Chapter 460

The sound echoed far too clearly in the stunned silence.

Then, casually, he tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. It shattered somewhere behind him, glass clinking uselessly against stone. Without missing a beat, he reached back, pulled another bottle from his pack, popped the seal with his thumb, and started drinking again as he walked.

The arena didn’t know how to react.

The crowd fell into confused murmurs. Nobles leaned forward. Adventurers frowned. Even the Ashbound section looked… uncertain.

The referee stared. Actually stared.

He glanced toward the gate, then back at the man, as if expecting reality to correct itself. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“This—uh—” he began, clearly buying time. “Is this…?”

The man ignored him completely, eyes half-lidded as he drank, posture loose, relaxed in a way that didn’t fit the tension of the arena at all. He stopped only long enough to look at Ludger, one eyebrow lifting with mild interest.

“Huh,” he said, voice rough, amused. “So you’re the kid.”

Ludger didn’t move. But his eyes narrowed just a fraction. This wasn’t staged. This wasn’t planned. Even the referee hadn’t been expecting this opponent.

And that made the man with the bottle far more dangerous than anything Ashbound had sent so far.

The man finished the bottle in three heavy gulps.

Liquid splashed down his chin as he lowered it, chest rising as he exhaled, satisfied. Without ceremony, he tossed the empty bottle aside. It spun once through the air before shattering against the stone at the edge of the arena.

Then he reached behind his back.

His hand came forward gripping a pair of metal claws, curved, wicked things, edges nicked and darkened from use. He held them loosely, staring at the weapons with unfocused eyes, head tilted as if weighing a thought that didn’t quite want to settle.

For a moment, the arena held its breath. Then he snorted.

“Nah,” he muttered, and flung the claws away. They skidded across the sand, spinning to a stop well short of Ludger.

“Can’t use those against a kid,” he said lazily. His gaze flicked up toward the stands, landing briefly, too briefly, on Elaine. “Not with his mom watching.”

A ripple of shocked murmurs spread through the audience.

Ludger didn’t react.

He didn’t rise to the bait. Didn’t glance back. Didn’t acknowledge the comment at all. His eyes stayed locked on the man in front of him, sharp and measuring, stripping away the drunken theatrics and looking for what lay underneath.

The loose posture. The casual disrespect. The discarded weapons. None of it felt careless.

Whatever this man was, he hadn’t walked into the arena by accident. And Ludger intended to find out exactly

why

.

Ludger studied him more closely now that the movement had slowed. The man looked human.

Not different. Not altered. Not warped by magic or bloodlines. Just a man, tall, broad, scarred in the way fighters tended to be when they survived long enough. Dark hair pulled back loosely. Beard trimmed short and uneven, more from neglect than style. His gear was worn but functional, the kind chosen for comfort and habit rather than display.

And yet… There was something

off

about him.

An aura clung to the man, faint but unmistakable, like pressure that didn’t come from mana alone. It wasn’t hostile. Not aggressive. It simply

was

, heavy in the same way a deep body of water felt heavy even when still. Ludger couldn’t immediately categorize it, and that alone set the man apart from everyone else he’d faced so far.

Then there were the tattoos.

Both of his arms were covered from shoulder to wrist in dark, interwoven markings. Tribal in style, but not crude. Not decorative. Each line flowed into the next with deliberate symmetry, patterns repeating and diverging in ways that felt

structured

. Symbols nested inside symbols, curves intersecting at precise angles.

Ludger had seen tattoos like that before. on northerners. But theirs were different.

The northerners’ markings were rough, more like bad drawings burned into skin with stubborn pride. Personal. Cultural. Meant to intimidate or honor, not to

function

.

These were something else. They felt intentional. Like a language written directly onto flesh.

Ludger’s eyes lingered on the ink for a moment longer, tracing the flow, trying to catch meaning in repetition and spacing. He didn’t recognize the symbols outright, but his instincts told him they weren’t random.

Whatever those markings were, they mattered.

The man rolled his shoulders once, joints popping softly, and finally looked fully at Ludger again. His eyes were clearer now, the drunken haze thinning just enough to reveal something sharp underneath.

Not madness. Experience. Ludger’s stance didn’t change. Human or not, drunk or not, this opponent was different from the rest.

The man shifted his weight and finally looked at the referee again, expression loose but eyes clearer now, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Hey,” he said, lifting a hand lazily. “Please, mister referee.”

The referee flinched slightly at being addressed so casually.

“You can start the match,” the man continued, tone almost polite. Almost. “The other guys won’t be coming.”

The referee blinked. “... excuse me?”

The man scratched at his beard, then shrugged. “Broke their legs,” he said easily. “Couple jaws, too. One of ’em tried to scream. Didn’t go well for him.”

The arena went dead quiet. Even the crowd noise seemed to thin, as if the capital itself was holding its breath.

“They were arguing,” the man added, as if that explained everything. “Too loud. Too slow. Figured I’d save everyone some time.”

He glanced at Ludger again, then back to the referee.

