The Berserker’s Second Playthrough Novel - Chapter 102

Chapter 102
Chapter: 102

Chapter Title: Judgment of Atala (5)

—

Beams of sun cut through the window, illuminating the space between the packed earth walls. Decorative gourds and pieces of lapis lazuli resting on the tabletop caught the bright glare. Seated behind the desk, the Arena King clutched a bottle of spirits that rattled against his rings.

The merchant had already crafted a precise strategy to navigate the current crisis. It was a high-stakes play; a single misstep could transform dangerous adversaries into lethal predators he could never hope to contain. Yet, if the gears turned as he intended, he would bypass the peril and claim a massive windfall.

It only had to follow the script. Exactly as he envisioned…

CRASH!

An explosive boom signaled the start of the performance.

The office door splintered under the force of a single violent kick. On the other side of the threshold, the hired blades serving as sentries were sprawled across the floor, unconscious. Yubik Agrámendus maintained a mask of frozen calm as he looked upon the titan who had forced his way inside with such lack of grace.

“What a barbaric greeting. Forcing your way into a private residence, beating my employees, and reducing my door to kindling… Are you truly so eager to prove your reputation as a savage, Agon’s Furious Horn?”

Goltaran’s features were twisted into a demonic mask of rage. He lunged forward, seizing Yubik by the collar with both fists and lifting the man clean off his feet.

“Gah!”

“Drop the act. I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing behind my back while I was away.”

“Kkh, kkh, khuhuhu… Kuhuhuhu…”

“…What do you find so amusing?”

“Khk, nothing, it’s just… kehk, a very similar thing happened to me recently… Kkhup, kuhuhuhu… Though, that other fellow managed to hoist me with just one hand, kehk…”

“…”

Heavy hands threw him back down to the floorboards. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and a sharp, throbbing ache flared in his lower back. Before his breath could return, the shadow of a dark axe blade loomed over his exposed throat.

“Give me an answer. Why did you violate our agreement and trade my family away to outsiders?”

Despite the blade, Yubik did not falter. He met the warrior’s gaze and spat back a retort.

“Before we get to that… you owe me an explanation. Why did you ignore every message I sent and disappear for days? Was the patronage I provided you so insignificant that you felt you could simply vanish?”

“…Circumstances demanded my absence. I doubt you set this catastrophe in motion simply because I didn’t answer a summons.”

“Khuhuhu, no… that was certainly not the sole motivation.”

The reminder of past debts seemed to sap the giant’s violent momentum. Yubik took his time smoothing the wrinkles in his silk robes, scrambled back to his feet, and finished the remainder of his drink in one go.

Waiting for the alcohol to sharpen his focus, Yubik stared out at the sun-drenched view beyond the window and began to speak.

“Do you recall your arrival here, Goltaran? The day we met. I gave you my word that I would mold you into the ultimate champion, a warrior no sellsword could ever hope to rival.”

“…”

A mercenary who possessed nothing but his own strength had ascended to the status of a living legend, largely due to the bottomless pockets of a wealthy patron. Yubik lingered on these memories for a moment. Goltaran, burdened by the weight of the support he had received, found he could not bring himself to cut the merchant short.

Having successfully softened the mood with nostalgia, Yubik pivoted the conversation sharply.

“However, I find I must retract those sentiments. I have encountered a man who is your equal—perhaps even your superior. To discover two such talents in a single lifetime… I must truly be the favorite of Lord Remillion to possess such fortune.”

“…And what does his existence have to do with my kin being bartered away?”

“Listen to the end. This individual has an ego that matches his skill. No amount of coin could sway him. Eventually, I asked him plainly: what is your price? Do you want to know what that arrogant captain demanded?”

“…”

“He sought a trail leading to ‘Agon’s Furious Horn.’ He claimed there was a blood debt between you. I pressed him for the details of your history, but he remained silent…”

Goltaran’s brow furrowed in skepticism.

“So your solution was to use my family as bait to deliver me to him?”

“No, that wasn’t the plan. Initially, I merely pointed him toward your lieutenants. But your men were stubborn; they provoked him, and a riot ensued. In a fury, he demanded I find a more direct way to reach you…”

“…”

“I had to offer a concession to pacify him. I turned over the ownership papers and advised him: Agon’s Furious Horn values these ‘Atalan kin’ above his own life. Take them as collateral for your meeting… But the wretch immediately tried to auction them off, claiming it was the only way to drag you out of hiding.”

