How Do You Beat That (3)
The solemn arena of judgment that harbored a vision of hell within it—the Punishment Arena. Yet there was no law requiring its outskirts to remain solemn. The tavern tucked behind the arena’s outer walls was already roaring with noise in the middle of the bright day.
“Fifty credits on he dies!”
“Twelve hundred on he croaks!”
“Eight thousand on his head popping clean off!”
The shabby floorboards trembled under the shouts. A bizarre spectacle: the frenzied regulars had forgotten their drinks entirely and were screaming at the top of their lungs. The kid responsible for the betting board sweated buckets as he scrambled up the ladder, then frantically scratched more lines across the chalkboard with his chalk.
50, 1200, 8000. All accepted.
In the ‘Tavern in the Arena’s Shadow’—where the names alone told you everything about the wager—illegal betting was in full swing. The theme of the week-long gambling frenzy was simple: the survival of the Sapiens.
Whether that bastard Nathan Maia would keep his neck today.
Since it was an open match, the video feed was being broadcast across the entire Heavens. You could watch it from your bed. If you insisted on watching in a bar, the streets were lined with pubs boasting bigger screens and wider views. So why gather in this crumbling back-alley dive? The reason was straightforward: tradition, and symbolism.
Gambling on the lives of the Punishment Arena’s inmates was illegal. The security enforcers wouldn’t interfere if you kept it discreet, but flashing betting slips in broad daylight earned you a public whipping in the square. So until Galarhorn invented the tablet, gamblers had secretly congregated here to eavesdrop on the crowd’s roars. It was the fastest way to learn the outcome in advance.
And today, the regulars had gathered once again, carrying on a tradition hundreds of years old.
“I still miss the old days. Back before video broadcasts, this place was even more packed. Each time they sent out a death-row fighter, we made enough to build another building just from the sales.”
“If the company that invented video tech didn’t exist, the Segway I ride wouldn’t have been invented either. No Segway, no reason for me to visit this tavern. Walking all the way here is too much of a hassle.”
“Lazy bastard. A Sword Saint complaining about a little movement.”
Bin Baestys simply smiled amiably. The tavern owner who had been scolding him grinned back.
“Should we say we gained new customers thanks to Galarhorn? That’s a unique way of looking at it. Just don’t say it so loudly. You’ll earn their hatred too.”
Galarhorn, the corporation that had illuminated the Heavens with countless inventions. In just a few years their brand had become an object of hatred. All because they had sided with the rebel who started the war—Nathan Maia.
“I know what you mean. I’ve heard it all day. Some bastard asked why I’m still riding a Segway these days. Called me a Galarhorn supporter.”
Bin grumbled. If he hadn’t been wearing the cross-sword necklace that marked him as a Sword Saint, the argument would have escalated until he drew his blade. He had heard the accusations countless times, but he couldn’t give up his beloved machine. The wheeled automaton was the perfect invention for someone who hated walking.
“Ride a bicycle instead. That would be better for your health.”
The tavern owner whispered as he slid over a glass. Bin Baestys accepted it, then chuckled while eyeing the owner’s bulging belly.
“Health?”
“Of course, my job being what it is, I don’t ride anything with wheels. Dealing with regulars and drinking all day, then climbing on top of my wife’s—”
“Hey, Boreas! Twenty thousand credits on the Sapiens!”
A customer slammed the bar hard enough to break it and barged into the conversation. Bin spat out half his drink.
“Kek.”
“Me too!”
“All the money I earned at the construction site today on the Sapiens dying today!”
Eleim threw themselves across the bar, faces flushed crimson as they shouted. There were far too many customers for the boy keeping the board to handle alone. Boreas pulled out a ledger and pen with a weary sigh.
“How the hell would I know how much you earned at the site? Give me your names first! And don’t come crying to me when you lose.”
“Does this look like a bet you can lose? It’s the strongest living dinosaur! How is that bastard supposed to survive?”
“If you get cold feet on a day like this, you’re no eastern Eleim, that’s for sure!”
“I keep telling you, our gambling house doesn’t guarantee your stake. The payout’s 1.0 even if you win, so why bet at all? You’re all insane. What do you think is going to happen?”
From the tavern’s old screen came the growl of the Imperatosaurus. The customers cheered at the highlight reel of the dinosaur ripping apart previous inmates—screams from forty years ago as someone was trampled and torn to pieces. Bin frowned. Ugh, disgusting.
“Right. How do you beat a carnivorous dinosaur that weighs more than ten tons? Not a Sword Saint like you, not a mage from the Academia—just a mere Sapiens. That’s why everyone’s getting so worked up. But listen.”
Boreas spoke while diligently writing down every name he heard.
