Chapter 99 99: Cooperation
"Ah, my dear Lucifer!" The exact moment his eyes verified Lucia clearing the threshold, Old Hart threw his arms wide, stepping forward to offer an incredibly warm, theatrical greeting. "You possess zero understanding of how desperately my office has held a watch for your boots these past few suns. Stripped of your presence on the sand, the entire audience packing the stands of the Serante Amphitheater has completely lost its appetite for gladitorial combat. If your steel vanishes from my roster for another ten days or a fortnight, my hands will be conformed to shutter the gates entirely!"
Lucia smoothly stepped aside to evade the old man's insincere embrace, extending his gloved hand to execute a polite, brief handshake. "My vanguard hasn't dissolved into thin air, old friend. My boots have merely spent the past few days consulting with a handful of well-traveled outriders regarding the true nature of your Leyndell Battle Festival. Heh... it appears that specific gathering is anything but a simple tournament."
Hearing those words, a sharp, calculating glint flashed deep within Old Hart's cloudy eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. He gave a curt wave of his fingers, dismissing the nervous waiter who had escorted the trio into the room, before slowly scanning his gaze up and down the massive frames of Radahn and Kristoff standing like iron pillars behind Lucia's shoulders. He let out a low, raspy chuckle. "These two gentlemen... do they concurrently register as trustworthy brothers of your blade?"
"An absolute certainty," Lucia replied, his shoulders shifting in a loose shrug. "Our steel cleared your gates today explicitly to secure our entry slots for the Battle Festival commencing a month down the calendar—operating under the official banner of your house, Serante."
Old Hart's commercial smile never wavered by a fraction of an inch. He simply maintained his stationary posture, keeping a silent, intense watch over their helms for several seconds, before casually waving his palm toward the corner. "Select whichever cushions please your eyes; pray, be seated."
He turned his back to the trio, striding over to an exquisitely carved oak cabinet nesting against the masonry wall. Holding three heavy silver goblets in his left hand, his right gauntlet hoisted a dusty, un-labeled bottle of deep red wine. He poured a generous measure for Lucia and his companions, before filling a separate chalice to the absolute brim for himself. He pivoted on his heel, dropping his frame heavily back into the deep leather armchair anchoring the rear of his grand desk.
"Exactly as my tongue disclosed to your ears winters past, Lucifer... the raw purse money and the temporary aristocratic honors accompanying the championship title comprise nothing more than the most insignificant, entry-level rewards yielded by the Battle Festival. What truly incites those high-tier, law-breaking master fighters to spill their blood across the sand is the acquisition of a legitimate qualification to breach the boundaries of the wider world—a golden ticket to ascend into a vastly grander reality."
Old Hart took a slow, appreciative sip of the vintage, an expression of total, un-alloyed delight mapping the wrinkles of his face. "Observe this specific vintage from the Vittoric valleys. Discharged within the borders of such a minor, backwater province, it scores as nothing more than a common peasant swill that the nouveau riche chug down from coarse oak cups. But the moment those barrels cross the vast, stormy expanse of the Great Ocean, clear the high custom houses of Leyndell, and find themselves poured into exquisite glass bottles adorned with a sacred family crest that the high ministers are so proud of... it mutates instantaneously into a priceless treasure."
"Mortal men follow the identical calculus! Since your outriders have managed to harvest a handful of backroom rumors from the court, your intellect should comprehend that those common gladiators who joyfully pledge their blades to noble houses or enlist in the regular legion lines following the conclusion of the Festival are nothing but poor, short-sighted wretches commanding mediocre skills and even worse luck. They may have harvested a temporary flash of fame and fortune across the lower wards, but their souls have already completely missed the true, sovereign opportunity of this age."
The old man let out a soft, mocking chuckle, crossing his thin, leather-clad legs to rest his boots directly over his ledger books. "Across the previous winters, my office would have mathematically never disclosed an absolute layer of inside intelligence to a group of green newcomers of your tier. But across these past two cycles, the gladiators signed to my private stables have been increasingly disappointing. Even the handful of veteran blades who barely managed to chew their way through the qualifiers to enter the main brackets of the Battle Festival failed to survive until the terminal matches."
"As the world knows, I am merely an old, weathered hound tasked with guarding the outer gates and keeping the houses in order for the high lords. If the sovereigns anchoring the upper tiers express their dissatisfaction with my tallies, my head is conformed to isolate a strategy to make amends. Consequently... my mind calculates that our houses might possess an excellent window to execute a mutual cooperation play."
Lucia feigned a deep, burning interest across his features, a relaxed smile breaking across his face as he leaned back. "By what specific parameters does your office design this cooperation? Disclose the explicit details."
"Your own mouth has stated that the three of you cleared my entry gates explicitly to participate in the Battle Festival, and my stables desperately require three elite fighters capable of tearing through the qualifiers to fight their way into the final championship bout. As for whether your individual steel is chasing personal fame, commercial profit, or an alternate, hidden dividend beneath the sand... it alters zero variables on my ledger. No one cares."
"However," Old Hart paused, using his index finger to deliberately adjust the bridge of his glasses, "the absolute minimum regulatory requirement to authorize a candidate's entry scroll into the Battle Festival is the acquisition of a Mithril Rank. Lucifer, your own blades have already delivered a verified demonstration of your prowess across my pits; your standing can effortlessly advance to the next tier by simply coordinating two high-yield, high-stakes gladiatorial matches across the coming week. But evaluating the position of your two companions... securing two independent Battle Festival entry permits within the solitary month remaining on the calendar will manifest as an exceptionally grueling enterprise."
