How Do You Beat That? (2)
Per arena regulations, the second column should have listed:
Crimes: Eleim Murder. Royal Assassination. Incitement of War. 100 Matches. Ground Species, Sapiens.
Yet Nathan had gouged out every word and carefully engraved something else in its place with ink of unknown origin:
Human. Proud Single-Winged Knight of the Lion Wing Knights.
He had appeared. The only being in this arena that Iclipes feared. Nathan Maia. A human. The proud single-winged knight of the Lion Wing Knights.
As the man who had vandalized his own tag like that and still somehow avoided being beaten to death by the guards drew near, Iclipes swallowed hard. By contrast, the ground-species prisoners felt a long-standing burden finally lift from their chests.
Normally Iclipes went out of his way to avoid Nathan. Anyone who had killed two high-ranking Eleim would make any young master from the eastern elite feel uneasy if they shared the same building. In truth, avoiding him had not been especially difficult until now. Thanks to the endless poisoning and ambush attempts, Nathan rarely showed himself anywhere in the facility.
Today, however, Nathan had come to him.
“Hey, Iclipes.”
When Nathan gave a casual nod, Iclipes instinctively averted his eyes. His pride burned, but primal terror won.
“…Didn’t you have a match today?”
“I do. In about three hours. I was planning to keep my stomach empty, but they just served ham, of all things.”
As Nathan sauntered closer, Iclipes—who had been perched on the table trying to look relaxed—leapt down and backed away at once.
“It was a very touching speech. Respect them like your own parents. After all, we turned you ground creatures into the sheep of heaven.” The tone made it clear he believed none of it. “But if I’m going to seriously consider whether that statement is true, I need to fill my belly first. I’m so hungry my brain isn’t working right.”
Nathan gestured for them to make way. It was a far more civilized approach than the fighters in the cafeteria had imagined. At least he hadn’t said he would tear them apart alive if they didn’t move. To the Eleim, however, that was exactly how it sounded.
The Eleim gang quietly stepped aside from the serving counter. When several of the larger ones tried to lift the fallen Puebor, his boots dragged across the floor, leaving a snail-like trail of buttocks on the dirty ground. Nathan followed the mark with his eyes and added another request.
“I’d appreciate it if you stayed clear of my friend Puebor as well.”
Iclipes swallowed again. He didn’t want to look any weaker in front of his subordinates. “Puebor and I still have unfinished business. What does that have to do with you?”
His subordinates, however, felt the exact opposite. They kept shooting desperate glances at their employer’s son. If anyone died after picking a fight with that monster, the first victim was far more likely to be one of them than Iclipes.
Nathan delivered the finishing blow to the wavering Eleim. “What do you mean, what does it have to do with me? That friend promised to serve my food ahead of time.”
The entire cafeteria froze in heart-stopping shock. Whether any such promise had actually been made was unknown. But the fact that he had said those words meant…
The Punishment Arena was a place where death always hovered close. Something as simple as an empty stomach could decide a life. Touching another fighter’s tray, therefore, meant war. Secret death-matches behind the guards’ backs would not be surprising. Nathan had essentially proposed they try to kill each other.
Suddenly. Out of nowhere. Without warning.
Everyone remembered what had happened four years earlier, when Nathan Maia first entered the Punishment Arena. The Eleim who had ignorantly touched Nathan’s tray was found dead that same day—strangled by a “rope” fashioned from the “tray.” No one could prove the charge, so extending his sentence was never even considered. Not that it mattered; no penalty beyond one hundred matches existed anyway.
A silence like cold water poured over flames. Expectation and terror rose together. One of the Eleim seated at a table carefully lifted his untouched tray and offered it. He, too, was one of Iclipes’s subordinates. The food was pristine.
Nathan’s eyes glittered as he looked between the tray and the Eleim. “You’re yielding? To a Sapiens? My heart feels warm.”
Iclipes, sweating bullets, unconsciously let out an awkward smile. Was the situation resolved?
“Not yours. Give it to Puebor. I’ve taken a liking to that one’s tray.” Nathan pointed at Iclipes.
The Archon’s son blinked. “…My meal?”
“Your meal.” Nathan’s dry smile widened. “What are you waiting for? Move.”
Those who died in a single match were too many to count. Anyone sentenced to more than five matches had slim odds of survival. Those given more than twenty were doomed regardless of strength. And anyone sentenced to one hundred matches was someone you must never provoke. A madman crazy enough to earn such a sentence would hesitate at nothing when he was already marked for death.
Thus an unwritten rule had taken root in the Punishment Arena: do not touch a one-hundred-match fighter. Not unless you wanted a traveling companion on the road to hell. The rule applied whether you were a fellow fighter or a guard. And it applied to Nathan Maia as well.
Iclipes turned away with a face like he had bitten into a worm while his subordinates hesitantly lifted his tray. He glared at Nathan’s back as the man helped Puebor to his feet. He only glared. Because—
“How the hell do you fight a crazy bastard who’s won ninety-nine matches in just four years?”
