The Imperial Colosseum.
Several hundred meters across and just as towering in height, this structure, like a gigantic fortress, was the magnificent symbol of the Empire.
Patches of green moss clung here and there to its outer walls, built from rough-textured stone, bearing witness to its history, and at its top, hundreds of flags emblazoned with the imperial crest fluttered noisily.
In addition, elaborate arched windows lined the spaces between each level.
Beneath those countless windows stood beautiful statues, each in its own place. Shaped like people, they wielded various weapons—swords, spears, flails, nets, whips, and more—in poses of blocking, swinging, thrusting, or cheering.
An overwhelming presence that made those who beheld it feel how small they were. In this way, the Imperial Colosseum was more than a space offering mere spectacle; it was the heart and pride of the Empire.
Of course, not everyone thought so. Like Riyan, riding in a carriage entering the Colosseum at this very moment.
“So, what do you think?”
At the question from Berka, who was seated across from him, Riyan withdrew his gaze from the Colosseum.
Then he answered briefly.
“It's enormous.”
“You've been here before. When you faced the monster. But back then, you were in a cloth-covered transport wagon, so you wouldn't have seen it. So this is your first time, isn't it?”
“That's right.”
“And still, that's all you've got to say.”
Riyan tilted his head.
He didn't particularly feel like saying more.
It wasn't because of his anger toward the Empire. He simply had no reason to praise the act of throwing humans to monsters and making them point swords at one another.
If it was that sort of thing, Riyan had had his fill of it through the war against the Demon Dragon.
“How dull. Anyway, the reason we're here today is for your upcoming match.”
“Is that so? But today doesn't seem to be a match day. The streets are quiet.”
“The ecosystem called the Colosseum isn't all about matches.”
Leaving those brief words, Berka held out his identification tag to the guard who approached as the carriage entered the Colosseum's entrance.
“Director Berka of the Rhodus Gladiator School, confirmed. You have a meeting with the Supervisor. I will call someone to guide you.”
“No need for a guide. It's not as though I've only been here once or twice.”
The guard saw the coin tucked beneath the identification tag and smiled.
“Welcome to Judgment.”
After they passed the guard, Riyan asked Berka, who was once again leaning back against his seat.
“Judgment? Is that the name of this place?”
“Yeah. It's the Colosseum's official name. It's longer, actually. Empire something-or-other...... there's that kind of fancy garbage stuck in front of it. Well, it's the kind of name only mindless, empty-headed bastards would like. What's there to dress up about killing and being killed? Isn't it moronic?”
Riyan agreed.
The Judgment of the Empire. Not only was it hard to agree with, but he didn't want to utter such a cringe-worthy name every time, either.
After they passed through a towering gate, they came to a place where carriages were parked.
“Let's get out.”
Berka got out first, and Riyan followed behind him.
The two instructors who had been sitting in the driver's seat also stood in attendance behind Berka. At a glance, it looked as though they were watching Riyan while also guarding Berka.
Of course, the reality was different.
If Riyan were given even a tiny dagger right now, he was confident he could slit both their throats in an instant and stab Berka.
Berka would be a bit harder, of course. The presence he gave off was clearly different from that of the ordinary instructors.
‘Do you need to be skilled to run a gladiator school in the first place?’
Even so, if he made good use of surprise, he could take him down one way or another.
The problem was the guards who would come rushing at the commotion in the meantime.
Even supposing he dealt with that somehow, it would be even harder to disappear completely in the Imperial Capital, tightly controlled under the Empire's hand.
After imagining how things would unfold if he escaped, Riyan soon erased the thought. Who cares.
‘There's no reason to run in the first place.’
He wasn't fond of being a slave, but in any case, becoming a fugitive against the massive system that was the Empire would cost more than it gained.
Besides, he still didn't know how the world worked, so it was a matter he could think over slowly while going along with the situation for now.
Honestly, he might be called a slave gladiator, but the treatment wasn't that bad.
He even thought it was the perfect setup for recovering his body, building his combat instincts, and grasping the state of affairs.
On top of that, according to Haral, he could even make money by betting on matches, so why bother leaving?
Of course, all the conditions above left out the greatest risk for a gladiator: the matches themselves.
‘Even so.’
Berka, who had recognized his value to some extent, would have no reason to throw him away as a mere sacrificial lamb.
Besides, weren't most of the instructors he had faced in the wager with Haral veteran gladiators who had survived for a long time?
It meant it was worth a shot.
‘Rushing always spoils things.’