Lucia offered a faint, un-fused smile at the warning. He reached out his gauntlet behind his mantle, gently nudging Radahn's armored ribs. The red-haired prince caught the signal instantly, a low, muffled grumble filtering through his rusted iron visor. "What is the meaning of this hesitation, old man? Does your tongue suggest our strength lacks the capacity to clear your petty lists?"
"Banish the alarm, my good sir! Your thoughts have completely mis-mapped the intent of my vocabulary," Old Hart countered with an immensely cheerful, placating gesture of his palms, laughing aloud as he waved his hand through the air. "Given Master Lucifer's legendary reputation and un-chipped credibility across these lower rings, my office naturally maintains the utmost faith that the companions sharing his campfire command an identical, staggering level of martial ability."
"But regardless of my personal faith, the ancient structural rules governing the arena guilds remain absolute. To legally force your names into the Battle Festival registry within the remaining time, your blades are conformed to execute at least twenty independent matches across the coming month, and your file is mathematically forbidden from logging more than three individual defeats."
He gently stroked the coarse strands of his gray goatee, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Under those parameters... does your steel possess the stamina to fulfill the tally?"
Lucia's memory remained perfectly clear; his own trajectory from the lowest Iron tier up to the thresholds of the Steel Rank had consumed a grand total of thirteen individual matches. Old Hart's current administrative hurdle was nothing more than a calculated diagnostic test designed to verify the true combat limits of Radahn and Kristoff. However, since their ultimate strategic objective was strictly to secure their credentials for the winter brackets, there existed zero requirement to waste their breath haggling over such a trivial volume of labor.
"What is the absolute maximum number of active gladiators your stables can organize to cross steel with our vanguard across a single afternoon?" Lucia inquired casually, his posture sinking deeper into the velvet of the sofa cushions.
Old Hart went momentarily still, his analytical mind turning over the strange phrasing of the question. After a brief watch of calculation, he spoke. "Our lower pens can discharge as many Iron-grade fodder as your heart desires; our barracks command over twenty active blades occupying the Bronze-grade listings; and our master logs contain four or five premier fighters holding the Purple-Steel Rank. Why do your lips track that specific tally?"
"Our schedules have been quite heavily saturated with external duties of late," Lucia shrugged, his tone completely flat and un-fused. "Could your office coordinate a single, unified match for the afternoon watch—the three of us taking on the entire collective assembly of the fighters you just listed, all at the exact same microsecond? That way, everyone clears their paperwork, and the ledger is balanced without wasting our days."
"What did you say?!"
Ten minutes down the clock, Old Hart—his features still thoroughly mapped with a dark, un-believing layer of skepticism—finally settled his frame into the master box of the spectator stands.
Down across the massive, stone-walled basin of the arena floor, more than fifty active gladiators representing varying combat ranks stood deployed across the sand. The absolute majority of them were breathing with a frantic, boiling rage, their chests heaving beneath their leather harnesses as their eyes burned with a fanatical desire to systematically tear those three arrogant, unknown brats who had dared to challenge their collective honor into bleeding pieces of meat.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the capital rings! Turning our focus to the sixteenth engagement of this afternoon's program—your old acquaintance, the Serante Amphitheater's undisputed rookie fighter of the year, Lucifer, alongside his un-vouched companions, Tarn and Chris... will advance their steel to face off simultaneously against every single active gladiator who has yet to log a defeat across this cycle!" the master of ceremonies announced, his voice booming through the brass megaphones with an artificial, sweating enthusiasm. "In addition, enforcing an explicit directive from the high box to preserve the structural order of the crowd, our offices will be temporarily closing all betting windows for this specific match! We petition your understanding!"
The exact watch the announcement cleared the brass, a furious, thunderous storm of angry curses and violent insults violently erupted from the already boiling sea of spectators packing the stone rafters. The announcer frantically ducked his skull to avoid three rotten eggs aimed straight for his eyes, fleeing back into the security of the stone tunnels in a thoroughly disheveled state. It was strictly when Lucia and his two companions stepped out from the iron gates onto the red sand—and the mass of gladiators whose combat attributes appeared vastly superior on parchment began to dress their lines—that the crowd's vocal fury gradually subsided into a breathless, hyper-tense silence.
"Chief Manager... why did your pen specifically command an absolute lockdown over the betting ledgers for this run?" a junior arena clerk inquired cautiously, noticing the unusually grave, rigid expression mapping his superior's face. "Is it because the disparity in numbers renders the outcome too entirely predictable?"
Old Hart cast a brief, ice-cold glance over his shoulder at the clerk, before turning his face back to lock his glasses onto the three silver-and-iron helms standing alone against the crowd of fifty blades below. His voice emerged in a low, gravelly whisper.
"It is precisely because the calculations of my mind command an absolute zero certainty regarding the terminal outcome that my office dare not open those ledgers to the public. You have spent too few winters in this capital to understand—ever since the ancient watches of the First King, the people of the Golden Dynasty have permanently, fanatically worshipped the manifestation of a true Hero."
"Are you harboring a fear that the entire stadium will dump their fortunes onto Lucifer's line, and that their steel will actually possess the capacity to break the world?"
"Seal your jaw... and keep your eyes un-blinking on the sand."
"Understood."
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