Chapter 36: The Kingdom of Bers (13)

The colosseum was thickly saturated with a familiar stench.

Surabar closed his eyes and heightened his senses.

The world expanded.

Things the eyes could not perceive writhed and sent signals that they were alive.

The leader of the Black Tail Mercenaries could perfectly control his body from head to toe.

It was not an ability he had originally desired.

It was merely something he had obtained as a byproduct of desperately struggling to win against demonic beasts and protect the subordinates under him.

It was not a dazzling, brilliant power like a divine blessing or the strength of a swordmaster or archmage who had reached a realm of enlightenment.

Yet with this “insignificant” ability to control his flesh, Surabar had survived until now.

No—had clung to life.

Surabar knew there was a world that could only be understood by closing one’s eyes, not by seeing with them.

In truth, all “Bar” were born perceiving the world through scent rather than light.

He had actually seen fellow beastmen who lost their sight from fatal injuries in the mercenary trade continue living with surprisingly little inconvenience.

Even though they could not see ahead, they seemed to suffer no discomfort in daily life.

Though not perfect, their senses of smell, hearing, and touch compensated for the lost sensation to a near-equivalent degree.

That was when it began.

Surabar started deliberately closing his eyes despite the danger, scanning his surroundings and responding to ambushes directed at him.

At first, the mercenaries laughed loudly, mocking him for doing something insane, calling it deranged training.

But soon they knelt before Surabar, who had blindfolded himself with black cloth and knocked them all down.

After leaving the mercenary band that had once saved his life, Surabar formed his own group.

A home where he could always feel at ease.

And a family.

Huuu…

The colosseum.

Humans already filling the spectator stands to the brim.

The sound of those humans gathering in groups and chattering among themselves.

The sweet or spicy scent of snacks coated in fragrant spices that could be eaten with one hand.

The repulsive body odor that wafted far because it had not been washed in ages.

The harsh perfume women sprayed to seduce men at any time, any place.

The smell of leather and iron from soldiers standing like statues in dark corners where light barely reached, gripping spears in case of emergency.

The sound of stone dust slowly falling from the pillars, floor, and walls of the colosseum—older than one might think—and the very faint smell of earth.

And even the scent of his kin’s blood that could not be hidden beneath the fine sand…

Having confirmed all of this, Surabar let out a long breath and slowly, very slowly opened his eyes.

“Boss? Is something wrong?”

In the small, cold waiting room—where he had chased away everyone except one person who had insisted on helping until the very end—there was no one left to grate on his nerves.

As soon as the others disappeared, Surabar smirked at Paramir, who had returned to his original appearance.

No matter how he looked at it, the fact that he had come all the way to the Kingdom of Bers—and was now standing here as the slave gladiator of that bastard “Prince” Garland whom he wanted to tear apart and kill—was entirely thanks to Paramir being by his side.

Surabar lightly tapped the shoulder of Paramir, who had reverted to looking like the “youngest” again.

Paramir’s face immediately relaxed with relief.

“No. I think I know what kind of guy my first opponent across the way is.

And just in case, it would be best if you were careful with your words until the end, Sir Pamir.”

“…Ah, r-right…”

Unexpected accidents always come.

Always prepare, always be ready.

So you don’t get eaten.

The words of a senior who had been torn apart and killed by a demonic beast long ago surfaced in his mind.

Ever since then, Surabar had always prepared.

But after meeting Jasmine, and after meeting Paramir, he had failed to do so.

Perhaps Jasmine’s abduction had targeted the opening created because he had not prepared and steeled himself like before.

Yes, a petty prank by the supreme gods who lie comfortably in the heavens, looking down upon nameless ants on earth…

Barhan. Is this your will?

Is this stage right now—this fight where I have become a slave and fallen to being their spectacle, gambling my life—is this truly your will?

Jasmine had said that Barhan was on the side of all Bar.

Even if the present was difficult and painful, it was all an arrangement for the future.

At first he did not believe it.

But as he spent time with Jasmine, that thought gradually took root, and now he found himself hoping it was true.

An arrangement for the future…

If he said he had never wished for such a future, what would Barhan answer?

Would he even give an answer?

“It’s noisy outside.”

Surabar spoke after following the soldiers who had come to say it was time and arriving at the spot with the descending iron grate door.

The iron grate door, operated by pulleys, was firmly closed for now.

Beyond the bars, he could see people who had filled every seat and were still standing in the stairs and aisles, shouting and worked into a frenzy.

Their faces, flushed red as if about to burst, looked astonishingly unreal.

Do the seats differ by social class?

While harboring that question, Surabar observed the people already drinking beer—or perhaps spilling it on their clothes—even before the match began, and the “refined” ones separated from them by walls and floors.

First floor. Second floor. Third floor… all the way up to the massive circular roof with no pillars.

The sheer size of the colosseum only drew a hollow laugh from him.

Just to watch people kill people.

No—to watch us Bar kill each other, so many humans have gathered like this…

He closed his eyes.

And prayed.

Barhan. Are you watching me like them?

Extend your hand of salvation to me.

If you do not… you merely prove you are no different from them.

I neither trust nor rely on you, but Jasmine believes in you.

Do not betray Jasmine.

