Chapter : 857
A new, strange, and wildly irrational thought began to form in her brilliant, logical mind. What if… what if the Demon was not the only one playing a game? What if this entire, bloody spectacle was a board, and a new, unknown player was about to make his opening move? The thought was absurd, a piece of fanciful, romantic nonsense. And yet, it refused to be dismissed.
She turned and left the box, her movements once again a fluid, graceful flow. Her face was still hidden behind her veil, but behind the silk, a new, hard, and deeply intrigued expression was on her face. Tomorrow would be a new day. And the Princess of Zakaria, for the first time in a very long time, had no idea what was going to happen next. And she found the feeling to be… exhilarating. The game, she suspected, was about to become very, very interesting indeed.
The dawn of the second day of the Jahl Challenge broke not with the fiery, hopeful optimism of the previous morning, but with a grim, somber reluctance. The sun seemed hesitant to rise, its light a weak, watery gray that did little to dispel the long, dark shadows that clung to the city of Zakaria. A heavy, oppressive silence had fallen over the kingdom, the mood of a people collectively nursing a hangover of shattered pride and profound, existential dread.
The crowds that shuffled back towards the Royal Arena were smaller, more subdued. The festive, carnival-like atmosphere was gone, replaced by a more morbid, almost funereal, sense of duty. They were not coming to cheer for a hero; they were coming to bear witness to a series of inevitable, and likely very brief, slaughters. The defeat of Gias the Valorous had been more than just a loss; it had been a public execution of hope itself.
In the subterranean waiting cells, the mood was even more grim. The three remaining challengers—the tattooed barbarian and the two silent desert assassins—had spent a sleepless night contemplating the terrifying, Commander-Class power they had witnessed. The arrogant bravado had been completely sandblasted away, leaving behind only the raw, twitchy fear of men who knew they were walking to their own certain deaths. They were no longer champions seeking glory; they were condemned prisoners, waiting for their turn on the executioner’s block.
The weary, one-eyed Royal Knight sat at his registration table, a massive ledger open before him. He looked at the handful of names left for the day's slaughter, his expression one of profound, soul-crushing boredom. He had seen this play before, and he already knew the ending.
He took a deep breath, the stale, sweaty air of the cell filling his lungs. “The Princess is seated. The crowd is… ready,” a herald had announced moments before, his voice lacking any of its usual festive enthusiasm. “It is time to begin.”
The knight picked up his quill. He scanned the list. There were the three warriors currently in the cell, and one other. The enigma from the pre-dawn registration.
“Next challenger of the day,” the knight called out, his voice a gravelly, indifferent drone that echoed off the damp stone walls. “The one who calls himself… ‘The Challenger.’ Step forward.”
The three warriors in the cell looked around. They had been whispering about the mysterious, silent figure in the white mask who had supposedly registered, a man whose presence had been an unsettling rumor throughout the previous day. But he was not among them.
The knight waited for a ten-count, his quill poised over the ledger. The silence in the cell was thick and heavy.
“Last call for ‘The Challenger’!” the knight barked, his patience already worn thin. “If you are not present, you forfeit your place by royal decree.” He waited another moment, then let out a short, harsh, and deeply satisfied grunt. “Excellent. A coward. My favorite kind. Less paperwork.”
He was about to draw a thick, black line through the name, to erase the mysterious challenger from the day’s proceedings, when a new, and completely unexpected, voice cut through the tense silence of the cell.
“There is no need for that, Sir Knight. I am here.”
Every head in the room snapped towards the source of the voice. It had come not from within the cell, but from the dark, sandy tunnel that led out to the arena. Standing there, silhouetted against the bright, unforgiving light, was a new figure, one who had not been among them.
He was a man of average height and build, dressed in the simple, humble robes of a scholar or a healer. He carried no weapon, wore no armor. His face was kind, his eyes filled with a quiet, gentle compassion.
Chapter : 858
It was Doctor Zayn. He went to change his white mask disguise to his Doctor Zayn appearance.
“I am aware of my location, Sir Knight,” Lloyd replied, his voice the calm, steady, and gentle tone of the doctor, a sound that was so profoundly out of place in this den of killers that it was almost comical. He walked forward, his steps even and unhurried, stopping before the registration table. “I am here to answer the call. I am ‘The Challenger.’”
The silence that followed this declaration was so absolute, so profound, that one could have heard a pin drop. The three warriors simply stared, their minds unable to bridge the impossible gap between the terrifying, mysterious legend of the masked warrior and the quiet, unassuming healer who stood before them.
And then, the silence was broken by a single, loud, braying sound. The barbarian had thrown his head back and was laughing, a deep, booming, and utterly contemptuous roar of pure, unadulterated mockery.
His laughter was a spark in a tinderbox. The tension in the room, the fear, the dread—all of it found a new, welcome outlet. The other challengers joined in, their own nervous, derisive laughter filling the cell. The fear was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the simple, beautiful, and unifying joy of witnessing an act of supreme, almost divine, stupidity.
“A potion-mixer!” one of the assassins hissed, his voice a sibilant whisper of pure amusement. “By the gods, he is the challenger!”
“What will you do, Doctor?” the barbarian boomed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Are you going to cure the Demon to death? Perhaps you can treat its… its fiery temper… with a calming herbal poultice?”
“Maybe he plans to reason with it!” another challenger chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “He will explain to the Demon the error of its ways and ask it to please be a little less… homicidal!”
The mockery was a merciless, tidal wave. They surrounded him, their fear and anxiety transformed into a cruel, bullying pack mentality. They poked at his simple robes. They laughed at his weaponless, armorless state. They were a pack of wolves, and they had just found a lost, and very stupid, lamb.
Lloyd simply stood there, in the center of their jeering circle, his expression one of his usual, serene, and gentle compassion. He did not rise to their taunts. He did not defend himself. He simply absorbed their scorn, his quiet dignity a strange, unshakeable island in the sea of their contempt.
And as the crowd in the arena above, having heard the commotion, began to join in the jeering, their own fearful whispers turning into a roar of open, public mockery, the story of the day was written. The Saint of Rizvan, the great miracle worker, was a fool. A man whose small, provincial successes had given him a case of fatal, terminal hubris. And they were all about to watch him commit the most glorious, and most pathetic, suicide in the history of the Jahl Challenge.
The wave of mockery that had begun in the waiting cell was now a tsunami that engulfed the entire arena. The news had spread through the stands with the speed of a wildfire: the mysterious, anonymous "Challenger" was none other than the slum doctor, the so-called ‘Saint of the Coil’. The seventy thousand spectators, who had arrived in a state of grim, somber depression, were suddenly jolted into a new, and far more entertaining, mood. The day might not offer a glorious battle, but it was apparently going to offer a magnificent, and deeply satisfying, comedy.
The jeers and catcalls rained down from the stands as Lloyd, in his simple healer’s robes, walked calmly towards the center of the arena, having been officially registered.
“Go back to your leeches, Doctor!” a fat merchant bellowed from the lower tiers.
“Did you bring a bandage for the Demon’s boo-boos?” a shrill female voice shrieked, followed by a wave of cruel laughter.
“Maybe he’s the Sultan’s new court jester!” another voice roared. “This is the best joke I’ve seen all year!”