Chapter 9 - The Stage is Set

  Yumiko snatched up her clothing bag and darted toward the bathrooms near the colosseum main entrance. Bursting into the cramped stall, she yanked the rope loose from the sack and hastily pulled out her gear. She kicked off her shoes, slipping on her black tabi socks before strapping small shin plates over them. The cool metal pressed against her legs as she fastened the straps tightly.

  Next, she reached for her sode—small shoulder guards—and secured them in place, their weight reassuring against her arms. She grabbed her dō, the chest piece of her armor, and slid it over her sleek black outfit. The polished plates shifted slightly before settling snugly against her torso. Lastly, she slipped her fingers into her kote, lightweight armored sleeves that extended from her hands to her forearms, securing them with swift, familiar movements.

  She pulled a black mask over the lower half of her face and flipped up the hood, shrouding herself in anonymity. A quick glance into the bag revealed the ticket she had taken days earlier. She tucked it into her sleeve, stuffed her discarded clothes back into the sack, and without hesitation, tossed it into the bathroom trash bin. With that, she sprinted outside, her heart pounding in anticipation.

  Yumiko had been fortunate to find the armor in town, all thanks to a local vendor hailing from her homeland. The discovery had felt like fate, and she hadn’t thought twice before making the purchase.

  As she weaved through the bustling colosseum halls, she noted how well the armor fit—not too tight, not too loose. She had only tried it on hurriedly in the middle of the street days ago, yet now, as she moved, it felt almost like a second skin.

  Her eyes caught sight of a sign ahead with a bold red arrow. Without breaking stride, she sprinted toward it. Near the entrance stood two men, their voices cutting through the noise of the colosseum.

  “Last call for fighters! Check in now, or you’ll be barred from entering!” one of them bellowed.

  Yumiko quickened her pace, her feet barely touching the ground as she closed the distance in seconds. She skidded to a stop before them, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

  “Holy hell, you’re a fast one!” the younger handler exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

  The older man chuckled, nodding approvingly. “You’ll put on quite the show, I imagine.” He extended a hand. “Ticket, please.”

  Yumiko wordlessly handed over the slip of paper, watching as the man’s eyes scanned it. His expression shifted, one brow raising in suspicion.

  “Justin… Schwag?” he read aloud, his tone doubtful. His gaze flicked up to Yumiko. “That’s your name? Really?”

  Her body tensed. She hadn’t even considered that the ticket might have a name attached. A cold realization hit her—she couldn’t read the language of the United Republic, despite living here for years.

  The second handler stepped closer, glancing at the ticket over his partner’s shoulder. “Justin? For a lady from the East?” he murmured, suspicion creeping into his voice.

  Yumiko’s mind raced for a solution. Then, inspiration struck. She straightened her posture, adopting an air of calm authority before speaking in her native tongue, Jinso.

  “Shin'ainaru tomodachitachi, nani ga mondai no yō desu ka? (Dear friends, what seems to be the issue?)”

  The two men exchanged puzzled looks.

  The older man titled his head, “I’m sorry… We can’t speak your language. Do you know Eldric? Eldric.” The man asked slowly for Yumiko, hoping she could understand. Yumiko continued to play the part and shook her head.

  “Shit…” the younger one muttered under his breath. “She wasn’t given language magic when she got here… It’s kind of needed everywhere you go these days. I wonder why she didn’t get it done?”

  The older handler nodded, rubbing his chin. “It’s expensive… My wife’s from the South, and when she came here, she couldn’t speak Eldric. I had to pay ten gold just so she wouldn’t have an accent anymore.”

  The younger handler’s eyes widened in disbelief. “No accent? That’s what makes girls cute!” he blurted out.

  The older man chuckled. “Sure, but not being able to hold a proper conversation gets frustrating fast. I bet this young miss here’s run into that problem herself—kind of like right now.” He turned to Yumiko with a friendly smile, speaking slowly and clearly. “What is your name?”

