Double Red
[Day 32 of Ludus Magnorum - Great Gardenia]
The clash of steel shrieked in the open sky, ringing so sharp it seemed to carve the air itself. The crowd thundered in answer—cheers, taunts, wild encouragement hurled from every tier of the stands. All that frenzy, all that roaring devotion, bore down upon the two fighters who stood locked in combat within the heart of the arena.
They fought inside a vast spherical barrier, a dome of shimmering force that bent sunlight like heat upon water. To the spectators, it was transparent enough to see every motion; yet when blades bit too wide or magic flared, the surface rippled and absorbed the certain danger with a hushed thrum. It was both theater and safeguard. To make it more exciting, the very weave of the barrier shifting the ground beneath the duelists’ feet, conjuring today’s trial: an endless desert of searing sand.
From nearly two thousand entrants, the Open Duel event had pared itself down to thirty-two. Now came the true crucible: from this stage to the final, each round would unfold upon a changing terrain, each dome remade anew. Today, the desert ruled—pitiless, open, and unforgiving.
Lisabelle, Viena, and Theo sat pressed close to the railing, their seats a prize for having queued before dawn. The view through the barrier was pristine, as if they stood upon the dunes themselves.
They had watched it all unfold: the opening duel, where a master swordsman from Varnaria clashed with a half-naked brute from Hilverhold, muscles gleaming as he fought with reckless abandon. Then the sixth match—over almost as soon as it began, leaving the crowd reeling. In it, a strange figure known only as Mr. Sunday dismantled his opponent, a claw-fighter clad in iron talons, with frightening precision: four joints severed in the space of three strikes. Victory claimed, swift and merciless.
Theo leaned forward, eyes wide, barely blinking as sand whirled with each clash.
Viena clutched the edge of her seat, her little shoulders tense, though her lips betrayed an awed smile.
As for Lisabelle, she sat back straighter than the others, arms folded, though her gaze burned with an intensity that belied her feigned composure.
“They’re all scary folks … but to me, Mr. Sunday’s match was the most striking,” Viena murmured, wonder softening her tone. “I never imagined he was that strong. He finished his opponent in less than ten seconds!”
Viena tugged at her sister’s sleeve, but Lisabelle’s jaw was taut.
“That bastard … he really was holding himself back when he fought me,” she clenches her fist until her knuckles whitened, furious at her own weakness.
Theo chimed in, nodding toward the arena. “That cat-masked guy? I’m with you on that. His movements weren’t human.”
Lisabelle recalled the instant of Mr. Sunday’s victory. Theo was right. The way he moved was absurd—like a puppet tugged by unseen strings, accelerating with impossible sharpness, striking from angles no one could predict.
This was the sisters’ second time watching an Open Duel during the Ludus Magnorum. But only now had they seen Mr. Sunday fight with their own eyes. The past days, they had been occupied with other spectacles, namely—drinking-swimming, bare-knuckle brawls, triathlons, and obstacle races. In those events, Lisabelle and Viena had managed to pocket tidy profits from wagers placed under Hyland’s name, nearly doubling their initial stake. Lisabelle had been ready to play it safe, content to stop while fortune favored them. But after witnessing Mr. Sunday, the itch to go all-in sparked to life.
Now the fourteenth match began. Viena’s awaited fighter finally appeared.
“Daigoo! Over here—it’s me, Viena!” she cried, voice straining against the oceanic roar of the Great Gardenia’s crowd. Her cheer was but a drop of water against the crashing surf.
And somehow—impossibly—Daigo heard. He turned, grinning, and tipped his straw boater hat at the child, mocking her even in acknowledgment.
“Eh? You know that squinty old man, pipsqueak?” Theo asked.
Viena couldn't hear Theo, she was too absorbed with the spectacle before her. Hence, Lisabelle answered for her. “By chance. The beansprout nearly got flattened by a carriage, turned into mashed potato. Daigo dragged her out of the way, so I treated him to lunch.”
Theo raised a brow. “But how so? You’re always so glued to your sister. You even told me I ought to do the same—keep an eye on her in your place.”
“Yeah. I was being an idiot that time,” Lisabelle admitted flatly.
Theo had readied another jab, but her expression stopped him—serious, tinged with a regret deeper than he’d expected. He swallowed the jest.
“Well… what matters is she’s safe now. Just make sure you get it on your head. A kid her size—anything could toast her. You gottta be more than good, Belle. Babysit her properly.”
“Mm.” Lisabelle cleared her throat, giving a curt nod.
From the far side of the arena, a woman stepped forward, drawing every eye in the crowd as though the very air bent toward her. Her skin was dark and sun-kissed, glistening under the light like burnished bronze. Her form was both lean and powerful, muscles honed and rippling subtly beneath her smooth frame. She wore little — just a fitted wrap that barely covered her chest and draped lightly down the front of her thighs, leaving her back bare and her legs fully revealed.
