How Do You Beat That? (1)

The end is near, Sapiens.

The Eleim priest shouted into the cell. A sunless solitary cell barely four pyeong in size. That filthy hole was his home. It resembled less a prison and more an animal cage smuggled through a port. Appius Albanus, priest of the Conclave’s Heaven Temple, snorted.

The Heavens were too merciful to sinners. Given the crimes this bastard had committed, the punishment should have been far harsher.

“This will be your last match, so if you have any last words, speak them now.”

No answer came. Not even the sound of breathing. Within the shadows draped over the cell, there was no movement at all. After a moment, the priest frowned and turned to the warden.

“Why can’t I see him? Has he escaped, or…?”

“This is the Punishment Arena. What exactly do you take us for, priest?”

“In my eyes, everyone is a citizen of the Heavenly God. Just like every other Eleim, I too am capable of error.”

At the arrogant, self-righteous tone, the warden—his face covered in scars—grimaced. He wasn’t seriously suspecting an escape. It was simply the usual swagger that came with being an apostle of the One God.

Priest Appius thrust his chin out sharply and asked again.

“Answer me clearly. You’re certain he is in there?”

“Yeah. He’s there, dumbass. Where the hell else would he go?”

Of course, those weren’t the warden’s words. He might have thought them, but the whisper that brushed the back of the priest’s head came from beyond the cell bars.

The gaunt priest leapt into the air. Appius, startled out of his wits, forgot the pain in his bruised knee from slamming into the stone floor and spun around in a panic. The sight of the Sapiens’ inverted face nearly made him jump again.

“Gh-ghost—”

“Not dead yet, ear-fucker. Despite all your pathetic fucking attempts.”

Sweat dripped from hair matted by ascetic suffering. It wouldn’t have been strange to mistake him for a vengeful spirit. The Sapiens, his white hair hanging down, growled.

“And I don’t keep any shitty last words. This place is too cramped for that kind of thing.”

The Sapiens had neither escaped nor become a ghost. He had simply been hidden in the shadow of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ceiling. By using the upper part of the cell bars as exercise equipment and hanging upside down, he really had looked like a specter poking only its head out.

The Sapiens, who had been suspended like an acrobat, dropped lightly into the center of the cell. A feat of landing without a sound despite being over 190 centimeters tall. Then he turned his back on the priest and sat down.

“I had heard that your manner of speech was insolent, but you truly know no bounds.”

The priest, rising while brushing off dust, felt irritation surge at the insolent attitude.

“If you have nothing to confess, sinner, let us get straight to the point. I have a proposal for you.”

“Shut up for a second. I’m catching a rat.”

At the Sapiens’ low murmur while sweat dripped from him, the priest wore a dumbfounded expression.

“Huh? A rat?”

A rat? To think a filthy rodent took priority over him. Since joining the Heaven God’s order, never once as an apostle of the One God had he been disregarded like this. The priest’s brain, unable to process the nonsensical situation, decided he must have misheard because the voice was too low.

Regaining his composure, Appius spoke with maximum arrogance.

“As you know, you cannot survive the next match. Therefore, I advise you to give up now.”

“I refuse. Close your trap. The rats are all running away.”

“You must already know what your next opponent is. Being chewed to death by a monster with thirty-four pairs of dagger-sized teeth would be—”

The priest tapped the iron bars with the vial he had taken from his robe. The transparent death inside sloshed.

“This way will be far less painful.”

The Sapiens muttered, still scanning the floor as if absorbed in something.

“Isn’t that match-fixing? I know a guy who nearly got fucked by a Conclave bishop on charges of interfering with a match.”

“Coercion is illegal. However, gently persuading someone does not violate the laws of the Heavenly God.”

The white-haired Sapiens’ hand, which had been wandering in the air, moved like lightning. With a sharp squeak, what he caught was indeed a rat. A sewer rat that had grown plump by feeding on the death produced daily in the Punishment Arena.

The Sapiens turned around. Then, right in front of the priest, he ripped the rat’s head open. Blood splattered. The priest, whose face had twisted in disgust at the filth on the floor, looked ready to vomit.

“You can’t be… planning to eat that?”

“If you have complaints about my diet, bring real food instead of poison.”

Snorting, the Sapiens brought the rat close to his mouth, then suddenly frowned and sniffed.

“What the hell did you feed it? It smells like something that shouldn’t be eaten.”

Instead of the priest, who was now gripping the wall and dry-heaving, the warden answered.

“Not many visitors come this far. But when we heard the priest was suddenly dropping by, we cleaned up a bit.”

“You laced it with poison, Phyllis?”

“Pretty strong stuff. Does it smell that bad?”

When Warden Phyllis scratched his long ear and shrugged, the Sapiens sighed, stood up, and approached the bars.

“I tried to avoid being poisoned and nearly disinfected my stomach instead.”

The priest briefly held his breath at the body revealed under the light. It was truly monstrous. At first glance, it resembled an artist’s masterpiece—one who had devoted his life’s skill to expressing the ultimate warrior’s physique. Of course, to produce a finished product like that, one would also need the debauchery of getting blackout drunk and abusing the chisel on the sculpture.