Thud!

“You expect me to believe that? Regardless of the reason, you are the one who betrayed our trust by handing them over!”

Goltaran brought his fist down on the desk in a fit of emotion. But Yubik, sensing the opening, turned the accusation back on him instantly.

“I am the one who betrayed trust? Let us be precise. You provided the spark for this fire. Do you have any idea how many times I sent for you?”

“…!”

“I exhausted every resource trying to reach you! If you hadn’t gone missing, none of this would have transpired—not to me, not to your soldiers, and certainly not to your family! You abandoned your post, and now you return to cast blame on everyone but yourself? Is this the gratitude I receive for funding your ‘Indomitable Legion’ all these years?”

“…”

“There is a point where pride becomes simple greed. Do not treat me like a fountain of gold you can ignore until you need more…”

In the theater of negotiation, falsehoods served as the blade while the truth acted as the shield.

The momentum of the room had shifted. Yubik masterfully distorted the facts and used his words to prick the giant’s sense of honor, pinning him against a wall of guilt.

Goltaran, having been absent during the chaos, found he had no defense against the merchant’s logic. A heavy shroud of self-loathing settled over him. He saw visions of his fallen men, his family in irons, and a child covered in blood.

Ultimately, Goltaran turned his simmering fury outward—toward the mysterious mercenary who held an unexplained grudge and had dared to touch his people.

“…This new man you found. What is he called?”

“Phew… Give me your oath on the name of Atala that you won’t kill him, and I will reveal it. I cannot afford to lose such a profitable asset.”

“…”

“Do not look so grim. I am giving you a path to settle this score and fix your errors. We are staging a ‘regular tournament’ immediately… Swear that you will face him in the pits and conclude your career as champion with a victory, and I will find a way to return your ‘Atalan kin’ to you.”

“…”

The giant closed his eyes, his mind churning as he weighed his options.

He didn’t fully trust Yubik’s narrative. However, he could not stand by while his family was sold like livestock. There were many ways to break a man without taking his life. Finally, he gave his word to accept both conditions.

Only then did Yubik provide the name.

“He is known as the ‘Demon Slayer.’ The same ‘Demon Slayer’ who left a trail of monster carcasses along the Golden Highway.”

“…!!”

The champion’s eyes snapped open, a cold, predatory light burning within them.

The Arena King watched the reaction and smiled inwardly. His trap had been set perfectly.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
News traveled like wildfire: a ‘regular tournament’ was to be held at the arena.

The city was in shock. Traditionally, these ‘regular tournaments’ occurred only once every two years. Since the last one had concluded only a year prior, this sudden announcement was unprecedented.

But in Agon, the Arena King’s word was the only law that mattered.

“To honor the legendary Agon’s Furious Horn for his role in ending the demon plague and protecting our lands, we convene the ‘regular tournament’!”

Whether the public actually believed the excuse was irrelevant. Preparation took precedence over belief. The ‘regular tournament’ was the premier event for deciding the champion’s crown. The city exploded into a frenzy of activity to ready itself for the impromptu festival.

Smithies roared with the sound of hammers on steel from dawn to dusk. Innkeepers tapped new kegs and gathered supplies. Fans and gamblers scrambled to secure loans. Commanders of various mercenary companies debated over their entry lists, while the fighters themselves trained until their muscles screamed. Agon surrendered its sleep to the glow of torches and forge-fires.

The primary topic of every conversation was the roster of gladiators. As was tradition, the citizens of Agon engaged in heated arguments whenever they crossed paths.

“‘Spear of the North’ is a guaranteed finalist! If he hadn’t been sidelined by that injury last year, he’d be wearing the belt right now…”

“I’m putting my money on ‘Untana’s Ogre.’ I saw him fight once—he’s a pure brute. Those rumors about his bloodline have to be true…”

Yet, there was a strange lack of tension regarding the ultimate winner. In years past, the outcome felt like a foregone conclusion…

Agon’s Furious Horn.

The mythic champion who had seized the title 19 years ago and had never relinquished it.

