The Concealer

Inside the cave.

The Gladiators entered the cool cave from the scorching Red Sand, and everyone sat on the ground in exhaustion.

Under everyone's gaze, Qin Xa sat cross-legged with his eyes closed, just as always.

Everyone fell silent for a while. Then Kleist got up, walked over to Qin Xa, and stood before him at eye level.

Qin Xa returned his confrontational gaze, because Kleist did not look even remotely like he intended to apologize for what he had said when they entered the combat zone.

"Um..." Kleist took a deep breath. "I was wrong. You were right when you said that before we entered the Arena, and I thought so too. I shouldn't have picked a fight and cursed at you."

Qin Xa stared at the dark, burly Kleist, whose gender was impossible to determine without hearing his voice. "That's it?"

"..." Kleist pressed his lips together and said nothing, merely nodding lightly to indicate that was it.

"That's it?" Qin Xa shook his head from side to side. "That's it, that's it, that's it?"

"All right." Kleist also felt that he had not been sincere enough, so after thinking it over, he added, "I'm an asshole. Sorry."

Qin Xa watched Kleist with a crooked smile.

He was surprised that Kleist had actually come to apologize, though not in the way Qin Xa had said before—by kneeling.

Kleist could easily have played dumb and denied it, then slowly smoothed the matter over with friendship during future Arena matches.

"You actually came to apologize." Qin Xa spoke honestly. "I only said that at the time..."

"I'm not some spineless loser who can't take a loss." Kleist lifted his chin. "If I looked down on you and you proved me wrong, then I'll apologize to you. I can take a loss. I don't welsh on debts."

"That's true." Oeno, leaning against the wall, chimed in. "Kleist is the only one here who's never cheated after losing at cards. The only one."

Hearing that, Angron, who was seated on the ground, turned to look at Oeno.

The primarch's eyes seemed to ask: Even you had cheated after losing at cards?

"Why are you looking at me?" Oeno said in a deep voice. "I don't play cards."

Hearing Oeno's words, Qin Xa awkwardly scratched the back of his head and made no comment about cheating at cards.

He felt that Kleist probably really was the only one here who did not cheat at cards.

The one and only, without precedent or successor.

Because whenever he lost at cards in the White Scars Chapter, he often relied on being a kid to cheat, and those Astartes would actually let it slide with a smile because he looked like a child.

He had even learned from the Librarian how to use psychic power to alter cards.

As for after he went to the Grey Knights, they did not play cards, so he had no chance to cheat.

Thinking of that, Qin Xa changed the subject. "Kleist. I know that back then, I was just a newcomer. I shouldn't have said something you had already reached the same conclusion about just because I was worried."

"You can take a loss, and I can take a win. From now on, I'll trust you with my back, and you can trust me with yours."

Qin Xa extended his hand to Kleist.

"Hey." Kleist grinned, grasped Qin Xa's large hand, and shook it up and down.

At the same time.

Outside the luxurious viewing room in the Arena's VIP section, the Arena Manager slowly approached with his head lowered.

Two guards, modified until they were nearly equivalent to iron men, stopped the manager.

Their report was transmitted by chips in their brains into the ears of their comrades inside the room, and then they received a response.

"Go in," the guard said.

The manager nodded and walked to the door.

He reached for the handle and hesitated, but in the end, he made up his mind and entered.

Everything here was made of gold, specially designed for nobles to watch gladiatorial combat.

Every object in this room was worth the lives of a hundred Gladiators, while the device that erased the room from others' sight was priceless and impossible to buy.

"Lord Tark."

The manager looked gravely at the figure standing by the railing.

A man stood at the railing's edge, admiring the ongoing fight while gently swirling the wineglass in his hand, clearly quite entertained.

The man was the Patriarch of Tark Family.

He was so noble that others could not address him by his given name and could only call him by his incomparably prestigious family name.

"A very splendid fight." Tark turned around and raised his wineglass expressionlessly toward the manager.

