Staring at the short figure before it, the Arcane Lion's eyes flashed with a wariness that was eerily human.
It didn't know what the object in the opponent's hand was, but the cold gleam it emitted made one thing very clear—it was dangerous. Just like the weapons those other short creatures once used when they captured it—capable of injuring, bleeding, even killing it.
Yet at the same time, the scent coming off this human was mouthwateringly delicious. The lion's drool began to trickle uncontrollably from the corners of its mouth.
Locking eyes with the human, the Arcane Lion started to circle him, emitting low, guttural growls from its throat.
This was the classic behavior of a predator about to strike—using its movement and gaze to build pressure, to instill panic in its prey, creating the perfect moment for a fatal blow.
But after pacing for some time, it still couldn't sense even a trace of fear from the man. This only made the beast grow impatient.
Its limbs tensed, preparing to pounce.
Otock gripped his weapon tightly, eyes fixed on the magical beast before him. His palms were slick with sweat.
To say he wasn't scared at all would've been a lie—who wouldn't be, standing face-to-face with such a monster?
But years of battle-hardened experience had taught him one critical lesson—never let it show. A single mistake here could mean death.
And the Arcane Lion had finally lost all patience. With a powerful push of its hind legs, it lunged like a living battering ram.
It moved with such speed that it kicked up a cloud of dust in its wake.
Otock's expression shifted immediately. He knew he absolutely couldn't take that hit head-on. A thousand-plus kilograms of mass combined with cheetah-like acceleration turned this thing into a runaway war elephant. Just the impact could shatter every bone in his body, armor or not.
He quickly tried to roll to the side. But just as he dodged past the lion, its thick tail snapped out like a giant, coiled python, striking from an angle he couldn't avoid. It wrapped tightly around his waist and jerked.
Otock's feet left the ground as his balance was ripped away.
But he didn't hesitate. Even as he lost stability, even as his body began to topple, he swung his axe in a desperate strike toward the base of the creature's tail.
With a roar of pain, the Arcane Lion froze in place. The axe had split open the tough scales and bit into the tailbone.
Otock was flung a dozen meters through the air, tumbling several times before coming to a halt.
He rolled to his feet immediately. Not far away, the Arcane lion trembled, its mouth twitching, eyes filled with bloodthirsty rage.
Otock could tell instantly: because his strike came mid-fall, he hadn't been able to use his full strength. The injury wasn't fatal.
Worse—it had only enraged the beast.
The one sliver of good news? While he hadn't managed to sever its tail completely, the base had been damaged badly enough to disable it as a weapon—one less attack vector to worry about.
Ottoque raised his weapon again. He knew the next few moments would decide life or death.
A wounded but not yet incapacitated predator—that's when they're at their most dangerous...
---
Watching the two "rookies" tear into each other in the arena, Orsaga honestly felt an overwhelming urge to jump down and kick them both to death.
'These two? Their so-called combat ability wouldn't even qualify in the Abyss. They'd struggle to take down a juvenile demon, let alone anything stronger. Their physical stats probably didn't even break 20. Their resistance to corruption and toxins? Laughable. Just breathing in Abyssal air a few more times might be enough to kill them outright.'
In terms of raw energy within their bodies, they couldn't hold a candle to demons born with mana pumping through their veins.
Even that so-called "Arcane Lion" was, in truth, just malnourished trash compared to true supernatural lifeforms. Aside from its intimidating appearance, it had no real strengths. Its mana reserves couldn't even support the most basic spell, and it could only mildly enhance its physical abilities.
If it weren't for the fact that it did technically possess magical energy, it wouldn't even qualify as a magical creature—just a beast.
While Orsaga watched with dead-fish eyes, the rest of the crowd was enthralled. Each strike, each spray of blood, had them shrieking like lunatics—far more worked up than the fighters themselves.
Especially when it came to Otock, who was also human—the cheers, insults, and shouts never stopped.
There was something addictive about seeing someone stronger than you—someone you'd usually never dare to face—forced to bleed and fight like an animal for your entertainment.
It made the crowd go wild. Like they'd been injected with adrenaline.
Greed. Hatred. Envy... All their ugliness came pouring out, contorting their faces into masks of cruelty and twisted delight. In this moment, all pretense of civility vanished, and their true selves were laid bare.
Otock in the pit? A serial killer. No defending that.
But the spectators? Hardly any better—getting their kicks from watching their own kind die.
