Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume2 Chapter6

==Chapter 6: Those Who Carry the Brand==
===Part 1===
The day of the final match. It had been all the talk since morning.

The Gladiator’s Guild had announced the pairings. Orba and Pashir would not directly confront. That was the one thing the people found most regrettable.

“When it comes to speed, then it has to be Orba. Pashir’s slow as an ox. Honestly, if those two duked it out, the battle would be settled in an instant.”

“That’s not true, Pashir doesn’t make any useless movements. He’s different from Orba who continually moves around. Those little clever tactics of Orba’s won’t work against him. If the fight is drawn out even a little, Orba would run out of stamina and be at an overwhelming disadvantage.”

At the street corners, in front of food stalls, within party venues, people argued back and forth about the gladiator match. This wasn’t limited only to the citizens of Solon, but also included the nobles. They would engage in heated debates over who would survive, betting horses, unusual paintings, or even ten slave girls, busying themselves in wagers that flaunted their status.

Amongst the heated debates posed the question that, supposing Orba and Pashir expectantly survived, which of them would receive the honour as the dragon-slaying hero Clovis?

“If it were His Imperial Majesty,” one such noble suddenly spoke with a pompous air, “I believe he would likely want Orba to inherit the title of Clovis. After all, he is the hero who defeated Ryucown. If he were to win this and the image of him being a former slave stamped out, it goes without saying he will have earned the title of corporal or captain. He might even be given the whole Solon garrison company!”

And as the time approached the evening juncture that held the deciding match, the emperor himself made his appearance, as to personally hand over the golden helmet to the victor. The Imperial Guards and slaves that accompanied the emperor, totalling roughly some thirty men, occupied the upper half of the grandstand.

The figures of the imperial princess Ineli and her friends, as well as Garbera’s princess, Vileena, and her head maid, Theresia, were also present.

In the grand stadium, several battles were taking place. Once a pair finished, another pair would be sent in to fill the vacant spot, and so these battles went on without end. However, as the strength of the blazing sun waned, the vacant seats throughout the stadium began to slowly stand out.

By evening, the final battle ended. The sounds of the gladiators and their clashing weapons below suddenly came to a dead silence, and conversely, the enthusiasm of the crowd knew no end as their roars resounded like a tidal wave.

After a short intermission that held them further in suspense, the four swordsmen who fought fiercely through their battles and won made their appearance, each armed with a weapon of their choosing. One carried a long spear, another stood ready with a battle axe, and Orba carried his usual longsword.

''So it’s finally time.''

Orba murmured to himself, resting his sword on the back of his shoulders. He may have thrown himself into the gladiator ring, but it wasn’t as if he wanted to, and it was now finally coming to an end. Next would be to use what he heard from Pashir about the plan to corner Noue and Oubary and obstruct the scheme Zaat was assisting them in.

Right now, they were likely watching the scene unfold from above, enjoying the spectacle of the slaves killing one another from their safe haven.

''Once I end ‘this’, you guys are next.''

He was fired up, different from how he usually was.

The orator called out their four names, and then saluted the emperor. The four men also did the same, and the emperor lowered his chin to face them. At the same time, one of the accompanying Imperial Guards presented to him the golden helmet with both his hands. A pair of wings were attached on the left and right, the mark of the hero Clovis.

That was the signal to start. The ground shook as the arena erupted in pandemonium and the battles began.

Orba’s opponent was a giant exceeding two metres in height. To add to that, he wielded a long spear. With a difference in reach that made him hesitant to take even a single step forward, Orba was quickly cornered. Not to mention, he had sustained injuries from his battle with Gash.

Before the end of the third thrust, Orba had fallen backwards. The arena went into a stir. The giant thrust his spear down. Orba rolled sideways towards the giant’s flank, and jumping upwards, slashed at him. Blood gushed out from the giant’s neck the moment Orba’s feet touched the ground. Orba’s single slash was well-aimed and cut open his opponent’s artery.

The giant crashed onto the ground. And in little time, Pashir settled his match as well. His victory was more clear cut. Just when he appeared to put some distance between himself and the axe-wielding man, he flung his sword over his shoulders and threw it with all his might. The sword hit spot-on and pierced the enemy’s heart.

Silence dawned on the five thousand spectators for a brief moment. Not even a minute had passed since the battles began. Her hands wrapped in prayer, Vileena exclaimed a breath of relief.

“It seems they weren’t a match,” the emperor, Guhl Mephius, muttered absentmindedly. He blinked his eyes with unmistakable signs of boredom and spoke to his wife seated beside him.

“Neither were fit to be their opponents. What do you think, Melissa? Don’t you want to see a battle between real men?”

The empress replied in modest moderation, a manner befitting her age and betraying her appearance. “Yes, I would,” she assented in honesty. The emperor lowered his chin.

“It would be upsetting to have it end like this. Pashir and Orba; these two shall now contest. Until the match ends in victory or defeat, the handing over of Clovis’ helmet will be put on hold.”

Those seated in the surroundings all looked up at the emperor in shock.

On hearing this, the arena rose into a commotion, and soon roused in agreement. They were also not satisfied with the amount of bloodshed, and most of all, wanted to know which of them was truly stronger.

''What?!''

At the shock of the sudden turn of events, Orba instinctively glared up at the emperor. The sword in his hand smelled immensely of blood. And now he would have to stain it with even more blood. The blood of none other than Pashir. The muscles on his arm throbbed.

On the other side,

“Please wait, your majesty,” Simon said as he stood up. “This differs from our annual custom. There exists no other reason for this tournament than to single out the select two swordsmen.”

