn’t recovered, Lawrence would have thought he’d been hit with a follow-up strike. Sixteen thousand voices were scolding him in unison. That’s all you’ve got?

Damn it, what the hell do you want from me? Get down here and kill me yourselves!

This was the first injury of this magnitude since the chimera had torn into him on his first day. After that, the Archon had only thrown opponents at him that he could handle with the sheer pressure of the Abyss. Living props to uphold the dignity of the Archon’s champion. The broken bones that had grown back were now grinding and splitting again.

The Death Knight reached into the wide cavity of his breastplate. His fingers found the trigger handle.

12 Hours Earlier. Archon Amphitryon’s Residence.

“What did you say?”

“You heard the boy, Father.”

When Archon Amphitryon’s eyelids fluttered, his son—Sword Saint Captain Alceides—let out a low chuckle.

“He says he probably won’t even be able to draw his weapon in front of him. Nathan Maia is simply too terrifying. Apparently you aren’t as frightening as that boy, Father.”

The Archon flicked his fingers through the air in irritation before finally pressing his palm to his face.

“Kadon. Look here, my dear Kadon.”

It’s Lawrence. My name is Lawrence.

Of course, Lawrence did not say it aloud. He simply bowed his head lower.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my lord. I—”

“My lord? I told you to call me Amphitryon. You are no longer even my formal subordinate. I hope the day comes when we can address each other by name without discomfort.”

The radical courtesy of discarding distant titles. Yet the moment Lawrence accepted it with gratitude would be the day of his funeral. He could imagine himself saying, Hey, Amphitryon, and the very next instant being shredded to pieces by the blades of the Sword Saint Order.

“First, some good news. There is no way to pull you from a match that has already been scheduled, however…”

A politician’s artful wordplay. As if Kadon had stumbled into this predicament through someone else’s fault. In truth it simply meant they would rather push the match forward—even if the gladiator died—than swallow the financial loss of a penalty fee.

“There is one way for you to survive.”

“What… is it?”

Archon Amphitryon gestured to the servants with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a somber expression, as though he truly did not wish to do this. Kadon found the look extremely ominous. His premonition proved correct.

Inside the armor case the servants carried lay a grotesque object. At first glance it resembled a mechanical device woven with circuits. The only difference was that the circuits were not metal wires or rubber cords but tangled clusters of living, pulsating black organisms. The heart-like abomination even had straps attached like a backpack.

“What… is this?”

“If you ask my father the same question one more time, I will rip your mouth open at thirty-minute intervals until the day you finally meet that white-haired Sapiens.”

Sword Saint Captain Alceides seized Lawrence by the nape and snarled.

“Enough, Alceides. I have no desire to see blood dripping inside my little tomb. That sort of barbarism belongs in the Great Arena.”

My little tomb. He spoke of a palace-like mansion built with the gold of a great house as if it were a humble grave he would one day occupy. It was a vile deception, yet the human maids showed no reaction. If any of them dared smile in astonishment, they would be “replaced” immediately.

The Archon silenced his son with a wave, then jerked his chin at Lawrence.

“Put it on.”

“Pardon?”

Sky-blue sword qi from the Sword Saint sliced across the back of his neck. As Lawrence screamed and clutched his skull, the Archon sighed and explained.

“I do not usually see eye to eye with our friends at Morphosis. I have always felt their methods were excessively radical and lacking in consideration.”

Morphosis. The biotechnology corporation. A nest of agony filled with the screams of the living.

The Sword Saint had told Lawrence that if he returned from defeat without a single wound, he would be thrown into the hell those people had built and used as a test subject until he rotted. Given a Death Knight’s regenerative nature, defeat was essentially the same as signing an eternal consent form to become a living specimen.

The skin tissue on the back of his neck was already creaking and swelling back together.

“That said, apart from their radical tendencies, the creativity and intellect of the scholars at Morphosis are truly remarkable. This is a weapon they created. Among all my gladiators, only you can wield it. A powerful weapon that runs on the power of the Abyss.”

“The only problem is that it explodes after activation.”

“Alceides, do not speak so lightly when it is not your neck on the line. How do you think Kadon feels?”

Lawrence, who had been blankly trying to process the explanation, finally grasped the concept.

Mutual destruction. A suicide charge.

Only then did the realization hit him. “Oh god. Oh dear god.”

“Throw your body at the Sapiens and take him with you. Like a warship that sets its own deck ablaze before ramming the enemy. Is that not a warrior’s dream of an end?”

Then what happens to me?

Probably no stupider question existed. They did not care in the slightest. Eight years and sixty-seven battles of service were nothing but a fleeting instant to beings who possessed eternity.

“This… is barbaric.”

“Mind your tongue, you gloomy-colored Sapiens. Who knows? In the middle of a massive Abyss energy explosion, a Sapiens might die, but perhaps you could survive? I guarantee it would be better than the alternative. You toured Morphosis last time, didn’t you? What was it—the human fruit? Wow, that one was particularly hard to forget.”

Lawrence remembered it too. A giant cluster of grapes. Each one bearing a human face. Even in that basement landscape condensed from the malice of living things, that sculpture had stood out and tormented him for days. The horrific clump of heads kept alive by drugs, every single one of them begging for wishes that would never be granted.