The moment he saw the scar tissue carved in every possible direction, biological instinct screamed: never oppose someone who survived battles like that. A form where the words violence and danger had solidified into muscle and bone, mimicking a human shape.

When he opened his mouth, the priest unconsciously expected words of savagery, war, and brutality—something like ripping off a coward’s head and pissing on it. However, the man’s words were utterly ordinary.

“Lunchtime isn’t over yet, is it, Phyllis?”

“You’re eating in the cafeteria?”

“Looks like I should today.”

The priest’s face twisted in shock, becoming a comical sight. If they provided a decent meal every day, then why… a rat? Why would he try to eat a creature that had crawled through sewers, its fur and organs caked in filth? Did these Lower World species only eat disgusting raw meat they hunted themselves?

The Sapiens glanced at the priest, whose eyes trembled with revulsion, then shook his head as if to say he had seen every kind of idiot before and stood up. When the Sapiens threw on the clothes he had tossed aside, the warden sighed, rummaged in his pocket, and took out keys and handcuffs.

The moment the solitary cell door opened, the Sapiens obediently extended both arms to accept the cuffs.

“Priest, if you have business, either postpone it or finish it now.”

At the warden’s indifferent voice, Priest Appius snapped back to his senses.

“Huh?”

“Meal times for inmates are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠protected by the arena’s regulations. And once the meal ends, the match might begin immediately. So this visit will likely end here.”

Anger rose on the priest’s face as he blankly processed the words.

“Do you even know who I—”

“The staff of the Punishment Arena listen only to the arena master’s words.”

“But that Sapiens—”

“What about me?”

The Sapiens thrust his face forward right in front of the priest’s sharply pointed finger. Appius hastily withdrew his index finger and stepped back. The Punishment Arena guards lined up in the corridor all leveled their spears at the Sapiens at once. Yet Appius could not feel safe at all.

“What is it?”

Appius, eyes bulging as he prepared to hurl insults, found himself speechless at that single phrase. What is it? With just one word, Appius forgot every line he had prepared.

This was not the same man he had seen from afar four years ago when dragged into the Punishment Arena. Dozens of battles had transformed him into something else entirely. Killing intent. A colossal killing intent that Appius’s thin legs could not withstand. A violent gaze like standing before a dragon that had lost its eggs—an overwhelming superior from whom resistance was impossible.

Just before the priest’s legs gave out and he collapsed in terror, about to wet himself—

“Enough.”

The warden thrust a hand in front of the Sapiens to stop him.

“You only have one match left, Nathan.”

“I was just asking what it was.”

“For you, it ends after one match. But if a Conclave priest dies, I’ll have to submit at least a hundred pages of reports.”

“It ends for me once I get out?”

The Sapiens nodded obediently and stepped back. Then he broke into a wide grin. To Appius’s eyes, it looked like a tiger wrinkling its face.

“Sounds like you believe I’ll win. Thanks for the kind words, even if it’s just talk.”

“What are friends for? Of course I won’t bet on you this time either.”

“Bet on me, you coward. How many chances have you had—ninety-nine times—and you still miss every one, you spineless old bastard.”

Watching Nathan and the guards disappear down the corridor, the priest’s eyelids twitched. The Punishment Arena. This place was neither an ordinary prison nor an ordinary arena. It was a living hell that gathered together those the Heavens wished to see bleed and die. To think the man walked off bickering like close friends with a warden who had likely bathed his hands in inmates’ blood for hundreds of years. What kind of sorcery had he used? Or did it mean this was the only way to control him?

Unable to understand the situation, the priest finally collapsed on the spot. The fact that his bladder, long past its limit, had given up entirely was simply extra.

“Where’s that urine smell com—”

“Shh, shh.”

Far from the priest, the white-haired Sapiens suddenly turned his head. Warden Phyllis quickly diverted his attention. It seemed the priest needed some time alone.

The Punishment Arena was neither an ordinary arena nor an ordinary prison. It was a living hell that gathered those the Heavens wished to see bleed and die. Yet even in such a slaughterhouse, they provided three meals a day. It was not out of mercy. It was simply because starving them to death was not the goal. The laws of the Heavenly God demanded they spill healthy blood to pay for their sins.

Of course, since it was a place of punishment, the tables were not abundant. In most cases, they provided only enough food to keep them from actually starving. Inmates often sneered that the results looked no different from what went into the toilet. Therefore, days when anything resembling meat appeared were extremely rare.

“This is real ham. Real meat ham with nothing mixed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in.”

Today’s menu was nothing short of a miracle unfolding in the middle of a pit of fire. The human inmate stood before the serving window, scratching his yellowish hair. He gazed at the ham falling onto his tray with eyes as ecstatic as if witnessing a holy spirit.

Every time a slice of ham dropped, the name tag on his chest trembled.

Puebor’s emotion, however, ended the moment he received the tray with trembling hands. Inmates ignoring the line shoved forward violently. Pushed aside by the group’s strength, Puebor slipped and fell disgracefully onto the tiled floor. Even then, his eyes remained fixed on the ham, so Puebor clearly remembered the moment today’s small happiness merged with the grease stains on the dirty cafeteria floor.

