The Forty-Sixth Duel

Savage—this was Lucia's first impression of the Combat Festival.

The arena was like a beast cage surrounded by thousands of frenzied spectators. Brilliant, dazzling magical fireworks intertwined with deafening cheers and curses. Musclebound fighters, their eyes burning with bloodthirsty red light, clashed with sharp blades, spears, axes, and halberds, destroying their opponents' bodies and wills amid flying sweat and blood until the loser collapsed and could not rise, then was dragged away by the guards at the edge of the field like cargo, while the victor raised both arms high and reveled in praise and glory.

In the tiered arena, the ring of open space closest to the central fighting platform had no seats arranged there. Instead, dozens of broad recording tables had been set out for running bets. Well-dressed actuaries sat calmly behind the tables, setting odds according to the constantly changing matchups while taking the spittle-flying wagers of the gamblers.

The circumstances of both sides in a match changed at any time, and naturally, the betting changed with them. Betting on victory or defeat was only the most basic form. From it came wagers on consecutive wins, match duration, injuries to both sides... Tickets to the arena were extremely cheap, and the profit they provided was quite limited. Correspondingly, the staggering windfall profits of the betting segment were what made countless nobles with strength and connections flock to this business.

The Combat Festival used one full year as a complete season. It was now already close to late autumn, and the two of them had missed the summer league, the most critical period for determining point rankings. The high-level fighters with hopes of competing for the championship at year's end were basically all in their recovery periods. Those still active in the arena were either greenhorns just starting out, or wily old hands who had hovered between second- and third-rate for years, scraping by on prize money from individual gladiatorial fights.

Thus, during the days before the winter solstice, the competitiveness, spectacle, and even bloodiness of the gladiatorial fights would all decline sharply. However, the spectators' enthusiasm for watching and gambling did not fall by much. After all, common folk truly had limited forms of entertainment, and this was already the most exciting one.

"Match twenty-one, Black Iron Rank fighter Lans wins, time: twenty-eight seconds!" At the center of the fighting platform, the fat host in a tailcoat raised a megaphone high and announced.

A chaotic wave of cheers and whistles immediately rang out from every direction. Only the few gamblers who had spent a large sum betting on the opposing Black Iron Rank fighter to win cursed in frustration. But even they would not question the fairness of the match. There was no other reason—the duel that had just ended had simply been too one-sided.

Of those twenty-eight seconds, the fighter opposite had spent twenty seconds talking tough, six seconds walking to the center of the fighting platform, and in the final two seconds, Lansseax had dropped him with one clean, decisive whipping kick.

Lucia could tell that Sister Lans had already suppressed both her strength and speed to the level of an ordinary fighter, and had not used any of her terrifyingly powerful battle techniques either. What truly decided victory or defeat was merely the physical combat skill she had long since honed to perfection.

"See? That's the general process." Returning to the stands, Lansseax patted the dust from her pant legs and explained to Lucia, "The opponent's level was a little poor, but if you want to practice swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat in actual battle, you can come here. Fighting up to Mithril Rank and the final Gold Rank still has some training value. At the very least, they're much stronger than the average Leyndell Knight."

"The highest is Gold Rank?" Lucia was taken aback when he heard that. Wasn't gold something anyone could get?

"Yeah," Lansseax said casually. "Black Iron, Bronze, Purple Steel, Mithril, Gold. Gold symbolizes the supreme Erdtree, so it's also used as the highest rank for fighters."

So that was how it was... Lucia awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. He was about to say something else when he heard the host in the arena loudly call out his alias.

"Match twenty-two, Black Iron Rank fighter Lucifer, versus—" The host deliberately paused for a moment, a crafty, suspense-stoking smile squeezing out of his small eyes as he looked at the list. "Purple Steel Rank fighter, Bozales!"

The originally clamorous spectator stands abruptly fell silent for an instant, then erupted into a deafening wave of cheers. People began waving their arms and shouting Bozales's name. In just a few seconds, the area before the recording tables was packed with gamblers placing bets. Even though the odds the actuaries gave had already fallen as low as twenty to one, they still could not stop their enthusiasm.

"Three hundred Runes, on Bozales to win!"

"Two hundred, on Bozales taking that rookie down in three minutes!"

"Five hundred!"

"..."

The recording tables were soon piled full of canvas money bags stuffed with coins. It was worth mentioning that in reality, the Rune was still the currency unit used across the entire continent, while the right to mint coinage was jointly held by the three great dynasties.

Runes were divided into three denominations: gold coins representing 50 Runes, silver coins representing 10 Runes, and copper coins representing 1 Rune. In shape, they all roughly resembled a dilated human pupil. Because they contained complex divine spell brands, they were extremely difficult to counterfeit. However, they could only circulate as currency and did not possess any effect of increasing one's strength.

"Looks like everyone really doesn't think much of you!" Lansseax said, unable to hold back a laugh.

"Sister Lans, how much money did we bring with us when we went out today?"

"What for?"

"Why are you still standing there? Hurry up and bet on me to win!" Lucia, mocked by the crowd as a rookie, did not feel ashamed in the slightest. Instead, his face was full of excitement. Right now, when he looked at those gamblers lined up in a long queue, it was as if he were looking at walking wallets.

Because too many spectators were participating in the betting this time, the wagering segment was forced to extend by a full fifteen minutes. When Lucia slowly walked onto the fighting platform amid boos from every direction, his heart was already filled with heavy, solid joy.

Before going out, he had tied up his head of silver hair, and before entering the arena, he had put on a face-covering helmet, making his appearance no longer eye-catching. From head to toe, he looked like nothing more than a rookie fighter so ordinary he could not be any more ordinary.

By contrast, dozens of steps away, Bozales was enjoying the cries of the crowd. His entire body was clad in excellent enchanted heavy armor, and he carried an astonishingly weighty Octagonal War Hammer in his hand. Black-red bloodstains left behind by years upon years of battle still remained in the seams of the hammer's face. Even without understanding the gap in their past records, judging by appearance alone, no fool would generally place their bet on Lucia's side.

In a spectator seat with the best view at the edge of the field, Old Hart had temporarily put aside the front desk business and chosen to come watch this battle he had personally arranged, which could be considered a way to unwind after a whole day of toil. Around him sat the lower-level supervisors of the various departments in the arena. Seeing their immediate superior, they all greeted him warmly, and Old Hart responded to each with a smile.

"Bozales should be promoted to Mithril Rank after this fight, right?" the supervisor of the logistics department asked his colleagues.

"Yeah, he's just one match short. After advancing, he should just about make it in time for the year-end championship," someone replied. "Before winter, he's the only presentable character left in the league."

"Exactly. Those who should have gotten their Champion Festival slots already got them long ago. The rest are all little fish and shrimp of more or less the same level. Even if they fight their heads off, they won't save up enough points by year's end. Business is probably going to be hard to do for this next stretch!"

"Seriously, the next Mithril Rank up against a rookie like this? I wonder which idiot arranged the schedule..."

"Ahem, all of you shut up!" Old Hart could not listen anymore, and said with a darkened face, "Are you here to watch the match or to chat and bullshit? Keep making noise and you'll ruin this old man's mood!"

Once the supervisor spoke, the staff around him immediately and wisely closed their mouths. At that very moment, the bell signaling the start of the match rang out, and everyone turned their gazes toward the arena in unison.