Everyone should have been crushed to death beneath the stones.
The colosseum was collapsing moment by moment, and the cracked roof could no longer hold its shape as it gave way.
It was only natural that everyone should have died beneath it.
Even in this astonishing crisis, Redron prioritized Jasmine. Without even the time to curse the attendants who had fled and abandoned her, Redron shielded Jasmine, offering himself as a turtle’s shell to protect her.
It was a noble sacrifice. Yet, in the end, it should have been right for him to be crushed beneath the stones along with her. Redron should have been flattened first, and then the weight of the rocks and his body added atop her, bursting Jasmine like a stepped-on mouse.
“…?”
The pain he had braced for never came. Opening his eyes, which he had squeezed shut, Redron saw someone who had appeared without warning. Something black—as thick and viscous as ink, beyond human comprehension—had enveloped her.
“We meet again, Brother. This time… you were a little cool.”
“Ana…bella…?”
“Yes. Your timid, stuttering little sister. Hurry, Brother. Protect Jasmine. We have to escape the colosseum. Quickly!”
“Uh, uh…?! R-Right, got it!”
There was no leisure to calmly assess the situation. Redron hurriedly scooped up Jasmine, who was still thrashing in the agony of labor and unable to emerge from it.
Aaaah! Her pained scream stabbed into Redron’s ears like an awl, but there was no sharp solution at hand right now.
The child still refused to be born, tormenting both Redron and its mother.
As Redron rushed out of the colosseum with Jasmine in his arms, he vaguely understood how Annabella had instantly appeared before him—more precisely, before “Jasmine.”
The “fake” black onyx he had bought for her from the madam.
Whatever trickery was involved, Annabella had used it to transcend distance and manifest in an instant. That was how she had saved her brother and her precious “friend.”
“Huff, huff…! Jasmine! Just hold on a little longer! Once we’re out, we’ll take the carriage straight to the detached palace!”
“Aaah, aaaah…!!”
Jasmine had no strength left to grasp who was carrying her or what was happening around them.
And Redron was not much different. Without warning, a silver owl had smashed through the colosseum’s ceiling and descended, devouring people alive and sucking in the souls of the dead.
It was Hokhma, the one he had only heard of in tales.
As a child, he too had hoped to receive a special, wondrous “blessing of Hokhma,” one befitting the throne he would one day ascend.
But, but this… Redron saw those senselessly killed by falling stones, those crushed to death while shoving and struggling to escape the colosseum, those being devoured by their own god, and those falling to their knees in prayer as they watched.
Everything was chaotic and bewildering. No one any longer paid attention to the fight between Surabar and Baimart in the arena.
‘They’re gone?’
He had not watched the gladiators’ match with full focus, but he knew this had been the most fierce and desperate bout of any he had seen.
There would never be another duel like it, past or future. But that was not what mattered. The important thing was not how their fight had ended. The beasts had vanished amid the chaos.
While racing down stairs and sprinting through corridors, Redron noticed corpses of people who had fallen and died in the arena—but not the tailed ones who had been fighting there.
They had seemed like the type who would never stop fighting no matter what happened around them, yet they had slipped away in the confusion.
“Grrrh…! Hurry, hurry and get out! Brother! Don’t ever let go of Jasmine…!”
“I… know… that…!”
Annabella—nearly as good as naked—was wrapped in something that was shadow, ink, or perhaps the veil of night itself, wielding it like a sword to strike down every threat endangering Redron and Jasmine.
At times, the shadow that should have been beneath her feet grew enormous, swallowing massive boulders or flying chunks of metal falling toward the prince’s head.
There was no time to be shocked by Annabella’s sudden transformation.
Redron stepped over and sometimes leaped across the corpses of those who had met their ends in various hideous forms as he escaped the colosseum.
“Huff, huff…! We’re out—it’s over, the carriage is…!”
Would it be an exaggeration to say that running through corridors and down stairs from the VIP box had felt like an eternity?
Escorted by Annabella and somehow managing to carry Jasmine out of the colosseum, Redron could finally breathe a little easier.
Whew… Now, just load Jasmine and Annabella into the carriage and drive straight to the detached palace—
“Hoo.”
Kugugugu… From the colosseum, now fully collapsed and kicking up clouds of dust.
“Ah, my beloved children. Where are you hurrying off to?”
Red Stone spoke.
Hokhma.
Baimart had heard of the silver owl many times and now even knew what kind of being it was.
He was well aware that Anastasia—who had committed the worst filial impiety imaginable to keep him at her side—also bore Hokhma’s blessing in her eyes.
How could he not know of Hokhma? Yet Baimart could not understand those who served this evil god.
Still, a god was a god. Mortals—whose death was ordained from the moment of birth—could never comprehend or approach such a being that transcended human cognition.
“Hokhma…”
Baimart beheld the stars descending as it smashed through the colosseum’s roof. The Milky Way flowed, forming Hokhma’s wings and entire body.
