Chương 146: Chapter 144

"You choose to waste your life for this scum?" Lirael looks at us in disgust.

"For a traitor of her own race?"

"What did she do exactly?" I ask. But I don't care. I'm just taking time. Grimoire, analysis. Lirael, the guy with the bow and the highest-ranked Elf here, is yapping about something now. I catch a few 'traitor,' 'blood feud,' 'bastard,' and then I stop listening altogether.

"Lancelot, you get the girl with the crossbow, Miriel," I mutter to my Squire. Then, I turn toward the girl, "Can you take Lirael alone?" The girl frowns at me but just nods, "Are you a Guide?"

"Jacob Cloud, Guide of the Champions, nice to meet you. Let's leave the rest of the introductions to later," I say.

"Orrivane, take Elowen, the girl with the spear."

"You're taking three people at Early Diamond Rank?" Orrivane asks, confused.

"Have you broken through some bottlenecks that I don't know of?" I shake my head, "No. I'm not going to be able to kill any of them, probably. But I can most definitely keep them all occupied. Just kill your opponents as fast as you can."

"How long do you think we have to do that before you die?" Orrivane asks, skeptical of my plan.

"About… ninety seconds? Yeah, about that long before I put myself in a corner."

"Don't worry, Boss, I'll take care of it!" Lancelot says, patting his chest. Miriel steps forward while sand crunches under her boots. She points the crossbow at Lancelot and tilts her head.

"Move aside, hog," she says, so the whole ring hears.

"You're in my way. Let me kill the bastard first, then I'll take care of your pitiful existence."

"Sorry, as the Squire of my Boss, I can't let you interfere with his plans," Lancelot replies, cracking his neck and jumping lightly on his feet. Miriel sneers at Lancelot and shakes her head while she loads her crossbow again.

"Look at this fat pig they sent to fight me," she says, and her voice drips with contempt as she aims straight at his chest.

"You can barely move with that gut, and you think you'll last a second?" The crowd laughs along with her, and even some Elves in the stands point and jeer because they see Lancelot's round belly jiggle when he shifts his feet. Lancelot just grins back at her, and he stands there without moving.

"Last chance, piggy," Miriel says, laughing savagely.

"Do you really want to end on a skewer?"

"Do your best," Lancelot says, bowing.

"You probably need the practice. You shoot very poorly."

"What did you say to me?!"

"Here, come on. I'll stand still so you can shoot once before complaining I'm too fast for your crossed eyes."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY EYES?!" Miriel pulls the trigger, and a bolt of lightning shoots out from the crossbow with a crack that splits the air while it races toward Lancelot faster than anyone can blink. Everyone in the arena holds their breath, and they lean forward because they expect the fat guy to drop dead on the spot with a hole burned through his heart.

The bolt hits his big belly square in the middle, and it bounces off like a pebble skipping on water while it fizzles into a few harmless sparks that scatter on the ground. Lancelot pats his stomach and lets out a burp.

"Oops, my bad. I ate a little heavy this morning." He looks down at the sparks as they die out completely.

"That wasn't too bad, though." Miriel's eyes widen, and she stumbles back a step while she fumbles to reload because she can't believe what she just saw. The crowd falls silent at first, and then murmurs ripple through the stands as people whisper to each other that the fat one might not be so weak after all. Lancelot chuckles low in his throat, and he cracks his knuckles while he steps toward her with slow, heavy strides that make the sand crunch under his boots.

"Are you good, cross-eye?" he asks, and his voice booms out cheerful and loud as he closes the distance.

"You look agitated. Do you need this gentleman to teach you how to shoot?"

"YOU DARE INSULT THIS BARONESS?!" Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Miriel gets covered in lightning, and her crossbow starts shining. Suddenly, she's shooting one bolt after another. Yet, Miriel gets covered in lightning, and her crossbow starts shining. Suddenly, she's shooting one bolt after another. Yet, Lancelot swats the first bolt aside with his open palm so sparks fly everywhere, and he laughs loudly.

He slaps the second bolt down like he's waving off a fly, and the lightning cracks against his hand before fizzling on the sand. The third bolt zips close to his ear, and he tilts his head just enough so it misses while he keeps grinning widely.

"You damn Fatty! You fat oaf!" Miriel screams as she reloads faster, and her face twists red with rage.

"How dare a lump like you mock me when I am a baroness!" Lancelot dodges the next bolt with a quick sidestep, and his belly jiggles from the move while he bows mockingly low.

"Then this Lord Fatty shall teach you a lesson!" he booms back and charges forward so the sand kicks up behind him. He weaves left from another shot and rolls right past two more bolts that bury deep in the ground where he stood. The crowd gasps loudly now, and some cheer for the surprise, while Miriel backs up with wide eyes. She fires wildly and curses under her breath as Lancelot closes in closer each time he dodges or swats.

