Chapter 231 – Festival For Festival (2)

The faces of the people went stiff. Blood dripped on the ground, and they were shocked that someone had died. It was common for the Valhalla warriors to die in such fights, but the problem was how he died.

Bartolo was a Ranker in Valhalla. He was a skilled warrior who couldn’t be taken lightly, and he was wary of Roman Dmitry, so he observed the opponent’s movements until the end and made a surprise attack. So Bartolo should have had the upper hand.

People expected Roman Dmitry to be pushed back, but he was able to bring down his opponent with a single blow. Normal people couldn’t even properly observe how he attacked, and they only saw Bartolo stumble down.

It was a shocking sight. People couldn’t hide their shaking eyes at the thought that the rumor about Roman Dmitry defeating Gustavo in one hit might actually be true.

“Next.”

Came Roman’s voice. He was so calm. As if it was not a big deal, Roman Dmitry took his eyes off Bartolo’s corpse.

His purpose for fighting in Paulo and Marin was different. In Paulo, if it was an armed demonstration announcing his arrival, it was a place to prove what kind of person Roman Dmitry was to stand up against Barbossa. It wasn’t necessary to obtain surrender with violence.

It was a clear example of how those who challenged him should prepare for their deaths. A single confrontation, rather than a hundred words, showed the seriousness of the situation.

If it were a different nation than Valhalla, people might just back off. However, those who truly followed the traditions of Valhalla were amused by Roman’s skills.

“Valhalla!”

A man stepped forward. He was an unknown person. Even though he knew he would die, he hoped that his existence would shine.

“I will challenge you this time.”

The place for verification—the stage to test Roman had begun.

There wasn’t a referee, and there weren’t any rules. It was a simple fight between two people, and when a challenger stepped forward, people naturally created space. That was all. Even though no signal dropped, the challenger would rush forward.

Tak.

The current challenger used a dagger. The confrontation between Valhalla warriors didn’t cover any means or methods. The one-on-one fights didn’t have any prior signals, but it was common to use things such as daggers in the fights.

Even if they struck a vital spot, bit an ear, or stabbed the opponent’s eye, on a battlefield full of blood and death, surviving was their priority.

Swish.

The dagger flew. The challenger threw his dagger, thinking that the opponent would move, but Roman Dmitry didn’t move. The dagger just passed by Roman, and the challenger gritted his teeth. Raising his aura, he stabbed his sword towards the opponent’s chest.

Puak.

His head flew off. Blood spurted out like a fountain, and the body ran past Roman before it fell forward.

Thud.

Blood dripped down, and Roman didn’t bother avoiding it. On the battlefield, accepting blood was the way of the Demonic Sect.

“Next.”

“I am Gattu of Valhalla.”

It was a man called Gattu. This time, it was a Ranker from Valhalla. Even though the difference between him and Bartolo wasn’t that great, he looked at Roman with a red face.

That amazing force he could feel from Roman—dying from the strong was a blessing for Valhalla. Due to the previous results, Gattu thought that dying at the hands of Roman was also a blessing.

Woong.

He began to advance. Gattu, who used a mace that was suspended from a chain, wriggled his huge muscles to attack the opponent by swinging the mace.

Crush!

The ground smashed. It was a tremendous force. Aura rose, and it was freely being controlled around the chain. The mace came and blocked the direction of Roman Dmitry’s movement.

It was a unique attack method. Most aura swordsmen used a sword as a medium, but the warriors of Valhalla used other things.

Valhalla—that was why they were strong. The unusual attacks poked into the gaps, and the spirit of Valhalla burned in the presence of a strong opponent.

Those who spoke of surrender in Paulo. The fact that they were also born in Valhalla couldn’t be denied, but the people Roman was facing now were from the roots of Valhalla.

Rumble.

“Where?”

Gattu raised his aura. He changed the direction of the mace from a distance and gritted his teeth in an attempt to crush Roman Dmitry somehow. At that moment…

Papat.

The wind blew. The chain surrounded by aura was cut off at once, and the mace, which had lost its restraint, was falling to the ground. For Gattu, it was the moment he felt death arrive.

If he didn’t shout surrender, then the sword of Roman Dmitry would slit his throat, but Gattu grabbed the short chain attached to the mace with his bare hands and swung it at Roman Dmitry.

“Di…Kuak.”

Slash.

The sword shone. Gattu’s head was blown off with a face of shock. The fact that the opponent held so much power excited him.

Tuk.

Roll.

His head rolled on the ground.

“Next.”

The fight continued. The warriors, who weren’t afraid of death, continued to challenge Roman Dmitry, but none of them showed a meaningful fight.

The bodies piled up. At first, when one or two people died, they still had hope of defeating Roman, but when dozens of corpses piled up, their faces turned pale.

It was the same now, too. This time, the 57th Ranker of Valhalla stepped forward, and after a couple of attacks, a long cut went across his chest.

Puak!

His body trembled, and the Ranker knelt down. As for the people, they took a step back without realizing it.

“Next.”

