In the colosseum’s deadly slaughter matches, ‘3 wins’ is important.
A gladiator who achieves 3 wins escapes the fate of being no better than a fly’s life.
Surviving to rack up 3 wins means a considerable number of loyal customers—or, borrowing an Earth term, ‘fans’—who cheer for that gladiator have emerged.
“What changes if you get 3 wins?”
Sir Garland, listening to how the colosseum operates, opened his mouth.
Billy, standing before the precious guest and prince from Mosul, did his best to spill everything he knew as is.
“You start receiving sponsorship from nobles. Popularity, that is… the dividends based on match results are adjusted according to sponsorship. For Your Highness’s ‘champion,’ 3 wins would be the basics, hehe…”
Due to the inherently high value of gladiators and the difficulty in obtaining new ones, the King of Bers, who operates the colosseum, found it hard to stick only to basic one-on-one slaughter matches.
In the end, to substitute for the lacking new gladiators (or living sacrifices), they drag in monsters caught here and there, long-term prisoners with severe crimes, or death row inmates to satisfy the audience’s desires.
“Then, what opponent comes out in my champion’s first match? Do you know? Or does His Majesty decide separately?”
“Originally, in the first match, they face an opponent who is also debuting. But Your Highness’s ‘champion’ is so out of the ordinary…!”
“There’s no suitable opponent?”
“Th-that is correct…”
Hmm… Garland, who had been pondering with crossed legs, waved his hand.
“Understood. I can look into the rest separately. You may go.”
“Th-thank you…”
Billy was merely a low-level manager in charge of the gladiators’ quarters.
It was a judgment that to have a proper conversation, it would be faster to speak with someone who truly holds authority.
As the door closed and Billy left, Sir Garland crossed his arms and looked down out the window.
He was surely pondering how to achieve what we wanted while envisioning the conversation with the King of Bers.
In the nobles’ fights waged with tongues without weapons, there was nothing I could do, so I decided to inspect the room further.
It was a room I’d already checked once, but something could have been tampered with while we were away. Caution couldn’t hurt.
The room the King of Bers had given us—or precisely, Sir Garland—was superior to any top-class inn I’d seen while working as a mercenary.
A duvet stuffed with goose down. A carpet made from the brown hide of some monster larger than a bear or saber tiger—I didn’t know what it was.
All the tableware was made of silver, and there were prepared sheepskin parchment with a very soft, luxurious feel and pens attached with eagle feathers.
Ringing what seemed like a magically engraved bell brought waiting servants running immediately.
Sir Garland told me the King of Bers said he could provide women for ‘that’ purpose anytime if needed. Even if they were beastman women, not human.
The view below the window was very beautiful, meticulously crafted by human hands, not magic.
Small wild animals could be seen coming and going, and in the corner, there was even a small swimming pool.
At this point, the silver owl fountain (made of silver!) presumed to be Hokhma at the entrance path felt like no luxury at all.
We were enjoying treatment that wouldn’t fall short even compared to a 5-star hotel on Earth.
“Sir Pamir.”
“Yes.”
“I need to see His Majesty.”
“Understood.”
Currently, Sir Garland and I continued acting as pre-arranged even when no one was around.
The hospitality was extraordinarily precious and overwhelming, so naturally, everything we said and did was highly likely being reported moment by moment.
Medeya’s suspicious magic was like that, and in what could be called the enemy’s home base, not eavesdropping? It would be stranger if they didn’t.
For that reason, Sir Garland and I—even when alone—could not stop acting as the ‘prince from Mosul and his guardian knight.’
Ringing the silent magic bell brought a servant who had been waiting in the corridor knocking politely immediately.
“Is there something you need?”
“I want to see His Majesty. Right now.”
“Oh, that… May I ask the reason?”
“It’s about my champion and the colosseum. I hear His Majesty has been facing some difficulties recently? Receiving such hospitality, I can’t just keep my mouth shut. Tell him I wish to see him as I have a way to help His Majesty even a little.”
“Understood. Please wait a moment.”
The servant left. We sat silently (actually, only Sir Garland) waiting for good news.
Not only in the room but from the moment we passed the gates of the Kingdom of Bers, we openly avoided saying anything that ‘enemies’ might suspect. That applied to writing too.
Why else would they openly prepare such high-quality pens and paper on the desk?
Of course, I’m not a mage and don’t know related knowledge, but caution wouldn’t hurt.
For that reason, we communicated inconveniently and slowly through each other’s palms.
[Are you sure this is okay?]
[Billy said it, didn’t he? Recently, the King of Bers’ gladiators were all killed by Archduke Greenwood. They might think there’s some ulterior motive, but grasping it exactly won’t be easy.]
[I’m worried.]