“I’ll finish this quick,” he said. “Then I’m getting back to drinking, before the northerners empty all the booze in the capital.”

A few heads turned instinctively toward Kharnek’s section of the stands. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else swallowed.

The referee looked helplessly toward the officials’ box, then at the Ashbound side, where no one met his gaze. No objections. No protests. Slowly, he raised his arm.

Ludger didn’t move. He watched the man carefully, expression unreadable, fatigue momentarily forgotten. This wasn’t bravado. This wasn’t intimidation for the crowd.

The narrator cleared his throat, clearly forcing energy back into his voice as he seized on the moment.

“L-LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” he boomed, leaning hard into the drama, “IT SEEMS WE HAVE ARRIVED AT WHAT MAY BE THE FINAL CHALLENGE OF THE DAY!”

The crowd responded immediately, noise swelling as tension snapped back into place.

“AFTER TWO GRUESOME BATTLES, AGAINST SPEED, AGAINST CONTROL, AGAINST STRATEGY ITSELF, LUDGER REMAINS STANDING!” The narrator’s voice climbed. “BUT NOW… NOW HE FACES AN OPPONENT UNLIKE ANY WE’VE SEEN SO FAR!”

He gestured broadly toward the man still rolling his shoulders and swaying slightly on his feet.

“AN UNEXPECTED ENTRY! A FIGHTER WHO FORCED HIS WAY INTO THE ARENA! COULD THIS BE THE ONE, THE ONE WHO FINALLY DEFEATS LUDGER AFTER SUCH A DRAINING DAY?”

Before the words could fully settle, a rough voice cut in.

“Oi.”

The drunk man looked up at the announcer, scowling mildly as he pointed at him with two fingers.

“Don’t start writing my victory before I even swing,” he complained, slurring just a little. “That’s bad manners.”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the stands, uneasy, incredulous, but real.

The man shook his head, clearly offended on principle. “Makes it sound like I’m cleaning up leftovers,” he added. “I worked hard to get here, you know.”

The narrator faltered for half a second, then laughed nervously and tried to recover.

“A-AH! CONFIDENCE FROM OUR FINAL CHALLENGER!” he said quickly. “CLEARLY A MAN WHO BELIEVES TODAY ENDS

HIS

WAY!”

The drunk fighter nodded in satisfaction. “That’s better.”

Ludger watched the exchange in silence. Two brutal battles behind him. Mana reserves strained. Enemies studying every breath he took. And now this.

Whatever happened next wouldn’t be subtle, clean, or political. It would be raw.

And judging by the grin tugging at the corner of the man’s mouth… It was exactly the kind of fight he’d been waiting for.

The moment the man finished talking, a strange tension settled over the stands.

Elaine was the first to break the silence.

“…Is he drunk?” she asked quietly, eyes following the man as he swayed and cracked his neck like he was warming up for a tavern brawl instead of an arena duel.

Viola squinted. “He

looks

drunk.”

“That doesn’t mean he is,” Arslan said, voice low. His gaze never left the arena. “Or at least, not in the way you’re thinking.”

Elaine frowned. “Arslan, he walked in with bottles. He’s still slurring.”

“And yet,” Arslan replied, “every step he’s taken has been balanced. No wasted motion. No hesitation when he crossed the arena.”

Viola nodded slowly, arms crossed tight against her chest. “Something’s off,” she said. “I can feel it.”

Lord Torvares adjusted his grip on his cane, brow furrowed as he watched the man scratch his beard and yawn exaggeratedly.

“I don’t see it,” Torvares admitted. “He looks like a drunk who wandered into the wrong building.”

Elaine let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Exactly. After assassins and mages,

this

is what they send?”

Arslan shook his head once. “No. This isn’t Ashbound’s choice.”

Viola’s eyes flicked toward him. “What makes you say that?”

“He wasn’t announced. The referee didn’t know him. Ashbound didn’t react,” Arslan said. “And he openly admitted to crippling their remaining fighters.”

Elaine’s smile faded.

“That means they didn’t send him,” she said slowly.

Torvares straightened. “Then why is he here at all?”

“Because he wanted to be,” Viola answered. Her jaw tightened. “And because nobody stopped him.”

Arslan exhaled through his nose. “I’ve seen men like that before. Not often. Fighters who move like the world have already decided not to get in their way.”

Elaine looked back at Ludger, concerned, finally breaking through her confusion. “He’s exhausted. This isn’t fair.”

“No,” Arslan agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”

Torvares hesitated, then spoke carefully. “If this man is what you think he is… should the match be stopped?”

Viola didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed locked on the arena.

“If it was going to be stopped,” she said finally, “it already would have been.”

Elaine’s fingers tightened together. “Ludger doesn’t see him as a joke,” she said.

“No,” Arslan replied. “He sees him as a threat.”

Down below, Ludger stood facing the drunken challenger, posture steady despite the fatigue weighing on him.

And for the first time that day… The danger didn’t come from schemes, traps, or politics.

It came from a man who looked like he didn’t care about any of that at all.

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