On my way out of the arena, a blonde female attendant in a pure-white robe handed me a cup with a yellow-green viscous liquid in it. I didn’t ask what it was and just downed it in one go. The taste was like that of chamomile tea, with a strong honey-sweet aftertaste. A hot sensation rolled through my body, and I recognised the feeling. I gingerly poked my nose, and then my mouth. I examined each of my shattered teeth and then the wound in my cheek. It was all healed. It wasn’t as flawless as the healing potion I had used in the Hideout, since I still felt sore, but it did save me from having to use my only potion.
When I turned around to thank the attendant who had brought me the healing tea, she was gone. I wondered for a moment if it had actually been a real person. If it had been a player, then I would have to thank them if I ever saw them again.
Since my next fight, possibly the final fight, would take place after an interlude of two other contestants fighting, I hurried to a nearby weaponsmith, hoping they could fix my blade.
The smith gave me a questioning look as I handed him the two pieces of my obsidian katana. First, he scratched his head, but, after inspecting it for a few minutes, seemed to reach some sort of conclusion.
“I cannae fix et,” he said in a thick accent. Seeing my defeated look, he then continued, “But, dinnae worry yerself. I knoo sum one hoo can.”[1] The smith rolled the two broken pieces together in a thick piece of oiled cloth, and then went into the back, wherefrom he emerged a few moments later holding a katana not too unlike mine in shape and size. Handing it to me, he explained, “Ye gonna need this. Repair’ll take ‘till tomorra.”
In hindsight, I should’ve asked how he’d gotten his hand on a sword not belonging to this World’s setting, but I didn’t. I just grabbed the katana and inspected it.
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‘Iron Katana’
-Melee Weapon-
Sword > Two-handed > Katana
“A katana of modest construction and decent sharpness. Forged by a smith of the Red Fields.”
Equip
Discard
Weight: 2.1 kilos
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It was simply called ‘Iron Katana’. It had no special traits and was more than twice as heavy as my ‘Passing Breeze’, which put me above my current weight class, slowing my movement speed to modest and reducing my stamina pool to seventy percent. The blade was a lot thicker than my obsidian edge, but it also had a handguard carved to look like a lotus flower. It wouldn’t break as easily as mine had, but it also wouldn’t rend armour, and its additional weight would make each strike consume more stamina. Not to mention, I couldn’t one-hand it with ease. Still, it was better than having no sword at all. But only marginally so…
I paid the smith a ludicrous fee of two gold and ten silvers, putting me just above a total of thirteen gold coins. Then I made my way back to the arena, having many mixed feelings about my upcoming fight, which, for all I knew, might be even harder than the Tower Guard.
Sitting in the stands, I watched the end of the fight between Tabian and the Red Swordsman. Just like during my fight, the audience and announcer were fully on the Captain’s side. However, unlike my fight against him, they weren’t cheering for a victory that looked to be arriving at any moment, but rather they were encouraging him to hang in there.
From where I sat, I saw his posture was starting to slack, his body shuddering with each heavy breath he took, and noticed the way his deflections were starting to falter. Meanwhile, his opponent looked ready to go on for another hour or two, as his attacks were swift and elegant. I wondered if the red katana he wielded was responsible. Again, it had an unnatural glow. For some reason, it reminded me of something I had once heard as a child, one of the few stories I seemed still capable of remembering. It was said that those who took great care of their belongings might see those belongings inhabited by gentle spirits, but it was also said that those that took ill care of their things, saw themselves or their possessions cursed, and, even worse, those items that had gorged on blood or witnessed many gruesome deaths, were possessed by wrathful spirits delighted by cruel things. I was told that, in some cases, Gods may even inhabit an object. In Japan, many stories speak of possessed items, and some of these were weapons.
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I once again had to wonder why I remembered such unnecessary things, and not the things immediately associated with normal life, like what I did for work and stuff like that. It was weird that aside from brief glimpses, most of my adult life was entirely gone from my memory, replaced by darkness and uncertainty.
The end to the duel came when Tabian sluggishly missed a deflection and the Red Swordsman’s katana jabbed into his left shoulder, piercing the metal and drawing blood.
As with my win over Tabian, the crowd was stunned, but cheered nonetheless.
With his victory, the Red Swordsman had won the right to fight the reigning champion, who after a short break emerged from the end opposite the Swordsman. I was pleased to discover that the other katana-wielding fighter had to go before me, so I could figure out the best way to deal with the Champion when it became my turn, or, alternatively, if the Red Swordsman won, I’d have an insight into his fighting style.
The Champion had sun-tanned skin, shoulder-length brown hair, and a bronze helmet in the style of those used by ancient Spartan warriors, complete with a black mohawk. It seemed slightly out of place in this setting, but I got the feeling that this fighter was, like his opponent, also not from these parts. His muscular biceps were exposed, but his forearms were covered in bronze vambraces. His chestpiece was similarly made of bronze and formed to have the appearance of a muscular chest and stomach, with large pecs and six abs in total. A short skirt or kilt was attached to the bottom of the chestpiece, and around his lower legs were shin-guards. In one hand he wielded a Xiphos[2] and in the other a round shield with a red Greek lambda ‘Λ’ on it. He strode across the sand with an easy gait. He had no need for any confident swagger. Everyone here already knew he was the Champion of this arena.
“The Red Swordsman showed his fearsome skill with the sword in his victory over Captain Tabian, but none are more fearsome in battle than our reigning champion, Patroclus!” The stands started shaking as the crowd roared and stomped their feet against the wooden floor in a brutal cheer for the Champion, who raised his Xiphos in response, only to receive an even bigger roar and applause.
Then, as if stepping from his shadow, a figure emerged from behind Patroclus. Most of the audience didn’t notice him until his weapon, a dark-grey and rusted halberd, pierced through the chest of Patroclus and lifted him into the air with inhuman strength. The Intruder held him there for all to see, seemingly thriving in the terror and fear that had suddenly befallen the spectators, who no less than a second ago had been eagerly cheering for the coming fight. I heard a terrified exclamation from someone a few rows back.
“A Royal Knight! The Forlorn King has come for us!”
A large portion of the audience was already fleeing the stands as the Red Swordsman charged in. The cheerful melodic cacophony that’d been playing throughout the other fights suddenly halted, immediately replaced by the sound of war drums, not too unlike the backdrop of the Soldier’s Camp, but this time supplemented with a powerful male choir singing drawn-out words in Latin. I continued watching from my seat, taking in the appearance of the newcomer. A Royal Knight and The Forlorn King. Perhaps this Knight was similar to the one we’d found in Silt, though, obviously, he was alive. I’d spent several days in two major cities of this World, yet this was the first word of Royalty I’d yet heard. And, to call a King forlorn was likely tantamount to treason, yet by these words had the people described someone who was supposed to rule their Kingdom. I’d already surmised that something was amiss in this country, but had somehow failed to notice the most obvious absence of all: The King.
Then I remembered the mosaic I’d seen in the Old Church. Was that mosaic depicting this Forlorn King or one of his ancestors? I decided I would ask Father Adam about it when I returned to the Village.
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[1] Just imagine a really thick Scottish accent from the most rural parts of the countryside. It’s the sort of indecipherable dialect soup that even a native Scot would struggle to understand if not written down, but of course, thanks to the linguistical abilities this realm granted me, I understood it without issue.
[2] A Greek one-handed and double-edged sword used in Classical Antiquity. The blade is often associated with the Spartans.