An old, gray-haired knight emerged from the western side of the coliseum. The arena filled with cheers.
“And on the eastern side! Representing the Red Bear mercenaries, Quato Ghine of the Verdant Land, Tomaso!”
A man so gigantic he could have passed for a bear emerged from the east to face the knight. The cheers for him were no less enthusiastic than those for the old knight.
The monthlong tournament was finally approaching its finale. There were only three competitors and two matches remaining. The stands were packed with an audience of more than ten thousand.
The coliseum sat in a temple adjacent to the royal palace—in fact, you might even say that this arena was itself the temple, where the Spirit of Fate was worshipped. A statue of a holy woman holding a single flower stood at the southern wall, warmly watching over the two warriors.
“To both combatants: Know that this is not a regular duel. You battle before the great king of Piena, and before the Spirit of Fate that safeguards the peace of our world. We wish for a fair and noble battle, one worthy of the Spirit’s witness,” the high chancellor instructed them, facing the pair.
But neither of the warriors paid any heed. They glared at each other with enough intensity to generate sparks, or so it seemed. As the audience looked on, they, too, were gradually drawn into the tension. This year’s tournament had special meaning. There had been plausible-sounding rumors that the winner would be chosen as one of the Braves of the Six Flowers.
“As you know,” continued the high chancellor, “he who wins this battle will fight the victor of last year’s tournament, Her Highness Princess Nashetania. The cowardly and the base are unworthy of facing her. So both of you must…” The high chancellor of Piena droned on for quite some time. Few noticed the rather quiet, unusual event that occurred as he spoke.
A single boy approached from the coliseum’s southern gate. The guards made no attempt to stop him. The high chancellor’s personal retinue scrutinized the boy but didn’t make a move, either. Nor did the audience pay him much mind. His demeanor was so casual, people believed stopping him would have been out of line.
Long red hair spilled off his head. He wore plain clothes—no armor, no helmet—and a wooden sword was slung over his back. Four belts were strapped about his waist, with a number of little pouches fastened to them. The boy wedged his way in between the two warriors and said, smiling, “Pardon me, guys.”
The high chancellor, shocked at the sudden intrusion, berated this interloper. “Who are you?! This is beyond rude!”
“My name is Adlet Mayer,” the boy replied. “I’m the strongest man in the world.” The two warriors who had been about to fight the decisive semifinal match glowered at this upstart—Adlet Mayer. But Adlet paid them no mind. “I’m here to notify you of a change in the matchups. It’s gonna be Adlet, the strongest man in the world, versus you two.”
“Just who do you think you are?! Are you mad?!” The high chancellor’s face was turning red.
But Adlet ignored him. At this point, the audience broke into murmurs, finally noticing that something was amiss.
“Come on, hurry up and kick this idiot out,” said the mercenary, irritated his fight had been interrupted. Finally, the high chancellor’s personal guard remembered their duties and lifted their clubs.
Adlet grinned. “Aaand the match begins!” His hands moved faster than the eye could see. Something flew from his fingertips, hurtling at the faces of the four guards. The soldiers clutched their faces and began moaning in pain.
“You guys really are good,” said Adlet. He wasn’t looking at the honor guard. His eyes were on the old knight and the mercenary who stood on either side of him. Both of them held, pinched in their fingers, the poisoned needles Adlet had thrown. The points had been dipped in a nerve toxin that stimulated pain receptors. The poison was mild, but it would cause pure agony for about thirty minutes.
The mercenary and the old knight drew their swords simultaneously. It seemed they had finally realized that the intruder was not just any idiot. The mercenary swung at Adlet, holding nothing back. Though his weapon was simply a dull practice sword, the blow would most certainly mean instant death if it connected.
“Heh!” Adlet chuckled, ducking the attack. Without waiting even a second, the old knight charged him from behind. But Adlet reached into the pouches on his belt with blinding speed. He produced a tiny bottle with his right hand and turned to toss it.
The old knight grunted, slapping away the bottle with the flat of his sword. The little bottle had only contained water, but it was distraction enough to give Adlet an opening. The old knight and the mercenary went on the defensive, putting some distance between themselves and Adlet as they occupied positions to his front and rear. If this were a regular fight, the situation would have spelled inevitable defeat. But Adlet had found a sure way to win.
He pulled a small ball of paper from one of his pouches and threw it on the ground. Instantly, there was an explosion at his feet. Smoke surrounded Adlet, concealing him.
“What the hell?!”
“What trick is this?!”
The old knight and mercenary simultaneously voiced their astonishment.
Of course, neither of them would be undone by mere sleight of hand. Adlet moved fast. Exceptionally so. Within the cloud of smoke, he extracted another tool from one of his pouches. While his two opponents were still baffled by the smoke, he laid the groundwork for his victory. First, Adlet leaped at the old knight, pulling out the wooden sword at his back as he struck.
“Not good enough!” the knight yelled.
The moment the old warrior blocked his attack, Adlet released the wooden sword. He used both hands to hold down the old man’s arms, moved his face close, and then clacked his teeth together.
Perhaps the old knight hadn’t seen the