At the whisper behind him, Iclipes ground his teeth.
Fighters sentenced to arena matches usually protected their bodies. They feared injury that might ruin the next bout, or an additional sentence. Nathan, however, behaved as if the word “caution” did not exist in his vocabulary. Thanks to the astronomical donations from the Eleim, he was forced into unreasonable consecutive fights. Yet Nathan himself pushed to advance his next match as quickly as possible. Other prisoner-fighters clicked their tongues while watching him on the screens, blood dripping as he demanded fresh opponents. They assumed he planned to leave this place within ten years.
They were wrong. Nathan was facing his final match after only four years.
That fact alone ensured no inmate dared oppose him. The additional problem was that he existed, for all practical purposes, above the law. Even if he beat someone to death, Nathan would never receive an extra match. Since no one had ever survived one hundred, the legal maximum penalty was exactly one hundred. It was the limit of ancient laws backed by fifteen hundred years of authority—laws that could not be changed.
In other words, even if Nathan turned Iclipes into meat paste right now, neither Iclipes nor his family had any immediate recourse. Nathan’s sentence would not increase. All Iclipes could do was pray the Sapiens never realized that truth.
Damn it, of course he knows. Why did that rat-eating bastard suddenly show up in the cafeteria…
“They brought out ham, didn’t they.”
As if reading his mind, Nathan brushed past with a grin. Iclipes tucked his chin into his neck and looked away.
When the prisoners cleared an entire table and fled, Nathan accepted the courtesy with pleasure. He sat in the center of the empty table and began butchering the already-dead ham with the ferocity of someone ready to chew through the metal plate itself. Puebor, seated across from him, blinked stupidly.
“Wow,” Nathan breathed. “No poison. Incredible.”
“…Poison? You stole Iclipes’s tray because you thought it might be poisoned?”
“Half of it?” Nathan mumbled through a mouthful.
Puebor read clear paranoia in those eyes, but he shook his head and pushed the discomfort aside. Damn it, I should be thanking him. Nathan had pulled him out of trouble for no reason other than shared blood, then even sat him down and secured his meal time. Instead of lifting food to his bruised mouth, Puebor asked blankly, “How did you know my name? You never even looked at my tag.”
“How? We’ve passed each other plenty of times. Four years ago, wasn’t it?”
Four years. Four years. Puebor suddenly realized how fast time moved when it belonged to someone else. A full four years had passed. The blink of an eye for an Eleim, yet long enough for a stream to wear down stone. For Puebor it had been three desperate matches, hovering at death’s door, resetting broken bones again and again. Nathan Maia, however, had fought more than ninety bouts and remained unbroken.
In the public matches held before spectators, the entire heavens poured donations into summoning nightmarish opponents for him—crocodiles, lions, raptors, yetis, sandworms, executioners, and professional killers from other arenas chasing prize money. As for the private matches… no one knew. Only Nathan could say what nightmares he had faced in the arena’s depths. Rumors spoke only of sinister secrets the heavens had hidden. On the day of his fortieth match, some even claimed he returned cradling a dragon’s severed head. The truth had long since been buried. The few who insisted on the story were eventually dragged off for private matches and never seen again.
The struggle had not swallowed Nathan. Nathan had swallowed the struggle—chewed it, digested it, analyzed it, evolved. Ninety-nine death-battles had transformed the boy of four years ago into something terrifying. And that same terrifying man was now guarding the peaceful meal of Puebor the bread thief.
“Damn. I never even got the chance to do anything nice for you.”
Four years ago Nathan had been the same height as Puebor. Now he looked down at him and chuckled. Puebor learned for the first time, through Nathan, that it was possible to grow taller even inside the Punishment Arena.
“Stop gawking and eat, old man. The ham’s getting cold.”
“…Only until today.”
Puebor began to eat, sniffling, but Nathan’s spoon suddenly stopped. A quiet yet malicious voice reached his too-sharp ears.
“When there’s a guy who should be dead but won’t die, there’s a beautiful tradition prepared just for him.”
“What is it, young master?”
At the words “young master,” Iclipes’s eyes bulged. The subordinate quickly corrected himself. “What is it, boss?”
Iclipes launched into an excited explanation.
Imperatosaurus. A colossal reptile that could reach nearly ten tons at full maturity. The supreme predator of the jungle—perhaps one of the strongest creatures on the entire surface. A rare gift granted to those who must never be allowed to leave the arena. They caught one on the ground, starved it thoroughly, and then served it as the meal. The longest anyone had ever lasted against an Imperatosaurus was the poor bastard who lost his lower half and took two days to die.
Everyone already knew the story; the entire heavens had been talking about it. Nathan Maia was finally going to die this time. Yet instead of showing boredom, Iclipes’s subordinates nodded with bright faces.
“The one they brought in this time weighs seventeen tons. Totally different class! Every monster he’s faced before stayed under five tons. This one is a full seventeen!”
Nathan rose without a sound. Perhaps he had become too immersed in the role of loyal servant to the little dictator. The Eleim gang failed to notice quickly enough that the surrounding noise had died again.
