Stubborn Confidence Comes from Strength

Richard, the newest member of the Bastard Alliance, stood on the street looking utterly bewildered.

This ramshackle alliance sounded thoroughly unreliable, but the terms it offered were reliable enough—Rogge promised to pass along Orlando Family intelligence whenever possible.

That promise was worth at least a thousand gold coins.

Any move in the Northeastern Province would inevitably involve the Noble's Estate. Whatever the Orlando Family intended to do, Soren would surely catch some hint of it, so Richard, isolated and weak as he was, would no longer be blind when it came to information.

Coming back to his senses, Richard shook his head with a smile and spent two silver coins to hire a passing two-horse carriage.

"Starry Arena!"

The carriage turned around and began racing through the streets of Corun City. As they traveled farther, the buildings on either side gradually thinned out, and they entered the less prosperous outskirts.

The Northeastern Province lay on the Empire's frontier, home to many nonhuman races lingering between savagery and semi-civilization. Combined with the populace's fierce and combative temperament, this provided exceptionally fertile ground for gladiatorial entertainment, making it a spectator sport that led the nation.

Starry Arena was an unremarkable one among the city's dozen or so arenas. Its only special significance to Richard was that it belonged to Soren, and the fifty Highland Barbarian fighters promised to him were being held here.

Soren was a newly risen noble, so Starry Arena was naturally a newer arena as well. Its structure of round logs and bricks was obviously far cruder than the exquisite granite venues of the old, major arenas.

"Sir, today is a rest day. Please come again another day."

The arena manager was short and fat, with otherwise ordinary features. The only remarkable thing about him was the large wart on his chin, from which more than a dozen long, thick black hairs sprouted densely. In an oddly creative touch, they had been bound together with a silver ring into a single tuft.

Richard handed Soren's written order to the manager, who carefully checked the seal while stroking that tuft of hair.

"Highland Barbarians? Of course, no problem." Big Wart nodded and led his guest into the arena.

There were no gladiatorial matches today, and the place was deserted. Only a few servants were cleaning. Starry Arena perhaps catered solely to commoners; the stands contained only crowded cheap seats, without the private boxes generally favored by nobles.

"To be honest, it's not a bad thing to take them away. They injured quite a few other fighters, and they even slaughtered a bay crocodile for meat. Their record is absolutely atrocious." The fat manager spread his hands and shrugged. "There's nothing I can do about them."

Two male servants walked together into a deep passageway. When they emerged, several dozen bare-chested barbarians followed behind them.

As everyone knew, natives of colder northern regions tended to be taller and more powerfully built, while those from warmer southern regions tended toward shorter, leaner frames.

As everyone knew, Highland Barbarians lived on the snowbound plateau of the far north and were entitled to call every other branch of humanity southerners or lowlanders.

Thus, they naturally possessed the tallest statures and the physiques of wild bulls. If muscles were a virtue, every Highland Barbarian would surely be a saint.

Richard stood around 1.8 ren tall. Sword practice had given him a lean, powerful body without excess bulk, making him strikingly well-built among the locals. Yet beside these muscular men, who averaged nearly two ren in height, he looked like a potato thrown into a pile of pumpkins to make up the numbers.

The barbarians stared coldly at the Pompeian before them. Their calm, unruffled eyes seemed to carry the biting chill of the far north.

They were the finest warriors, nearly unmatched across the ice plains. Thus they were proud, arrogant, and contemptuous of everything!

"Big fellows, I bought you from Lord Sauron." Richard unfolded the parchment, briefly displaying Soren's handwriting before continuing, "So under Pompeian Law, you are now all my slaves."

The barbarians acted as though they had not heard him, standing silent as lifeless marble statues, utterly unmoved.

Soren had bought them intending to use them as trump cards to revive the arena, but he had ultimately been helpless against their unruly nature. Now it was Richard's turn to chew on this hard stone.

The fat manager suddenly felt his legs go weak.

In a place thick with the scent of blood, ruthless men were nothing unusual. But men as ruthless as these Highland Barbarians were another matter entirely.

"But I don't think anyone likes being a slave, so I want to make a bet with you. If I lose, I'll give you your freedom." Richard snapped his fingers several times. "But if I win, you'll have to fight for me."

One barbarian pushed through his companions and stepped forward, stopping opposite Richard.

Even by Highland Barbarian standards, this man was outrageously massive. He was at least 2.1 ren tall, a full head taller than Richard, with shoulders half again as broad. By the most conservative estimate, he weighed more than twice as much as Richard.

More frighteningly, this mountain of flesh moved with surprisingly light steps, as though he had found a balance between strength and agility. He was absolutely not comparable to those bloated strongmen found in the streets.

"That sounds good. What are we betting on?"

A terrifying scar ran from his throat through the left side of his chest. Perhaps it had damaged his voice, for his words were hoarse and deep.

"Wrestling. How about it?"

Among the Highland Barbarians, who had remained grim and unsmiling until then, a burst of laughter suddenly erupted—loud enough to lift the dome off a grand arena.

They were all true experts and understood that wrestling was a direct contest of strength and physique. The small Pompeian was not even as big as the half-grown boys in their tribes who never had enough to eat. How could he dare challenge the finest Snow Bear Hunter?

That was a title earned only by killing the most dangerous snow bears of the ice plains with bare hands!

"Wrestling? I like wrestling." The mountain-like barbarian grinned and lightly bumped fists with Richard. "Gunther, Highlander."

"Richard, Pompeian."

Seeing that the two had already reached an agreement, the manager was as anxious as an ant on a hot pan. Without realizing it, he kept tugging at the tuft of hair on the wart beneath his chin, while beads of sweat the size of soybeans visibly seeped from his forehead.

He had been born a commoner and struggled for half his life to attain his current prominent position. His assets were even more abundant than those of some impoverished nobles, but a commoner was still a commoner.

If some noble with an obviously underdeveloped brain deliberately sought death and got smashed into meat paste by the barbarians on his turf, the manager would inevitably bear part of the responsibility. The efforts of half a lifetime might all go down the drain.

"Sir," he gently tugged at Richard's sleeve and warned him in a low voice, "that barbarian can beat a full-grown boar to death with just a few punches and kicks! Why compete with them?"

Boars wore natural armor made of pebbles and pine resin, making them beasts even more troublesome than tigers. Big Wart's advice was sincere and practical, straight from the heart—but whether it would work depended on who he was talking to.

"Just a few punches and kicks? I can kill one with a single punch!"

Big Wart's hand trembled. He yanked the silver ring right off the tuft of hair, taking several black hairs with it. He was utterly despairing, inwardly cursing some hopelessly stubborn fool.