Silently following Berka, Riyan then began climbing the floors along a spiral staircase.
How many floors had they climbed?
As they turned down a long corridor, Berka's voice reached Riyan's ears.
“Look there, Riyan.”
At Berka's words, Riyan followed his gaze.
Where it landed, he could look down on the place where the actual battles took place—where he had faced the monster when he first opened his eyes in his new body.
“That's the Arena. Where you fought, and where you'll keep fighting.”
A stage thickly covered with sand.
Berka called it the Arena.
There, hundreds of laborers were busily carrying something and tearing things down. What they were sweating to demolish were layered bricks and frameworks.
They formed a single shape; though it was half demolished, judging by its overall outline, it was a scaled-down fortress. There was even a moat several meters across dug around that fortress.
“Looks like the last match was a siege battle.”
To Berka, who said it without much interest, Riyan asked.
“A siege battle?”
“Yeah. That must have been the format of the last match. See the moat around it? It'll have been filled with water, too.”
“.......”
“They opened up waterways so they could stage naval battles in the first place, so it's nothing surprising.”
Berka said it was nothing surprising, but Riyan let out a wry laugh.
The Colosseum itself could be called a fortress, and they were building yet another fortress inside that fortress. And taking a ‘siege battle’ as a theme and actually recreating such a battle.
The overwhelming presence of this enormous structure gave Riyan an inexplicable sense of suffocation. All the more so because he thought of it as part of the enemy he would have to bring down.
Paying no mind, Berka kept walking and continued.
“Take a good look. It's the stage you'll be fighting on. If you win victory after victory there, becoming a Champion won't be just a dream.”
“A Champion......?”
“Hm? You didn't know?”
Berka's explanation was simple.
When a gladiator, whose future no one could dare predict, survived for a long time and built an undeniable record, it was said that his talent naturally blossomed in the midst of that struggle.
And that talent was none other than the possession and use of mana, and when that happened, the gladiator gained a special title and leaped to a new stage.
Champion.
It didn't just symbolize honor; it meant a rise in status and a chance at a new life granted by the nobles who wished to recruit him.
“......In other words, your life gets turned upside down.”
In addition, the school that produced a Champion could obtain an enormous price from the nobles, disguised as sponsorship money.
Berka kept talking after that, but what filled Riyan's head were the words that had passed before.
‘Mana?’
Knights wield mana?
Wasn't that the exclusive domain of mages?
At least, as far as Riyan knew, it was.
Mana was the exclusive domain of mages. The power knights wielded was clearly different from it. Eldred had explained it to him personally, so he couldn't be mistaken.
If you don't know, ask.
Riyan opened his mouth.
“Mana? What's that?”
“Huh? Why is there so much you don't know? Well, you were sold off from the frontier, so I guess it makes sense.”
Berka grumbled, but he began to explain.
“Mana is exactly that—mana. Originally, it's the power mages use, but with their help, now even sword-swingers can use it, apparently. The principle? Hell if I know. Fuck that. I've never been able to use it either, so what do I care?”
Berka grumbled. It was closer to an inferiority complex about a level he himself couldn't reach than to hostility.
Anyway, Berka went on.
“Anyway, they select those who are ready, grant each one a Masterpiece that suits them, and bestow knighthood. They become loyal hounds of the Empire. The price, of course, is all manner of wealth and glory. If you become a Champion, you could end up like that too. They say aptitude has a lot to do with it, but as far as I can tell, you've got talent.”
Knights? Those who wield the power of mages are knights?
And what on earth is a Masterpiece?
Riyan's head tilted to the side.
“And what's a Masterpiece?”
“A Masterpiece is a Masterpiece, what else?”
What Berka said next was shocking.
Masterpiece.
Arms granted to knights whose talent had blossomed.
These magic weapons, strictly controlled by the Arcana Council, were said to be the symbol of the reborn knights of the imperial era.
Of course, since this was the emperor who had once betrayed him, that wouldn't be all a Masterpiece meant.
He suspected it was probably a device to make the surveillance and control of knights easier. It was only a guess, but one thing was certain.
‘......So there are no more knights.’
Knights in the true sense had vanished.
It was just as Riyan let out a small breath at the hollow feeling.
A thought flashed through his mind.
‘Then does the power I have now no longer exist in this world?’
***
With Berka standing before him, the Arena Supervisor, buried in a pile of documents, spoke without even raising his head.
“No.”
At that, Berka frowned.
“Can't you say that after you've heard me out? I haven't said anything yet.”
“Because of everything you've said up to now.”
