You Were My Sl*ve - Chapter 50

The first anniversary of King Sindar’s coronation also marked the symbolic start of the grand martial arts tournament.

Rising from his seat, Kazan looked out over the banquet hall and issued a calm command.

“The earth has begun to heat. Let the tournament commence.”

The martial arts tournament was traditionally held under the auspices of Kalima, the god of earth and strength. As a result, the bodies of the competitors were adorned with golden markings symbolizing Kalima’s blessing.

“The martial arts tournament begins! Who will claim the glory of becoming Sindar’s champion? Warriors registered for the preliminaries, gather immediately at the northern gate arena!”

Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd as many of the warriors rose from their seats and made their way toward the designated arena. Since the number of participants was so large, the preliminaries would take place elsewhere, with the finals scheduled to be held in the banquet hall later that evening.

Elona caught sight of Irid leaving for the preliminary grounds, accompanied by Harnuk. As the chief organizer of the event, Irid was surrounded by courtiers and smiling radiantly as she carried out her duties.

“It’s been a while since I last saw Irid. She must be too busy to try anything today, given her responsibilities.”

Resolving to be cautious, Elona silently promised herself not to consume even a sip of water without checking it carefully.

Kazan, standing nearby, noticed her sharp gaze fixed on Irid. He understood her wariness; vigilance was never a bad thing.

“Sooner or later, I’ll deal with Irid,” he thought.

The reputation of the Pasha family was steadily declining, and Kazan knew it was only a matter of time before Irid’s influence crumbled. He couldn’t help but wonder what expression Elona would wear when the woman who had tormented her was gone. Would she thank him? Would she be relieved?

“Look! They’re about to start a performance!”

Elona’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She pointed to the center of the banquet hall, where a circular stage was being set up. Props, including imitation trees and altars, were being arranged. Elona watched the preparations with curiosity.

“It’s been almost ten years since I last saw a play. We didn’t have many performances in Parsion either,” she said.

“There’s nothing special about it,” Kazan replied indifferently.

But despite his dismissal, the play prepared for the king was nothing short of extraordinary. The expansive stage came alive with a dramatic reenactment of a battle, complete with fake horses galloping across the scene and bursts of imitation blood spraying into the air.

Midway through the chaos, a hero appeared, his face obscured by a black mask. Elona immediately realized the masked figure was meant to represent Kazan.

“Oh, they’ve turned Kazan’s rise to the throne into a play.”

Her expression grew serious as she watched the unfolding drama. The masked Kazan struck down countless opponents in a choreographed display of violence, moving relentlessly forward. One by one, his foes fell until he reached a silver-painted altar at the center of the stage.

There, another man wearing a black mask and an obsidian crown awaited him.

“Kazan, no…,” Elona whispered, a sense of dread washing over her as she clutched at Kazan’s sleeve.

Onstage, the masked Kazan climbed the altar, moving toward the crowned figure. Their masks bore perfectly mirrored patterns, symbolizing their shared bloodline.

As the hero raised his sword, the music abruptly stopped.

The crowned man fell from the altar, rolling down the silver steps and leaving a trail of red that stained the stage. The masked Kazan lifted the obsidian crown from the dead man’s head and placed it on his own.

As he donned the crown, blood began to drip down from the edges of the mask. With his crimson-stained hands, he reached for his right shoulder and dragged them down across his arm, leaving streaks of red. Then, he raised his bloodied sword high into the air.

Finally, the play concluded with a triumphant swell of music. The hall erupted into applause and cheers, the audience enthralled by the dramatic spectacle.

The only two who remained silent were Elona and Kazan.

Elona cast a sidelong glance at Kazan, whose expression was unreadable. She already knew the truth—that Kazan had killed all six of his brothers to win the civil war. But seeing the story portrayed in such vivid detail made the reality feel even more haunting.

“I knew it, but imagining it like this… it’s still unbearable.”

“To survive, you had no choice but to kill them… right?”

Elona spoke softly, already believing the answer to be obvious. Kazan must have chosen such a brutal path because he had no other options, because his survival depended on it.

But Kazan, his gaze distant as if recalling that moment, murmured, “I don’t know. If I had turned my back and fled from that altar, I might have survived somehow.”

“What? Then if there was another way to live, why did you risk your life like that…?”

Kazan’s hand instinctively reached for his right arm, gripping it tightly as though trying to stop an unseen wound from bleeding. Watching him, Elona suddenly realized something she hadn’t noticed before.

When they were younger, that mark hadn’t been there.