It was the greatest tragedy he had experienced recently. More painful than when he had been bitten by the arena hounds the Eleim ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠released. His heart hurt more now than his broken shin had back then.

“Which… which bastard—!”

It had been real meat in such a long time. Real meat instead of the porridge boiled from grass roots and garbage. It might have been the last meat he could eat before dying. Yet the moment he looked back, Puebor’s rage quickly cooled.

Hastily hiding his scrawny fist, Puebor lowered his eyes.

“Who else, you little shit? What are you looking at, Sapiens bastard?”

The golden-haired Eleim shouted triumphantly. The large gang of Eleim surrounding him for protection chuckled.

A person who had never once appeared in the cafeteria until now had shown up today of all days.

“The elder said he wanted to taste it first. Got a problem with that, bloodbag?”

Not the gray prisoner uniform but colorful silk clothes. Distinguished from other inmates even in attire, he had insolently hung his name tag not on his left chest but on a golden chain necklace.

Iclepes. The second son of that famous Sword Star Sect consul. The arsonist who had set fire to a village where Lower World laborers lived. Among the dead had been people Puebor knew.

‘Damn bastard. Three matches my ass.’

The child of a powerful figure would never fight a proper battle. An opponent for someone who had trained in swordsmanship for hundreds of years as the child of a renowned warrior would, at best, be nothing more than a small wild dog. After beating a blind, whimpering mutt to death, the bastard had spent the past three months resting comfortably, picking fights with a body that didn’t have a single injury while other inmates died by the dozens daily facing minotaurs or starving hounds.

Boiling rage begged to be allowed to smash the bastard’s face. But Puebor endured.

‘Only three matches left until I earn my freedom. Damn it, just three matches!’

Even if he punched that face, he would only receive retaliation. If a bone even broke, he would die in the next fight. For the weak Puebor, it was a fight with too much to lose.

“Hey.”

Puebor slowly raised both hands and tried to stand.

“I don’t want any conflict—”

A kick flew in. With his chin stomped on, Puebor’s head slammed into the floor.

“What you want, you son of a bitch, doesn’t matter for even as long as your mayfly lifespan. What matters is how I feel!”

In the Heavens, where every existing thing was ranked from high to low, there was naturally a hierarchy even among those paying for sins with blood. Even among fellow prisoners, a Lower World species had no right to look at the child of a prestigious Eleim family with dissatisfaction. Whether that was actually written in the law book didn’t matter; that was what Iclepes believed, and no one had been brave enough to contradict the biological son of a consul.

Therefore, the descendant of a great house carried out what he believed to be right. The kicks meticulously punished Puebor. While the trampled Puebor trembled, Iclepes hummed and received ham, salad, and bread at the serving window.

“You should try the cafeteria food at least once. That way I can brag that I’ve experienced everything the arena has to offer, right?”

The Eleim gang mechanically guffawed in response. After ordering a subordinate to carry his tray, Iclepes walked back toward Puebor. As Puebor struggled to get up, he was shoved by someone’s shoe and fell again. Then he was beaten until blood burst out.

Someone had clearly crossed a line. In the cafeteria, the tacit neutral zone. Normally someone would have stepped in to stop it, but right now no one did. Among the inmates sitting in the cafeteria, there was no one who could oppose Iclepes, protected by the power of a great house.

The hundreds of inmates—most of them from the Lower World—turned their eyes from the beating. Some swallowed bitterness, others swallowed fury. They had to look away. What other choice was there? That was reality.

“Hey? Didn’t I say hey? Where should I be looking! Lift your eyes to what, you damned Lower World bastard! A life that should have died in the hell down below! Our Eleim raised you up to paradise! Instead of being grateful like you would to your parents—!”

“Hey.”

But someone seemed to be living in a completely different reality.

“Move.”

“Move?”

One of the Eleim gang watching the beating from behind their young master turned around with a ferocious expression.

“You’re telling us to move? Are you crazy? Who the hell are—”

The words died in his throat. He froze as if bitten by a snake. As the beast-like smile hidden in the shadows approached, the Eleim swallowed hard and stepped back.

“Yeah. I said move.”

The smile full of malice grew even wider.

“Did you buy the cafeteria, you bitch?”

That unforgettable low voice laced with mockery. Every inmate in the cafeteria flinched at once. Even Iclepes, who had been about to finish Puebor off.

Ham was clearly a great invention that had left its mark on the history of food culture. It had summoned two big shots who never appeared in the cafeteria right up to the serving window.

He tore through the silence with his presence and strode into the middle of the cafeteria. The forearm scratching the messy white hair made it impossible to tell whether the scars or the muscles were more terrifying. But what best summarized the existence called Nathan was that name tag.

A worn, bloodstained name tag. The gang of Eleim’s eyes were drawn to his chest as if bewitched.

The worst heinous criminal in the Heavens, sentenced to one hundred matches, suddenly erased his smile.

“Where do you think you’re looking, you perverted bastards? Get those eyes off him.”