Krow saw Hulach pushing grimly through the crowd. He bent down at the edge of the platform.

“What’s going on? I thought there were other fights before the final?”

Thanjar shook his head. “One of the winners declined to continue because of injury.”

Plausible.

In this situation though, was it believable?

Hulach reached them just as Avaldan did.

  “This wasn’t arranged by us,” the dwarvir blacksmith rumbled, perceptive eyes roaming over Hulach and the two herbalists that accompanied Krow through the tournament.

“It’s fine,” said Krow.. “I hope you don’t mind if I continue to borrow your sword?”

The blacksmith inclined his head, made an assenting grunt. His eyes narrowed at something behind Krow.

He glanced back, to see the referee looking away.

Ho, someone’s in trouble.

Apart from him, he meant.

Hulach glared at the blacksmith, then looked at Krow like there was something he wanted to day but couldn’t. Something that could not be said with outsiders listening, likely. Hulach, ultimately, decided on:  “You could refuse.”

“We both know I can’t.”

The referee had referenced honor and specifically mentioned the village. They could not back down here.

“You didn’t come to Cerkanst for this.”

“But I choose to do it, just the same.”

  “Are the contestants ready?” the referee yelled.

No rest period, huh?

Someone really didn’t want him to win this.

A spark lit in Krow’s gut, a burning ember familiar to him after years of suppressing rage and despair.

A helpless feeling rose with the roiling of anger.

The referee went specially to mention he’d won the tournament. That meant the tournament rules were not in place.

The other side had undoubtedly stacked the deck.

There was no way he could manage a victory with this.

He could not win here.

But also, he could not lose.

Krow knew the heady feeling of winning. Until his mother died, he’d considered himself a winner in life. That arrogance had slowly been ground down during his unemployment. He’d lost, and lost again. 

It crumbled to a ruin in Zushkenar, where the feeling of losing had been a constant companion.

Slowly, he’d taken back that confidence, a long and hard road.

But upon return to Earth, the foundations he’d built in another world crumbled and cracked, his confidence once again shaky.

Funny, that it was Redlands that had slowly been building back that ruined self-assurance.

He had goals, damnit.

He’d despaired but, in this Redlands, he hadn’t lost yet.

It probably wasn’t healthy to have this much anger, so suddenly, at people who were only doing their ‘jobs’.

But weeping graves, if they wanted Krow to lose, fine.

He’d give them a loss.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t bite a chunk out of them in the process.

He straightened, smiled. “It’s going to be fine.”

Hulach looked even more concerned at that assurance.

“Fighter Number 157 is allowed potions before the fight!”

Heh. Not even a name?

A boy climbed up the platform with a small chest of Low Heals in his arms, smiled at Krow as he offered the potions.

He took one. “Thanks.”

“Good luck!” The boy beamed at him before scrambling toward the referee-announcer.

Krow surreptitiously flipped the vial into his inventory, replacing it with one of his own. He made a show of drinking it.

He was sure no one would be so stupid as to drug him with so many onlookers, and three herbalists at his side, but it paid to be cautious.

The level-up earlier brought his HP and MP to 100%, removed debuffs. But since they were so kind, could he refuse?

He would be sure to return their kindness.

“Readyyyy?” Both fighters nodded. “Begin!”

Swords clashed immediately. Krow felt the sting of the impact all the way to his shoulders. He evaded the brunt of the blow, thrust.

It only scratched the armor. Superficial damage.

“The paint on your chest is kind of cheap,” Krow observed. It wasn’t Rare armor.

He ducked a swing meant for his neck. It was so fast, he could almost feel the touch of steel at his throat.

  “Silent type?” Then his face fell into sympathetic lines. “Speech defect? I know a few people who could help with that, if you want.”

He dodged a downward swing. The platform cracked under the force exerted.

The other was definitely not an amateur level.

Bloody conspiracy.

Krow parried and dodged.

He attacked once or twice, but let the force of the other batter him back. Not that Krow was holding back.

The other was too strong.

It was not long before blood from numerous cuts stained the white of Krow’s shirt.

Krow kicked the other’s swordhand. It didn’t budge.

What was he made of, stone?

Krow eyed him, estimating his height. The other was tall, but still under the minimum height afforded the magmigant race, who sometimes grew crystals on their bodies.

The other was that strong?

He’d only be flattered if they sent a Lvl 20 to deal with poor little him.

Krow attempted to cross swords, grimaced at the jarring pain, then angled the falchion into the other’s space, nicked the chiseled jawline under the helmet.

“You know, they say handsome manly faces have a cleft chin. Did they not have that on your avatar editor? Ah, I guess the game thought even full skew on your features wouldn’t make you worthy of it.”

The body language changed from passively irritated to furious.

The other battered at Krow’s blocks, nearly using his sword like a club. 

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Krow retreated, retreated again.

The most he could do was slightly deflect the blows. Even with the lessened pain of the VR system, Krow’s arms slowly went numb.

He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

He retreated.

“Alright, I understand. You’ll be fine with the cleft jaw I gave you. Can’t say I’m a cosmetic surgeon, though. You better get it looked at by experts. If they even could help.”

That great sword swung, a wide arc.

Opportunity.

The edge of the platform was right behind him.

Krow twirled the falchion, bounced on his feet, blocked with the flat of the falchion.

He timed a double-jump just as the opponent’s blade met his.

Ow.

Even with double-jump evading most of it, the force rattled his bones. It provided more momentum for the jump.

He flew through the air, crashed on the sacks of sawdust that prevented spectators from approaching too close to the platform.

“Butcher! Are you alright?”

Ow.

He lifted his head, even that small motion causing pain to crackle through his limbs.

“…out of bounds! Leverad Kelfort wins over Number 157 of Cerkanst!!”

Krow pushed down his smile.

The cheers that the other gained at the announcement were sporadic.

He got slowly to his feet.

A number of hands assisted.

It had been a totally one-sided fight. His two hits hadn’t even mattered.

How could the audience not be suspicious?

“Butcher, are you alright?”

Krow put on a pained smile, waved at the nearby spectators. “Thank you. It looks like it’s my loss. Sorry if I lost you money.”

There were a few laughs. 

“That’s alright,” came a shout, “it was only a serpens!”

“I’m honored to mean that much to you,” he said dryly.

The laughter grew.

He staggered slightly, then limped for a few steps, and then strode toward Tharjan and the others, leaving the sympathetic spectators with a heroic smile.

*

Chapter End

*

Note:

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