Chapter 58: In the Arena
[Governor Estuter's Mansion]
The priceless glass of Amasec brandy in Lars Valanta's hand remained suspended in mid-air for a full half minute.
He stared fixedly at the massive monitor before him, his eyes wide, almost bulging as if they might press through the screen itself.
The display showed a live feed of the side entrance to the Governor's Mansion.
At the very front stood the young girl—Irene.
She wore her dark blue trench coat, hood lowered, looking delicate and harmless… almost too beautiful for the scene.
But what followed behind her made Lars' mind short-circuit.
One. Two… Five.
Five enormous figures stood in silence behind her, draped in crude black and gray-brown cloaks—tarpaulins and camouflage netting crudely stitched together.
"What… what are those things?"
Lars' voice trembled.
As the governor's son, he had seen much. Bio-modified gladiator champions over two meters tall—monstrous slabs of muscle—were nothing new to him.
But these figures…
Even through the surveillance feed, their overwhelming size felt suffocating.
The one at the very back—Cole Quan—even with his head lowered, nearly struck the top of the three-meter doorway.
And the one in the center—the widest—had to turn sideways just to pass through, his cloaked bulk nearly filling the entire entrance.
"Thump… thump… thump…"
Though the feed carried no sound, Lars could almost feel each step reverberating through the floor.
"Young… Young Master…"
The old butler beside him had gone pale, repeatedly wiping sweat from his brow.
"Th-this… these are the 'bodyguards' that young lady mentioned? This build… something is wrong. Even an Ogryn wouldn't be… this…"
He trailed off, unable to find the words.
Ogryns were massive, yes—but crude, bloated, and clumsy.
These figures, though concealed beneath cloth, carried a density… a weight… that no normal living being should possess.
"What are you panicking for?!"
Lars slammed his glass onto the control panel, masking his unease.
"Think, Tris! What kind of… thing like that could exist?!"
He pointed at the screen, speaking rapidly—trying to convince the butler, but more so himself.
"It's fake! A trick!"
"That tall one? Stilts! Mechanical stilts—like a circus act!"
"And that wide one? Stuffed with padding! Just to look intimidating!"
The more he spoke, the more convincing it sounded.
His tension gradually eased.
"Yes… that must be it. That country girl didn't want to lose face, so she hired some modified servants or actors with custom props to scare me."
"Hmph. Cheap bluff."
He straightened his bow tie, confidence returning.
"Come. Let's greet this… 'actress.'"
"I'll show her what a real warrior looks like—and what a fake prop is."
---
[Governor's Private Arena]
An underground circular arena.
Though smaller than a true gladiatorial coliseum, it was lavishly decorated.
Silk drapes lined the walls. A rich fragrance filled the air—barely masking the lingering scent of blood.
Lars sat in a luxurious private box at the highest tier. Armed guards stood in formation behind him.
Across the arena, Irene sat casually on a velvet chair.
Behind her stood five cloaked "mountains," silent as statues.
Since their arrival, the temperature in the arena seemed to have dropped.
The nobles who had been whispering eagerly now spoke in hushed tones, unease creeping into their voices.
"Ahem."
Lars cleared his throat and picked up the microphone.
"Welcome, Miss Irene!"
His voice echoed across the arena.
"Since this is a pre-arranged 'friendly match,' let's not waste time."
He gestured toward the arena floor.
"As per the rules, the first round will demonstrate our sincerity. I've prepared one of my… finest warriors."
"And you? Which 'bodyguard' will you send?"
Irene sheathed her short sword and turned to glance at the five behind her.
She began calculating.
[Old Huang said… games require strategy.]
[Uncle Cole is all shiny—probably the strongest. Save him for last.]
[Uncle Sicarius is strong too… but Uncle Varo has been getting injured lately. Not ideal.]
[Then… let's start with someone a bit stronger.]
Her gaze settled on the bulkiest figure—the one wrapped most tightly, like a walking wall.
