Paragon of Skills

Chapter 234

Vyrrak watches a few more matches unfold.

Eventually, someone stops beside him.

It is Lancelot, Jacob's squire.

Vyrrak turns his head. “Where is he?”

Lancelot shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Vyrrak frowns. “You didn’t come with him?”

“No,” Lancelot says. “I haven't heard anything from him since he contacted both of us."

Jacob sent word to both Vyrrak and Lancelot, updating them on his plans. Yet, since then, about a week ago, he's been completely silent.

Lancelot looks worried for Jacob and Vyrrak doesn't want to reveal too much when there are so many ears listening to them. In fact, Vyrrak can ear people who just recognized Lancelot and are already speculating about Jacob.

“Is that Jacob Cloud’s squire?”

“Yeah, that’s him. The guy who was a fatso before."

“So Jacob Cloud still hasn’t shown up?”

"Why isn’t he here?"

"He must be afraid of the Dark Champions," someone comments, shaking his head. "I hear that he's too weak to face them. He's probably afraid to die."

"Oh, come on, stop with this Dark Champion nonsense," someone else comments. "There's no way that they're about to come here."

When you really think about it, Vyrrak thinks, it's pretty incredible that someone like Jacob, a nobody when he entered the Academy six months ago, is now the talk of the arena. And this is happening while there are so many important people who came all the way here to assist to what's going to happen with the Generation of Legends. And it is none other than Jacob who leads us.

Lancelot and Vyrrak get a seat one beside each other and just start watching people stepping onto the various arenas.

There's no remarkable combat that gets Vyrrak's attention. He can see that since the Headmaster announced that whoever beat the Champions would become a Champion--a very tempting offer since it'd make them part of the Generation of Legends--the level of the Academy has definitely risen to new heights.

However, everything suddenly changes when a name--or not quite--flashes in front of an arena.

"The Sacrifice vs. Horgak."

Vyrrak suddenly leans forward, now much more interested than before in the match.

A massive figure raises from the bleachers and slowly walks down toward the empty arena.

Horgak.

He is a mountain of muscle and fur, standing easily twelve feet tall. His horns are curved and wicked, spanning wide enough to gore two men at once, and his dark hide is scarred from years of brutal combat.

He carries a double-headed greataxe that looks heavy enough to cleave a carriage in half, dragging it across the stone with a shower of sparks. He bellows, a deep, guttural roar that shakes the dust from the bleachers, pumping his weapon in the air to the delight of the crowd.

A minotaur?

"Wow, that guy looks strong," Lancelot says from the side. "I've faced a Minotaur, but this guy looks much scarier. I don't think I could take him."

Vyrrak knows about Lancelot's power-up. And he agrees.

This Horgak is powerful.

He could have been Champion-material, Vyrrak thinks.

And it appears he's not the only one to think that.

"I come from the Kingdom of Nangdria! I am Prince Horgak, the strongest Minotaur of my generation!"

Horgak releases an aura that reaches the very peak of Diamond Rank, which makes Vyrrak raise an eyebrow. Not even the Dragonkin would underestimate this warrior in a direct confrontation.

Then, the contender appears from one of the entrances of the arena.

The Sacrifice slowly walks into the sunlight.

He looks nothing like the monster he is about to face. In fact, he looks entirely, disarmingly human. He is clad in an azure robe.

The fabric flows around him like water, a stark, calming blue that stands out against the dusty yellow of the arena sands. It is simple, almost scholarly.

He is unhelmeted. His skin is pale, flawless, and possesses an ethereal, unreal quality that makes him look more like a porcelain doll than a living being. He is undeniably, terrifyingly beautiful. His hair is a cascade of bright gold.

A single lock of blonde hair falls across his forehead.

With a slow, deliberate motion he raises a hand from within the folds of his blue sleeve. He catches the lock of hair and combs it back into place, smoothing it perfectly against his skull. He doesn't even look at the giant beast

“That guy…” Lancelot whispers, his knuckles whitening as he grips the seat. "He is really strong. I don't even know how strong he is."

Vyrrak narrows his eyes, his draconic instincts screaming that the man in the azure silk is the predator in the pit.

On top of the square arena, the size difference is comical.

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Horgak looms over the blonde figure like a cliff face over a wildflower. The Minotaur snorts, two jets of steam shooting from his nostrils, and slams the butt of his greataxe into the ground. The impact is heavy enough that Vyrrak can feel the vibration through the soles of his boots all the way up in the stands.

“Is this the Academy’s idea of a joke?” Horgak bellows, his voice booming without the need for Mana empowering his words. He gestures with a massive, clawed hand toward the small, robed figure. “I came to test my might against the best! I came to break knights and shatter mages! And you send me a pretty boy dressed in silk?”

Most of the crowd in the bleachers laughs.

“‘The Sacrifice,’” Horgak mocks, rolling the name around in his mouth like a piece of gristle. “They named you well, little man! It is rare to see such honesty in this world. Because that is exactly what you are.”

He lifts his axe, pointing the wicked, curved blade directly at the Sacrifice’s throat.

“You are the offering they placed on the altar of my ascension!” Horgak roars, turning his head to address the entire stadium, his ego swelling to fill the arena. “Look at him! He stands there like a sheep waiting for the butcher!”

The Sacrifice does not flinch. He does not even blink. He simply stands there, hands loosely clasped in front of his azure robes, his golden eyes watching the Minotaur with no interest. There's just quite a bit of boredom on his face.