“Do not fret over the details, Simon.” The emperor pointed towards the ring. “Honestly, I am unable to determine which of the two is more suited to inherit the title of Clovis. To have them fight and hand the golden helmet over to the winner—there’s no method more decisive than this. Should the loser die, we can have the Guild choose someone fit to act out his aide, Felipe.”

Seated beside Simon, who now stood speechless, Fedom was panting heavily. Each time he was about to get up and suggest a proposition, he would find himself slumping backwards onto his chair on reconsideration. The emperor grew more and more self-righteous each passing day. He was like a naked blade that would cut Fedom to pieces if he did not tread carefully.

“Orba and Pashir! Both of you, return to the front of the gates!” A soldier commanded them.

“Tch.”

Orba spat out. His insides felt like they were on fire.

''It’s always like this. They control people’s lives and fates without a second thought.''

“Hah, that was a something to see.”

Pashir said. By ‘something to see’, he likely meant the act of him spitting out through his mask. Pashir wasn’t the least daunted at how things ended up.

“Are you going to listen them?” <!--I’m not too sure if is Orba says this or Pashir. Just to be sure, can someone able to double-check with the raws here?-->

“The emperor said it. No one can go against that. You’d best ready yourself.”

Saying this, Pashir turned his back to Orba. His branded back heaved up and down. Orba called him to a stop in a hurry.

“Wait, Pashir.”

“I may be the leader of the rebellion for the time being, but it can’t be stopped even if someone tries to put a dent on it. So don’t hold yourself back. Let’s fight to kill to our heart’s content. This’ll be our final gladiator match.”

“Pashir.”

A stadium slave ran up to Pashir and interrupted them, and while wiping away his sweat and pretending to look after him, spoke in a low voice.

“What if you two put up an act? Orba is popular amongst the citizens. It should be fine if you fight normally and then have Orba drop his sword in surrender to you. The people should spare Orba’s life.”

“That won’t work,” Pashir shook his head, “The people of Solon are used to seeing arena battles, and will immediately see through any concern for the opponent’s life during the match. We can’t have them becoming suspicious of the slaves’ relationships now. You already know it. We’ve no choice but to kill each other.”

“—”

Orba silently lowered his head. His motives differed from Pashir’s, but Orba also harboured a motive no one could ever imagine. Noue, Oubary, and Zaat...not a single one of their actions were to be trusted.

“Let’s swear on it,” Pashir spoke as a matter-of-factly, “No matter who wins, he’ll carry the weight of these souls. Even if you die, I’ll take on your feelings. I swear to have Gil Mephius’ head. And if I die, you’ll take on my feelings; free all the slaves and burn Mephius to the ground.”

At those words, Orba felt a lump in his throat and was unable to give an immediate reply.	

''Take on his feelings...''

It went without saying that Orba hated Mephius. How he dreamed countlessly of cutting off the necks of those nobles with the swing of his sword by his own hands. However,

“Yeah...”

Orba said while nodding, in a voice that seemed like another person’s.



The two parted and moved towards the east and west gates. The slave called Mira wiped off his sweat and replaced his sword with a new one. Her face was pale and unsteady. Even though he had only met her two or three times, it was clear to Orba that she held feelings for Pashir. Orba tried to open his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. She wished for Pashir to win. That meant Orba’s defeat—and his death. And that sat fine with him. Orba also held his own reasons for surviving, even if it meant defeating—killing Pashir.

''Is it really fine like this?''

Such a thought tore at his chest. Orba shook his masked face. It wasn’t fine. Why was he hesitating now? Yes, he bore a hatred towards Mephius similar to Orba’s or one that might even have exceeded his, and Pashir’s goal resembled his own; in the not too distant future, they would surely stand side by side and fight as comrades.

''Damnit! Don’t think too much into it.''

He grasped the handle of his sword with renewed vigour. To make matters worse, Orba was covered in wounds. Even the battle just now took what little of all his remaining strength. How many more times would he have to wield his sword to his limits? Orba hadn’t the faintest idea.

Victory seemed to get further and further beyond his grasp. His blade would never reach his target if he thought of the things to come while swinging his sword.

''I’ll end it in a single blow.''

Orba decided. He would swing with his full strength one time, when he saw a surefire gap. Failing meant death.

“To the east, Iron Tiger Orba! To the west, Strong-armed Pashir!”

The two called names approached each other in the centre of the arena.

“What could be the meaning of this? Did that not end it?”

Vileena breathlessly watched in suspense at the sudden development. The crowd’s cheers were tremendous, such that they rendered Theresia’s voice inaudible. However, a brief exchange of glances, and she was able to calmly understand what she was saying. In the midst of this frenzy, a strange tranquillity drifted between the two who were about to kill each other.

“Start!”

Both parties swung their swords into a clash and then jumped back in retreat.

Solon’s grand gladiator tournament; here, the fight to determine the strongest man commenced.

It was a fight unprecedented in the long history of Mephius’ gladiator fights.



As soon as the match began, the one to charge forward was Orba. He ran straight for Pashir with the tip of his sword skimming along the ground. Pashir bent his knees in preparation. Orba immediately kicked off the ground to Pashir’s side. Faster than his opponent could react, he jumped once more. Orba planned to settle the match in this instant. Pashir’s legs, arms or back—he would jump in at any gap in defence he saw and finish Pashir off before he could recover.

However, Pashir stopped following Orba with his eyes and immediately rolled forward. Getting up in no time at all, he turned around and swung his sword. Orba pursued after him, but the swing prevented him from advancing further. Orba received the blade with his own and jumped back.

Their unending exchange of blows since the beginning made everyone in the arena to go wild with excitement.

And then they approached a standstill, by the very definition of its meaning. The two ceased all movement, making their previous fast exchange of blows seem like a lie.

