Paragon of Skills

CHapter 236

Vyrrak looks at The Sacrifice.

Prince Horgak has not made the man sweat one bit. In fact, something that might have eluded the rest of the crowd is the fact that the Blood of the Devils has not used a single Skill throughout the entire engagement. That is not something that Vyrrak himself would have been capable of doing.

What kind of power is that man hiding? Vyrrak wonders.

“How strong do you think he is?” Lancelot mutters under his breath. “Is he going to be a problem for Jacob? I don't think he's a friend, you know?”

Vyrrak turns toward Lancelot and shakes his head.

“I have no idea, Lancelot. But I would imagine that yes, he is going to be a problem for Jacob.”

For all of us, really, Vyrrak finishes his words in his mind.

Incidentally, the next name flashing on the screen is his.

Vyrrak vs. …

* * *

Vyrrak didn’t even bother reading the name of the Elf that is now in front of her. He can feel that her power is at Peak Platinum.

Vyrrak looks at the girl. She stands with a relaxed posture that borders on insolence, her emerald eyes tracking Vyrrak as he steps onto the cracked stone of the arena.

“The Dragonkin Champion,” she says. “I expected... more. You look very ordinary for a member of the Three Great Races.”

Vyrrak stops a few paces away, his expression stony.

“You should focus on the fight, Elf.”

“Oh, but I am focused,” she replies, tilting her head. “I'm focusing on how fragile the pedestal you Champions stand. I will take a spot for myself today and consolidate it.”

Has everyone lost their mind in the Academy? She must know she’s weak, right?

Vyrrak narrows his eyes.

“Let's start, then.”

“I’ve heard that the Dark Champions are coming. And when they get here... pretenders like you will be nothing but pigs to be slaughtered.”

That actually irks Vyrrak.

“Combatants, ready. Fight.”

The Academy official starts the fight and Vyrrak disappears from the sight of the Elf girl. A moment later, his large, clawed hand is hugging her face and he slams her into the arena, sending spiderweb cracks through it.

“We have a winner,” the Academy official says, looking impressed, and calling forth the healers. “King Vyrrak Skarathys.”

The crowd nods along.

“Vyrrak is powerful. He shouldn't be grouped with someone like Jacob Cloud.”

“Actually, you know that I saw Jacob Cloud take down an Intermediate Diamond Rank fighter? I don't think he's that weak.”

“He most definitely must be. Otherwise, why would he be hiding?”

“And what about all the other Champions? Where have they gone?”

For someone who does not know of Jacob's plan, Vyrrak thinks, going back to his seat, that's an excellent question.

Another excellent question, even for someone who knows of Jacob's plan, is: where the hell is Jacob?!

Vyrrak notices Filr'etk walking toward him and smiling at him.

“You showed that filth how Champions fight. Good. We need to restore the honor, the dignity that someone like Jacob Cloud lost us.”

Hearing that, Lancelot, who had not met Filr'etk before, narrows his eyes.

“Do not speak like that of him,” the thin warrior says with narrowed eyes.

“And who are you to talk to a Champion like that?” Filr'etk looks at Lancelot in disgust.

“I am Jacob's Squire,” Lancelot says, puffing his chest, proud of it.

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Filr'etk barely looks at Lancelot before shaking his head. The red-skinned Goblin doesn't even bother with the Squire, clearly considering his very existence not worthy of his attention.

In Filr'etk's mind, whoever this person is doesn't matter. Whether it's Jacob Cloud's Squire or not does not make any difference to him. Then, Filr'etk bumps into Lancelot, moving him away from Vyrrak, and taking his seat.

“Hey!” Lancelot frown. “What the hell?!”

“Move, peasant,” Filr'etk says with a noncommittal sigh. “You're not worth my time. Get out. I'm a Champion--you're a nobody.”

Vyrrak is about to say something when Lancelot stops him with a gesture, “it's alright. He's right. I am a nobody.”

* * *

Cecilia hobbles through the crowded corridors of the arena, her wooden peg leg clacking against the stone floor.

She looks left, then right, her single eye wide with overwhelming confusion. The sheer scale of the Academy’s arena is nothing like the Hungry Wolf inn.

People brush past her, bumping her shoulders, but no one stops to help a crippled girl.

She is completely lost.

She goes back to the seating area, trying to get an idea of where the exit might be--she's never had a good sense of orientation.

Through a gap in the dense crowd of armored students and nobles, she spots a familiar face. It’s a young man eating from what looks like a bottomless pouch of chicken wings.

“You!” she calls out, pushing her way toward him. “You're the Fake Champion's Squire, aren't you?”

