CH444 The Gladiator

***

Sergeant Tahm Lopota nodded.

He didn't humour the crowd by theatrically leaping down like Brutus the Ogre had done. Instead, the Fury knight took his time, descending via the proper path leading to the arena floor—much to the crowd's disappointment.

They booed and jeered as he made his way onto the arena grounds.

However, the Sergeant didn't spare them a single glance.

In fact, his next actions only enraged the crowd further.

Already clad in light metal armour, the Sergeant continued to arm himself. In addition to his shortsword, he equipped a round shield, further reinforcing his defence.

For a crowd that lived for bloodshed and spectacle, a combatant daring to turtle up like this was unforgivable.

"Boo—!"

The jeers echoed around the arena.

Even so, Sergeant Lopota never took his eyes off the giant standing before him.

Brutus lived up to his name.

He was a hulking mass of muscle and fat, standing nearly three metres tall. Coupled with his grotesque face—which was only missing tusks—he looked every bit like an ogre.

Appropriately, his weapon of choice was a massive spiked ogre club.

Under the cacophony of boos and jeers, the shaman of the Copper-skinned Orcs raised his staff and announced the start of the duel.

The moment the signal was given, Brutus surged forward at a speed entirely unnatural for his size.

He brought his club crashing down onto the Sergeant's shield again and again, each strike following the last in rapid succession, giving his opponent barely any time to breathe—much less counterattack.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!!!

Strike after strike landed.

The Sergeant abandoned any thought of retaliation, instead angling his shield carefully so that the blows slid off rather than absorbing their full force.

Within moments, the shield caved inward, warped and dented. Cracks spread across his armour, and he was steadily driven backwards. The spikes on Brutus's club began to connect more frequently, tearing shallow gashes into the Sergeant's body with each exchange.

Sergeant Lopota was like a lone ship on a raging ocean—completely at the mercy of the storm.

Roar!"

Even so, the Sergeant did not give up.

He refused to let Brutus injure him without paying a price. Whenever Brutus the Ogre's club scraped or tore into him, the Sergeant retaliated from sharp, awkward angles, carving shallow cuts into Brutus's flesh with his shortsword.

Soon, wounds began to accumulate on Brutus as well.

Though they hadn't yet affected his combat strength, the sight of blood streaking down his massive frame was unmistakable.

The bloodied state of both combatants only fuelled the crowd's savagery. Cheers and jeers rose another notch, blending into a single, frenzied roar. Even Brieger had lost himself in the brutality of the spectacle below.

The promise of eleven Berserk stones filling his coffers caused him to overlook the subtle signs unfolding in the arena.

However, not everyone was fooled.

"Looks like you were right, Rolfe," Bram the Blood Blade remarked suddenly.

"There's something strange about Young Master Alex's champion?" Rolfe asked.

"Indeed." Bram nodded. "Although it looks like he's losing, his movements are short and precise. His composure is also unusual. Even with the crowd's jeers and the stench of blood in the air, he hasn't lost himself to the atmosphere."

Bram's eyes narrowed.

"He's sticking to his game plan with remarkable discipline, completely uninfluenced by external factors. The same cannot be said for Brieger's man, who has clearly given himself over to bloodlust."

"He's either a veteran of a powerful army or an elite-trained soldier," Bram continued. "Both are things an ordinary noble house simply cannot produce. Only families with centuries of history and deep resources can field soldiers like this."

Bram's evaluating gaze shifted toward Alex's private box, lingering on the Fury soldiers standing behind him—each clad in armour similar to Sergeant Lopota's.

"And look closely," Bram added. "This level of quality doesn't seem unique. That soldier isn't a special case—he's just one of the 'ordinary' troops under Young Master Alex's command."

Rolfe exhaled slowly after taking in Bram's analysis.

"For such a soldier to be considered expendable…" Rolfe said quietly. "Brieger is about to find himself knee-deep in trouble."

"That works out well for us, doesn't it?" Bram smiled.

"Indeed," Rolfe affirmed with a nod.

Bram's brows suddenly furrowed.