The only difference was that this version was legal, and didn't require them to dirty their own hands.
In a situation like this, compared to the tooth-and-nail brawl in the arena, it was the audience—with their raw, unfiltered depravity—that caught Orsaga's attention.
His demonic instincts loved this kind of spectacle.
Perfect entertainment. Even the fruit in his hand tasted better.
For both Orsaga and the crowd, their paths to amusement might differ, but in the end, the destination was the same.
Everyone left satisfied.
---
Over ten minutes later...
Otock stood at the center of the arena, drenched in blood. His chest heaved like a bellows, desperately pulling air into his lungs.
His armor was down to a third of what it had been, barely clinging to his scar-riddled body. One arm had been torn clean off, blood still pouring freely from the wound.
Beside him lay the Arcane Lion.
Most of its injuries were superficial. The fatal blow had come from Otock's axe—after seven or eight brutal hacks to its skull, its forehead was now a mangled mess of meat and bone, steam and stench rising in thick waves.
The crowd had gone feral, screaming Otock's name in a frenzy—some in awe, some in hatred, some in worship.
Whatever the motive, at this moment, Otock was the undisputed star of the arena.
No one cared that he was a murderer. Humanity's age-old reverence for strength made everything else irrelevant. The moment he won, all sins were conveniently forgotten.
As long as he kept winning, nothing else mattered.
As for the victims of the dozen or so murders he committed—how many were innocent? Did it really matter?
Not really.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Humans, and intelligent life in general, had always been generous when it came to forgiving someone else's enemies.
---
In a private box, Orsaga stood up indifferently and said to the three companions beside him:
"Let's go. Time to head back."
---
Several Days Later
Jarit Plains – Grindbone Fortress
Crown Prince Jaemar stood beside a sand table map, frowning deeply. A few armored officers stood nearby, their expressions equally grim.
While the war wasn't a total rout, they were undeniably at a major disadvantage. Due to a massive strategic blunder, the Mardain Principality's defensive lines had been shattered by the Yharnis Principality, forcing their army into a defensive crouch, unable to risk direct confrontation.
After listening to several officers present their ideas, Jaemar rubbed his temples in frustration.
"What a complete mess..."
As Crown Prince, he wasn't just responsible for foreign threats. He also had to deal with internal issues—chief among them, the noble families. The moment the war started to go sideways, those parasites would stir up all kinds of chaos, making an already bad situation even worse.
If he could, he'd purge the entire noble class. But that simply wasn't realistic. All he could do was fantasize about it.
Then his thoughts turned to the "treaty" sent by the Yharnis Principality—an utter humiliation.
Accepting those terms would be the same as branding himself in shame, making Mardain's royal family the laughingstock of the continent.
"If Father hadn't been manipulated into so many stupid decisions, you vultures wouldn't even have this chance..."
"You forced my hand. If you're sacrificed to demons, you only have yourselves to blame..."
He reached into his coat and touched the item Orsaga had given him. A cold, ruthless light glinted in his eyes.
Sacrificing tens of thousands of people in one fell swoop—if that ever got out, not even being on the losing side of a war could excuse it.
But at least it was better than signing a surrender.
At least this way, he held the initiative.
For a future king, an infamous reputation was unpleasant—but being seen as weak was absolutely unacceptable.
A successful leader could endure being feared or hated—but never scorned.
Taking a deep breath, he asked the officers beside him, "Since the Yharnis forces have fully assembled, about how long before they reach Grindbone Fortress?"
An older general with white hair responded, "Before the sun reaches its peak, they'll be here."
"Good," Jaemar nodded. "Then get the soldiers ready. Prepare a massive number of ropes—enough to restrain seventy to eighty thousand prisoners. We need to be ready."
The room fell silent for a second.
"?"
One general licked his lips nervously, hesitating, before asking cautiously:
"Uh… Your Highness… when you say 'prisoners,' you don't mean us tying ourselves up and surrendering, right?"
"What nonsense are you spouting? Of course I mean them! We're tying them up!"
"…Understood, sir…"
The officers exchanged glances and sighed collectively.
"His Highness is clearly under immense pressure..."
A few of the older generals couldn't help it—tears streamed down their faces.
Their blood surged with patriotic fervor, ready to throw themselves into battle.
Seeing the tears well up in their eyes, Jaemar realized what they were thinking. He opened his mouth to clarify but quickly gave up.
Let them imagine what they want.
It was probably better that way.
___
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