“Gambling is a devil. It looks as straightforward and honest as a banker, but the moment you approach, it robs your wallet like a thief. It always betrays you the instant you become certain.”
“Exactly. Bin Baestys, five hundred credits on the Sapiens’ victory.”
“…I was telling you not to gamble. I wasn’t telling you to bet on the underdog.”
Boreas frowned. The suddenly quiet drunks all turned to stare at Bin with expressions that suggested they wanted to beat him to death and serve him as a side dish.
“That won’t happen, but if you somehow win, you’ll be a bloody pulp before you can even walk out with the money—”
One drunk shoved his face so close their noses nearly touched. The stench of spicy sauce clinging to his wet beard was overpowering. The heavily cringing Bin carefully pulled the necklace from beneath his outer clothes. The cross-sword necklace. The symbol of a Sword Saint.
“—won’t happen. Sorry.”
“If you’re a Sword Saint, you can do whatever you want.”
The customers magically returned to their seats. No one wanted to be carved apart by a master’s sword qi. Whether they were scared or not, Bin focused on rubbing the sauce stain out of his clothes. Boreas asked the teary-eyed man casually.
“You said ‘How do you beat that’ earlier, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. It won’t come off with water. Got any vinegar?”
“By any chance, with your warrior’s instincts, do you think the Sapiens will actually win? Some kind of premonition between fellow fighters?”
“It’s not a premonition. Nathan Maia wins. Do you have vinegar or not?”
The words carried absolute certainty. Boreas widened his small eyes as far as they would go. A prediction from the Sword Star Sect, the representatives of martial arts in the Heavens. And from a man who had once been quite famous.
“How?”
“That’s the problem.”
Staring at the stain that was now too late to remove with vinegar, Bin sighed.
“It’s clear he wins, but I have no idea how.”
There was no conversation. They only breathed in. And breathed out.
With a hundred thousand people gathered, even that was loud.
Today, every single seat in the vast spectator stands of the Punishment Arena was filled. They had come for one reason only: to witness the death of the Sapiens Nathan Maia, the man who had driven the northern Ingr to war.
This time it was certain. The spectators believed it without a shred of doubt. From Bae-leim youths drunk on cheap drugs clutching illegal betting slips and roaring, to nobles in the premium seats being served tartare made from the still-warm corpses of dead gladiators—everyone shared the same thought.
Today, that bastard dies.
A Sapiens whose weight barely reached even 0.1 tons was about to face a dinosaur approaching seventeen tons. It would have been fairer to order a hamster to bite an Eleim to death.
Moreover, the Imperato that had come out first to await Nathan was terrifying enough to make other Imperatos turn tail and flee. Teeth like the bone-stripping blades of a slaughterhouse. Hind claws that could rip apart even a dragon. Muscles packed tightly and efficiently beneath its scales. And its absurd size and thickness made the arena itself look narrow.
Most striking were the red stripes engraved across its back—like a ghost’s face painted in crimson. Thanks to that, the creature looked like the god of terror manifested on earth in biological form.
Yet everyone was silent. They only breathed in. And breathed out.
In a fight with no possible way to lose, where was this tension coming from? What sealed their mouths was a sliver of anxiety.
What if that guy actually pulls it off?
What if there’s some method?
That damn bastard who had betrayed every hate-filled expectation so far, who still drew breath even while the entire Heavens turned against him—
The voice of Saal Whitaker, the ‘Mouth of the Arena.’ The words that precisely skewered their worries snapped the spectators back to reality.
Saal did not mock their concerns. Instead he soothed them gently, like a nanny comforting children, and empathized. Then he began condemning the true culprits who had caused such needless worry. The arrow of responsibility no one had seen coming flew hard and struck home.
Stupid executioners. Dull monsters. Saal crushed them, ridiculed them, and made them look pathetic. Thanks to him the audience laughed along, hated along, and forgot their anxiety.
Right, he only survived because he faced idiots like that! This time is different!
By the time Saal’s long speech ended, the spectators—now filled with conviction—pounded their seats and fell into a frenzy of excitement. The claim that Nathan’s opponent was mediocre was far from the truth. Among the sponsors who had hired the executioners were entrepreneurs and politicians who had staked their entire careers. But what did it matter? Saal Whitaker’s role was not analyst but clown, and his job was to excite the crowd.
After finishing his speech, Saal bowed deeply toward the sponsor. From the highest seat, the eastern consul Amphitryon nodded kindly downward. The consul whispered to the Eleim seated beside him.
“Arena Master. I’d like to leave it in your hands until the end. Is that acceptable?”
