The Concealer

Inside the cave.

The gladiators walked from the scorching Red Sand into the cool shade of the cave, each of them sitting on the ground, exhausted.

Under the gaze of everyone, Qin Xa sat cross-legged with his eyes closed, as he always did.

Everyone remained silent for a while, then Kleist stood up and walked toward Qin Xa, standing still to look him in the eye.

Qin Xa returned the confrontational gaze, for Kleist looked nothing like someone about to apologize for what he had said earlier when entering the combat zone.

"Hmm..." Kleist took a deep breath. "I was wrong. You were right back there in the arena, and I agree with you. I shouldn't have picked a fight and insulted you."

Qin Xa stared at the dark-skinned, sturdy Kleist, whose gender would be impossible to determine without hearing their voice. "Is that it?"

"..." Kleist pursed their lips and said nothing, merely nodding slightly to indicate that was indeed it.

"Is that it?" Qin Xa shook his head from side to side. "Is that it, is that it, is that it?"

"Fine." Kleist felt their own lack of sincerity, so after some thought, they added, "I'm a jerk. I'm sorry."

Qin Xa curled his lips into a smile as he looked at Kleist.

He was surprised that Kleist had actually come to apologize, even if it wasn't by kneeling as he had previously demanded.

Kleist could have easily played dumb and let the matter fade away through camaraderie in future gladiator matches.

"You actually came to apologize." Qin Xa spoke the truth. "I was just saying that at the time..."

"I'm not some sore loser who can't handle a game." Kleist held their head high. "If I look down on you and you prove me wrong, I will apologize. I can afford to lose; I don't welch on my debts."

"That's certainly true." Oeno, leaning against the wall, chimed in. "Kleist is the only one here who hasn't cheated when losing at cards. The only one."

Hearing this, Angron, who was sitting on the ground, turned to look at Oeno.

The Primarch's gaze seemed to ask: Even you have cheated after losing at cards?

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

Hearing Oeno's words, Qin Xa awkwardly scratched the back of his head, choosing not to comment on the matter of cheating at cards.

He felt that Kleist was likely the only one here who didn't cheat at cards.

The one and only, past or future.

Because back in the White Scars, he had often relied on his status as a "little one" to cheat whenever he lost at cards, and those Astartes would truly just laugh it off because of his childlike appearance.

He had even learned how to use psychic powers to alter cards from a Librarian.

As for his later time with the Grey Knights, they didn't play cards, so he never had the chance to cheat.

Thinking of this, Qin Xa changed the subject. "Kleist. I know I was just a newcomer then, and I shouldn't have been so uneasy as to tell you things you had already judged for yourselves."

"You can afford to lose, and I can afford to win. From now on, I'll watch your back, and you can watch mine."

Qin Xa extended his hand toward Kleist.

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

Meanwhile.

Outside the luxurious viewing room of the arena's VIP box, the Arena Manager slowly approached the door with his head bowed.

Two guards, modified to the point of being nearly identical to Iron Men, blocked the manager.

Their report was transmitted via chips in their brains to their colleagues inside the room, and they received a response.

"Enter," the guard said.

The manager nodded and approached the door.

He reached out to touch the handle, hesitating, but ultimately made up his mind to enter the room.

Everything here was made of gold, designed specifically for nobles to watch the gladiatorial games.

Every single item in this room was worth enough to buy the lives of a hundred gladiators, and the device that rendered the room invisible to others was priceless.

"Lord Tark."

The manager looked toward the back standing by the railing with a grave expression.

A man was standing at the edge of the railing, enjoying the ongoing gladiator match while gently swirling the wine glass in his hand, clearly finding it quite interesting.

The man was the Patriarch of the Tark Family.

He was so noble that others were not permitted to address him by his name, but only by his prestigious surname.

"A truly magnificent match." Tark turned around, raising his glass to the manager with an expressionless face.

The feeling the Patriarch of the Tark Family gave the manager was one of coldness—a coldness that stood like a mountain, indifferent to everything.

"You asked me back then why I hid the fact that the big guy was a psyker," Tark said. "Now you should know. Because I wanted him to bring about this kind of sudden, dramatic effect in the arena. If my nephews knew he was a psyker, they wouldn't dare to step into the ring, and that wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

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

"I really do like you. The previous manager wasn't as useful as you." Tark nodded expressionlessly, turned coldly away, and continued to watch the gladiators on the arena floor hunt down the remaining Servant Knights.

"It is an honor for me, my ancestors, and the entire family, my lord." The person in charge maintained a grave expression, as if facing a cold-blooded beast. Receiving praise did not make him happy; instead, it left him drenched in sweat.

A moment of silence passed.

The person in charge gathered his thoughts and spoke again: "According to custom, wizards are sent to the Julius Family once discovered, but since you said this wizard was still useful, I told them to get lost..."

"Wait." Tark turned around, looking at the person in charge with an expression of disbelief. "You said... you said 'according to custom'?"

The person in charge nodded slightly, then shook his head.

"You..." Tark stared at the man, his tone sounding startled. "How could you... have you forgotten who your master is? How dare you use that word with me? According to custom? If I followed custom, I wouldn't even be the patriarch... You should know that I despise that word more than anything."

The person in charge trembled with fear.

"Haha!" Tark suddenly laughed, his face shifting into one of amusement. "Don't be nervous. I am not a cruel man; you don't need to fear being killed for a single sentence."

Upon hearing this, the person in charge felt as if he had been saved.

But then, Tark returned to his cold expression: "However, mistakes must be punished. Anyone, including myself, will be punished if they make a mistake."

A guard stepped forward and punched the person in charge in the abdomen, then produced a vial of medicine.

The man's intestines had been shattered by the blow, but the medicine shoved into his mouth restored him to normal.

Yet, when he was struck, the person in charge spat out a mouthful of blood, which splattered onto the goblet in Tark's hand.

Tark stared at the blood on the wine glass.

The red was so vivid it made him dizzy; it filled him with dread.

His personal slave immediately stepped forward to take the goblet and placed it where Tark could no longer see it.

To prevent outsiders from seeing his fear of blood, Tark forced a smile: "You served me for a whole year when I was a child; you should understand me. I was punished whenever I made mistakes as a boy, so you should be as well."

"Yes, yes, Patriarch, I understand." The person in charge nodded repeatedly. "I should not have mentioned that word in your presence. It was my fault, and to be punished for it while receiving your mercy is my supreme honor."

"Very good." Tark smiled even more brightly and gently.

But that smile vanished in an instant.

"The gladiators' revelry for tonight is moved to tomorrow, isn't it?" Tark said coldly. "Tomorrow, have your wife and daughter go to the cave as well."

The person in charge nearly wept: "My dear master, this..."

"Shh, shh—" Tark held a finger to his lips. "You know the rules."

After dealing with the matter, Tark turned to look at the arena, a look of ecstatic joy suddenly appearing on his face: "My disgusting family has one more unlucky wretch whose descendants have all been wiped out, and many more widows... all because of a good idea of mine, and choosing the right person."

"When the gladiatorial games end, I will go find my brother. I want to savor the expression on that old bastard's face now that his line is ended."

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

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Get to my brother's house right now. Make him look at himself in the mirror in agony, then tell him he must memorize his current appearance, so that when I have time to visit him..."

"He must perform this exact agony for me, perfectly and without alteration, or I will marry all the women of his household to my slaves."

Hearing his master's command, the guard, who was nearly as emotionless as an iron man, scratched at the iron cables of the Butcher's Nails extending into his brain, then nodded: "Yes, Master. I will go supervise him at once."