Chapter 399 - The Flames of Dispassion V

Cadria had always been a nation that stood rife with conflict. The aggressive, warmongering nature of its people often led to violence, and it was precisely to serve as containment thereof that the colosseums were ultimately erected.

They may as well have been omnipresent. There was one in every city that spanned the nation. Even some towns and large villages had their own, though they weren’t quite up to the par of the expensive arenas built in the more populous settlements. It wasn’t just a question of the materials that went into their construction. Only larger municipalities were able to afford the land-shaping artifacts that served to spice up the matches. Granted, even among those with terraformers installed, there remained a difference in standing. The artifacts themselves were certainly one factor to blame—different models came with different environments and allowed for the fighters to engage in all different forms of combat—but it was not as if the people who owned the establishments were fools. Rarely did a popular biome’s module go unpurchased, for the cost was far outweighed by the revenue that such an addition brought in. So what then was the difference between a popular arena and one of its more desolate cousins?

A wise man would answer with the quality of the matches—fair fights brought in far more coin on account of their unpredictability, and those that hosted them saw more success on average—but an even wiser man would rebut that it was the fighters’ fame. Strong names drew strong challengers and strong crowds in turn. And in the nation’s southwestern lands, there was no name greater than that of the queen of blades. She was also known as the death dancer, the brutalizer, and the bloodstorm. And while none of those descriptors were particularly incorrect, she preferred exactly none of them.

Agrippina of Brinsidia was convinced that she ought to have a more graceful name, but no matter how often she threatened the crowd, the wish was never granted.

It wasn’t like her titles were truly unjustified—Agrippina often came out of her battles covered from head to toe in gore—but neither did she think that it was reasonable for none of them to comment on her looks.

She was particularly proud of her outward appearance. Her hair was a soft, silky blonde, her face embodied that of a fair maiden, and all of her excess fat went to her sharp and perky chest. Her already impressive natural gifts were honed further by her careful management. She bought all the best shampoos to keep her mane as shiny as ever. She carefully managed her diet to mitigate the extent of her bulk—she made sure to keep herself looking more slim than muscular. She even paid extra attention to the length and presentation of her hooves, often clipping and trimming as short as possible, even at the cost of her performance in battle. She was practically perfect, a beauty by nearly every standard, but few ever looked upon her with even a hint of desire. It didn’t make sense, or at least it shouldn’t have if not for a fatal flaw.

It wasn’t her problem per se, but rather a blemish upon the minds of the people around her. For some reason or other, they only ever fixated themselves on her tiny, deformed ears.

All those who paid her mind were known to the world as undesirables. They were either womanizers eager to lay indiscriminately with anything that moved or incorrigible degenerates who preferred small ears over their full, shapely counterparts. It was with that latter group that the gladiator picked a bone. The fetishists looked at her not as a person nor a whole package, but as one of the few who allowed them to satisfy their sick and twisted minds without breaking the laws that protected their nation’s children. After all, her ears weren’t just small. They were so tragically diminutive that she could hardly be compared to a yearling.

That was why the rule was first recorded. She had declared, after a third proposal from one such pervert, that she would never wed a man any weaker than herself. It was just an excuse at the time, a way to keep society’s dredges from approaching. But somehow, the public statement was warped out of proportion. Her challengers seemed to believe that defeating her would immediately win them her hand.

Though an unwanted prize—one of the few to gain the upper hand intentionally fumbled the match to avoid the obligation—she remained as Brinsidia’s greatest attraction. And perhaps, with Tornatus’ destruction, one could go as far as to argue that she was the greatest pull within the Pollux march.

Storied fighters had gathered from all over the country to face her, and through some means or other, she had defeated them all. The swarm grew even greater after the king announced the war with Vel’khan, and many of the defeated sang praise, claiming that she would surely be chosen as one of the seven. But unless the appropriate authority came to her and demanded her aid, she had no such intention.

It wasn’t because she was simply too vain, because she wanted them to ask for her help before she handed it over, but rather because she wasn’t.