“You’re finished, Sapiens! Finished! You’re not a mage, not a Sword Saint. All you’ve got is that worthless body. How do you plan to overcome a weight difference like—”
The voice had grown far too loud in the sudden silence. The moment the subordinates realized something was wrong and tried to stop their young master—
“Is that so?”
A thick hand seized Iclipes by his long hair and yanked him upright. The smile vanished from the Archon’s son’s face.
“Then it wouldn’t be bad to tie one traveling companion to the boat heading to the afterlife. Right?”
A left hand that had appeared from nowhere clamped onto the trembling nape like steel. The right hand smoothly dragged Iclipes’s tray closer. Even though the single tray allotted per person had now been taken twice, no one protested. Not Iclipes. Not his subordinates.
When Nathan gripped the tray, the compressed contents exploded. Shards of ham and salad splattered across Iclipes’s face. The force crushing the back of his skull was monstrous. Face turning scarlet, Iclipes imagined his own head might burst the same way.
“Ugh, wait—Sapiens, I—”
“Listen, you pointy-eared bastard. What if even I start thinking I might lose to that overgrown lizard? What if I decide all ninety-nine plus nine death-matches I fought to survive were meaningless and fall into despair about the future?”
The tray, now crumpled scrap, folded between his fingers and slowly compressed like rope. Hearing the tin’s pathetic whine, Iclipes finally understood the bizarre rumor about being strangled by a rope made from a tray.
“Wouldn’t my impulses turn impure? Wouldn’t I start thinking the Eleim race can never be forgiven? Wouldn’t every pointy-ear within reach suddenly be in danger? Haven’t you ever considered that?”
“I—hic—I—”
“Nathan Maia—! Stop—!”
The guards finally burst through the locked door, panting. Nathan did not release his grip.
“I asked if you ever considered it.”
Iclipes rolled his eyes desperately. Help me. His subordinates ignored the silent plea. Iclipes could not believe it. These men were sons of the servants who had served his family for generations. They had committed crimes and allowed themselves to be imprisoned here just in case Iclipes was ever attacked by the arena’s thugs. Yet none of them moved against Nathan. They only trembled or retreated. It seemed fighting beasts or other prisoners was possible, but facing him felt like an unfair demand.
This time, no one would save him. Iclipes finally remembered the words he needed.
“I… was wrong…”
“You damn Sapiens bastard! What kind of filth are you trying to dump on me before you leave!”
The guards swarmed in, weapons leveled. Iclipes clung to his last shred of hope. But even the soldiers refused to come any closer, and Nathan did not move an inch.
What saved Iclipes was the guard Phillis, who shoved the subordinates aside and came running. When Phillis shouted between gasps, Nathan gave him a bright smile.
“Let go of that, you idiot. He only has one match left! After everything, what are you going to do if the Amphitryon’s assassins greet him with open arms the moment he steps outside?”
“I don’t know. What happens if I kill them too? Do they put me down like a mad dog?”
“Just hold back! I hate those highborn brats too. And the Conclave bastards who barge into another’s jurisdiction and start pissing contests! I get the feeling, but this is the worst possible thing for you! Don’t waste your strength before the match!”
Nathan whispered into Iclipes’s ear. “Look how smart he is. He’s even pretending to be my friend to match my intentions. Protecting his coworkers’ lives.”
Nathan released Iclipes, whose face had gone black. He gave the elf’s shoulder a couple of friendly pats.
“You were so damn unlucky I decided to play a little joke. Since this is the last time, I figured I might as well. See you outside, pointy-ears.”
To see him outside, one first had to survive. Breathing hard while being supported by others, Iclipes screamed at Nathan’s retreating back with every ounce of malice he possessed. His subordinates tried frantically to cover his mouth, but centuries of pride had already crumbled and could not be stopped.
“See you outside? Talk sense, you filthy ape! How exactly are you going to fight a dinosaur? Can you coat your blade with mana like the Sword Star Sect? Can you?”
“If you’re that curious, watch on the screen, ‘young master.’”
Handcuffed, Nathan turned and raised both hands, wiggling all ten fingers in farewell. To the stunned Iclipes he left a few more warnings. If he took revenge on Puebor or touched any other prisoners—
“If I touch them?”
Something rather unpleasant might happen the next time they met outside.
“Keep it in mind. I’ve never broken a promise like this.”
It did not sound like an idle threat. The words came from a madman who had already killed two members of royalty.
Even after Nathan vanished through the door, Iclipes could not swallow his rage. The “young master,” stroking his horribly bruised nape, screamed and tried to flip the table. The cafeteria tables of the Punishment Arena were bolted to the floor precisely to prevent such outbursts. Iclipes stepped on the spilled food, lost his balance, and fell instead.
Thud. Crack.
His dislocated pelvis screamed. As their self-destructive charge groaned in pain, the Eleim gang swept weary hands down their faces, quietly asking themselves the fundamental question of whether they could possibly survive while escorting an idiot young master so determined to die.