The Crucible of Rust Chain Arena

Violence—the strong against the weak, the Olavi polytheists against heretics, humans against beasts—was a common sight.

Citizens had grown accustomed to its presence, and in most existing settlements throughout the empire, violence held open legitimacy.

Yet, across the vast expanse of Vero City, from the wealthy merchants and nobles of the central district to the common folk in the two outer boroughs, a singular fascination united them: the city’s most brutal venue, a bloody crucible of lives—the Rust Chain Arena in the East District.

True to its name, this arena was the dominion of the Rust Chain Brotherhood, a gang whose second-in-command, Rogni, Saranya had previously met during a Bloodsail Alliance privateer meeting.

The Brotherhood’s primary business revolved around gladiatorial spectacles, for which they required slaves to serve as combatants.

Most of these slaves were trafficked from overseas by the Bloodsail Alliance, while the Brotherhood also commissioned vast quantities of weapons from the Iron Crown Guild and employed physicians from the Silver Hand Gospel Society to be stationed onsite, providing aid to their injured ‘star’ gladiators.

Indeed, the operational model of the Rust Chain Arena served as a microcosm of Vero society itself, where the division of interests among multiple factions played out seamlessly, perfectly embodying the adage, ‘The underworld isn’t just about endless fighting and killing.’

The selection of this venue for the Divine Officer Selection’s Factional Confrontation was deliberate, partly due to its expansive space and high visibility, which allowed both the Church and the Brotherhood to mutually enhance their public presence—a beneficial arrangement for both parties.

Furthermore, past experience suggested that Malacar, the leader of the Brotherhood, was a remarkably conservative individual.

Having already secured the sole ‘arena’ ecological niche in Vero City, they could simply sit back and amass wealth without exerting themselves.

Consequently, it was highly improbable that they would be swayed by any single faction, risking the ire of other powers for a mere one-time windfall by unfairly favoring a particular candidate.

The moment Saranya stepped through the arena’s grand entrance, a stale, coppery scent of old blood assailed her nostrils.

‘Considering illnesses and severe injuries, hundreds likely perished here each day.’

Arriving somewhat early, they made their way to the spectator stands to rest.

Saranya selected the highest VIP seat for Kaelan, and after they revealed their identities, the ticket vendor shrewdly waived the fee.

“Hey!”

Before Saranya’s seat had even warmed, a silver-armored swordsman with long red hair appeared at the entrance, jogging towards her while waving.

Behind the swordsman trailed five young Divine Guards.

Phillo had arrived.

“Is there something you need?”

Saranya remained seated, casting a cool glance at Phillo.

“Uh… Good morning, ladies.”

Phillo seemed considerably more amicable today.

“I—I’ve come to apologize to you both…”

Reaching into her satchel, Saranya produced a bottle of Redwater Mead and several small, individual cups, meticulously arranging them by her feet.

“Where is Paresha?”

“She’s behind us; she visited Westir this morning, which delayed her a bit…”

“Oh.”

Saranya uncorked the bottle and filled the row of cups before her.

‘Eight cups, each corresponding to one of her eight companions.’

“We warriors of the Northern Marches have a custom: before battle…”

“I understand.”

At Phillo’s signal, the Divine Guards raised their cups, each respectfully clinking theirs against Saranya’s.

‘Since Phillo had been defeated by Saranya in a single move the previous day, and these men had witnessed the entire spectacle, it was only natural for them to be utterly deferential now.’

“Wait!”

Paresha’s youthful voice, growing louder as she approached, pattered over to Saranya, snatched up the last remaining cup, and held it high.

“To victory for everyone!”

“To victory!”

“What if Dalia and Aivy have teamed up? We are Sacred Divine Guards!”

“Exactly, we’re not like those rotten fish and shrimp!”

“Eight against sixteen—the advantage is ours!”

The steel grates of the arena’s dome shuddered, emitting a deafening roar.

Along the perimeter of the circular combat zone, a group of bare-chested men roared with effort, turning winches in various directions to slowly raise the colossal spiked gates.

