“Thank you, my subjects,” the man said, motioning for everyone to sit. As one, a few million cultivators, ranging from F to E Rank, sat. “Today, I have arranged a match for your enjoyment, between a disgraced noble, and a champion of my choosing. Dyvan Marn stands accused of seducing one of my direct family members, Princess Annae. With honeyed words, and graft matching his family, he sullied her with his lower blood.”
Sam’s armor clanked slightly as he shifted, gazing at Garnax, whose face seized up in the middle of a grimace. “What did he mean, graft?”
“That bastard of a king plays games with his subjects,” one of Garnax’s daughters said, her face flushing red with rage. “He plays favorites, and when he grows bored, he discards them. My great-great grandfather grew popular with the other nobles, and as an E Ranker a few steps removed from the direct royal line, he was considered to be an eventual contender to the throne.”
“So he was disposed, and his family’s reputation torn to the ground?” Sam asked bluntly.
A tear rose to the woman’s eye. “Yes.”
Back in the arena, Sam caught a glimpse of movement as a man was dragged out from a rift in reality, flanked by two heavily armored guards. Each was a mid E Ranker. The man’s body was covered in bruises, and one of his legs was twisted. A gasp of rage and horror sounded out behind Sam, but he kept his eyes on Dyvan. Despite his situation, resolve still burned in his eyes.
“The accused now stands before me, and only one question remains!” King Granthar crowed. “Will he represent the honor of his family, or will they send a champion?”
Sam took this as his cue, and with a dull thump of compressed air, he teleported, appearing in front of Dyvan, facing King Granthar. “I am their champion.”
“Who are you?” the king asked, raising one perfect eyebrow. “I do not recognize you from the members of my court.”
“I am Sam Atlas, a wandering cultivator. The Marn family has requested my aid. For the purpose of this trial I will be their sword and shield.” Sam made sure to project a sort of brash confidence, undercutting his strength, while emphasizing his fake background. He wasn’t sure if wandering cultivators were a thing in the real world, but apparently, the term was recognized.
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“Very well. It is well within the Marn family’s rights. You shall face Elias Stoneshield, the weakest of my guard. The fight shall be to the death.” A sort of glee crept onto Granthar’s face, which Sam took to mean that he was perversely excited at the whole thing, as a D Ranker could have suppressed their emotions’ visible effects, regardless of how strong they were. No, this despot wanted Sam to see his disdain.
The rift in reality opened up behind Dyvan and his guards, and they frogmarched him back into it. Meanwhile, the king eyed up Sam like he was a succulent slab of meat, likely scanning him. Sam fought to keep his true strength from showing, only using one half of his Dao to accentuate his passive aura. Doing so made him seem like an average E Ranker. Of course, there was no way to detect his stats without watching them in action.
Granthar waved his hand, and another rift opened. Sam wondered if they were his doing, or they were part of the teleportation arrays Garnax had told him about. Perhaps the man was trying to pretend that he was more powerful than he actually was. Although, he was certainly powerful enough.
Out of the portal stepped a hulking brute, what looked like a centaur with the body of a Teruvarian man taking the place of a human upper body. True to his name, two massive shields of stone were clutched in heavily muscled arms. Two tusks jutted out of his anvil-like jaw, and his grunts were like a bellows. The man must have weighed two or three tons, and he was almost a dozen feet long and far taller than Sam was.
He frowned, the motion looking like the shifting of tectonic plates. “This is not the Marn brat, my lord.”
“No, a champion was named in their stead. Your opponent will be this man.” The king scoffed. “Whoever he is.”
Elias ground his hooves into the ground, carving deep furrows into the sand. A look of brutish glee crossed his face, at the anticipation of grinding Sam into paste with his shields. Only a true psychopath would choose such weapons as his own, as there was only one way they could be used. Blunt weapons were already among the most devastating melee armaments, but these took it to a new level. As the man postured, prancing in front of the crowd like a prize pony, Sam inspected him. Little information was new, but his level was 200. It should have inspired fear in Sam, but he could tell that Elias, despite his massive bulk, was no match for him.
For the first time in a while, Sam reached up, and took off his helmet. Shaking out his hair, he grinned. The message was clear. He did not see Elias as a threat, and by extension, King Granthar either. The look of smug superiority on both the king and his champion’s faces melted away, turning into grimaces. Then the king teleported to his royal balcony, not wanting his subjects to see his rage.
Sam stood still, his hammer held loosely in one arm. As he did so, Elias padded softly towards him, hefting his shields. Each of them would have looked more at home as the doors of nuclear fallout shelters, or bank vaults, but here they were, being used as weapons.