  “Namu?” Yumiko repeated, her voice carrying a slight accent as she mimicked the word.

  The handler’s grin widened. “Yes! Your name—er, namu!” He exaggerated the pronunciation, trying to match her speech.

  Yumiko hesitated, her mind racing for a name similar to what was on the ticket. If she could just make it sound natural... “Name is… Justsuno… Shiwagu…” she said, carefully shaping her words, doing her best to mask her true accent.

  The older handler scratched his head. “Huh. Well, I guess I can see how they got mixed up… ‘Schwag’ sounds like a made-up name, anyway.”

  The younger handler still looked skeptical. “How did they mess it up that badly? And they put ‘man’ on the ticket.”

  Yumiko’s eyes lit up as she saw an opportunity to play into the mistake. She gasped and quickly pulled her hood off of her face. “Ah! No! No man!” she exclaimed, feigning distress.

  The older handler shrugged. “Maybe it’s the short hair… Or maybe those idiots at registration were drunk again and checked the wrong damned box. Wouldn’t be the first time. Half of them just take the job to make quick cash and gamble it away.” He waved dismissively before stamping her ticket. “Alright, Miss… Shiwa…” His voice trailed off, realizing he had already forgotten the rest of her name. “Follow the arrows. Be quick. Good luck.” He gave her a thumbs-up and pointed toward the entrance.

  Yumiko bowed quickly. “Arigatou,” she said before slipping past them, entering the dimly lit fighter’s hall. She let out a slow, relieved sigh under her breath. “Thank the gods that worked…” she muttered, hurrying deeper inside.

  She didn’t make it far before two large, armored men stepped in front of her, blocking the path.

  “Ticket,” one of them said gruffly, holding out his hand.

  Yumiko immediately handed over the stamped slip. The guard glanced at it, then nodded to his partner.

  “Do you have any enchantments on your gear?” the second guard asked. “Spells, enchanted equipment, or any other forms of magic are strictly prohibited.”

  Now free from the need to fake an accent, Yumiko shook her head. “No.”

  The guard gave a curt nod. “We also don’t allow weapons or consumables of any kind. This includes summoned magic, hidden blades, potions, or anything else along those lines. Do you have any of that on you?”

  Yumiko hesitated for a moment before asking, “What will I be using to fight?”

  One of the guards glanced at his partner before raising a brow. “They didn’t tell you when you bought the ticket?”

  Yumiko stiffened slightly. She had no idea what kind of weapons they allowed, but showing uncertainty now could raise suspicion.

  The guard shrugged, waving it off. “No matter. Weapons are provided by the event. You’ll get to choose from what’s available. As for armor, only standard gear is allowed—no enchantments, no magical enhancements. If yours is enchanted, you’ll have to use what we provide.” He then slid a metal bucket toward her. “If you’re carrying anything that isn’t allowed, drop it in here now.”

  Yumiko let out a slow breath, knowing she had no choice. She reached down and began unfastening her belt, pulling out a small knife and placing it in the bucket. Then another. And another. She reached into the folds of her outfit, removing a set of throwing needles, followed by a handful of small pepper bombs tucked inside her kote gauntlets.

  The guards exchanged glances as the pile of contraband grew. One of them muttered under his breath, “How many weapons does she have?”

  Yumiko ignored them, continuing her methodical disarmament. She reached into a hidden compartment in her shin plates, producing yet another dagger. Then, finally, her fingers brushed against the ring on her right hand—the one concealing her bow. Her most important tool.

  She hesitated.

  “You won’t lose any of this… will you?” she asked, gripping the ring tightly.

  The first guard shook his head. “This place is full of filth, but I’ll give you my word, milady—all your items will be returned after the fight. If not, the guild will compensate you.”

  His words did little to ease her, but she had no choice. Slowly, she slipped the ring from her finger and placed it into the bucket.