Instead of shoes, three golden anklets shimmered around each of her feet, chiming faintly as she walked across the sand. At her hip coiled a bullwhip, long and vicious, braided from dark leather that gleamed like the hide of some nocturnal beast.
The crowd stirred with excitement and unease. Many had already witnessed this woman fight in earlier rounds, and none were foolish enough to underestimate her now. Each strike of her whip cracked with a sound like splitting thunder, fast and mercilessly precise. One mistake—just one hesitation—could cost an opponent dearly. Several spectators winced as they recalled the infamous match from a few days ago, when she had cleanly taken a man’s eye with a single, flawless snap of her wrist during the chaotic mass-qualifier phase.
“Whoa, damn.” Lisabelle’s voice was low, begrudging, but there was awe in it.
“Why are you looking at her like that, Lily?” Viena tilted her head, puzzled by her sister’s tone.
Lisabelle didn’t take her eyes off the woman. “Of all the weapons out there, the whip is the one I’m worst at handling. It’s ... unpredictable. The strike point, the rhythm—it’s nothing like a sword or spear. Controlling it takes insane precision and strong senses. I respect anyone who can master it.”
“Ooh…!” Viena’s mouth rounded in wonder, her admiration growing after hearing her sister’s explanation.
“I can’t wait! Come on, mister referee, start the match already!” Viena bounced excitedly on her toes, shouting toward the arena.
The referee strode into the center of the massive sand-filled stage. The dome of magic activates again a ripple of air can be seen pouring down the arena like water flowing down an upside-down bowl. Only after it completely enclosed the fighting ground that the rippling layer becomes invisible once more.
His voice carried through the amphitheater as he recited the rules one final time.
Almost anything was allowed once the match began: blades, fists, tricks, magic, even poisons. But nothing could be done beforehand. No ambushes, no sabotage before the whistle. And there were limits—the Open Duel was brutal, a blood sport, but it was not a killing ground.
Certain strikes were strictly forbidden: a blow to the heart, a decapitation, a direct hit to the groin, or a lethal strike to the solar plexus. These bans existed to maintain the spirit of Ludus Magnorum—an event built on the ideals of peace through competition, not slaughter. For the same reason, no fighter was allowed to harm an opponent who had surrendered.
When the rules were done, the referee raised his hand toward the woman on the north side of the arena.
“From the northern corner—Fathiya of Runewater! Prepare yourself!”
CTAAASSHH!
The whip unfurled and cracked with a sound so sharp it seemed to split the air itself, rattling the magical dome and sending ripples through the crowd’s collective breath.
Fathiya rolled her shoulders and smirked lazily, her tone teasing as she coiled the whip back around her arm.
“Honestly, I’m not a fan of violence,” she purred, “but you see … I really, really want that summer island~.”
The crowd roared with laughter and cheers at her audacity.
The referee pivoted sharply, raising his other hand.
“From the southern corner—Daigo of the Temple of Fujin! Prepare yourself!”
Daigo cracked his neck and rubbed his shoulders, exhaling slowly. His stance was calm, but there was a simmering determination in his eyes.
“Sorry, onee-san,” he said evenly. “I’ve got something I’m fighting for too.”
The referee stepped back and lifted a silver whistle to his lips. The sharp, piercing note cut through the arena like a blade. The match had begun.
Daigo knew instantly this would be one of his hardest battles yet.
Fathiya wasn’t just skilled—she was the worst possible match-up for him. The whip was unlike any conventional weapon. Its path was fluid, abstract, near-impossible to predict. You couldn’t block it like a sword or parry it like a spear. And in the hands of a master like Fathiya, every flick of her wrist became a deadly puzzle, the tip of the whip moving so fast it seemed to vanish before appearing somewhere entirely unexpected.
There was no room to stand still and analyze her rhythm. To survive, he would have to act before she seized control of the fight.
So, Daigo chose to move first.
"O' tempest of heaven, graceful be the eastern wind.
Let me thread the silver clouds as an emerald Mejiro,
and my form be swifter than a thunder’s cry."
Daigo drew his blade from its sheath.
At once, the air shifted. A violent gale surged forth from every direction, whipping his garments into a wild frenzy. The very atmosphere around him seemed to warp, thick with lethal intent. With a single stride, Daigo closed the distance between himself and Fathiya—so swift, it was as though he had stepped through space itself. His grip tightened on the hilt, his body coiled to deliver a brutal diagonal slash.
But before the strike could land, something lashed out from below.
The whip-blade.
It came like a serpent springing from the shadows, too fast to dodge.
Splat.
A thin spray of crimson filled the air. A jagged line blossomed across Daigo’s cheek, and the top of his left ear was nearly severed clean off. Blood streamed down his neck and dripped onto the sand in a steady patter.
Some spectators roared in exhilaration, while others gasped in horror.
“Daigo!” Viena’s scream tore from her throat—though of course, he could not hear it through the storm’s deafening howl.
Lisabelle slapped a palm to her forehead. "For goodness' sakes, he's being so reckless."
