blueteamnovel Chapter 82 Setting his Image
Chapter 82 Setting his Image
"As you all know, this competition is not just a test of skill but a test of spirit! Each town has sent its finest champion to represent their people, their traditions, and their honor."
His gaze swept across the gathered participants.
"Here are the rules you must abide by," he said, unfurling the scroll.
The parchment gleamed faintly, as though enchanted.
"First: Champions will face each other in one-on-one battles, decided by random draw. The victor of each match will move closer to qualifying for the grand stage—the Coliseum of Chosens!"
The crowd roared at the mention of the Coliseum, the excitement rippling through the stadium.
The man waited for silence before continuing.
"Second: Cheating will not be tolerated. Any use of external tools, help from others, or deliberate attempts to deceive your opponent outside of your own abilities will result in immediate disqualification and public dishonor."
Ivaim raised an eyebrow.
'Cheating is dishonored, but deceit in the form of strategy isn't... Good to know.'@@@@
"Third," the man said, his tone growing more serious, "and this is crucial: This competition is a matter of glory. Should a champion fall in battle, it is not considered murder but the will of fate. Killing your opponent is allowed."
The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, some expressing shock while others nodded in grim acceptance.
"However," the official continued, raising a hand to quiet the crowd, "take heed. Killing for the sake of it, without honor, will stain your town's reputation. This competition values skill and bravery, not mindless brutality."
Ivaim felt a chill run down his spine at the words.
'So death is on the table... but only if it's 'honorable.''
He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but he forced himself to focus.
The official turned back to the champions.
"Each of you has earned the right to stand here today. But earning the right to compete is not enough. Prove your worth. Prove your strength. Prove your will to rise above the rest and claim your place in the Coliseum of Chosens!"
The crowd erupted once more, the stadium trembling with applause and cheers.
The official in the center of the arena raised his hand, and the noise slowly died down.
"Now," he began, his voice firm, "let us introduce the champions chosen by each town to represent their honor and strength."
He turned to the side, where a tall figure began ascending the stage.
"From the town of Elthram: The Iron Warden, Nathan!"
A hush fell over the crowd as Nathan stepped forward, his imposing figure drawing every eye in the stadium.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with black, wavy hair that gleamed faintly under the fractured light.
His cold, sharp eyes swept over the audience with a confidence that bordered on disdain. He was clad in metallic armor that seemed to ripple faintly as though alive, the craftsmanship so flawless it seemed impenetrable.
The thought brought him a strange sense of relief, though the weight of the battles ahead still pressed down on him.
Finally, the official paused dramatically before announcing the last name.
"And from Fendral: The Underdog, Ivaim!"
The crowd's reaction was immediate. Instead of awe or fear, the murmurs were laced with amusement.
"Ah, it's the funny guy. I heard he talks a lot even while fighting... Doesn't he know that a lot of people die from that?"
"Is he the one people say has a silver tongue?"
"I heard his true weapon isn't his baton or dagger. It's his mouth!"
"I wonder if he's here to fight or talk his opponents to death."
As he reached his place among the champions, he turned to face the crowd. He didn't have to raise his voice much due to the magic stone voice amplifier.
"Well, since it seems half of you have already decided I'm not here to fight, let me clear that up for you," he began, spreading his arms theatrically. The smirk grew into a grin.
"You're absolutely right. I'm not here as a competitor."
The crowd fell into an awkward silence, puzzled by his statement.
Even the other champions turned to glance at him, some with raised brows, others with faint smirks of their own.
Ivaim waited just a beat longer, letting the tension build before he continued.
"I'm here," he said, his voice carrying an air of mock seriousness, "to test the mental fortitude of your champions. Think of me as a... quality control inspector. You can't just have strong fighters in this competition; you need people who can handle pressure, wit, and yes, the occasional witty remark."
A few chuckles erupted from the crowd, mingling with murmurs of confusion and intrigue.
"He really does talk a lot..." someone murmured in the crowd.
Ivaim pressed on, his grin widening.
"Let's face it—anyone can swing a sword or throw a punch. But how many can do that while keeping their heads on straight when someone's dissecting their strategy with a few well-placed words? That's where I come in."
He tapped his temple with his index finger for emphasis.
One man in the crowd shouted, "So you're just here to talk?"
Ivaim shot him a quick look, snapping back with a grin.
"Talking's part of it. But I'd be careful if I were you. Underestimating me might be the first mistake your champions make."
The crowd responded with a mix of laughter, groans, and renewed murmurs. Some seemed entertained, while others were less amused by his playful confidence.
Ivaim gave a small nod and finished, his voice steady and measured:
"I look forward to seeing how well your champions hold up."