  The guard nodded, then handed her a paper tag. “Number 261. This is your identifier during the fight. Afterward, it’ll match you to your crate so you can get your belongings back.” He slapped a similar number onto the box containing her confiscated items before his partner hoisted it up and carried it off.

  The remaining guard turned back to Yumiko. “Since you’re a woman, you’ll need to go down the right hall. Men are on the left. This is just for screening and changing purposes. Once you make your way to the right, a female officer will inspect your armor and check for any hidden gear. If anything’s enchanted and you lie about it, you’ll have to undress before her. Should you refuse, you will be disqualified. Understand?”

  Yumiko nodded.

  “Good.” He pointed down the hallway. “Go on, then. Take a right.”

  With a polite bow, Yumiko stepped past him, walking briskly down the corridor.

  Waiting at the end of the hall was a female guard, standing next to a large circular marking on the floor. The intricate runes etched into the stone pulsed faintly with magic.

  “Alright,” the woman said, arms crossed as Yumiko walked up. “I assume they told you what comes next. Step into the circle and hold out your ID number.”

  Yumiko obeyed, stepping onto the rune-covered floor and raising the tag in her hands.

  Immediately, a golden light flared to life, scanning up and down her body in a slow wave. After a few tense seconds, the circle flashed blue.

  The female guard nodded in approval. “Alright. One last thing. You’re not hiding anything, correct? No magical items, enchanted armor, potions, weapons, or anything else we’ve forbidden?” Her expression darkened slightly. “Do you swear to Noriko, the Goddess of Truth?”

  Yumiko met the woman’s gaze, keeping her posture firm. “No! I have nothing on me like that. I swear on the goddess’ name!”

  A green light pulsed from the magic circle, washing over Yumiko in a slow wave. The paper in her hand began to glow, her identification number shifting from gray to a deep shade of purple.

  The female guard gave a firm nod. “Very good,” she said, snatching the paper from Yumiko’s grasp before abruptly slapping it onto her back.

  The force made Yumiko stumble forward, and she instinctively reached over her shoulder, trying to feel what had just been placed there. “What did you just do?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

  The guard smirked. “That’s your identification tag. The announcers and judges need to keep track of you during the fights, and this makes it easier for them. But more importantly—” her expression turned serious, “—it’s also a promise. You swore to Noriko, the Goddess of Truth, and she’ll be watching over you in the arena. If you lied about stowing any magic, weapons, or enhancements, your number will fade to black. When that happens, you’ll be immediately disqualified and thrown out of the competition. No second chances.”

  The guard continued, “If you are killed, knocked out, or pretend to be knocked out, the goddess enchantment that was placed on that paper will teleport you out of the arena and you will then be considered eliminated.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Yumiko swallowed hard. This was more intense than she had expected. She had assumed this was just a bloodsport, a brutish, lawless brawl. But it seemed the arena had strict rules, ones she hadn't accounted for.

  “O-okay…” she murmured, still processing it all.

  The female guard sighed, crossing her arms. “Just don’t let that make you think you can’t die out there.” Her tone was grim. “Plenty have. And while the guild enforces some rules, killing isn’t strictly against them.”

  Yumiko’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had expected as much, but hearing it so plainly unsettled her.

  Then, to her surprise, the guard gave a wry grin and clapped her on the back again—harder this time. “There aren’t many women who sign up for these fights. So do your best, yeah? Get in there and kick those boys’ asses for us.”

  Yumiko stumbled forward from the impact, glancing at the woman with wide eyes. The encouragement was unexpected, but oddly… reassuring.

  “I will… thank you,” she said quietly.

  With that, Yumiko turned and continued down the dimly lit hallway. As she approached, the heavy wooden doors ahead trembled under the force of whatever lay beyond them. A deep, constant murmur of voices seeped through the cracks, growing louder with every step. The smell hit her first—iron and sweat thick in the air, tinged with something rancid. Even through her mask, the stench of unwashed bodies and dried blood clung to her senses.