That is all I have to say to you, Barhan.

“WAAAAAAA—!!”

As the iron bars rose, the crowd roared.

The sound was loud enough that Paramir, standing beside him, flinched for a moment in surprise.

The iron bars blocking Surabar’s path had not yet moved.

The bars on the opposite side began rising slowly with a rough creaking of pulleys.

He saw his opponent for today beyond those bars.

The demonic beast he had already identified by its unmistakable scent.

“KIIYAAAAAAA—!!”

A gigantic body.

Bird legs.

A rooster head with a red comb.

Rough, heavy wings that could briefly lift several meters into the air.

Instead of a tail, a green serpent that cried with a chilling HISSS—.

“A cockatrice… It’s been a while since I last hunted one.”

Surabar licked his parched lips with his tongue.

It was a demonic beast he had once hunted until he was sick of it.

We had a hard time capturing it alive, Your Majesty.

That was what they said after dragging in the unconscious cockatrice.

Cedmos Jaeger.

Red Stone had to admit that Cedmos was becoming harder to handle with each passing day.

There were two things he could at least be grateful for: the fact that Cedmos had once sworn loyalty to him and his house, and the fact that he held the authority to give Cedmos what he wanted.

Fortunately, there had been some spare tail-bearers imported from Mosul.

When he handed over two of them, Cedmos chuckled creepily and looked at his new “toy” with the one eye he had left.

…Even Red Stone, who knew all the disgusting things that happened out of sight in the palace—some of which he himself had ordered—felt chills at Cedmos’s expression.

He still hasn’t escaped the past.

Is he still unable to recover from the shock of being defeated by that dying swordmaster of the Demon King’s Army? How pathetic.

Cedmos’s hostility toward tail-bearers had begun after the horrific defeat he suffered in the Great War.

One of the Four Heavenly Kings of the Demon King’s Army—a tail-bearer and simultaneously a swordmaster, the guardian deity of the alliance—had inflicted a terrible wound that brought irreversible change to Cedmos.

In a bad direction.

Cedmos had once been an excellent knight.

Once.

Well, he was an unstable element that could not be fully trusted, but he was still a usable sword.

It was better to hold it, even if only for the sake of appearances.

A swordmaster who had sworn to serve only the king—Red Stone himself.

No matter what sinister scheme Archduke Greenwood was plotting, Cedmos Jaeger was the perfect tool to block it in advance or to exact revenge.

Those lower-class scum down there in the third-class seats—already drunk and flailing, unable to even control their own bodies—did not understand how valuable and useful violence could be.

But Red was different.

He knew full well just how fraudulent a swordmaster could be as a tool.

Yet Cedmos, who grew harder to control and more costly by the day, gave Red endless headaches.

There were already enough things in the kingdom to worry about even without a sarcastic “king’s sword.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Hm, you’ve come.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

A retainer who had been waiting in advance ran over to report.

Cedmos would be guarding him from somewhere out of sight.

He had locked Redron in the palace under the pretext of preparing for contingencies.

That foolish son of his, utterly obsessed with his “toy,” would probably prefer staying quietly in his annex anyway.

Perhaps it should be called a substitute—Annabella was now sitting demurely beside Red.

She takes after her mother.

Red scanned Annabella not as a daughter but as merchandise to be sold off.

The maids had put their utmost effort into dressing her up.

The little girl who used to stutter and couldn’t even meet eyes properly—where had she gone?

Now blooming like a flower, Annabella had become quite womanly and reminded him of her mother in the past.

There was no woman quite as good in bed as that one from time to time…

Ah, those nostalgic old days! Good times.

In his younger days when he wore the crown, no one dared defy or resist his will.

Everyone swore loyalty to the new king and bowed their heads, watching his mood.

Unlike now, when rats like Archduke Greenwood kept popping their heads up here and there, probing for any opening.

…Once this matter is over, I’ll get rid of Greenwood and that disobedient Cedmos too.

My era will return.

The era of the great king, Red Stone.

The age of the true god who descended upon the Armenial Continent!

Red watched the door of the VIP room open.

Even before it opened, confident footsteps were already approaching.

He gave Annabella a brief signal, and the girl quickly stood up.

…She must be looking forward to the man who will become her husband. Her movements are quick.

Red gladly approved of his daughter’s behavior.

“Your Majesty, it is an honor to see you again.”

“Oh, Garland! Come in, come in!”

Red sincerely welcomed Garland, who arrived escorted by royal guards like autumn leaves.

The VIP room had been carefully prepared with food that would not diminish dignity, drinks to soften the atmosphere, and even a back door for discreet exits.

Since it was obvious without watching that “Surabar’s” first match would end successfully, Red planned to make the marriage between the young and promising Annabella and Garland irreversible.

Click.

The door closed, and Garland, impeccably dressed in formal attire, stood at a respectful distance.

Seeing him face to face with Annabella was utterly heartwarming.

Anyone would say they looked like a pair straight out of a painting.

“She is beautiful. Will you introduce her, Your Majesty?”

“Of course, of course. This child is Annabella—Annabella Stone.

My cherished and beloved daughter.”

Annabella lowered her head.

Whether because of the makeup or because her emotions were stirred, her peach-blushed cheeks were utterly lovely.