Lancelot stops mid-chew and squints down at her, trying to place her face. He shakes his head, gravy still glistening on his chin. “Do I know you, miss?”

“I'm Cecilia,” she says, pointing at her eyepatch. “From the Hungry Wolf. When your boss came inside to talk to... well, to Baal, you were the one pacing outside, looking nervous.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen slightly. He swallows his mouthful. She hadn’t even come outside the inn, yet she had noticed him waiting out there while Jacob was inside risking his neck.

For a girl with one eye, she sees a whole lot, Lancelot thinks.

“Ah. Yes. Good memory,” he nods, trying to sound dignified.

Before Lancelot can ask what she is doing here, a sneering voice cuts through the noise.

“Is this what passes for the entourage of a Champion? A Squire gorging himself like a mindless pig in the middle of the arena?”

Marcel Valemont steps into view, his chin raised high, a look of profound disgust painted across his face.

Lancelot wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, entirely unfazed by the noble's sudden appearance. He looks Marcel up and down, his gaze stopping at the top of the young Valemont's head.

“What do you want, Baldy?” Lancelot asks casually.

Cecilia tilts her head, looking at Marcel’s oddly short, bristly hair, which clearly hadn’t grown back fully yet.

“Why do you call him Baldy?” she asks Lancelot.

Lancelot smirks. “Oh, the great Marcel Valemont here challenged my Boss, lost a bet when his precious shield got shattered, and had to get his head completely shaved in front of everyone.”

Cecilia snorts, unable to stop a sudden giggle from escaping her lips.

Marcel’s face flushes a deep, furious red. The mockery of a servant was bad enough, but a crippled commoner laughing at him pushes him over the edge. “Shut your mouth!”

Marcel barks, his eyes narrowing at her missing limbs.

“What is a pathetic cripple like you even doing here? Did you wander in from the gutters to beg for scraps?”

Cecilia stops laughing, her spine straightening as much as she can manage. She lifts her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the noble's expensive clothes.

“I'm not begging. I came here to support my friend during his match.”

Marcel scoffs, a cruel, mocking sound.

“Your friend? Who would be so foolish as to associate with a broken piece of trash like you? He must be just as useless and pathetically weak as you are.”

Lancelot’s relaxed demeanor vanishes. He steps slightly in front of Cecilia with his thin frame, his tone dropping into a low, warning register.

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Baldy. You might want to be careful about who you're insulting.”

Cecilia glares at Marcel, her single eye flashing with defiance.

“My friend is not weak. Baal is the strongest person here!”

Marcel frowns, looking genuinely confused for a split second before the sneer returns. “Baal? I've never heard of anyone called Baal. Is he some street rat?”

Lancelot sighs, looking at Marcel as if he were incredibly dense.

“A street rat? I'd love to see you call him that to his face. Her friend is The Sacrifice.”

Marcel freezes, the name hitting him like a physical blow. The Sacrifice. The Blood of the Devils. He frowns deeply, staring at Cecilia, before his shock turns to aggressive disbelief.

“You are a liar,” Marcel spits, taking a step closer. “You are not friends with The Sacrifice. That man is a killing machine. He is a monster! A weapon like him doesn't have any interest in spending his time around a useless cripple like you. Stop lying to make yourself feel important.”

The sheer venom in Marcel's words finally pierces Cecilia's armor. The bravado breaks, her shoulders slumping as tears immediately well up in her eye and track down her scarred cheek. Seeing her cry, a deep, rumbling growl vibrates in Lancelot's chest.

Steam hisses from his skin. Blue scales begin to erupt along his forearms, his jaw elongating into a half-muzzle as he begins to tap into his Dragon Soul form.

But Marcel doesn't back down.

“You want to fight me, Squire?” Marcel sneers. Suddenly, a terrifying pressure erupts from Marcel. The air around him grows dense and heavy. Lancelot halts his transformation mid-way, frowning deeply. He can feel the power radiating off Marcel, artificially bloated and pushed to the absolute breaking point. It's—it's at the very peak of Diamond Rank.

When did he become this strong? What the--

The tension in the seats reaches a snapping point.

Lancelot prepares to lunge, Diamond Rank or not, but a calm, deep voice cuts through the heavy air.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you. It’s time for your fight. Look behind you, Marcel Valemont.”

Vyrrak stands a few paces away, his arms crossed over his chest.

Marcel turns around, his sneer faltering as he looks down toward the massive projection crystals hovering over the central arena. The brackets for the first bout are flashing in bright, magical letters.

His own name is plastered across the top row: MARCEL VALEMONT.

And right beneath it, forming letter by letter in shimmering light, is the name of his opponent.

JACOB CLOUD.