  She pressed a hand against one of the doors and pushed it open. The moment she stepped inside, the noise surged—dozens of conversations overlapping in a chaotic mess. The space was a sprawling preparation chamber, filled with men of all backgrounds. Different skin tones, different faiths, different levels of wealth. But most shared the same rough, battle-worn look—scarred knuckles, greasy hair, tattoos crawling up arms and necks. A few men were playing dice as they waited, while others tested their armor, adjusting straps and fastening buckles.

  Yumiko’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd. To her surprise, she counted only five, maybe six women among them. And none of them looked particularly friendly.

  She kept her posture straight but moved carefully, instinct telling her to avoid drawing attention.

  Nearby, two men spoke in hushed but excited voices.

  “Look at that poor bastard over there,” one muttered with a sneer.

  “The guy they let in under special circumstances?” the other scoffed. “Tch. Should’ve known he’d be a joke.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” the first replied, lowering his voice. “He’s wearing that armor.”

  The second fighter turned to him, frowning. “You mean… Gelod armor?” His voice dripped with disbelief.

  “The very same. The armor that drains you dry, saps your strength with every passing second.”

  The man nodded with a chuckle. “Yep.”

  Yumiko’s gaze flicked toward them before settling on Lukas. He was hunched over, clad in a black, segmented piece of armor. Three jagged purple mana crystals jutted from the chest plate, pulsing faintly like dying embers.

  Before she could fully process what she was looking at, a towering figure stepped in front of Lukas, cutting off her view. The man was massive—easily over six and a half feet tall—with a broad, muscular frame. His wild red hair was barely tamed by a gleaming amulet resting against his forehead. He grinned down at Lukas, exuding the self-assured arrogance of someone used to getting attention.

  “You sure know how to draw some eyes, kid,” he said, folding his arms. “But let’s not forget who the real star of the show is.”

  Lukas didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable. It was as if the man didn’t exist.

  Yumiko caught the murmurs from the two men nearby.

  “That’s Benny the Bolder,” one whispered.

  “The bastard won two of these competitions,” the other added. “Gone straight to his head.”

  Benny’s grin widened at Lukas’s silence, as if expecting a reaction.

  Lukas finally spoke, his voice as dry as sandpaper. “Very nice. Your mother must be proud.”

  The smirk on Benny’s face twitched. With a sharp inhale, he swung his fist into a nearby metal locker. The impact was deafening. The thick steel crumpled under his strength, leaving a gaping hole. The entire room fell into an uneasy silence.

  Benny leaned in close, his breath hot and rank. “You think this is funny?” he growled.

  For the first time, Lukas looked up and locked eyes with him. His expression didn’t change, not even a flicker of concern. “No,” he said flatly. “I think talking to you is unbearable. Your breath isn’t helping.”

  A vein bulged in Benny’s forehead. His lips curled into a snarl as he raised his hands, letting out an enraged roar.

  Yumiko tensed, shoving past several fighters. She was ready to strike—her body coiled to intercept—when a sharp voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

  “WHAT is going on in here?”

  The room snapped to attention.

  A man with neatly combed black hair stood at the entrance, his hands clasped behind his back. Three uniformed guards flanked him, while two more entered the room and slammed the heavy wooden doors shut. His presence alone commanded silence.

  Benny hesitated, still seething but refraining from striking.

  The man took measured steps forward, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor. “May I remind you that fighting before the event begins is strictly prohibited?” His voice was smooth, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it.

  He turned his gaze toward Benny, unamused. “I’d hate to see someone influence the outcome of your matches for unnecessary disruptions.”

  Yumiko caught the brief tightening of Benny’s jaw before he exhaled sharply through his nose. With a low grunt, he turned and stormed away from Lukas, his shoulders still stiff with restrained fury.

  The man stepped forward and climbed onto a locker-room bench, ensuring every fighter in the room could see him. His presence was calculated, deliberate.

  “Listen up!” he called, sweeping his gaze across the assembled competitors. “There are over two hundred and fifty of you. So before you step foot in that arena, let’s clear some things up.”