He grabs her crossbow mid-reload and yanks it free so the string snaps loud, then tosses it aside like trash while he cracks his knuckles, ready for more.

"Stop playing!" I shout to Lancelot as I have to bend my body unnaturally to dodge Sylas's wine-made whip. Dammit! The man releases a shockwave from the whip, and I have to call upon the Black Flame, fusing Hellbane's Sword and Dark Blade, and calling upon First Step of the Mephistus. Through Vibrational Hyperawareness, I can feel that Terael, the guy wielding the twi daggers, is about to stab me. Fuck.

I twist First Step of the Mephistus through Flameform Blueprint and let the Skill create a powerful explosion below my feet that propels me up in the air, where I make it explode once again to land close to the broadsword user, Gathriel. Even with my Expert Endurance and Expert Strength maxed… even with the Black Flame, they're too strong. I activate Web of Withering and Sigil of Baal, trying to restrain the broadsword user, but he shrugs them off as if they were nothing.

I am coated in Flame Armor, but it's only a Gold Rank Skill. I fear that if I took even one blow to the body, it would shatter into a million pieces. I really need to get to Platinum Rank as fast as I can if I want to defeat Marcel and Cassian. *"You really thought that you three peasants could do anything?!" Lirael laughs while he batters a tired Nimirea.

"And this is your Guide?! What a joke! What is he even guiding—" Yet, when he turns toward Lancelot and Orrivane, his eyes go wide, and he cuts himself off. Orrivane has blasted his enemy into smithereens with no mercy. Fatty, too, has twisted the neck of the crossbow girl, still in pristine condition. A moment later, Orrivane and Fatty drop on the broadsword user and the twin dagger user, respectively, killing them in a matter of moments.

Orrivane sends a Void Magic bolt through the guy with the whip, almost like an afterthought.

"There's not really much to guide. I just had them kill the two most dangerous fighters first," I say, wiping some sweat off my forehead and looking at Lirael with a smile.

"You Elves are so arrogant."

"How do you—""Orrivane," I say to the other Champion. Orrivane sends a bolt of Void Magic toward Lirael, who has to start dodging.

"Aim for the left side of his leg," I say, seeing through the Elf's Movement Skill with the Grimoire. Orrivane nicks Lirael, and the Void Magic eats into his flesh, making him stumble. Nimirea is speechless.

"Do I just finish him?" Orrivane asks. I turn toward the old Elf on the podium with the Headmaster, and I sigh when I see a smile below the golden frames of the latter. You crafty bastard. You fell for it, Jacob Cloud. You almost understood his plan, which is impressive. Whatever, it wouldn't have changed anything.

"Stop!" the old Elf says, trembling.

"By the command of House Arendor, I, Thalion Arendor, order you to stop!" I look at the Headmaster, who smirks.

"Friend, you have no right to stop a trial by combat," the Headmaster says slowly, but it makes Thalion go stiff.

"That's my grandchild!" Thalion shouts with bloodshot eyes at the Headmaster's face.

"I can't let him get killed like this!"

"That's the risk of a trial by combat. Maybe you could plead with Jacob Cloud, the Guide of the Champions, in order for him to—""Orrivane, kill the bastard," I say, frowning. Orrivane shrugs, and Lirael shouts are soon cut off by a wave of Void Magic. The entire arena goes silent. You shouldn't have done that. The Headmaster was trying to— I know what he was trying to do. He wanted me to mend my relationship with the Elves. But that benefits him more than me.

From what I understand, they would have never actually forgiven me, especially after siding with Sir Renquell's daughter, right? Correct. Then, this would have just benefited the Headmaster's diplomatic relationships with the Elves. Again, correct. So, since I'm still under the Academy's protection by law and the Headmaster is bound to his students' safety, let him bear the burden of this. A moment later, Thalion goes insane and is about to jump into the arena when a frowning Headmaster has to grab him by the arm.

"Thalion Arendel, do not infringe upon the law of your people and my hospitality." The arena goes crazy, probably wanting to see me dead.

"I don't care! That's my grandchild who just died without a body! I must kill that little bastard! Let me go!"

"Stop this nonsense!" The Headmaster eyes the old man coldly.

"Let me go, you overgrown lizard, I will show you and—" In a brief flash of light, Thalion disappears and in his place there's just a large amount of ash that immediately scatters to the wind.

"Well," the Headmaster says, looking back at the Elven delegation with fury in his eyes.

"Does anyone else want to disrespect me?" Everyone shakes their head in fear, reminded of the power of the man in front of them.