Chapter 100: Participants
"Your blades have fully proven their worth. This comprises the exclusive mark of identity for a Gold Warrior."
As Old Hart spoke, he placed three heavy, pure gold crosses upon the desk. His weathered hands were still trembling with a microscopic, involuntary rhythm.
In all honesty, the reaction wasn't restricted to the manager alone. Any spectator who had witnessed the full duration of that slaughter would feel an uncontrollable, primitive chill when facing these three men up close—a fear entirely unrelated to courage, but rather the deep, biological terror of the weak intersecting the path of a predator.
More than fifty seasoned veterans had held the sand against them, including a dozen elite Purple-Steel fighters whose combat records scored as high as Lucia's own. In the provinces, a warband of that caliber could potentially challenge a detachment of celebrated Erdtree heroes. Yet, standing before these three, the legion of gladiators that had saturated the entire arena floor had been broken in less than a single minute of the clock.
In truth, if one deleted the time the survivors spent scattering and fleeing like livestock, the actual engagement from the opening strike to the total collapse of the opposing line had lasted less than twenty seconds.
The enchanted, finely wrought armor worn by the veterans had proven as fragile as waterlogged paper beneath their steel. In turn, when faced with their opponents' frantic counter-attacks, the trio hadn't even bothered to execute a single dodge. They relied solely on their raw physical density to ignore every offensive method those Purple-Steel warriors could muster.
If they hadn't been deliberately holding back their power, Old Hart was certain they could have liquidated every soul on the sand in half a minute. Across his thirty winters serving the Serante Amphitheater, he had seen only a handful of monsters of this tier.
"Did our previous discussion not cite the Mithril Rank as the target?" Lucia asked, weighing the heavy gold medal in his palm. "By what logic does my registry jump to the highest rank after a solitary match?"
Old Hart offered a weary, dry smile. "Following the carnage of today's battle, the three of you are legally barred from participating in Serante's regular program. If I allowed your names on the roster, my offices would mathematically never be able to open a betting pool for a gladiatorial match again—unless you three were willing to draw steel against each other."
"Understood. In that case, disclose the explicit schedule and the governing rules of the Battle Festival."
"Nominal," Old Hart nodded, his tone turning serious. "Let us initiate the brief with the timeline."
"The annual Battle Festival launches on December 28th and terminates on January 1st of the new year. The roster comprises sixty-four elite fighters holding a Mithril Rank or higher, hand-picked from the various capital arenas. The brackets are managed through a single-elimination format. After three grueling rounds, the final eight survivors will advance to participate in the championship match."
"The championship itself desists from the standard two-man duel format. Instead, the final eight are divided into two tactical teams to execute a day-and-night hunt within the labyrinthine sewers beneath the capital. The sovereign winner is determined by the total hunt score verified at the dawn watch of January 1st."
"A hunt?" Kristoff's brow knit into a sharp knot of knightly distaste. "Identify the prey."
"The target species alters every winter. In the earlier watches, the pits were filled with mutated beasts from the deep warrens, including the Omen-Born. But down the line, several elite teams were systematically hunted and slaughtered by the Omen themselves. There were whispers that the two defiled princes exiled beneath the roots were the ones responsible for the retaliation. Following those losses, the noble houses administering the Festival never possessed the stomach to target the Omen again."
Hearing the report, Lucia sneered inwardly. If those arrogant nobles attempted a similar stunt twenty winters down the line, it wouldn't just be the teams who suffered; the brothers Morgott and Mohg would likely dig up the ancestral graves of the entire organizing committee.
"And the subsequent years?" Radahn asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"The winter before last, Duke Harvey provided a cohort of demi-human rebels from the Weeping Peninsula. The highest-yield targets were two demi-human queens who commanded a high proficiency in glintstone magic; three warriors were riddled with crystal shards before the dawn. Last year, Marquis Osarion supplied a batch of Misbegotten warriors from Mt. Gelmir. Regrettably, their vitals were mediocre, and the lords were thoroughly dissatisfied with the sport. Concurrently, rumors reached the court that the Osarion lineage had suffered a collapse, cutting the supply line from the mountain."
"But this winter's ledger reads differently," Old Hart said, rubbing his palms together with a hungry gleam in his eyes. "This watch, Duke Duolis has personally escorted a massive shipment of Icefield Trolls from the North. The scouts claim several of the leaders carry the un-diluted blood of the Giant Kings. Consequently, the rewards for this year's hunt are the most generous in a decade. In previous winters, strictly the eight finalists could petition to become Night Fighters, signing a contract with a powerful house to join the underground circuit. But this year, the ministries have expanded the Night Fighter slots to sixteen. Any operator who survives the second round commands a chance to stay, if they possess the heart for it."
"Has the registry been expanded because the ministers fear the eight finalists won't survive the encounter with the Mountain Giants?" Radahn scoffed.
"The calculation is not incorrect," Old Hart admitted with an awkward smile. "But regardless of the reason, expanding the slots is a dividend for your house. The rank of a Night Fighter is exceptionally difficult to secure. In the past, Mithril and Gold warriors would tear each other's throats out just to reach that final hunt, hoping to be noticed by a high-ranking lord. Once a contract is signed, their treatment is no different from that of a knight of the realm."
"Identify this underground arena," Lucia requested, his silver eyes narrowing. "By what logic do the high lords bestow such immense rewards upon these Night Fighters?"
Old Hart paused, weighing his words. "Since you will be anchoring the Serante banner at the Festival regardless, it is better for your intellect to archive this data now. The underground arena is not a public theater. It exists to enable the nobility to resolve diplomatic disputes and territorial gridlocks that are too sensitive for public negotiation. It is a sector of shadow duels—secrets that are mathematically forbidden from reaching the ears of outsiders."
"The Night Fighters function as their proxy agents. According to the ancient treaties signed by the houses, the terminal result of a Night Fighter duel represents the victory or defeat of the two lords in conflict. The loser is conformed to execute a compromise based on the winner's demands. Some legendary Night Fighters who lock a sequence of un-broken victories are even granted a hereditary surname by their master, truly ascending into the noble class. For men who live by the strength of their own steel, this comprises the absolute zenith of opportunity."
"Does your office command the participant list for this winter's Festival?" Lucia asked. "My vanguard requires an audit to prepare the board."
"One watch." Old Hart rose from his chair, striding to the heavy bookshelf. He extracted a thick dictionary from the upper shelf, pulling a neatly folded parchment from between the pages.
"The roster is here," he said, smoothing the paper across the desk. "The candidates are exceptionally powerful this cycle. As luck would have it, Serante has failed to produce a single gladiator of sufficient caliber all winter—which is precisely why my office is petitioning the three of you to represent our banner. Beyond the standard prize runes of the Festival, my house will provide each of you an additional thirty thousand runes as a sponsorship dividend."
Lucia remained silent, his eyes scanning the list of sixty-four names.
"Luvins... Aldrich... Kellogg..." He tracked the names one by single one, but zero signatures triggered a response from his memory.
He paused, his thoughts turning over the reality. An entity who appeared in the Golden Age and survived until the Tarnished era to leave an impression on my mind would have to be a figure of monumental importance. It is unlikely they would spend their watches in a common Battle Festival... hm?
His gaze hit the absolute terminal end of the registry and stopped dead.
Coincidentally, his eyes locked onto two specific names anchored to the final slots.
Participant Sixty: Carlyle.
Participant Sixty-One: Rolo.
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