People would go into debt or pawn their family’s legacy just to see him fight in the final match. But after five consecutive tournament victories, very few truly expected to see a new face on the throne.

This time, however, felt different.

A few observers watched the loud debaters with a sense of mocking pity. These were the ones who had witnessed the free match held days earlier. Whenever someone suggested the champion’s victory was a certainty, they would shake their heads in disagreement.

“Did any of you actually see the ‘Demon Slayer’ fight? No? Then you’re just talking nonsense… This time… the crown might actually move to a new head…”

“It’s true… I felt it in the air during his match. Even Agon’s Furious Horn is going to have to bleed to keep his title this time…”

The skeptics, who had been listening to this talk for days, could only sigh.

“Here we go again with the fairy tales… You really think one man can fight through twenty-four others and win?”

“The Arena King is just playing games. It gets boring if the champion always wins, so he builds up a fake challenger to sell more tickets…”

“He’s just another mercenary. The champion stopped a demon army by himself; how is some traveler going to beat a god like that…?”

The arguments followed a predictable pattern.

The city split into two camps: those who had seen the free match and those who hadn’t. Insults were traded, and egos were bruised. Frequently, these clashes of pride resulted in massive bets. Whether those debts would be honored after the final blow was anyone’s guess.

But one truth remained. Every soul trapped in this dusty hellscape—from the old veterans to the street children—asked the same question in their hearts.

‘Demon Slayer’ versus ‘Agon’s Furious Horn’.

If those two monsters met, who would be the one left standing?

With a level of hype and dread never before seen, the grandest spectacle in Agon began.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The opening day arrived, and the arena floor was baked to a sweltering heat by the sun and the roar of the crowd.

The rules of the tournament required all participants to stand in formation on the sand. The most lethal, yet most desperate blades of the wasteland were gathered in a single line.

It was a rare sight to see so many famous warriors at once. The spectators were like a swarm of angry hornets, screaming the titles of their heroes.

“Spear of the North! Spear of the North! Spear of the North!!”

“Net Predator! Net Predator! Bring us a kill!”

“Bone Dust Crusher! Grind them into the dirt!!”

A thousand names were called, but two titles eventually rose above the noise, drowning out the rest.

“Agon’s Furious Horn! Agon’s Furious Horn! Agon’s Furious Horn!”

“Agon’s Furious Hooooooorn!!! The Great Champion!!”

“Demon Slayer!! The one who painted the highway red!!!”

“Demon Slayer! Demon Slayer! Demon Slayer!”

The chanting wasn’t the only thing that set them apart. Even among hundreds of elite fighters, the presence of those two men was overwhelming.

The challenger stood on the sand: ‘Demon Slayer’.

The champion stood on the high dais: ‘Agon’s Furious Horn’.

One man looked up with cold indifference; the other looked down with a gaze that promised death.

When their eyes finally locked, the air between them seemed to crackle.

Kadim fought to restrain his impulse. He wanted nothing more than to leap forward and crush the pretender’s skull.

The man was a fraud who had stolen the identity of a true hero, claimed a sacred weapon he didn’t deserve, and spent his life as a puppet in this pit of filth. If he hadn’t promised to bring judgment to the merchant as well, he would have ended the charade with a blade right then and there.

Goltaran was also fighting his own fury. He burned with the urge to tear the madman’s heart out.

This lunatic had razed Soltana, slaughtered his comrades, and used his family as a bargaining chip just to draw him out. If he hadn’t promised to secure his kin’s safety first, he would have leapt from the platform and executed the man on the spot.

The audience sensed the silent collision of their wills. The cheering began to die down, replaced by a suffocating tension. A spectator, already half-drunk by noon, leaned over to the man sitting next to him.

“Kuhuhuhu… Look at that look. Hey, you… who do you have your money on if they face off?”

“…The ‘Demon Slayer’ will win. No question.”

“Oh? You’re sure? Most people think the champion is untouchable… even if the kid is good… Why are you so certain?”

“I’ve traded blows with both of them, and I never managed to beat my captain.”

“…??”

The drunkard blinked, decided the man was insane, and quietly moved his seat away.

Duncan didn’t notice.

He merely squeezed his hands into fists, offering a silent prayer that Kadim would emerge victorious and claim the gold they had been promised.