“Gah!” the old knight cried out as flames erupted in his face.
Still grasping one of the old man’s arms, Adlet turned his back to his adversary, then hurled him over his shoulder. The knight’s back hit the ground, and he could move no more. Adlet immediately spun around, but not to face his remaining opponent. His attack was already done.
Slowly, the haze of the smoke bomb cleared. The mercenary was crouching low within the cloud, holding his legs as he shrieked in anguish.
“Sorry. Those poison needles hurt, don’t they? I would’ve preferred defeating you with different methods, if I could.” Adlet furrowed his brows as he smiled audaciously.
Something resembling large thumbtacks was scattered in the spot where Adlet had been standing scant moments earlier. They weren’t really noticeable unless you were looking for them—they were painted a pale gray, the same color as the ground in the coliseum. The points of the tacks were coated with that same nerve toxin that inflicted horrific pain. The mercenary had charged through the smoke, intending to catch Adlet from behind, only to step on those spikes. Had he been wearing iron leggings or sturdy leather footwear, the attack might easily have been deflected. However, it seemed the mercenary valued quick footwork in particular, as he wore light and nimble cloth shoes. When Adlet had first sized up his opponents, he had paid special attention to their feet.
“How do you like that? I win!” Adlet yelled.
The audience was dumbstruck. Just hearing his announcement apparently wasn’t enough to make them believe that some nameless interloper could come in and defeat two top contenders at the tournament in under ten seconds.
“Wh-what are you all doing?! Come here, now! Surround him! Surround him and capture him!” The high chancellor, panicked, yelled at the soldiers encircling the arena. The soldiers needed no additional prodding—they removed the covers from their spears, advancing toward the center of the coliseum.
Right before their attack, Adlet turned to the holy statue that watched over the battle and shouted, “My name is Adlet Mayer! I’m the strongest man in the world! Do you hear me, Spirit of Fate? If you don’t choose me as one of the Braves of the Six Flowers, you’re gonna regret it!”
The guards charged Adlet. At this point, the audience finally seemed to realize what was going on. “Royal guard! Draw your swords! Catch the boy!” The audience in the spectators’ seats spilled into the arena as well. The fallen knight and mercenary rose and faced Adlet once more. This arena for sacred battles, where warriors demonstrated their strength before the Spirit, was now host to a chaotic brawl.
And so, from that day forth, Adlet Mayer’s name resounded throughout the land…as the Wicked Trickster Adlet, the Cowardly Warrior Adlet, the worst Brave candidate in all of history.
One thousand years ago, a monster appeared on the continent. Little was known about the creature, such as where it came from, why it was born, what it felt, what it wanted, or even if it had will or sentience in the first place. No one even knew if it was actually alive. The beast just appeared suddenly, without warning.
Some testimonies remained from the very few who had encountered the creature and survived. The monster was a few dozen meters in length. They said that it did not have a static form, but rather resembled living, shifting mud. It was the only one of its kind that had ever appeared in the world. Its body emitted toxins; acid that melted everything it touched oozed from the beast’s tentacles. Then it began attacking humans. It did not eat them or play with them. It simply killed for the sake of killing. It divided its own body, creating monsters to serve as its minions, and killed even more. This foul pestilence had no name, because there was no need to give it one. There was no other creature that could even occupy the same category. This monster was simply called the Evil God.
At the time, the continent was ruled by the great Eternal Empire of Rohanae. The empire dominated the whole world, but even after bringing the strength of its entire army to bear, it had been unable to defeat the Evil God. The nation was laid to waste, its royal line died out, and its towns and villages were razed to the ground.
Just as the people despaired, accepting that it was their fate to be destroyed, a Saint came to them. With a single flower as her only weapon, the Saint stood against the Evil God. She was the only one in the world who could fight it.
It was a long, long battle. Finally, the Saint chased the Evil God to the westernmost tip of the continent and defeated it. When she returned, the Saint said, The Evil God is not dead. One day, it will awaken from its slumber in the west and transform the world into a hell. And so she prophesied: When it reawakens, six Braves will appear to inherit my power, and they are destined to subdue the Evil God once more. She described how the crest of a six-petaled flower would appear on the bodies of the chosen warriors. And that is why they were called the Braves of the Six Flowers.
Twice the Evil God rose from its dormancy, and twice, six Braves appeared—just as had been foretold—and sealed it away once more.
To be chosen as one of the Braves of the Six Flowers, there was a condition: A Brave-to-be had to demonstrate his or her power at one of the temples to the Spirit of Fate that the Saint of the Single Flower had constructed. There were thirty of these temples across the continent. Easily more than ten thousand candidates would come from all over the land to demonstrate their strength at these temples. When the Evil God woke, the best six