Fathiya did not grant her opponent even a heartbeat to savor the pain. She surged forward, unleashing seven blistering strikes in the span of five seconds.
Daigo’s blade tried to meet each one clumsily. Sparks flared and the air rang with the sound of the whip lashing harshly at his body as he deflected them, teeth gritted, eyes squirming in pain.
With a heavy step, he vaulted backward, widening the gap between them. Yet Fathiya was relentless. She leapt high into the air, her silhouette cutting across the glare of the sun, and flung a scatter of throwing knives down at him.
Daigo blurred, his footwork a dance of pure precision, slipping past each blade by the narrowest margins.
“You remind me of a little birthday doll I once had,” Fathiya crooned, her tone sickly sweet as she blew him a kiss. “How about I make you just as fragile? A few cuts across that handsome face of yours, sever your legs at the knee… and of course, I’d love to remove those arms entirely.”
Daigo’s only reply was silence.
Instead of rising to her taunt, he sheathed his sword once more.
His lips parted, and a strange incantation rolled forth, low and guttural at first, then climbing like a gathering storm:
“O malevolent sky garden, temper be the Southern wind.
Rule the earth with a spiral crown of Oniwashi and Shuran,
Purify the world through a guiding forlorn.”
The very heavens seemed to shudder in response.
A colossal tornado erupted from the swing of his blade, spiraling upward with terrifying force. Sand and dust exploded into the air, forming an opaque wall that devoured the arena. The spectators shielded their faces, blinded and choking as the storm howled louder and louder. Unfortunately, the magical barrier cast by the court mages didn't consider wind as harm, and the sand particles are too small to be contained within.
Fathiya narrowed her eyes and raised a hand to shield them, her whip held taut in the other. She crouched, every muscle ready, sensing something terrible within that storm.
“Kuh …! This damned wind!” Fathiya hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s—annoying!”
She was right to be wary.
From within the cyclone, six invisible blades of compressed wind streaked outward at impossible speed.
Fathiya caught their glimmer in the last instant. Her whip lashed out in a blinding arc, spiraling around her like a living shield. Clang! Clang! Clang! Each blade met the whip’s strike and dispersed into harmless gusts, though not without staggering force.
Then, abruptly, the tornado collapsed.
The swirling winds, instead of scattering, converged in a single roaring blast aimed directly at her. It struck with such intensity that her heels skidded backward across the sand, her balance wavering.
Through the screaming gale, she glimpsed a dark shape rushing toward her.
“Got you!” she snarled, bracing herself. She leapt sharply to the left while her whip lashed out, a perfect sequence of strikes meant to tear the incoming figure apart.
The object shredded instantly beneath her assault—splintering into tattered cloth and shattered fragments.
Too late, she realized what it was.
Only Daigo’s scabbard and cloak.
Her blood ran cold.
The true Daigo was no longer in front of her. He was beside her—already mid-swing. The speed of his movement had eclipsed her senses entirely.
“SAHARA!” Fathiya screamed.
In that desperate heartbeat, the anklet she wore shimmered and burst apart, unraveling into the form of a massive black serpent. Its jaws unhinged with a hiss, striking toward Daigo’s throat.
Two motions, two outcomes—simultaneous.
Daigo’s blade cleaved through Fathiya’s right arm with a wet, decisive slash
- and the serpent’s fangs sank into Daigo’s neck, pumping venom deep into his veins.
Time seemed to fracture as both warriors staggered, blood and poison mingling in the hot, storm-tossed air.
As the last echoes of the storm died away, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The howling winds fell silent, the whirling sands settled back to the earth, and at last, the scene within the arena came into view.
What the spectators saw was a tableau of agony and defiance.
Fathiya lay sprawled upon the ground, writhing in pain, clutching desperately at the stump where her arm had been. Her breath came in ragged sobs, her body trembling from shock and blood loss.
Across from her stood Daigo—barely.
His posture was hunched, his chest heaving as venom coursed through his veins. With one trembling hand, he gripped the fangs of Fathiya’s serpent and wrenched them from his neck, blood seeping between his fingers. His other hand, however, remained steady, his blade leveled at the back of Fathiya’s neck.
Even on the brink of collapse, he held himself with the unyielding stance of a victor.
“A–A… what just happened?!” Viena’s voice cracked as she screamed, panic and disbelief tangled in every syllable.
“I—I don’t know!” Theo stammered, his eyes wide, unable to tear them away from the carnage. “But… it looks like we already have our winner.”
Theo’s words proved true a heartbeat later.
Seeing the state of the combatants, the referee stumbled forward, his whistle trembling at his lips. With a sharp, shrill note, he brought the match to its decisive end.
“Match concluded!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the stunned silence of the crowd.
“The victor is—Daigo of the Temple of Fujin!”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, as the announcement sank in, the arena erupted into a chaotic storm of cheers and gasps, mirroring the tempest Daigo himself had summoned only moments before.