Orba stood as he always did, with his bent back eyeing Pashir’s every move. The arm that caught Pashir’s attack had gone numb. A bead of sweat trickled down under his mask. It was fair to say his initial movements had drained him of the majority of his stamina. He had pushed for a short, decisive battle, but Pashir had completely seen through his movements.

''Come, Pashir! Come, come, come!''

It was dangerous for him to move. Pashir stood with both his massive legs entrenched on the ground, blood pulsing through their muscles, ready to crush him at a moment’s notice. Jumping in would be his last, and he would easily have his attack turned on him.

So instead, Orba glared at Pashir through his mask, waiting for him to move. He still held the advantage of speed. Of course, it would also be dangerous if the enemy came charging in, but it would also make it more likely to find holes in his defence.

However, Pashir did not move. He held the sword with both hands above his shoulder, not budging an inch.

[[Image:Rakuin no Monshou v02 247.jpg|thumb]]

''Tch.''

Orba struck the ground with the arch of his feet. His sword flickered. He jumped in a direction different from where he was looking. However, the actions of his feint were unable to perturb Pashir.

The evening wind blew beneath his mask.

The spectators had suddenly returned to silence. The thousands of eyes fixed their attention on these two swordsmen of unfathomable skill. An expectant tension hung in the air, where the outcome might be decided in the next blink of an eye; however, these two did not permit the slightest movement.

Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds—time ticked by. A minute passed. Two minutes passed. Everyone held their breaths, but it did not last for long.

“Get him!”

Someone shouted at the five minute mark. “Kill him!” a girl shouted after him.

“Get him! Get him! Get him!”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Everyone present stamped their feet in unison and burst into a clamour of boos. They created the racket in hopes that it would rouse them to movement, but still the two did not move.

Orba was also getting impatient. His sword and armour had never felt so heavy. Standing alone strained his muscles. In the previous clash, Orba had set aside everything for a single strike, but he was uncertain whether he could exert his full strength even on that single strike.

''Move.''

Orba prayed deeply.

“Don’t move,” Gowen spoke, while he acted as bodyguard in the grandstands.

“Don’t move in a fit of impatience, Orba. Keep that bad habit of yours in check here, please.”

Pashir had likely seen through that habit from bearing witness to all of Orba’s battles until now. Orba excelled in countering. In terms of physique and power, Orba came out as mediocre amongst the gladiators, and suffered many disadvantages in a direct confrontation. Therefore, he founded on circling his opponents and luring them in. And when the enemy was pulled into his space, he would deliver a strike aimed at their vitals.

Especially because of this, Gowen lectured him time and time again, “Don’t let that quick temper get ahead of you.”

A quick temper was detrimental to his fighting tactics. Techniques that allowed him to provoke his opponent and gain control of their emotions were essential.

They were what allowed Orba to win throughout his two years as a gladiator. He had devised a number of ways of retreating to lure the enemy in. Sometimes he would initiate, sometimes he would be on the receiving end, and sometimes he would take actions to anger his opponent, all to pull the opponent into his pace. However, they all proved ineffective against Pashir. His firm posture was wholly free of any openings. Because Orba understood this, he could not move.

Gowen himself gritted his teeth in impatience, as time freely passed. And it was not only him. Amidst the tempest of jeers raining down on them, those the least bit curious in knowing the victor of this sword match could feel the heavy tension between Orba and Pashir, and their faces turned rigid as if they were standing there themselves.

Some wiped away the sweat dripping down their chins.

Like a candle just about to go out, the setting sun wringed its last drops of sunlight and covered the arena in a crimson red—

Suddenly, the match progressed into motion.

“Ah,” everyone in the arena let out.

The one to step into the light and aim towards the enemy was Pashir. He appeared to have been the one unable to bear the overly unusual standstill. However,

“Orba, NO!”

Gowen screamed.

===Part 2===
Within the battle ring of the stadium, which held as much significance as any statue and had weathered years to decades of exposure, Pashir breathed life into his body and made a sharp step forward with his left foot. He applied a thrust that cut through the wind.

The bodies and minds of these two were taxed to their utmost; to Orba, who waited on Pashir, his sudden movement was the greatest feast to be had. Orba, eyes practically screaming with delight, matched his movements so superbly that they seemed almost premeditated.

Orba bent his legs and sprung into the air, avoiding the turning thrust sent his way, and then swung down, executing a series of superior movements. But Pashir had also anticipated this.

He displayed a thrust of full force, but had one foot stepped back, and using that as leverage, pushed away Orba’s swing. He slashed diagonally downward, the trajectory curving to take the shape of a perfect circle.

Whoosh.

The ear-splitting swing, along with the cries of the audience, indistinguishable between screams and cheers, sounded across the stadium. Orba staggered backwards, blood gushing out his chest along where his leather armour tore.

To Orba, it was the same as the enemy suddenly having disappeared right before his eyes, following up with an unseen slash sent his way; the way Orba had always done it to others. Attacking with the ferocity of an animal, Pashir gave him no quarter. Two, three strikes. He was barely able to follow the attacks with his eyes and was forced to rely on his body’s ingrained reactions. Half his consciousness had been blown away.

''The brand is....''

Orba was forced further into retreat.

''The brand is burning up...''

When he circled around Pashir, Orba saw a faint glimmer on his back. Orba saw the brand of a slave seared onto his back burning with flames.

The dying wishes, hearts, and souls of each person Pashir was said to have killed; now, they manifested themselves as flames ready to incinerate Orba to ashes. Or perhaps, the malice wanted Orba’s soul to join theirs.

''Join us, join us, join us.''

Faces appeared on the floating wisps and whispered to him.

''You also hate Mephius; you also hate Mephius... ''

''And yet...''