The god’s two eyes gleamed with a brilliance no mortal could dare gaze upon. This transcendent silver owl had burst into the colosseum without warning, devouring people indiscriminately and sucking in their souls.
That is absolutely not something we should believe in, rely on, or follow… Apart from such thoughts, Baimart recognized that its presence was causing a change in him.
‘My wounds… are healing?’
No, that was not it. Baimart calmly assessed the situation.
The champion of the colosseum looked at Surabar, collapsed before him and barely breathing. An insurmountable, mighty foe… The demonic curse that had been etched into his body against his will was vanishing.
More precisely, every time that “Hokhma” breathed, the demonic curse was being sucked away. Like wind whistling swiftly through a narrow crack. And the same was true of the dark, sinister power of the demon that had sealed his heart and soul!
The demonic power dissipated so futilely, drawn into Hokhma as if it had never existed.
Baimart.
“…Barhan?”
The fur across his body stood on end. Amid the chaos and confusion, Baimart heard a voice he had never expected, one he had never wished for in his life.
The ancestral god. The great tiger said to have become a god and ascended to the heavenly realm, progenitor of all Bars. He was speaking to none other than Baimart himself.
‘Save Surabar. Then leave. Stay no longer near Hokhma. The curse and foul power that bound you are gone. I do not know if this will comfort you… but I will give you a gift.’
“…!!”
Baimart saw and felt his hands, his feet, his everything changing. It was as though another self stood beside him, watching his form.
Fallen flesh rapidly regrew, blood lost to the point of fainting was replenished, and his exhausted body regained vitality.
“This is…”
Freed from the demonic curse and now blessed by Barhan, Baimart realized he had truly become a “bear.”
Power coursed through him—enough to easily crush even the massive and mighty Surabar. But there was no longer any reason to continue this meaningless match.
He was free from the demon’s shackles.
He was whole again.
Baimart transferred a portion of the “gift” Barhan had bestowed upon him to the panting Surabar.
If this could save him, if he did not refuse life himself…
Vitality returned to the weary and wounded body, and Surabar slowly began to regain strength.
‘Save Surabar.’
Barhan had said. Yet Baimart remained silent, watching Hokhma rampage through the colosseum, devouring people alive.
Though late, Barhan had helped him. He had even given a decent “gift.”
But it was not enough. Baimart knew the weight of what he had lost—and how important it had been.
Barhan acted for the good of all Bars? He had arranged what each needed? …That was what the mother of his departed children had said.
Yes, perhaps. It might be so.
But Barhan, you were too late…
He would express gratitude for the belated blessing and the strength to live. But not now.
Just as you were late, “my” gratitude will come late as well.
No matter the cost.
‘I have already paid the price for far too long.’
The spectator seats. The highest point. Baimart looked at the cracking, shaking VIP box.
The place where Archduke Anastasia Greenwood had been could not escape the current chaos either. The box—and she within it—were fated to be buried with the colosseum.
Baimart growled to Surabar, who had only just regained his strength.
“Surabar. I suppose we will never meet again. I am leaving. I do not know why a true warrior like you came all the way to this colosseum, but I hope you achieve what you desire.”
“Bai…mart…”
“I am leaving.”
With Anastasia. Without even a running start, Baimart leaped up to the VIP box where she was, shattered the glass, and entered.
Inside lay the warlock—unconscious or perhaps having his soul drained by Hokhma—and her, collapsed atop the blood-drawn spell circle, at a loss.
“Let’s go, Anastasia.”
He extended his hand. Barhan’s request, the will of the god she had believed in without doubt—all of it now held no meaning for Baimart.
Chirp, chirp. Birds sang, and flowers bloomed in profusion throughout the garden.
In the beautifully tended garden stood a pure white fountain spraying water evenly, surrounded by deer, small wild animals, and cute birds gathered side by side to drink and rest comfortably.
It was truly a warm, pastoral scene. If paradise existed, would it not be like this? Everything felt cozy and peaceful under the gentle sunlight that seemed to embrace even the soul.
He felt like lying down on the grass, closing his eyes, and drifting off.
‘…Huh?’
Where is this?
More importantly, what on earth is going on?
He forced his body—which had nearly fallen into a deep slumber—to rise.
Just moments ago, I had been fighting the one-eyed swordmaster Cedmos… and then…
“Are you awake, Paramir?”
“Gah!”
Startled by the voice behind him, he jumped like a cat frightened by a cucumber.
What is this… Turning around, he saw a familiar face. Devout-looking priestly robes. A tall stature and sturdy shoulders unusual for a priest. Even a steady gait with perfect balance…
“Priest Moriah?”
“A pleasure to see you, Paramir. Or should I say Swordmaster Paramir? Sir Paramir rolls off the tongue more easily. How have you been all this time?”
“No, how… where is…”
He was utterly dumbfounded. What on earth is happening…?