"My only concern is that Young Master Alex is being far too flashy with his wealth. That kind of display attracts all sorts of unscrupulous characters in the Wildlands. Even I'm having second thoughts just watching him flaunt that much money."

Rolfe's lips curled into a predatory, knowing smile.

"But what if that is precisely his intention…?" he said softly. "To lure people like you in with your greed?"

Bram's eyes shrank in horror.

A flurry of thoughts surged through his mind—most of them centred on how Brieger had ended up in his current predicament.

'If Rolfe is right…'

Bram's gaze snapped outward, scanning the crowd.

He saw it then—dozens of eyes burning with naked desire and avarice, all fixed on Alex. Meanwhile, the man himself sat calmly in his box, appearing utterly oblivious to the attention.

But how could a Gold-ranked sorcerer fail to notice such blatant, hostile intent?

A chill ran down Bram's spine.

The way he looked at Alex changed entirely. No longer did he see merely a noble scion with deep pockets—but a terrifying schemer, one who understood the nature of these lands all too well.

The fight dragged on for several tens of minutes.

By now, Brutus the Ogre was panting heavily. The accumulation of shallow cuts inflicted by Sergeant Lopota had begun to tell. His movements slowed, and the power behind his swings weakened so visibly that even a child could sense something was wrong.

His roars grew hoarse. The fire in his eyes dulled, replaced by exhaustion and mounting frustration.

Brieger had stopped shouting as well.

He, too, finally noticed that something was amiss. Brutus was exposing more and more openings—openings Sergeant Lopota deliberately refused to exploit, instead choosing to bleed the giant dry, one careful cut at a time.

At last, the Sergeant's strategy became clear to everyone.

Then—

After deflecting a sluggish strike from Brutus, Sergeant Lopota surged forward and slammed the rim of his battered shield into the giant's shin.

The impact forced Brutus to recoil violently, his massive frame crashing down into a half-kneel.

Brutus tried to defend himself by sweeping his massive club in a wide arc, but Sergeant Lopota anticipated the move. He rolled smoothly behind the giant and slashed across the backs of both legs, cutting deep.

Brutus collapsed heavily to his knees, brought down to the Sergeant's level.

With a desperate roar, the giant attempted one last counterattack. Sergeant Lopota met it head-on, parrying the sluggish blow with his shield before the club could gather any real momentum.

Then, the shortsword—which until now had only carved shallow wounds through Brutus's layers of fat and muscle—finally struck true.

In a single, fluid motion, the blade severed Brutus's dominant arm.

Blood sprayed violently as the massive limb hit the arena floor, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

A baleful roar tore from Brutus's throat.

But Sergeant Lopota did not hesitate.

While the giant was still reeling from the agony of losing his arm, the Sergeant stepped in and struck again—cleanly severing Brutus's head from his neck.

The decapitated body collapsed, drenching Sergeant Lopota in blood. He stood tall amidst the gore, imposing and savage—exactly the kind of spectacle the crowd adored.

"Yea—!!!!"

The same people who had jeered him moments earlier now roared their approval.

But to Sergeant Lopota, their cheers were little more than noise.

After steadying his breathing, he picked up Brutus's severed head and walked closer to Alex's private stand, each step leaving bloody footprints behind him—formed from the blood of his fallen opponent

"I lay at your feet… Victory!" he roared.

For a heartbeat, the arena fell silent.

Then it exploded into raucous cheers and thunderous applause.

Alex nodded once, acknowledging both the victory and the Sergeant's oath of fealty.

Behind his helmet, a smile spread across Sergeant Lopota's face. Taking in by the moment, he straightened and briefly acknowledged the crowd's acclaim.

Just as he turned to leave the arena—

A sudden sense of overwhelming danger crashed into him.

His instincts—honed through years of battle—screamed.

Defaulting to his ingrained training, he dropped low and raised his shield.

Swoosh!

BOOM!

A thick metal arrow slammed into the shield.

The force behind it was terrifying. The battered shield might as well have been parchment.

The arrow punched clean through the shield, through Sergeant Lopota's body, and buried itself deep into the ground behind him.

***

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