"So good!"
I don't hesitate to grab more food. After all, who knows how long this luxury will last? Who knows when I'll have to go back to eating mutant rat in acid curry again? I'm a survivor, not an ascetic. If there's a buffet, I take. Screw etiquette.
Linie, meanwhile, is shoveling food into her mouth at the speed of a catapult. I watch her—kid's barely the size of a travel bag and she eats like an ogre at a rave. There's literally more sauce around her mouth than in her plate.
"Hey, slow down or you'll explode."
She gives me a mischievous look, like "you're not my mom," and keeps going. Okay, point for you.
I lean back against the rickety chair — damn, it's made of real wood — and savor a moment of normality. A damn moment of nothing, of warmth, of background noise. Almost makes me believe I'm in one of those crappy isekai where everything gets solved with food and friendship. I don't trust it. Calm is like loot in a dungeon: there's always a trap.
[ Your heart rate is decreasing. Stress level: temporarily stabilized. ]
Even Senpai seems to be relaxing. Or trolling me. Hard to tell with a schizophrenic AI stuck in your head.
I glance around. Normal people. Voices. Life. No screaming. No critter with too many eyes. No pool of blood in sight.
I tilt my head toward Linie.
"Tell me, little ball of energy, think this town's in trouble?"
She looks at me, mouth full of… I don't know what, maybe the thing that was still wiggling earlier.
She nods. Then shakes her head.
Then shrugs.
I smile. Classic answer from a six-year-old who has no clue what you're saying but still wants to be polite.
Well… six years old? I don't actually know how old she is. Never asked, and since she doesn't understand a word I say, not exactly a top priority. But honestly, with how crafty she is, how she moves, reacts, and survives in this messed-up world, I'd say that's the minimum. Or maybe she's a mute genius. Could be.
And even if I suddenly had a maternal epiphany and needed to know her exact age, I don't speak the language, I have no clue how they count years, and I'm not about to learn sign language in a hurry. So yeah. Too bad.
That's exactly when a sound echoes through the inn. Not a scream, not a crash — just a dull thump outside, like a gong or a drum struck from a distance. A sound that makes heads lift, hands freeze, eyes light up.
I raise an eyebrow.
One by one, the inn's patrons stand up, pack their things, finish their meals hastily—or abandon them—and head to the door with visible excitement in their eyes. Seriously. That look people get when they think "This is it!" — except I have no idea what "it" is.
I'm left sitting there like an overripe squash, spoon frozen midair, watching the room empty out in record time.
Linie? Still eating. Completely focused. She's wolfing down mouthfuls with military precision, like nothing else matters. Respect. Zero stress.
I look around. The room is nearly empty. I'm the only one thinking whatever just happened is weird. Like, did I miss the evacuation signal? Is a dragon approaching? A surprise Oni-purge from the city militia?
"…Huh?"
That's all I manage to say. Yeah. Because my brain is screaming danger, while everyone else acts like it's Christmas.
And I don't like it. Not one bit.
I'm the only idiot still sitting at the table, spoon in hand, eyes lost, while the whole place has emptied like a haunted inn in a bad visual novel. Linie doesn't give a damn. She's still eating. Like she's about to be executed in ten minutes and her last wish was to gorge herself to death.
And I'm just standing there, watching the door swing in the wind, with a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with the food. What the hell just happened? Was there a signal? A secret password? A psychic alarm? Why did everyone bolt like the plague had walked in?
I slowly stand, ears perked. No screams. No smoke. No explosions. Just… activity, off in the distance. People talking loudly. Rushed footsteps. Bells? No… some kind of gong. Repeating. Rhythmic. I walk to the window and peek out.
And then I see it.
A crowd.
A real one. Dense, noisy, euphoric. Kids on adult shoulders, merchants setting up stalls in a rush, colorful banners strung above the streets, and most of all… that energy. That kind of collective frenzy you can feel in the air.
And like… happy frenzy?
Wait… is this a festival? I turn slowly to Linie who's watching me while chewing on something that looks like an undercooked rice ball. She's got that look like, "You finally get it?"
I frown.
"Hey… what the hell is going on?"
Obviously, no answer. Just a smile. A satisfied little "yum." So I sigh, grab what's left on the table, gesture for the kid to follow me, and we head out.
And then…
Welcome to chaos, medieval Disneyland edition.
I push through the crowd with Linie clinging to my hand. She walks in silence, clearly more excited than I am by all the bustle. Flags flapping in the wind, people laughing, merchants shouting prices like it's fantasy Black Friday. But to me, this all sets off alarms. I've never liked crowds. Too many eyes, too many witnesses, too many chances someone realizes I'm not "normal."
Then, around a wider street corner — there's a stage.
Not a bard stage, no. A real one. Solid wood. And in the center? Chained-up people. Prisoners. In a line. One of them tries to resist, but a guard puts him back in place with a sharp crack to the back of the head. Doesn't look like theater.
And then I see him.
I recognize him.
That face. That look. That walking piece of filth who drooled over a little girl in a dark alley.
One of the ones I left alive.
Only one.
And he's here.
Chained up, clothes in tatters, one eye swollen shut — but very much alive. And I see him see me. And his eyes widen. And I smile.
A slow smile. Twisted. Instinctive.
He opens his mouth. Takes a step back. Bumps into one of the guards who yells at him. I don't move. I'm just there, in the crowd, hidden by the crowd, and I stare at him.
Linie tugs on my sleeve, looking worried.
"It's nothing, sweetie. Just an old acquaintance."
As I keep staring at the human trash who dared to even hint at scaring my girl, a strange hush begins to fall over the crowd. Shouts die down. Laughter fades. Even Linie, who was still nibbling a piece of stale bread, lifts her head.
And that's when I see him.
He leaps onto the stage like an actor taking a final bow, arms wide, long coat billowing behind him, and a hat so ridiculous and smug it should be illegal. He's got that kind of presence that reeks of cheap luxury cologne, too-white teeth, and a look that screams "I'm selling you a dream while spitting in your face."
"Ladies and gentlemen of the glorious city of Velen!" he yells, and his voice echoes through the square like it's been enchanted to cut through air. "Welcome to the first Blade Trial!"
The crowd erupts.
Applause, cheers, whistles. I stay frozen. Blade Trial? That doesn't sound like a sporting event. More like let's slice people up for fun.
Wait? Did I just understand what he said? Am I dreaming? How is that even possible?
[ Originally, all living beings spoke the same language, but after the arrival of the System, different cultural styles appeared. ]
"And?"
[ To resolve communication issues, artifacts created by the System were placed in strategic locations! ]
Damn, that's clever. Smart move by the System.
The guy continues, walking slowly in front of the prisoners like a pack leader.
"Today, dear citizens, you'll witness real combat! No choreography, no illusions, no cheating! Blades, blood, and glory to those who survive!"
Ah. There it is. I was right. This ain't a festival. It's a slaughterhouse — with front-row seats.
He turns toward the soldiers below.
"Bring out the first ones!"
And without ceremony, two guards drag a prisoner onto the stage. Not my alley "buddy." Not yet. But I can tell he's next.
I cross my arms, glance at Linie, who doesn't understand but is frowning. I understand, though. This tournament might be my chance.
My chance to finish what I started.