''And yet, you hold ‘doubts’. You ‘hesitate’.''

Pashir delivered an attack at lightning speed. The strike was too much to take and Orba stumbled backwards.

''That’s why it’s impossible for you. You can’t do it. We can’t entrust them to you.''

''So join us inside Pashir.''

''Pashir can do it; Pashir can accomplish what we want and burn Mephius in a sea of flames.''

“Stop.”

Orba voiced hoarsely. His body would not listen to him. It wasn’t only because of the damage he had incurred. Even now, the grudges of their souls gushed forth not only from Pashir’s back, but also from Orba’s. They spread and oozed over him, entrenching him. As it were, the hundreds of souls of gladiators Orba had killed were abandoning their host all to become one with the ominous flame lit on Pashir’s back.

''If you won’t do it...''

''We’ll have Pashir do it for us. We’ll have Pashir burn Mephius down.''

''You die as well. Die and join us and become a spark of the flame burning in Pashir’s brand. Burn alongside Mephius, Orba.''

''O-r-b-a.''

Having turned the tables, Pashir plunged his sword down without a second’s hesitation.

Orba looked up in a haze at the sword about to plunge down him.

''Doubts——Hesitation——''

Orba had no power in him to resist them. If there had to be a reason, it was because these questions and enticing suggestions all sprouted from within him. Through the tip of Pashir’s sword, the thousands of faces belonging to the flame engulfed Orba whole. He felt an unbearable pain, as if his heart was being burned to a crisp.

And,

Just before they could burn him completely and before the sword pierced his chest—

A golden ''object'' fluttered in front of the two. It was the medal attached to the chain Orba wore over his neck. Freed from the tear in Orba’s leather armour and Orba’s stumble, it danced in the air.

''It'' burned with a brilliant flame.

''It'' shone vividly, almost as if it were amassing the flames from the bonfires in the evening night.

“Ugh.”

Pashir averted his eyes.

And at the same time, the inexplicable restraints that held him disappeared. Orba desperately rolled to the side and evaded the sword plunging down on him.

''Vileena!''

Reciting that name within himself, he swept Pashir’s leg. Pashir fell forward, but immediately regained his footing in the time Orba took to stand up. Their swords collided at a distance both equally away from their faces.

The malice was gone. They should never have been there from the start. If they ''had'' existed, then they would have originated from Orba’s back and not Pashir’s.

''I won’t shoulder them.''

Supposing whose life it was, supposing whose soul it was,

''Even if the amassed mountains of corpses curse me all night; even if your grudges goad me countlessly, I won’t let them influence me, no matter who, what, how...''

Sword clashed with sword. Even that single strike proved too much for the wounded Orba to endure. He doubled over.

“Oof.”

Orba’s iron mask struck Pashir’s nose.

The swordsman whose mask was dyed red and Pashir, who likewise had blood dripping down his face, both staggered backwards, and yet also tightened their grip on their swords at the same time.

They approached another to the distance of a blade, and near simultaneously let loose a single swing. Theresia instinctively turned away, and beside her, Vileena dug her nails into her clenched fists, burning this instant into her eyes.



The broken half of a sword was sent spiralling into the air before it pierced into the ground.

There was no sword in Orba’s hand. The tip of Pashir’s sword shone dully against his neck. He had already used up all his strength, and there was no reason to match Pashir in a confrontation.

That was something Orba was more aware of than anyone. He swung on his right with all his strength and snapped his sword, or may have even deliberately allowed his sword to be broken, and, taking a step to the left, dodged the incoming attack while delivering a right punch to Pashir’s jaw. It happened in an instant. After that, Pashir fell on his back, collapsing face up.

Pashir was knocked unconscious and laid still, and Orba’s body heaved heavily with laboured breathing.

The victor was illuminated a bright red by the bonfires.

Solon’s grand stadium shook.

The surroundings suddenly became dark. Orba was overwhelmed by the terrifying moans sent from the skies by the numerous souls freed from his brand.

“Spare him!”

“Kill him!”

The noise made from these two chants were nearly the same. As if paralyzed with hesitation, Orba did not move.

Then, the arena shook, in a different manner of speaking. The one who stood up and was pointing down her thumbs was the empress, Melissa.

Naturally, that was the signal to ‘kill’.

Orba limped towards Pashir, and wresting away the sword in his hands, extended his arm. However, in that instant his body stooped down, and he too fell down and collapsed. Neither winner nor loser existed between these two who lay collapsed on top one another. That, above all else, gave testimony to the breath-taking fight that had unfolded.

“Like this, it seems there is little choice but to wait and see who wakes up first to deliver the final blow,” the emperor said. “However, that would leave a poor aftertaste. It is an unfitting end for such splendid battle. The victor is Orba. That will do.”

“Princess——Princess.”

Theresia shook both of Vileena’s shoulders in a huff.

“He won. Orba-sama won.”

“Yes...he did...”

Vileena lowered her head, eyes wide open. Her once paled face returned in colour and her neck was drenched with sweat. The spectacle wasn’t as horrendous as the young girl thought. It was the depiction of an atrocious and wretched battle, but she had also felt something take hold deep within her and shake her very being.

“That is the medal the princess sent to Orba-sama, is it not? Orba-sama has done the favour of wearing it, and I’m sure that the princess’ friendship has bestowed him with victory.”

“Uh huh—”

Clasping onto Theresia’s hand, Vileena nodded innocently like a little girl. Her racing heart had yet to calm, the gladiator games had seriously done her body more harm than good.

The large crowds of gathered people from within Solon—or rather, within Mephius, chanted the victor’s name. As if completely forgetting the long standstill and their outburst of boos, they repeatedly cried out ‘Orba’ as loud as they could, never tiring of the name.