  He turned, scrutinizing the gathered fighters. “Some of you fight dirty. Some of you fight to kill. Others hesitate, unwilling to harm. But regardless of your intentions, your job—all of your jobs—is to entertain the crowd.” His tone hardened. “That means no excessive cowardice, and no excessive brutality.”

  A few fighters muttered among themselves, some exchanging knowing glances.

  The man continued, his expression darkening. “Mr. Kenwick has no patience for those who do nothing but run. If you’re here to stall, you may as well leave now. Likewise, the crowd doesn’t want to see you butchering an opponent who’s already down. This is a spectacle, not a slaughterhouse.”

  From the back of the room, someone scoffed. “I thought killing was permitted.”

  The man’s lips curled into a thin, almost amused smile.

  “Yes,” he said smoothly. “It is… Or rather, yes and no.” He let the words linger, ensuring he had everyone’s attention. “Let me clarify the rules. If you kill an opponent during combat—whether by accident, exhaustion, or injuries sustained during the fight—you’re in the clear. However, if you pursue someone after they’ve been defeated, attack them after they’re being teleported off, or strike them once they’ve been knocked unconscious, you’ll be immediately disqualified.”

  His sharp eyes scanned the room, gauging reactions before continuing. “This brings me to my next point—if you’re knocked out or left on the ground for more than five seconds, you will be disqualified. The numbers slapped onto each of your backs are magically linked to the arena. The moment you lose consciousness or are deemed unfit to continue, you’ll be forcibly removed.” He let that sink in before delivering the final warning. “Should you step out, be thrown out, or touch anything other than the arena’s tiled platform, you will be disqualified.”

  He crossed his arms and let the weight of his words settle. “Do I make myself clear?”

  A wave of nods followed, murmurs of acknowledgment rippling through the fighters.

  Remo gave a satisfied nod. “Good,” he said simply, stepping down from the bench. “Now, weapons. Follow me.”

  The group shuffled forward, pressing close as they moved through a narrow corridor leading into a dimly lit armory. The air smelled of oil and metal, and racks of weapons lined the walls—blades of various sizes, polished hammers, maces paired with sturdy shields, and an assortment of crude but effective armaments.

  Remo gestured toward the weapons. “Each fighter is permitted one weapon of their choice. We have short swords, maces with shields, longswords, hammers, and dual knives. Additionally, all forms of magic are allowed.” He paused, then clapped his hands together. “So? What are you waiting for? First come, first serve!”

  The room erupted into chaos as fighters lunged for the best weapons available, shoving and elbowing their way to the racks. Metal clanged as swords were pulled free, shields snatched, and knives disappeared into eager hands.

  Yumiko lingered at the back, watching the frenzy unfold like a silent observer. She tried to catch sight of Lukas, but the mass of bodies blocked her view. Instead, she scanned the leftover weapons. The selection was disappointing—just a worn wooden staff and a heavy machete-like sword. She hesitated, then grabbed the staff, exhaling through her nose.

  I wish I could use a bow.

  Once the fighters had armed themselves, Remo called for attention one last time. “Now! The doors to the arena will open. You may take any position on the stage, but remember—no fighting until given the signal. Good luck, gentlemen... and ladies, of course.” His lips curled into a slight smirk. “May the last one standing win.”

  With a deep mechanical groan, the massive wooden doors ahead began to rise, the sound akin to a guillotine being drawn upward.

  A blinding flood of sunlight spilled into the chamber, illuminating dust swirling in the air. Then came the noise—a deafening, all-consuming roar.

  Yumiko’s heart pounded.

  The fighters stepped forward one by one, their silhouettes vanishing into the light.

  As she followed at the back of the crowd, the sheer scale of the colosseum struck her like a physical blow. Tens of thousands of spectators filled the stands, a sea of bodies shifting and cheering in an overwhelming chorus. Flags waved, people shouted, and the raw energy in the air sent shivers down her spine.

