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The Coliseum’s crowd was in a frenzy.
There were three fighters and a single magical beast facing off against one another in the arena.
A Manticore.
A creature hailing from the far north-eastern forests, the Manticore sported the limbs and torso of a tiger. Its fur was crimson, and its head resembled that of a Human, though it was unable of speech.
Its tail ended in a sphere of sharp, narrow stingers, like those of a sea-urchin.
These spikes contained a deadly and extremely potent venom. If stung, the victim would be dead within seconds.
And if luck would have it that the victim had been born as a member of a species with innate poison resistance, they would faint, foaming at the mouth – though the end result would remain all the same, as Manticores were known to devour their prey, dead or alive.
This horrific beast lived far beyond the borders of Orcish lands, but Bash had nevertheless fought members of its species many a times.
Once, by the time the Hero had reached the battle, six Orc warriors had already been sacrificed, felled by its claws and tail.
That was how dangerous Manticores were.
As a matter of fact, two of the fighters within the arena had already collapsed, eyes rolled back in the back of their heads and foamy saliva dripping down the side of their mouths.
With nearly half of their force dead, it would be easy to assume that the 5-man formation would quickly collapse, and that their chances at victory were thin.
However, upon closer inspection, the Manticore’s right eye had been crushed to a pump, and long lengths of chain were wrapped tightly around its legs.
Of the remaining three men, two were positioned on the beast’s left flank, and one was on the right.
Working in tandem, the former would pressure the Manticore, and when it turned away, the latter would precisely strike from its blind spot.
The two parties were evenly matched.
Perhaps some of the remaining warriors even had some experience facing Manticores.
“They took out its legs and vision and are steadily wearing it down. Not bad.”
“That’s right. If they keep this up, they’ll win. The guy circling around on the right side is skilled.”
Just as Bash predicted, moments later, the man on the Manticore’s right thrust his sword deep into the beast’s underarm, through its ribcage.
A decisive, fatal blow.
The monster thrashed around for a few seconds before wavering, coughing up blood, and collapsing.
A sparse wave of applause broke out in the crowd.
It was a skilfully executed magical beast extermination, but nonetheless, from the spectator’s point of view, it was lacking in excitement.
As a spectacle, it was mediocre at best, being more of a clinical operation than a show.
Bash was of the same mind.
After all, it wasn’t particularly thrilling to watch five men do what he himself did alone on a regular basis.
“Oh, looks like a battle between people is coming up next.”
As the Manticore and the fallen fighter’s corpses were cleared away by the Coliseum’s staff, two armoured men stepped out onto the arena.
From where they were standing, Bash couldn’t make out the newcomers’ faces, but he could tell that their bodies were toned and well-trained.
However, what truly caught the pair’s attention was something else.
“Hey, mister, that’s…”
“…”
The fresh fighters’ skin was green.
Just like Bash’s.
“Graaaah!!!”
“Uraaaaah!!!”
The participant’s shouted out their respective warcries, yet they sounded…unmotivated.
Even so, there was only one race that would scream out their warcries in this manner prior to a duel.
Orcs.
“A duel between Orcs!”
“Now this is worth watching!”
Bash almost though his eyes had betrayed him, but the audience had reached the same conclusion.
For some reason, two Orcs were facing each other.
With sword and shield in hand, they clashed in the centre of the ring.
At first glance, it looked like an evenly matched, heated battle.
With every strike, every swing of the blade, the crowd would erupt in cheers.
However…
“…what the hell is this?”
Only Bash reacted differently.
As not only an Orc, but the Orc Hero, he knew better than anyone what a true duel between Orcs looked like.
An Orcish duel was a desperate affair, where both combatants would lay it all on the line.
Whether young or old, veteran or untried, both sides would gather all their courage and immerse themselves in bloodlust, gritting their teeth and enduring agony to take just one more step. Just one more swing of the blade. One more thrust of the spear. Anything to be the last one standing.
That was what a true Orcish duel was.
But the mockery that was taking place in the arena was different.
Completely and utterly different.
It was more akin to a carefully rehearsed dance than actual combat.
There was no bloodlust, no fear of death, no desperation, no killing intent, no desire for victory.
This was no duel.
“…”
“Mister, are you upset…?”
Bash did not reply.
He kept observing the fight in solemn silence.
Eventually, the duel reached its climax.
One of the two men seemingly found an opening and struck the other across his thigh.
The victim of the slash fell to his knees, and the aggressor laid the edge of his sword on the back of his neck.
The game was over.
“UOOOOHHHH!!!!”
Raising his sword, he shouted, revelling in his victory – this time even louder than his warcry.
Spreading his arms and waving to the crowd, he circled around the arena, stirring up cheers and applause.
“What’s he doing? Isn’t he going to finish him off?”
Zell curiously asked nobody in particular.
Having seemingly overheard her question, a spectator on her right turned around.
“Hey Faerie, is this your first time at the Coliseum?”
He was a Dwarf, completely red in the face from inebriation.
Holding an empty mug in each hand, he let out a loud burp, filling the air with the stench of liquor.
“Alright, lemme explain it to ya. See the winner strutting around? He’s pleading for the crowd to spare the loser’s life.”
“Huh? Why would he do that?”
“Something about recognizing your opponent’s strength and all that, talking with their swords, respect, yadi-yada… But the audience makes the final decision on whether he lives or dies. Look over here, like that.”
The Dwarven man concluded, gesturing at nearby spectators.
True to his words, the majority of the audience had their arms raised, thumbs pointed up.
The victor bent down, lending a shoulder to his downed opponent, and both retreated out of the back of the arena.
“If the fight was boring, they might vote to kill him, but if they think they can see another fun match like the one just now, it’d be better to keep him alive, right? As for me… well, I’m tired of seeing death. War gave me enough of that, so I won’t ever vote to kill anyone unless they’re some kind of irredeemable scumbag.”
“Hmm. Even with peace, you have people here still killing each other every day, and they’re making a show out of it? You Dwarves are surprisingly barbaric.”
“Haah? Nonsense. Killing is only allowed in fights between slaves.”
Slaves.
Yes, the Dwarves practiced slavery.
In order to increase their production, during the war they had forced captives to work in their mines and forges.
It was an ancient tradition of theirs to make them fight each other for entertainment.
“Psst, did you hear that, mister? Are you alright with this? Those Orcs were slaves…”
“A fitting end for a stray Orc.”
Again, had this been wartime and they were prisoners of war, Bash would have jumped in and rescued them on the spot.
But stray Orcs were no longer Orcs.
He felt somewhat dejected that that travesty of a duel was being put on display for all to see, but it was a suitable humiliation for those who had defied the Orc King’s edict.
It would be shameful for the Hero to recognize this as a true Orcish duel.
“Kyaaa!”
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