<!--And,
-->
“A praiseworthy match!”

The emperor stood up and announced. Everyone directed their fervour towards emperor Guhl Mephius in agreement. He raised his hand and waited for the applause to subside.

“It was a splendid battle, one that did not bring shame to the battles of old. The victor who has earned the golden crown, and of course, those who were defeated in these battles as well, serve as the cornerstone of Mephius and will never be forgotten. As we welcome the hundreds of people each year, we mustn’t forget the blood of the thousands who died. In place of the mournful dead, they shall be the living proof of our pride—by the name of the Dragon God, they shall bring glory to our country.”

“Glory...”

“Glory to Mephius!”

The people cheered in chorus.

As he lay collapsed, Orba heard the emperor’s voice as it resound through his back.

“Going through all that trouble...” Pashir groaned lying face down. “It would’ve been fine if you dealt the final blow. You’re too naïve if you think I’ll join the army.”

“What do you mean?”

Orba spoke as if he had just woken, and slowly got up.

“Walking’s the best I can manage. You lay there and sleep for now. It’d be pathetic if the winner was more wounded than the loser.”

“Hmph,” Pashir let out a snort.

Afterwards, the leader of the Gladiator’s Guild and acting representative of the nobles, Fedom, called out.

“Victor Orba, this way please.”

The gates below the grandstands opened, and Orba was brought to the staircase. Fedom beamed with pride. After handing his sword to the Imperial Guards, Orba set foot onto the staircase. He would soon reach the emperor, kneel down, and receive the crown on his head. Gradually, the crowd’s cheers of Orba’s name grew heated. However,

“Stop.”

Guhl Mephius suddenly stopped Orba with his hand. Next to Fedom who displayed a questioning face, he gave a command.

“That mask is an obstacle in the crowning of Clovis’ helmet. Take it off.”

Orba’s instantly stopped moving. Vileena, Ineli, and a considerable number of those seated in the grandstands who knew the masked warrior, Orba, made shocked faces.

“Well?” The emperor said gently. “This is presumptuous. None have hidden their face as Clovis. Take off the mask.”

“P-Please wait, your majesty.”

“What is it, Fedom?”

“T-That is, the mask he wears is not one made to capture the attention of the masses and adorn his appearance. It has received the curse of a magician to never come off. I-I also did not believe it at first but Orba has never actually been without his mask even under normal circumstances.”

“Oh?” The emperor stroked his beard in interest.

Everyone was quiet at the moment. Overhearing the situation, the spectators watched on in awe filled silence.

“We won’t know unless we try. You two.”

He snapped his fingers, and directed the two imperial guards towards Orba. He was going to pull it off through brute force.

“P-P-Please wait, your majesty.”

“What is it? You’re being unsightly, Fedom.”

Fedom’s face paled and he frothed in an utter mess.

“I-It’s dangerous. The curse on that mask is likely terrifying. Those who try to take it off or break it regardless of Orba’s will die by his hands.”

“It will be fine if we hold him down. Or do you mean to say that the curse will, by some invisible hand, reach out and kill me, the emperor?”

“O, o, o—”

‘Or possibly’ Fedom had started to say, but he found himself unable to speak as he realized he was crossing a dangerous line. The emperor was the descendant of the founding emperor born of man and Dragon God. To even try to say that he would be killed by the likes of a curse would earn him the death penalty from Guhl Mephius.

Vileena Owell had instinctively began to get up from her seat but was forcefully pushed by down by Theresia’s hand. Even if she did not know his reasons for doing so, she did understand from seeing Orba’s behaviour that he did not want his face exposed bare here. So she was going to lend him a helping hand; however, she had no chance in succeeding. Orba stood frozen, aware of the cold sweat breaking out under his mask and down his back. He shuddered to think of how he would face Pashir afterwards. Naturally, the mask currently held no cursed power. If someone pulled it with all their strength, it would easily come right off.

''So they’re going with it, huh.''

He thought for a quick moment, as he looked at the two imperial guards meekly approaching him. He would knock or kick them down, and then make a run for it. The plan wasn’t exactly well thought out, and with his current condition, the chance of succeeding was slim. However, to have his face exposed here would end with his death regardless.

Vileena shoved aside Theresia’s hand and began to stand up. She planned on resorting to the ‘wager’ she had made with emperor the previous day. Orba slightly arched his back, as if he were an animal ready to bite the windpipes off the approaching guards, when,

“Please wait, your majesty.”

The figure of a person stood straight up.

Orba looked up to see the person’s face, and made a surprised face beneath his mask. The one smiling and bowing towards the emperor was Ineli Mephius.

“Is it not all right that he refuses to take off his mask? He’s finally established himself as the masked hero, Orba. The allure of an enigma lies in its carefully concealed mysteries. I dare say nothing will come of it were you to expose him. And it is in good likelihood he may never go masked again.”

Ineli’s thoughts were welcomed by the nobles with smiles.

“What think you, father?”

“I suppose that also sits well.” Guhl narrowed his eyes at his daughter-in-law’s plea. “Orba the gladiator, you should feel honoured to receive the affection of my daughter. Oh, but bear in mind, I will tolerate no such forthcomings between you two before my presence in the future.”

“Oh father, what are you saying?”

[[Image:Rakuin no Monshou v02 263.jpg|thumb]]
Ineli’s face reddened and she looked the other way; the surrounding people laughed once more. Like this, the bashful Ineli triumphed. She was aware Vileena likewise did not want Orba’s mask to be taken off. Thus, she was able to revel in a rush of excitement; one very similar to what she might experience were a young girl to be stripped naked in front of her.