At those repeated words, people looked into each other’s eyes. Those who truly believed in and followed Valhalla were willing to die, but not everyone in Valhalla had to do it. The world they lived in was the same, but only a few upheld the reputation of the warriors of Valhalla. For the most part, they were terrified of overpowering violence, just like those in Paulo.

They averted their gaze. Fearing that Roman Dmitry might look at them, no one looked him in the eye.

“The sun is still up. Is there anyone else who wants to challenge me?”

Early in the morning, people rushed here to fight. But as the sun began to rise in the middle of the sky, their ferocious nature didn’t work.

Corpses were scattered on the ground. And the skills that the warriors showed were nothing. They knew that unless they had a death wish, they couldn’t deal with Roman Dmitry.

Roman said,

“There is one day left until the eve of the festival. If there is someone who wants to challenge me, knock on the door anytime.”

He stepped back, and people only looked at Roamn Dmitry until he left.

Marin City was shocked. Rumors about Roman Dmitry circulated. They heard that he accepted the challenge from Sanchez, but as the sun rose in the middle of the sky, they heard the shocking news.

“… It’s already over?”

“Right. People flocked early in the morning, but no one could counterattack him even once since the heads of the challengers would fly, and no one could challenge him without dying. So for now, I came back thinking it was a waste of time.”

“To think Roman Dmitry is that strong. What did the Rankers in Valhalla even do?”

“This man. Do you think Rankers didn’t go? The person whose head was blown off with one hit at the start was Bartolo, one of the Rankers, and even Gattu stepped forward, but he lost without being able to do anything against Roman Dmitry. I witnessed it all.”

“That is insane.”

The people were shocked. The value of the names of those who lost against Roman Dmitry—they have never, ever been careless. If he said that Bartolo died at the end of the battle, then people would accept it, but to die from one blow was unacceptable.

Meanwhile, on distant battlefields, they were all denying the rumors about Roman. When they were told of the existence of Roman Dmitry, who had taken down Butler, Count Nicholas, and Count Gustavo with overwhelming power, they had already looked down on him, saying that it was a rumor unique to the battlefield for the sake of creating heroes.

But they couldn’t say that anymore. The value of the names of Rankers like Bartolo proved that the rumors about Roman Dmitry were true.

“… His ability overwhelmed Valhalla’s Rankers even though he’s in his 20s? I was wondering how the Cairo Kingdom defeated the Kronos Empire, and an unparalleled hero was born.”

They acknowledged Roman Dmitry. But apart from that, it was unacceptable for Roman Dmitry to stand on the festival stage. He was still lacking compared to Barbossa, the top Ranker in Valhalla.

Even if they acknowledged the rumors, they still didn’t consider him to be a suitable opponent for Barbossa.

“I want the top Rankers to be summoned. We cannot put Roman Dmitry on the stage like this.”

“Isn’t it possible for Morales to step up now? Sanchez, his disciple, is the one who has spread the rumors about Roman, and in fact, Barbossa’s rival is Morales. He should be able to defeat Roman. Also, he is a suitable warrior to represent Valhalla.”

“Right. No matter how high Roman Dmitry’s achievements are, the odds of him defeating Morales are slim.”

Everyone agreed. Morales—they hoped that he would step forward. Even though he wasn’t in the Twelve Swords of the Continent, he was still a monster recognized by Valhalla.

It was a sure win. They never doubted the warriors representing their nation.

Wheik.

Wheeik.

The light flickered, and through the red light shining in the dark place, a tall man was wiping the blade of a sword with a dry cloth.

“Sanchez. Do you know why I am trying to fight with Barbossa?”

The man was Morales.

At Morales’s question, Sanchez said,

“Because of your bad past.”

“Right. At the start, my relationship with him stemmed from a bad tie-up. However, contrary to what people say, the main reason for our bad past isn’t because I developed some sort of inferiority complex towards him. He, who is of the Twelve Swords of the Continent, which Valhalla is proud of, wasn’t born with the warrior’s pride.”

Beyond his memories, he recalled his memories with Barbossa. When they first fought, Barbossa brought Morales down in an unfair way. From then on, Morales would gnash his teeth at Barbossa’s name.

“I hate Barbossa. I do not like the way he is considered a blessing to Valhalla and is cheered by people. I was hoping to fight him because I did not want to exist under the same sky as him. With just one thought of defeating him, the kind of person who uses disgusting means to win and tramples on the traditions of Valhalla, I honed my swordsmanship. But Roman Dmitry took my place. It could have been a choice to look down on me or maybe a dirty plan to protect Barbossa from the higher-ups. But I am sure that the stage of the festival is for me.”

“You are right.”

It was a bit surprising for Sanchez. Barbossa and Morales—he never thought there was such a special reason for the bad ties between them other than a rivalry to rise higher.

Morales raised his sword. The great sword suited his huge body.

“Sanchez. Call the people of Valhalla now so that everyone will watch the fight between me and Roman. I will prove to the leaders of Valhalla that I am a suitable opponent for Barbossa. If I can defeat Roman, then Barbossa will not be able to escape his fate.”

If he loses, he just loses. Morales’s tattooed arms twitched as he stepped into the sun.

The Monster of Valhalla—a monster of a different rank from the beings he had dealt with until now—finally raised his huge body.