The First Company Terminator veteran.
"You! The big uncle with the thickest outfit!"
She pointed decisively.
"You're up! Don't embarrass us in the first round! And remember—our 'surprise'!"
The "mountain" gave a silent nod.
He stepped forward toward the arena entrance.
Each step made the teacups in the stands tremble faintly.
Lars sneered.
So much noise just from walking—definitely a clumsy costume, he thought.
"Since you've chosen your… 'warrior,'"
Lars spoke into his communicator, voice filled with cruel anticipation:
"Release the Eighth Champion. Let him properly welcome our guest."
"ROOOAR—!!"
With a beastly roar, the iron gate rose.
A monstrous figure burst forth.
At least two and a half meters tall.
Light armor clung to his body, barely containing bulging, rock-like muscles embedded with metal studs.
A six-pointed iron mask covered his face.
In his hand dragged a massive, humming axe.
His skin was an unhealthy purplish-red—overdosed on stimulants and combat drugs. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he roared incoherently.
"This is Champion Number Eight!" Lars announced proudly.
"One of my father's strongest arena fighters!"
"He once tore apart a fully grown Grox barehanded! His axe can split a light armored vehicle in half!"
Gasps rippled through the audience.
The champion charged, swinging his axe wildly, sand erupting beneath his feet.
Meanwhile—
On the opposite side—
The cloaked figure stepped forward.
Quiet.
Rigid.
Silent.
He stood there, cloak hanging to the ground, unmoving.
"Hahaha!"
Lars burst into laughter.
"Miss Irene, is your bodyguard frozen in fear? It's not too late to surrender!"
"Otherwise, if that costume gets torn apart… the actor inside might get hurt."
Irene rolled her eyes.
Leaning over the railing, she cupped her hands and shouted:
"Hey! Big uncle! Don't just stand there!"
"Step two of the plan! Show them our… muscles!"
"Take it off!"
The figure responded.
A massive hand emerged from beneath the cloak.
Not flesh.
Not fabric.
A dark blue armored gauntlet—servo joints humming faintly.
Power armor.
It seized the camouflage cloak.
"Rip—!"
With a single brutal pull—
The cloak tore apart instantly, flung aside like scrap.
Dust surged.
And as the cloth fell—
The arena froze.
"Clang!"
Lars' glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Wine splashed across his trousers—but he didn't notice.
His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open.
What stood there was no trick.
No costume.
It was a walking fortress.
A true suit of power armor.
Deep blue plating gleamed coldly under the lights.
On the massive shoulder guards—the white inverted Ω of the Ultramarines.
Lightning crackled across the power fist in his left hand.
In his right—a massive power sword, etched with golden script.
Behind the helmet lenses, twin red optics glowed—locked onto the gladiator.
"This… this…"
Lars felt his mind collapse.
He recognized it.
From Imperial propaganda.
Astartes.
The Emperor's Angels of Death.
"H-how is this possible…"
He trembled violently.
"That girl… how could she have Space Marines…"
Warm liquid spread down his leg, soaking into expensive silk.
He thought he was dealing with street thugs.
Instead—he had provoked something on the level of a Titan war engine.
But the gladiator—
Drug-addled and insane—
felt no fear.
He saw no angel of death.
Only a large blue "tin can."
"ROAR—!!"
He charged forward, exhilarated, axe raised high.
Then—
A flicker of thought crossed his chaotic mind.
Taunting.
A gladiator's instinct.
His gaze scanned the armored giant—
Searching for weakness.
Mockery.
Then—
He saw it.
On the Terminator's broad, decorated breastplate—
Among purity seals and honors—
Hung something small.
A simple, worn…
yellow rubber hair tie.
Out of place.
Almost absurd.
"Heh… heh…"
He pointed at it, grinning maliciously.
"Hmph… big canned thing…"
"That… your pacifier?"
"What… trash… hahaha…"