Most importantly, the one she dealt with was Orba; the one who failed to take notice of her, and had of all things, danced with Vileena and ruined her plans. She took pleasure in seeing him stand in the face of danger, and was drunk off her perverted satisfaction in having saved this man.

At any rate, Orba kneeled before the emperor as originally set out, and received the crown on his head. The ears of the tiger <!--Refers to the mask here--> were somewhat in the way, and the crown sat askew atop his head, but the spectators cheered his name again and clapped their hands.

Vileena breathed a sigh of relief. Then, she felt someone looking at her; surrounded by faces in front of her was Ineli. Her elated smile did a complete turnaround. Vileena was instantly perplexed by the emotion she beheld in that gaze.

Hatred.

A sentiment never before directed towards her. Yes, her father and Theresia had scolded her before; other players had shown her hostility at the airship race; Ryucown had pointed his sword at her at Zaim Fortress and even threatened to kill her.

However, they could not be described as hatred. She felt a chilling sensation together with what felt like a small fire within her chest assaulting her.

Above the gladiator Orba who underwent the coronation, the gazes of these two girls, as if connected by a piece of thread, never parted.

===Part 3===
Night welcomed the final day of the festival.

The naval review and air parade would soon start. However, Zaat paid little attention to these events and quickly set foot into the empty stadium.

He had come to look at the place where history had changed. Now was a chapter of Mephius rule under the imperials. But tomorrow morning, when he would come to see this empty facility again, it would undergo a complete change.

The change would, of course, not be a visible one. However, the sight after Mephius was freed from the hands of the imperials and taken into their hands would by no means be the same; the view of the distant mountain ridge, of the morning mist creeping along the thin soils, and even the sensations of his clothes as he crossed his arms.

''Oh?''

Awakening from his stupor, Zaat Quark peered at the figure of the prince, Gil Mephius, inside the arena. Accompanied by several others who appeared to be his Imperial Guards, he walked around here and there.

He seemed to have been frolicking about for the past hour, with the mindset of ‘I’m in charge’.

''What a simple-minded fool.''

Zaat scoffed. That ''he'' of all people was the first successor to the throne might as well spell the end of Mephius’ future. Until now, he had lived in extravagance, wasted as it might be on him, but before long, he would curse the day he was born.

Zaat even considered greeting him in passing, but rescinded the thought.

Although the turmoil of Orba and Pashir’s fight had occurred yesterday, there appeared to be nothing hindering the plan’s execution. It was a stroke of good fortune that Pashir remained alive. To push the plan, Noue had an instigator infiltrate the sword slaves through Oubary’s cooperation. According to a letter from Noue, the instigator had come across Pashir. He was a charismatic and talented man, and most importantly, hated Mephius.

The flames Pashir emitted quickly affected the surrounding people. The small, contained light within the lamp had unwittingly gathered the flames as one and flared up.

As long as he was alive, the sword slaves’ revolt would progress smoothly.

Convinced of this, Zaat Quark eagerly awaited the destined moment to come.

—Back to Orba, he had covered every inch of the stadium ring. He now headed towards the grandstands reserved for the imperials and nobles. The majority of the statesmen attending had their seats assigned beforehand. Of course, this included Prince Gil’s seat, as well as Vileena’s.

Orba stood in front of his seat, alongside Kain. Kain was an expert with guns. He could handle handguns, rifles, and all sorts of firearms. Orba questioned him.

“Where’s the best place to aim ''here''? And it has to be a sniping location decided beforehand with a full house.”

“Beforehand...hmm, I think it’d be hard to do.” Kain narrowed his eyes and looked in all directions. “But if they wanted to take the public’s notice, then there’s an easy place to take over.”

Kain pointed his finger towards a single focus: the watchtowers placed in all directions of the arena.

During the gladiator matches, several guards stood up top and oversaw the goings both in and outside the stadium. Generally, a small airship took station there, and in the case that some problem arose within the stadium, it could be quickly deployed to find the cause.

''If all the parts of the sword slaves’ rebellion have already been arranged...''

Then would the occupation of the watchtowers be included in the plan? Orba contemplated his thoughts, and then fired all sorts of commands at the imperial guards gathered within the stadium.

Of particular importance amongst them, were the airships belonging to his unit. His unit owned twelve airships and Orba planned to deploy all of them.

“Until things start, do not let yourselves be seen. Hide in the surrounding spots near the stadium on standby. A messenger will give the signal. Don’t screw up the timing.”



Before long, the quick-tempered citizens of Solon gradually showed up, and Zaat also sat himself down on his seat. At this time, Gil and his Imperial Guards had all but disappeared.

In another hour, the nobles would gradually begin to show themselves. Not knowing himself to be one of those pawns, Zaat delighted himself as he watched them continue to assemble.

Two hours from now, when the day reached its zenith, Orba, donning the helmet of Clovis, would appear to lead the two hundred sword slaves. Three Sozos would be transported out in their cages by trolley.

It was the moment that would change history. Shortly after the battle progressed, the slaves of the detention camp would likely make their move. Some of his underlings had slipped in amongst the camp guards. Fires would sprout, smoke would soar, and the escorting palace guards would be forced to head their way, effectively cutting their numbers.

Using that as the signal, the slaves within the stadium would rally into action. They would acquire the aid of like-minded slaves hidden within seating areas, scale the walls, and invite themselves in with the swordsmen. And then the slaves looking after their masters would take this chance to turn a sword or gun against them. And Zaat planned to make his move in the midst of this mayhem.

''After that it will depend on what the slaves do, although...''