Save us. Take us out. Or just kill us.

If things went wrong, he might become one of those cores.

“You sent me to that basement that day… to make me do this?”

“Is it such a difficult request? Don’t you possess the regenerative ability granted by the masters of the Abyss?”

“That would be true for ordinary wounds. But exposure to highly concentrated Abyss power inflicts fatal, unhealing injuries on us as well! It is the power of my masters, as you said! How is ordering me to explode to death an easy request!”

“You told us you survive as long as you aren’t burned or torn apart. Were you lying?”

“Alceides! That is enough!”

Alceides, who had been drawing his sword behind Lawrence, pouted and stepped back.

The Archon placed a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and spoke in a low, soothing tone.

“Kadon. I understand how you feel.”

The next words drained what little color remained in Lawrence’s already corpse-like face.

“Your master is me. Not the masters of the Abyss. When I command, you obey.”

“Please. Don’t do this.”

“Have I not saved you from the very defeat you fear so much until now?”

By only sending manageable opponents. By keeping you far from the root of your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠terror—defeat. By feeding you refined Abyss in great quantities and restoring you to the pinnacle of your strength when you were losing the Abyss’s blessing.

But Lawrence did not want to face even them. All he needed was a place to remain. As if sensing that frailty, the Archon’s eyes hardened.

“Whether you choose to remain a failure until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the end is up to you. Still, it seems far better to gamble on a low probability than to suffer someone’s malice and endlessly relive your final failure. At least, if I were you, that is what I would choose.”

You can survive. It is something only you can do. It is necessary.

The Archon repeated the words until Lawrence finally lowered his head and answered that he understood. The Archon nodded with a benevolent smile. Once the Archon was satisfied, the conversation ended there. As always.

Lawrence clenched his teeth and gripped the handle of the Abyss bomb tightly. He did not want to do this. In truth, it seemed he had never once willingly stepped into the filth. The Eleim gladiators had done it because they were starving. As the Abyss’s power gradually thinned, they could no longer endure purely human pain. Becoming a Knight of the Abyss had also been nothing more than a desperate bid to survive. And the cavalry enlistment that had started it all had been nothing but a drunken act of youthful rebellion…

Pain awakened memories of his human days. Traces of the human Lawrence that the Abyss had buried so he could never return. Lawrence squeezed his eyes shut. In some ways, memories hurt worse than fists.

It’s not about regretting after the fact, you immature son. If you’ve decided to go, then go all the way. Look at your old father. How can I entrust you with my sword and rest easy?

Yes. So that’s what my father’s voice sounded like. I’ll forget it again soon.

Lawrence nodded. Then struggled to his feet, body trembling.

All the while, Nathan had simply waited, yawning. The moment Lawrence swung his greatsword again, Nathan slipped outside the arc and drove his fist between the blade and the Death Knight’s face. The force was enough to rip steel plates from heavy armor. Several minutes passed before the Death Knight managed to stand once more.

Nathan shook his head. He could repeat the same thing all day long. The opponent didn’t seem capable of matching his timing at all.

“So, did you come up with a plan? Did you hide a letter of surrender inside that arm you shoved into your chest? Unfortunately I don’t accept surrenders even if you wave a white flag. I have orders to beat you into a pulp.”

“…A pulp? Who?”

When the Death Knight mumbled through his poorly reattached jawbone, Nathan jerked his chin.

“That armor. That custom piece you’re wearing. It must weigh at least forty kilograms, yet I hear you didn’t pay a fair price. Some craftsmen might be generous with credit, but most are sensitive about such matters. Given its size, it must have been hell to forge.”

The dwarf who had protested to receive proper payment for that terrifying armor had supposedly been beaten to death by thugs in the middle of Sorgheim’s main street the very next day. After that, Kadon’s armor repairs were always entrusted to Sorgheim, and the dwarves never demanded payment. It had happened before Nathan ever reached the Heavens, but the dwarves of the workshop brand Sorgheim had not forgotten. Those who suffered such things never forgot easily. The same held true for Lawrence, who had never worn the armor by choice.

Lawrence withdrew his empty hand from inside his chest. Then he forcibly twisted off the helmet that had been crushed onto his head.

Damn it, who cares about those dwarf bastards.

With eyes burning with resentment, Lawrence picked up his weapon once more.

“All of you, shut up. Please.”

The commentator’s desperate attempt to salvage the situation was nothing more than pandering to the audience. It gave Lawrence no strength at all. Nathan let out a small laugh and made a show of playing along with the commentator.

“However, Gladiator Lawrence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looks quite exhausted even on his second attempt. In fact, it seems like he’s not far from giving up. What do you think, sir?”

“Shut up—!”

Lawrence heaved the greatsword onto his shoulder with a groan and swung it with all his might. Even with muscles reinforced by the Abyss, the sword was almost too heavy to wield. A blade that looked capable of splitting the skull of the Federation’s strongest warhorse, Hammer Steed, in a single blow. Perhaps the grudge from his battle against the Lion Wing Knights had gone into its forging.

Nathan was not an idiot. He circled to the side of the attack range and kicked the Death Knight’s shin. Lawrence staggered back several steps, tumbled in an undignified roll, and had his head crushed beneath the sword he had dropped. His limbs twitched.

The spectators’ collective sigh shook the ground.