  She turned, scanning the endless rows of spectators, searching desperately for Mary. But it was futile—the crowd was an ocean, stretching endlessly in all directions.

  Amid the roaring crowd, Mary sat in a prime seat overlooking the arena, Luchs lounging comfortably beside her.

  Luchs clapped enthusiastically as the fighters continued to filter onto the platform. “See? Did I not say these seats would be exquisite?” His voice brimmed with excitement.

  Mary leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “I suppose,” she replied, feigning indifference. She let out a slow breath, her gaze drifting toward the fighters below. “It’d be better if Yumiko were here.”

  Luchs shot her a reassuring glance. “Not to worry, dear! My men are watching the entrance and ticket counters. If she enters, they’ll notify us immediately and bring her here.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes slightly. “Your guards know what Yumiko looks like?”

  Luchs waved a hand dismissively, still fixated on the arena. “I gave them a description—an Eastern girl in the clothes she was wearing. There aren’t many of her kind in Braint. Now, if we were in Headwich, we’d have a problem, but here? She stands out. Besides,” he added with a grin, “most of the people in this city are from this continent, with the exception of the fighters, of course! They come from all over!”

  “Right…” Mary muttered, gripping the edge of her chair. Her fingers tapped absently against the wood as she exhaled. “Now that Yumiko’s vanished, I’m left here to worry about her and watch that idiot down there in the arena by myself….”

  “Oh! I do believe I see Lukas!” Luchs suddenly chimed in, his hand brushing against Mary’s arm as he pointed.

  Mary instinctively pulled away and followed his gaze. Sure enough, in the center of the arena stood a familiar blonde figure—Lukas, clad in the cursed black armor. Her expression darkened.

  “There it is… Gelod armor.”

  Luchs nodded. “It will activate as soon as the fight begins.” He glanced at her, his usual amusement tempered by the look on her face—a silent but unmistakable worry. “But… that lifeforce being drained will enhance his strength and speed… so there is a plus by wearing that armor,” he offered, as if trying to reassure himself as much as her.

  Mary scoffed, her grip tightening on the chair. “Yeah, at the cost of muscle control and excruciating pain. Sometimes the ones wearing it paralyze halfway through the fight… and die. Time is not the thing you have when wearing that… Add the fact that there are almost three hundred people that he had to defeat. That will take time… Time he doesn’t have.”

  Luchs didn’t respond, his gaze returning to the fighters.

  Mary, however, caught something—just for a moment. A small figure in the sea of combatants, clad in black. Her breath hitched.

  Luchs noticed her shift in attention. “What is it?”

  Mary kept watching, but the figure had already disappeared into the mass of fighters. She let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. “It’s nothing… Just me overthinking things.”

  She hesitated before adding, “For a second, I thought I saw someone I knew out there. But they wouldn’t be foolish enough to join something like this… Nor would it be possible for them to enter.”

  “Yes… well, there are all kinds of fighters here. Perhaps it was simply someone who resembled them.”

  “Perhaps…” Mary murmured, though her eyes remained fixed on the arena floor, still searching for that familiar figure.

  Before she could dwell on it further, movement at the front of the platform caught her attention. A man with neatly combed black hair stepped forward, his posture confident as he raised a mana crystal to his lips.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention!” His voice boomed across the colosseum, amplified by the crystal’s enchantment, slicing through the deafening roar of the crowd. “We are moments away from the fight of a lifetime! Tell me—are you ready?!”

  The response was instant. The stadium erupted with cheers, the sheer force of thousands of voices rattling the very walls. The ground beneath Mary’s feet trembled as the air became electric with anticipation.

  The announcer spread his arms wide, drinking in the crowd’s energy. “That’s it! Let the gods hear your voices! Let the heavens know that we are here!” He bellowed, his voice rising above the chaos, commanding the undivided attention of every soul in attendance.

  Mary exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the armrest of her chair.

  The battle was about to begin.