In such a situation, it might be better to view the slaves as allies. He didn’t want to poorly diminish the might of his forces, but the complete emancipation of all slaves was an altogether different story. Were the slaves to revolt throughout the country, Mephius would descend even further into chaos. It was not a situation he wished to befall a country he ought to rule over. That was why, even though he called them allies in this situation, he would give them the guillotine to silence them. A man like Pashir was particularly dangerous. He had to be captured first.

''It might not be hurt were Princess Vileena to lose her life in the midst of the confusion.''

''That should return Noue my favour. However.....those insolent Garberans! If they think I’ll so easily cooperate with them, then they’re in for a disappointment. As long as those worthless imperials aren’t around, I can make Mephius rule supreme in the continent.''

As he was lost in his thoughts, the stadium continued to fill with people. Except for the emperor and empress, the statesmen had all assembled.

''Each and every one of them indulge shamelessly in their own interests like swine. I’ll send them off to a place fit for them in chains.''

At some point, Zaat had established himself as the sole noble to endow to the poor, and everyone else as dirty and corrupt people of old who had taken over the throne. However, when he saw Simon’s face, his thoughts became slightly dishevelled.

He held respect for this man alone, and jumped at the thought of welcoming such an able person as his right-hand man.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t a man who would so easily nod his head and say yes.

''No, that would make it all the more reason to. Lord Simon is not someone who would leave the country’s turmoil alone. It may take some time, but I will see to it that he cooperates with me.''

Zaat held the delusion that he had already made the country his and thus failed to notice that amongst the seats of the imperials, Gil Mephius was nowhere to be seen. But supposing even if he had noticed, he was in no disposition to pay it any heed.

On the other end, seated in a separate partition, Vileena worried over the prince’s absence.

“Is he still sick?”

Theresia asked from beside her, but she did not know. The emperor, and the other imperials showed no worry at the situation. Having stayed within the Solon palace, she had naturally come to know how the prince was regarded.

''That man may also be all alone.''

The thought had just come to her that this might have been the cause for his sudden proposal to make Orba participate in the tournament. Did he not broach the topic simply because he wanted to catch their attention?

“Princess, please have this.”

Vileena absent-mindedly took the cup of cold tea from the tray the slave girl. Afterwards, she took notice of the slave girl’s face as she proceeded to take her leave. White skin with attractive red lips; her appearance was beautifully stunning. Those able to enter the grandstand reserved for imperials and nobles were limited only to the guards of the Solon garrison, the Imperial Guards, and the slaves who saw to their noble. She was likely one of the latter. Her manner was prompt and her movements supple.

After that, two hours elapsed.

The stadium was packed full and all the nobles were already attended for, but it showed no signs of starting. Zaat knit his brows. How many times had the nobles gazed up the heated sky? The crowd was also beginning to lose their patience and began to get noisy.

“What is the meaning of this?” the emperor suddenly burst out in anger. “Do you plan to shame me at the end of the festival? Begin the match immediately.”

In response, an unexpected report had arrived. A stadium official hurriedly rushed towards the emperor and made a bewildered expression.

“The prince had suddenly come and is trying to stop the slaves from leaving. He continues to say ‘Wait a little longer, wait a little longer,’ and repeats that one phrase.”

Everyone exchanged glances. They were half bemused and half dumbstruck.

“What is that fool thinking? Send someone to bring him back.”

“Honestly,” Melissa sighed as she waved her large fan. “Your majesty, those amongst the envoys from the other countries will surely make light of the prince from this.”

“There must be some sort of mistake.”

Simon murmured, completely taken aback.



At that time, Gil Mephius—Orba was below the grandstand on the other side of the gate.

He was performing his final check. The timing in today’s strategy couldn’t be misread even slightly. He exercised discreet caution, and arbitrarily decided to delay the appearance of the sword-slaves, whilst handing down renewed orders to his subordinates.

And as the final phase of his plan, he summoned Kain to a room deep within the camp. Kain would dress himself as Orba and make an appearance as Clovis from here on.

As the star of the festival’s climax, they had not forgone any reservations; a plain appearance simply was not allowed. He was fully clad in shining golden armour. Originally, he was meant to wear the golden helmet with its pair of wings that signified the mark of Clovis, but Orba’s mask had made it difficult to wear, so instead he strapped a belt with a pair of open folded wings around his waist.

“It’s terribly heavy,” Kain said, wanting to stick his chin out before even ten minutes had passed. “I won’t be able to act like a hero like this.”

“Bear with it. Throw your chest out, majestically while you’re at it,” Orba laughed.

And around this time, Pashir was walking around the detention camp in search of Orba. Granted the role as Clovis’ aide, Felipe, he was also required to wear specially tailored clothing and made to change in a separate room. Once that was finished, he immediately left the room. He wanted to go over the plan he would be leading one final time with Orba.

Donning a full mantle tacked with leather shoulder pads, and wearing Felipe’s signature bow and quiver over his back, he searched his surroundings. He also passed by the spacious hall where the slaves assembled. Their faces were stiff with tension. They were the faces of valiant men ready to die here today.

“Do you know where Orba is?”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him around.”

“The stadium workers called him over. It’s probably some special meeting about Clovis’ role.”

If that was all,

“Then I guess I can wait until he comes back.”

Pashir thought. However, he had a nagging feeling. It should already be time to make their appearance, but no one had called on them yet. He had also heard Gil Mephius personally showed up and had a dispute with a stadium official.

He walked all around the camp. But Orba was nowhere to be found. And Mira had also disappeared a while back. He was worried, but thinking it might be about time that they called the gladiators out, he turned back the way he came. Perhaps, he may have unexpectedly missed his destination, because he had just passed his avenue, and came to a complete stop in front of a door. Orba’s voice was coming from inside. He was speaking to someone.