[The King of Bers won’t be able to resist once he sees the captain. The proposal will be too attractive to refuse.]
“That’s… true.”
“Yes.”
Knock knock. The servant who went to report to ‘His Majesty’ returned.
“His Majesty will see you.”
“Got it.”
***
“So, what business made you want to see me, little Hamilton? I am a busy man.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
“So. What do you want to say?”
“It’s about the colosseum. I heard Your Majesty recently… faced some misfortune.”
“Where did you hear such a thing… Curious.”
The King of Bers openly showed discomfort.
It wasn’t crossing the invisible line yet, but a stern warning that if crossed, there would be unforgiving consequences.
Garland responded to the King of Bers’ very ‘noble’ warning with a beaming smile.
It was an expected reaction anyway.
He was just a troublesome guest treated well to continue bringing needed ‘living sacrifices’ from now on.
Knowing that well, Garland decided to throw away all the noble-like, troublesome, useless formalities and lip service.
Straight to the point. Dragging it out wouldn’t help anyway.
For ‘Sir Pamir’ waiting outside—no, for Surabar—wasting time was bad.
“Originally, I planned to enter my beast and elevate Mosul’s name in the colosseum. By making my ‘champion’ win. But hearing Your Majesty’s situation changed my mind. I heard Your Majesty has supported Father and our Mosul in many ways. Though it pales in comparison, I wish to present my cherished beast.”
“…Are you serious? I heard it’s no ordinary one—a tiger beastman, right? I know it’s a very rare specimen even among tail-bearers.”
“Yes. A very excellent, tremendous fellow. Until this incident, he was a mercenary specializing in monster hunting. He has experience, and if it’s about fighting for his life, he can confidently say he’s more expert than anyone.”
“Specializing in monster hunting…!!”
The King of Bers completely hid his initial discomfort and leaned his upper body forward from the chair back.
It was such an intense reaction that even the naive prince could tell the king did it unconsciously.
Though he didn’t know the exact situation, Garland could guess the King of Bers was considerably on the defensive.
Archduke Greenwood… A name he’d never heard in Mosul, but seemingly the greatest noble after the king in the Kingdom of Bers.
“…You’ve piqued my interest.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
Garland smiled brightly.
***
“Oh my, no duties today?”
“…I decided to rest a day. They said a precious guest arrived, so I thought it best to stay quiet today.”
“Is that so? We can spend time together for once. I’m glad.”
Glad. Glad. Glad… At Jasmine’s words, Redron felt as if he owned the world. Was this what walking on clouds felt like?
For the first prince, Jasmine was the one and only dazzling woman who had never existed before and never would again.
Redron simply loved that Jasmine was in his annex. Talking with her made him happy. When she smiled softly, he was grateful to be born.
The annex was serene.
Jasmine had been leaning on a soft, cozy sofa like a bed since early morning, knitting.
She was making clothes for the child to be born to wear.
Hearing that, Redron was stunned, and Jasmine gently pulled his hand to her belly.
Thump…! Feeling the kick from inside—her alter ego not yet in the world—Redron was startled. That day’s memory would never fade…
“Redron. How is it outside?”
“O-outside…? Ah, th-that… It’s fine! Everything! I don’t know what Mosul was like, but it’s much better to live here, people are kind, everything’s good. I can swear!”
“That’s a relief. I’m really happy. Because I met Redron.”
“Ha-happy… Really? Truly happy…?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be happy? I’m happy here, because Redron is here.”
In the unbelievable yet undeniable reality, Redron stared blankly at Jasmine.
He’d heard women carrying children gain much weight and lose beauty more than usual… but she was an exception, still beautiful.
Jasmine’s belly was much more prominently swollen than when first brought to the annex.
Yet she remained Redron’s one and only goddess.
My goddess… Thinking that, Redron unknowingly placed his hand on her belly in his daze.
Thump…! A stronger reaction than the first time she guided his hand.
“Naughty child, right? Kicking Mommy’s belly like this. Scold him for me when he’s born, Redron.”
“Y-yeah… I’ll take responsibility and scold him for wronging Jasmine.”
“Promise? …Thank you, Redron.”
Overlapping hands. Excited breaths. Gradually closing distance… Redron felt as if returned to the day he first held a woman. No, his heart pounded more excitedly, as if going mad.
This was the reward for striving to appear gentle and reliable to her, to Jasmine.
A kiss.
Her lips, ripe red like pomegranate, were an irresistible fruit of good and evil.
The moment their warmth could be felt so close…
“Your Highness. A guest has arrived.”
“A-hem…! G-guest…? Who is it…!”
“It’s Princess Annabella.”
Damn it…! Redron felt the negative emotions toward his half-sister, thought vanished from the past, reviving.