Three gates were activated, with eight individuals behind each, representing the respective teams of the three candidates.

This was a full-armor confrontation; compared to unarmored combat, its intensity was exceptionally high.

After all, it involved a group of ‘iron cans’ mercilessly bludgeoning each other, and at this level, the arena was barely distinguishable from a battlefield, with casualties being a common occurrence.

On their side, the front rank of the team consisted of three shield-bearers wielding a flail, a one-handed axe, and an arming sword, while the back rank held a polehammer.

Saranya and Phillo, both armed with two-handed greatswords, positioned themselves on the team’s flanks, one to the left and one to the right.

Paresha, clad in light armor, stood at the very rear of the formation, making her their primary protected target.

Following the guide’s signal, Saranya and her companions stepped into the arena.

In the distance, Dalia’s and Aivy’s teams also entered the field.

Judging by their attire, Dalia’s contingent comprised Midas City guards, predominantly armed with polearms, while Aivy led a group of Bloodsail Alliance sailors, uniformly equipped with sabers and shields.

These two factions had clearly conspired: Aivy provided the front-line tanks, and Dalia brought the back-line damage dealers, thus combining to form a sixteen-person lineup—twice the size of Paresha’s team.

Saranya meticulously scrutinized the face of each opponent, then subtly released a breath of relief.

Mejga was not among them.

The circular arena was remarkably flat and expansive, sparsely dotted with barricades and pit traps.

At its very center, an island-like platform, encircled by a ditch, hosted a restless humanoid creature.

The creature was entirely naked, its skin a dark, inky blue.

Its head was grotesquely shaped, somewhat resembling coral, riddled with pores from which wisps of green smoke emanated.

Its spine had pierced through its skin, emerging from its back and branching into six stiff, barbed tendrils that thrashed restlessly in the air.

“A fiend… It seems they felt this confrontation wasn’t thrilling enough…”

Areas ravaged by the demonic plague were known as Desolation Zones (TL Note: Regions where the landscape is irrevocably altered and human habitation is impossible due to demonic corruption).

The terrain in such zones was utterly transformed, rendering them uninhabitable and unsurvivable for people.

Living beings and corpses within these Desolation Zones would become corrupted, transforming into Fallen Fiends (TL Note: Horrific, irrational monsters created from corrupted life or death in Desolation Zones): terrifying, mindless monsters.

Fallen Fiends were uncommon in the relatively peaceful southern cities, suggesting the Rust Chain Brotherhood had specifically procured them from demon-hunting teams to add flair to today’s confrontation.

Indeed, despite the extreme peril of Desolation Zones, people had formed various expeditionary and demon-hunting teams, large and small, hoping to unearth artifacts imbued with strange properties due to demonic corruption, or to hunt down the wandering Fallen Fiends.

There were always those willing to pay exorbitant prices to collect such rare curiosities.

Saranya’s brow furrowed; she held a strong distaste for those who profited from the Desolation Zones, viewing them, alongside sorcerers, as primary instigators accelerating the spread of the demonic plague.

On a high platform above the arena, Doron’s swaying figure emerged from the shadows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today marks the second day of the Divine Officer Selection, and all candidates and their respective teams have assembled…”

Thousands of spectators erupted in cheers, and various debris rained down into the arena.

Within the arena, the ‘iron cans’ clad in plate armor snapped to attention at the command, raising their weapons in unison.

“Hmph…”

Saranya took a deep breath, fastening her full-face helmet.

Her icy blue eyes narrowed slightly beneath the visor, reducing her vision to two narrow slits.

A few stray strands of hair escaped from the nape of her neck, curling at their ends and fluttering in the breeze, level with the silver-edged cloak draped over her back.

“Hiss—what a she-wolf…”

On the high platform, Lucius licked his lips, a flicker of heightened interest in his eyes as he murmured towards Saranya.

Doron, hearing the remark, paused, furrowed his brow, and glanced up towards Paresha.

“I declare the second event, the Factional Confrontation, to now begin!”