“I will squash this bug,” Horgak announces, his voice rising to a crescendo. “And when I do, I will not stop there! I will become the next Leader of Champions!"

The crowd eats it up.

“Hah! He’s right, look at that thing.”

“Is this a joke match?”

“They really put a silk doll against a Minotaur Prince?”

“That guy won’t last five seconds.”

“Five? I give him one swing.”

“Wait, did you see his name? The Sacrifice?”

"What a joke!"

“No, you don’t get it,” someone says, lowering his voice. “That guy is dangerous. I've seen him face the Leader of Champions. That guy is a monster. He's going to destroy the Minotaur."

A few nearby turn to look at him.

“What the hell are you saying?”

"He's a special warrior that the Infernal Royals raised. I don't know much about his kind, but he's supposed to be extremely dangerous."

“You’re an idiot,” another laughs. “Look at the size difference.”

“Prince Horgak could tear him in half.”

“You think silk and good looks beat a greataxe?”

The first speaker hesitates, then insists, "I know what I've witnessed."

“And who did he fight?” someone else cuts in. “Jacob Cloud?”

A scoff follows.

“That explains it.”

“Yeah. Beating Jacob doesn’t mean anything.”

“He got lucky a few times. That’s all.”

“Everyone knows he’s overhyped.”

“A nobody who tripped into power.”

“If he really was that strong, he’d be here now.”

“Instead, he’s hiding.”

A few nod along, emboldened.

“Prince Horgak is real power.”

“That pretty boy’s about to learn the difference.”

Laughter spreads again, louder and more certain.

Down in the arena, Horgak rolls his shoulders and grins, confidence radiating off him in waves.

* * *

"Don't you have nothing to say before I crush you?! You've heard the Vice Principal, I can cripple you! If you beg me hard enough, perhaps I won't, HAHAHA!"

He slams his chest with a fist the size of a boulder.

“I will take it all! I will crush this twig, and then I will take the head of the coward Jacob Cloud! The Generation of Legends needs a true leader, not a hiding child! I, Horgak of Nangdria, declare myself the new King of this arena!”

The Sacrifice remains still, but only on the outside.

Inside, he is sighing. It is a long, mental exhalation of profound boredom. He looks at the towering Minotaur frothing at the mouth and sees nothing but a collection of biological redundancies. The creature is loud, inefficient, and painfully slow.

He is a nobody.

He is nothing and will always be nothing in front of someone like him. And he's bothered by the loudness, by the display of fake freedom in front of his eyes.

I should just cripple him, The Sacrifice thinks, his golden eyes tracking the pulsing vein in Horgak’s thick neck. A simple severance of the veins around the Achilles tendons. Followed by a shatter-point strike to the vocal cords to stop this incessant shouting. It would take less than a second. The Queen told me not to showcase anything until I'm facing Jacob Cloud.

There's an official who steps into the arena, the only focus of The Sacrifice. The only focus until...

Among the thousands of gazes pressing down on him—fearful, mocking, curious—one stands out. It feels… expectant.

The Sacrifice turns his head slightly, ignoring the Minotaur who is currently screaming about being a "King." He scans the sea of faces in the lower stands until he finds her.

Cecilia.

She is leaning over the railing as far as her body allows. She is impossible to miss, at least to him. She is a brunette with a simple eyepatch over her left eye. Her left sleeve is pinned up where her arm should be, and he knows that beneath the wooden bench, she is missing her right leg as well. She is a small, meaningless broken thing.

She's just a nobody.

Without realizing it, saying that to himself makes The Sacrifice's jaw clench.

She has no right to look happy considering how broken she is, he thinks.

And yet, she is beaming.

Her single eye is wide, filled with a childish, starry wonder. She isn’t looking at a monster.

She is looking at the man she forced to teach her how to read. She is looking at the incredible warrior she believes him to be.

She wants a show, Baal realizes, and a sudden, sharp pang of guilt strikes him in the chest.

He looks back at Horgak. If he simply snaps the Minotaur’s knees and walks away, the girl will be disappointed. She came all this way, dragging her broken body through the crowds, just to see him fight. She expects the hero from the stories he reads to her.

How troublesome, he thinks, but the thought lacks its usual cold edge.

He exhales, dropping the posture of the bored executioner.

Queen Maelthra will find a way to punish me anyway.

He decides to indulge Cecilia.

If he's about to give his life away soon in order to kill Jacob Cloud, which will have him forced to take his own life before the Academy can question who gave the order to him, he might as well, just for this one fight, not be the efficient assassin he is.

He will be the character she imagines he is.

He turns back to Horgak.

"Very well," The Sacrifice says.

He raises his right hand into the empty air. He does not reach for a weapon at his hip, for he carries none. Instead, the air beside him distorts. Shadows bleed into reality, swirling around his fingers, condensing rapidly until they form a solid shape.

With a slow, theatrical motion, he draws a long, pitch-black sword from the void itself. It absorbs the sunlight, a shard of absolute darkness in the bright arena.

The crowd goes silent. Horgak stops shouting, his eyes widening as he looks at the weapon that appeared from nowhere.

The Sacrifice grips the hilt, testing the weight. Then, he looks up, past the Minotaur, past the barrier, directly toward the section where the crippled maid is sitting.

He gives a very faint, barely perceptible smile in the general direction of Cecilia.

"Shall we begin?" he asks softly.