Agrippina was no fool. Having seen the king and his subordinates in combat before, she knew better than to get a big head. They were true military veterans with tens or perhaps even hundreds of thousands of kills laid under their belts. She, on the other hand, was but a simple athlete. She could certainly best some of them if challenged in her domain, but in truth, gladiators were only warriors in name. Her methods were only applicable in a fair fight where neither combatant was typically invested in taking the other’s life. In a true duel to the death, she could only go so far with a pair of blades meant more for display than war.

It didn’t help that her level was unmoving. She had gained less than five a year since she was crowned as the champion of Brinsidia’s arena.

Alas, there was nothing that she could do. She had at least one fight each week. There wasn’t enough time to go too far for her training, and the only half-decent dungeon in the city’s vicinity had its monsters capped out in the nine-hundred range. Even back when she had trained on every possible occasion, the rate of her growth had proven abysmally slow.

Solving the problem was as simple as seeking some other haunt, but Agrippina had no such liberty. The contract that she had signed upon becoming a gladiator mandated that any mutually agreed upon schedule would have to be honoured, and in her drunken foolishness, the champion had long confirmed with the ringmaster that she would fight on the last day of each week until she was ultimately defeated.

The precise terms for the contract’s violation had never been specified, but that was all the more reason that Agrippina was unwilling to break it. She wasn’t keen on finding out the price that the goddess of order happened to have in store. Of course, at the end of the day, it wasn’t like she was being unreasonably exploited. The compensation was more than generous, and she could simply throw in the towel if she really wanted. There were no clauses to guide the terms of her surrender; the only fetters that bound her were forged of pride and profit.

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It wasn’t like her career would end even if she suffered a loss. She would still have one of the best gladiatorial records in the nation, but she would lose one of the powerful marketing tools that allowed her to sell her name. The best choice she had was to maintain the status quo.

And it was precisely to do that, to perform the usual duty, that she was walking through the streets. The end of summer had always been her favourite time of year. Brinsidia was far too hot during the fourth and fifth months, though apparently she was one of the few that happened to sport the opinion. While most other centaurian subspecies shed their thick coats during the spring, Agrippina kept hers year round.

It was not out of choice, but a result of her choice of ascension. As a sword dancer, she couldn’t fight at her best with too many clothes on her person. Even high quality armour was too hindering and restrictive, and frankly, worked against the nudity bonus with which the class was equipped. Needless to say, thick winter clothes were even worse when it came to their effect on mobility. Hence her choice to do away with the need altogether.

Northwind Prancer, as her race was known, transformed her from a regular deer to a reindeer. It came with a thick coat year round, as well as a set of expanding hooves and a much shorter tail. She was lucky enough to avoid the tomboyish antlers that some female reindeer would sprout, perhaps because she had only become one much later in life. Granted, with her circumstances as they were, it was difficult to say if the trait would have made her more or less attractive to a potential suitor.

Risk of antlers aside, the only real downside was her newfound incompatibility with the heat of summer. Hence her partiality to the autumn winds.

All of the extra colours only added to her enjoyment. She loved the way that the greens gave way to reds, oranges and yellows, though it was only in the area around Brinsidia that they could easily be judged. Any further north, and there were far too many evergreens for the winds to be dyed.

The orange leaves continued to flutter throughout her walk, and for some odd reason, she continued to see the colour even after she entered the colosseum.

It came in the form of the large beast standing in line for reception. At its core, the mysterious monster seemed to resemble a large cat, but Agrippina hadn’t the faintest clue as to exactly what it was. She cared little for the whims and rules proposed by artificers and other sciency box-checkers, and all that mattered to her was that the beast was tame.

The owner that held its reins hardly seemed reliable. He was a large thoraen man whose verdant skin was a notable shade darker than that of the rest of his species. Though still rather bulky, the ugly bastard was built thinner than the average bee-ogre. His natural tattoos, likewise, stood in great access. While most others only had stripes on his exterior, the cat’s companion had them on his arms and legs as well.

Perhaps even more confusing than that was the colour of this hair. The usual brown or black locks had been replaced with a head as yellow as a bed of straw.

Though he was certainly peculiar, she didn’t pay him too much mind. Her eyes returned to the cat instead. She almost felt duty-bound to watch it. Even if it didn’t seem inclined to attack, a beast as long as four centaurs could not be so readily trusted. The cottontails standing in front of it were small enough that it could eat them with one bite. And if it wasn’t careful, it could easily crush them to death with a single misstep.