“And what have I said?”
“Annoying, difficult, irritating, unreasonable things. Like the words your wife fires at you at home. In a word, fucked-up things.”
RUSTLE!
After scrawling something with a quill, the Supervisor rolled up the document, sealed it, and tossed it onto the corner of the desk, then finally lifted his head to face Berka.
He was a cantankerous-looking man on the threshold of old age.
He sank naturally into his chair, then brought his hands together in front of his chest and interlaced his fingers. Then he gave only a slight jerk of his chin.
“So, what fucked-up thing did you come to say, Berka?”
“We want to enter a match.”
“Something's missing. When, who, how, and what match?”
“......The upcoming Victory Streak Match.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Your school has no slot. You were the ones who didn't accept the invitation we sent in the first place.”
“That's why I've come to see you again like this.”
“You're not getting it. Stop beating around the bush and just tell me what justification you brought.”
“There's a crowd-drawing angle.”
“What kind?”
“Remember last time? Sharak.”
“That monster you killed. You didn't bring it up to rile me, did you? Considering the thrashing I got from Marquis Fenric back then.......”
“Ah, of course not. And I showed the Marquis my sincerity separately, and he was kind enough to settle the matter.”
“Of course you did. Otherwise, do you think you could've stayed in the Imperial Capital?”
It was undeniable. The position of Standing Member of the Arcana Council belonged to a figure so great that one could not even dare to measure him.
“Anyway, do you remember the one who killed Sharak back then?”
At Berka's words, the look in the Supervisor's eyes changed.
“......You want to send that one out?”
“Yes.”
“You know who the star of that match is.”
“Yabrik. The Human Butcher.”
“If you're sending him out knowing that, does that mean you're confident? No, no. There's no need to ask that sort of thing.”
The Supervisor was as cold-blooded about work as he was cantankerous. He knew only what he needed to know and weighed strictly whether something helped a match draw crowds.
“......Hm, fine. People are curious. I was wondering how long you'd keep him wrapped up tight, so this works out. Fine. Where is he? Did he come with you?”
“He's outside.”
“Have him come in.”
“Riyan!”
At Berka's call, the door opened and Riyan stepped into the office.
At the same time, a gleam appeared in the Supervisor's eyes.
‘Unbelievable.’
Killing that monster with such a slender body....... No matter how many times he thought about it, it was hard to believe.
But it had actually happened, and the Supervisor was not one to be trapped by common stereotypes.
“Good. Riyan, was it?”
“That's right.”
A calm voice. His eyes were settled and unwavering, and his stance was at ease.
At that, the Supervisor's lips twitched before he knew it.
It had been decades since he'd begun racking his brain to oversee every match in the Imperial Colosseum and give the citizens of the Imperial Capital the utmost enjoyment.
He had seen thousands of gladiators; among them were hundreds who had survived to this day, and among those, a dozen or so who had become legends.
But they had all been similar.
At the very beginning—that is, when they first set foot in this brutal world.
Every single one of them had swaggered or acted defiant, pretending to be tough. And a hundred out of a hundred, that behavior was to hide their fear. Trembling hands, sweat, flushed cheeks.
But this one before him, of an age where it was hard to say whether he was a man or a boy.......
The Supervisor spoke with sharp eyes.
“A face noble ladies will go crazy for. A good start.”
“.......”
“Have you familiarized yourself with the rules of the match you'll be in and the general environment of the arena?”
“I have.”
“What weapon will you use?”
“I intend to use a sword.”
“Any chronic illnesses? Allergic to pollen or anything? This is important. On match days, we scatter flowers all day long. It won't look good if you're standing there with snot dribbling down your face.”
“None.”
“Do you hate His Majesty the Emperor?”
“I do.”
“What a fine gladiator.”
The Supervisor grinned.
If he had said no, the Supervisor would have sent him away immediately. Because that would have been a lie. He had planned to make him roll around in the bottom-tier matches much longer before letting him come up.
Nor could he have said yes as a lie. For the first time, a hint of emotion had shown in those eyes that had been calm until now.
“Good. Is there a slot you want?”
“The first.”
And for the first time, the Supervisor's mouth stopped.
Then he turned his head to look at Berka, and Berka, true to expectation, bellowed with a flustered face.
“You brat, I explained what a Victory Streak Match is! The winner stays and keeps taking on challengers.......”
“That's exactly why.”
“What?”
Riyan calmly cut Berka off. Taking the Supervisor's cold gaze and Berka's hot one head-on.
“That's why I'll go first.”