“...and we’ll able to gain control of the slaves with this. Next will be up to Shique and the rest. When they make their move, pay close attention to Pashir and the others.”

''What?''

Pashir, catching his breath, creeped open the door. And there, he saw Orba and Prince Gil standing side by side. As if he had detected Pashir’s presence, Orba quickly looked his way. Their gaze met, and an instant later, Pashir slammed open the door.

“You fucker.”

Pashir fired a low, but beastly roar.

“You fucker!”



Twenty minutes later.

The emperor had grown impatient of waiting and angrily stood up from his seat.

“Bring Gil to me. I don’t care if you have to tie him up. How long will he continue to act like a child?!”

He threw a fit and was just as well about to go capture Gil himself, that Simon and Fedom had to step in to stop him, when the gates finally opened.

Thoroughly impatient from waiting for the heroes’ appearance, the crowd’s excitement spiked higher than ever. The emperor lowered himself down onto his seat as he gasped heavy breaths. Cheers rained down as the warriors appeared one after the other in succession from the opened gates.

“Princess, it looks like it’s finally beginning.”

Theresia beamed. Vileena eagerly leaned forward and tried to look for Orba. However, those eyes immediately stumbled across a peculiar sight.

Orba, who should have been leading them, was not present amongst the gladiators. On the contrary, the one found centre amongst the sword-slaves who came out was—

Gil Mephius.

Not to mention, his hands were tied with a rope behind his back. Pashir stood centre amongst the two hundred slaves moving in procession, holding the rope in his hands.

“Hey, isn’t that the prince?”

“What is this?”

“What’s the idea of this?”

The people in the stadium spoke uneasily amongst themselves. They believed this was some ploy the attention-seeking prince had thought up to include himself in the gladiator games.

''Grr.''

Zaat Quark narrowed his eyes. He was of the same mind. This was not in the plan. However, he could smell that they were serious, and as the murmurs continued to grow, he alone came to a general understanding.

By some whim, the prince had gone to check on the slaves and gotten himself captured. Certainly, rather than revolting in the middle of their fight with the dragons, this was more efficient, but Zaat was not too pleased that the previously arranged plan had changed. He clicked his tongue.

''That moronic brat. He must have the worst of luck, to stroll along in front of the slaves about to rebel. Well, no matter, as long as this makes things easier.''

“Princess, this is...”

Just as their eyes met, Pashir’s cry entered her ears.

“Listen up, nobles and imperials of Mephius! We have Mephius’ first successor, Gil Mephius—in other words, the future of Mephius in our hands. We are no longer slaves nor will we be forced to kill. Now, open the way for us. We shall become the vanguards of freedom.”

“This is absurd!”

Vileena’s surroundings suddenly broke into an uproar. The situation had finally dawned on them. This was no ploy. The slaves had taken the successor hostage. This was a rebellion!

“Y-Your majesty, this is a grave matter.”

“What should we—“

“Imbeciles! Do not panic. Guards, strengthen the perimeters! Those fools must not be allowed to do as they wish.”

The emperor’s voice drowned out the crowd’s commotion.

Furthermore, several black fumes began to rise from the gates below from the detention camp’s direction. The slaves had started a fire. Seeing this, the spectators jumped up from their seats and scrambled to run away. Panic enveloped the crowd at a tremendous speed. In screams loud enough to warrant covering your ears, rows of people split off to all directions in unrest.

The armed guards hurried to the gates below. On seeing this, Zaat’s heart started to beat furiously.

''It’s begun.''

The emperor ordered for the diplomatic envoys to quickly take shelter. The soldiers at the top of the watchtowers boarded the airships and headed towards the seating area for guests. Noue Salzantes, at this time, refused the hands of the soldiers trying to get him to board, and urged the present noblewomen to get on.

“Oh? So they’ve come.”

Noue grinned and directed his gaze across the sky. Others had also noticed.

“Look.”

“It’s the Garrison’s air carriers!”

The Solon Garrison’s ships, numbering three, appeared in the sky. Flying centre was the flagship that had just been used in the parade. The remaining two were 24 metre-long high-speed cruisers.

However, with the prince taken hostage, they could not shoot. They could only glare menacingly at the slaves as they circled the stadium.

The opposing slaves—not only Pashir, but also the two hundred others, were surprisingly orderly.

When the airships arrived and the armed palace guards tried to surround them, they would point the sword behind the prince’s neck and stop in their tracks. It was almost as if they themselves were part of the country’s elite troops forged through long years of training and discipline.

They continued to pointlessly glare at one another. In the meanwhile, Oubary Bilan had secretly disappeared with the envoys.

Having lost his patience, the emperor was about to give some orders, when the flagship suddenly began its descent. Of course, no one had given any such order. Without concealing his surprise, Simon called out vainlessly.

“Wait!”

The other ships were also shaking. The hatch in the back of the flagship opened and airships swarmed out. Each had two soldiers riding them. They were armed with bayonets, but they must have noticed Prince Gil, because they did not directly land on the stadium grounds.

As she looked up at the sky, for an instant, her eyes reflected the colour of flames and her breath was taken away. A trail of flames was coming out from the inner compartment of one of the garrison ships. It resulted from none other than cannon fire from the flagship—and by the time she realized this, another ship had been fired upon.

The side of the ship must have blown up because she saw a scattering trail of vermilion left from the debris, and crew members thrown off from within the ship. The nobles began to scream and cower in fear. And around the same time, the airships from the flagship landed nearby. The soldiers landed one by one and readied their bayonets.

“Princess!”

Theresia firmly gripped Vileena’s hand.

Their faces were concealed by the face mask under their helmet. The group of expressionless soldiers aimed their bayonets at none other than the nobles situated in the grandstand.

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