“Awrroo?”

The beast in question, however, was nowhere near as concerned as she. Cocking its head in her direction, it bumped its master with its face and gestured her way with its tail, perhaps to inform him that she was keeping watch.

That, however, only furthered her suspicions. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her gaze. She didn’t have her weapons on hand—both swords were stored in her locker—but she was confident that she could stop the beast in its tracks regardless.

She was so focused on the beast that she almost failed to notice when its master left the line and made his way towards her. If not for his pounding steps—he didn’t quite shake the whole venue, but the chandeliers certainly complained—she likely would have embarrassed herself when he suddenly obscured his orange pet.

“Are you the queen of blades?” His voice was gruff, low enough that it almost sounded like he was growling in spite of his amicable tone. It wasn’t friendly or toady enough for her to think that he wanted her signature, but neither was he looking down on her.

“I am,” she said. “And who are you?”

“I wanted to introduce myself before I entered the ring. I am Lucius Hyacinth, Starforged Voidhunter,” he said. “I will finish climbing through the ranks in two weeks. And then, I will defeat you and make you my wife.”

Agrippina’s hands shot for her missing weapons as she narrowed her eyes. Her first instinct was to assume that the ugly bastard was a pervert, another one of those pesky freaks attracted to her childlike ears, but a more careful look at his face revealed that his eyes were devoid of lust. Only after a brief contemplation did she recall that, unlike cottontails and centaurs, thorae went by different standards.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. There were few of them in the Pollux march. The local army was known for prioritizing its cavalry. And as thorae preferred to function as infantry, they saw more upwards mobility in the neighbouring domains.

That then led to the much more reasonable assumption that the aesthetically unfortunate man was simply a skilled fighter who wanted to test his limits like many of the others who came before him. Though with that being the case, she found it strange that he had explicitly stated his intention to wed her. Usually, it was the opposite. Most of her challengers would ask if it was possible to defeat her without claiming the accompanying prize. And for that, she always beat them within an inch of their lives.

Agrippina’s cheeks grew hot and her heart came to life with a flutter. It could only have meant one thing. All of the effort she had put into maintaining her appearance had finally paid off. It was a mystery as to how he managed to gauge her identity, but she soon realised that it wasn’t quite as difficult as one might have misconstrued. After all, everyone knew that for someone who didn’t care much for one’s ears, Agrippina of Brinsidia was one of the most beautiful ladies there was. And having identified her as such at first glance, he couldn’t help but get on his knees and proposed.

Of course, the man in question hadn’t actually gotten on his knees, but the sword dancer was happy to fabricate that particular part of her memory. Or at least that was the case, until she realised that he hadn’t actually complimented her on her stellar looks. She knew in her heart that her assumption was right, but she wanted to hear it from his mouth.

“May I ask why?” she asked, with the most flirtatious smile she could have possibly construed.

“My god told me that you’d be a key ally,” he said. “I’ll need your help to beat my prey.”

For a moment, Agrippina was agape with shock. She almost wanted to stab the man for twisting her narrative out of shape, but she realised, after another look at his rugged and surprisingly acceptable face—she could swear that it had been much uglier even just half a blink prior—that he was simply being coy. Of course he was, bless his innocent heart.

“Hmph. I’ve heard that at least a hundred times.” She clearly hadn’t. “Try it, if you can.” Driving a foot into the ground in front of her, she crossed her arms and huffed.

For some odd reason, she had vague impression that strange remarks, like “for fuck’s sake,” “every goddamn time, I swear,” and “not this shit again,” were echoing through the crowd. But paying it no mind at all, the blade dancer spun around and made for the observation deck.

He did wind up making his way through the rankings. He worked his way up the ladder and soon defeated her right hand man. And yet, her champion’s belt eluded his grasp. She trounced him both times he clawed his way to her seat and challenged her for her hand. It was not until the middle of the third match that she realised that he presented a golden opportunity. Simply by allowing her blade to twist astray, she could prove to the world that she was not unwanted.