The master of the Punishment Arena sighed and nodded. He didn’t like it—neither buying public favor this way nor using the gods’ punishment to strengthen his own position. But considering the donation Consul Amphitryon had made, he could endure that much presumption. Today’s show was essentially a performance the consul had prepared from start to finish. He had also been the one to capture and donate the Imperatosaurus.
“You won’t do it if I tell you not to?”
When the smiling employer gave the signal, the special commentator Saal shouted passionately.
On the opposite side of the Imperato, the iron gate swung open wide. The crowd screamed as if greeting a celebrity.
The Sapiens walked out, long white hair fluttering. He carried nothing but a single shabby dagger. Gladiators received weapon support through sponsorship funds, yet today the only thing the Sapiens had been given was that. It seemed the meager donations from a handful of eccentrics had finally run dry.
The completely relieved Eleim jeered freely. When the poorly made dagger snapped and fell on its own, they laughed openly. Yet Nathan Maia had not given up on life. The will in his eyes had not dimmed in the slightest. Even though he had been invited into such unjust malice, he refused to falter. The Sapiens wore a terrifying expression, ground his teeth, and burned with rage. Then he began walking slowly toward the Imperato.
As always.
The Eleim hated it. Does he actually think he can survive? Who does he think he is? Enraged by his arrogance to the very end, the spectators roared. Many of them hoped their simple wish would come true—that it would offer a sliver of comfort after another exhausting day, that they might feel something meaningful even for a moment. What they shouted with that modest sentiment was, ironically, a curse.
Die. Die. Die.
A colossal hatred breathing in perfect rhythm. The instant the Imperatosaurus thundered toward the Sapiens, that hatred swelled, transformed into ecstasy, and soared away.
Exactly eight seconds later, the hundred thousand spectators fell silent. The ecstasy that had flown away like a butterfly never returned.
The Imperato that had charged forward with a world-shaking roar suddenly slowed. It came to a dead stop right in front of Nathan. The screen showed Nathan’s murderous expression. If an Eleim had been standing before those eyes, even a Sapiens might have trembled. Yet compared to the dinosaur’s sheer mass, that spirit looked pathetically small. Nevertheless, the Sapiens stared straight at the beast.
The scoreboard switched to show the opponent. The seventeen-ton monster could not meet Nathan’s gaze. It was blatantly avoiding eye contact. Not Nathan—the Imperato.
The Eleim could not believe it. The Imperato bent its head as if refusing to fight. It snorted like a frightened animal and shook its head. The moment Nathan took one step closer—
“Groaaaaan—!”
It let out a pitiful vibration and collapsed onto the ground. The majestic weight settled with a rumbling crash, sending up clouds of dust.
The haze in the cheap-drug-addled rookie’s head vanished. The man picking up fried meat spilled it everywhere. The couple groping each other forgot their lust. The noble elder slicing and eating the flesh of the dead didn’t notice he had cut his own finger with the knife.
In the horrific silence of the Eleim, Nathan could not hold back his laughter at a sight money could not buy.
I told you I wouldn’t die, you perverted old bastards.
It was over. Finally.
As a gentle breeze ruffled Nathan’s hair, a refreshing smile rose to the prisoner’s lips. Had there ever been a time in his entire life when he felt this satisfied? The murmurs of the Eleim began to creep upward.
What is this? It’s a scam. What trick did you use?
That ugly whining sounded like a victory hymn to Nathan’s ears. He closed his eyes for a moment and savored the complaints and roars of the damned. Then he sauntered toward the mouth of the prone Imperato and whispered without moving his lips.
“You alive?”
“What a clever bastard. You act so convincingly. Damn it. Thanks to you I thought I was going to get chewed up!”
A voice that echoed like a cave, kept low. When someone grumbled from inside the dinosaur’s mouth, the closed jaw of the Imperato twitched as if ticklish. A slightly nervous Nathan decided not to speak anymore. Not because he feared being bitten, but because he might be discovered.
Inside the lower jaw of an Imperatosaurus was an organ called the food pouch. Instead of devouring all their hunted meat, they stored some inside for their young. In ancient times, a few reckless youths from jungle tribes who noticed that organ had become legends.
“If the body is strong, the head suffers less. If the head is clever, the body suffers less.”
They had figured out how to ride inside that hamster-cheek-like organ like a driver’s seat.
“But when you become friends with a big shot, both body and head get to relax. Hello, big brother. It’s been a while—you look like you’ve aged a lot.”
Between the terrifying monster’s teeth, in that darkness, snake-like yellow eyes sparkled. Nathan leaned his head a little closer. The snake-headed Lizardian Akweba Kakchlo smiled broadly.
“It’s been really hard to see your face lately, hasn’t it?”