The Patriarch of Tark Family gave the manager a feeling of coldness—an unshakable, mountain-like coldness that regarded everything with indifference.

"You once asked why I concealed the fact that that big fellow was a wizard." Tark said, "Now you should understand. I wanted him to create this sudden turn in the fight. If my nephews knew he was a wizard, they wouldn't dare enter the Arena. That would be boring, wouldn't it?"

Hearing this, the manager's expression grew grave, and he hurriedly nodded in agreement. "Yes, I believe your idea was extremely correct, which is why I arranged it that way."

"I really do like you. The previous manager was nowhere near as useful as you." Tark nodded expressionlessly, then turned away coldly and continued watching the Gladiators hunt down the remaining Servant Knights in the Arena.

"It is the honor of myself, my ancestors, and my entire family, my lord." The manager's expression remained grave. It was as though he faced a cold-blooded beast. Praise did not make him happy; instead, it made sweat pour down his back.

After a moment of silence.

The manager organized his words and spoke again. "By custom, once a wizard is discovered, he is sent to the Julius Family. But you said this wizard was still useful, so I told them to get lost..."

"Wait." Tark turned around, staring at the manager with disbelief. "You said... you said by custom?"

The manager nodded lightly, then shook his head.

"You..." Tark stared at the manager, sounding almost startled. "How... Have you forgotten who your master is? How dare you say those words to me? By custom? By custom, I wouldn't even be able to become patriarch... You should know that I hate customs more than anything."

The manager trembled from head to toe in terror.

"Haha!" Tark suddenly laughed, wearing the expression of someone watching a joke. "Relax. I'm not a cruel person. You don't need to fear being killed over a single sentence."

Upon hearing that, the manager felt as though he had been saved.

But then Tark returned to his cold expression. "But mistakes should be punished. That includes me. Anyone who makes a mistake will be punished."

A guard stepped forward and punched the manager in the stomach, then took out some medicine.

The manager's intestines were shattered by the blow, but the medicine stuffed into his mouth soon restored him to normal.

However, when he was punched, the manager spat out a mouthful of blood that splattered across the cup in Tark's hand.

Tark looked at the blood on the wineglass.

Its crimson color made him dizzy. It filled him with fear.

His personal slave immediately stepped forward, took the wineglass away, and placed it somewhere Tark could not see.

So that outsiders would not realize he feared blood, Tark forced out a smile. "You served me for an entire year when I was a child. You should understand me. When I made mistakes as a child, I was punished too. So you should be punished as well."

"Yes, yes, Patriarch, I understand." The manager nodded repeatedly. "I should not have mentioned that word in your presence. It was my mistake. To be punished for it and receive your forgiveness is my greatest honor."

"Very good." Tark's smile became brighter, gentler.

But the smile vanished in an instant.

"The Gladiators' revelry was moved from tonight to tomorrow, wasn't it?" Tark said coldly. "Tomorrow, send your wife and daughter to the cave too."

The manager was nearly in tears. "My dear master, this..."

"Shh, shh—" Tark raised his index finger to his lips. "You know the rules."

After dealing with the manager, Tark turned to look at the Arena. A crazed grin suddenly spread across his face. "My disgusting family has gained one more unlucky fool whose descendants are all dead, along with plenty more widows... All because of one good idea of mine, one good choice of a person."

"Once the fighting is over, I'll go find my brother. I want to admire the expression on that old bastard's face after his line has been cut off."

Muttering to himself like a madman, Tark turned to the guard.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Get over to my brother's house right now. Make him suffer in front of a mirror, then tell him he must remember exactly what he looks like. When I have time to visit him..."

"He must perform the pain he feels at this very moment for me exactly as it is, without the slightest difference. Otherwise, I'll marry every woman in his family to my Slaves."

Hearing his master's command, the guard, nearly equivalent to an iron man, scratched the metal cables extending from the Butcher's Nails in his brain, then nodded. "Yes, Master. I'll go supervise him immediately."