The intricate symbol of Sindar on Kazan’s right arm had appeared the moment he seized the throne. The mark was the emblem of the King of Sindar, and its significance had been dramatized in the play’s climactic finale when it was symbolically etched onto the masked Kazan.

“But why does he look so tormented?”

Elona wanted desperately to ask. Kazan was hailed as a great ruler who had claimed the throne with honor. He was the hero who ended the long civil war, an exceptional warrior, and the avenger who destroyed Parsion, a sworn enemy.

Someone like that had every right to take pride in himself.

And yet, Kazan clutched his arm with a pained expression, as if he resented something deeply. His eyes were fixed on the stage below, his gaze searing. Following his line of sight, Elona turned her head—and her breath caught.

He was staring at his own likeness descending from the stage.

“Kazan, I want to ask you—”

Before she could finish, Kazan abruptly stood, brushing off his lingering thoughts, and began descending the stairs.

Ah.

Elona suddenly remembered the next event in the ceremony and quickly hurried after him.

After the performance, the festivities continued with a traditional round of the king offering drinks to the honored guests, accompanied by words of congratulations and ceremonial toasts. Elona, as rehearsed with Miriam, followed behind Kazan with a bottle of wine, ensuring that his cup was filled only with safe, untainted liquor.

Though she dutifully carried out her role, her attention kept straying to Kazan’s right arm.

“I’ll have to ask him later. Why did he react so strangely to the play? Is there something I don’t know?”

However, Kazan had already reverted to his usual composed self, as if nothing had happened. He was charismatic, exuding authority, and treated every guest with the regal demeanor expected of a king. Elona, realizing her concerns would have to wait, tried to refocus on the celebratory atmosphere.

Just as she began to feel at ease, an announcer’s voice rang out over the crowd.

“Attention! Attention, please! The preliminaries of the martial arts tournament have concluded! Let us welcome the surviving warriors with a round of applause!”

The crowd erupted into applause, though there was an undercurrent of confusion and murmurs. It seemed unusually early for the preliminaries to have ended, given the number of participants.

“What? It’s over already? Was the skill gap that big?”

“Guess the matches weren’t very exciting, huh? Must’ve been predictable.”

“Yeah, sounds like the brackets were too unbalanced.”

Kazan caught every word of the crowd’s murmurs, his sharp ears picking up on the discontent. A faint frown creased his face as he turned away. The finals were about to begin, and if there were irregularities in the brackets, they would soon become evident.

“Everyone, please take your seats! Eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves as the finals of the martial arts tournament begin!”

The sixteen warriors who had advanced to the finals were each renowned in their respective circles for their combat skills. Representing families both great and small, they took their positions to a chorus of cheers and wagers from the crowd.

“The Pasha family is lucky,” Kazan thought grimly, scanning the brackets. “Their two contestants won’t face each other until the final match.”

Unlike other families with two contestants, whose warriors were arranged to face each other before the finals, the Pasha family’s fighters had been deliberately placed in separate paths. Moreover, the presumed favorites to win were all set to clash with one another before they could even reach the Pasha fighters.

And then there was something else.

“Who is that Pasha family warrior?” Kazan asked sharply, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar name. “I don’t recognize him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in Ferma.”

“That giant over there?” one noble responded, gesturing toward the massive warrior. “I’ve only heard rumors, but apparently he’s a famous gladiator from the south. They say he’s defeated over a hundred challengers.”

“Hah, a warrior like that exists? Wait, but why would the Pasha family send someone who’s not even one of their own? No matter how desperate they are to win, this is crossing a line.”

“Well, what can you do? Technically, it’s not against the rules…,” another replied with a shrug.

Scattered murmurs of discontent rippled through the gathered nobles, but none of them seemed willing to act. The Pasha family hadn’t outright broken any rules, and few were eager to risk provoking them over such a matter. Before long, the conversation shifted to other topics.

Kazan, watching the exchange, nearly let out a bitter laugh.

“Typical Irid—always looking out for her own interests, no matter the cost.”

She had clearly orchestrated this, exploiting every loophole to ensure even the slightest advantage for the Pasha family. Kazan assumed the tournament would play out as a dull farce, with a predictable victory for the Pashas. The thought of enduring such a cheap spectacle made him sigh inwardly.

But the actual tournament turned out to be quite different from what he had expected.

Clang!

“Huh…!”

Elona flinched at the sharp sound of clashing steel, her shoulders jerking like a startled rabbit.

Kazan, lifting his wine cup to his lips, smirked to himself.

“This is more entertaining than I thought it would be.”

Not all the guests in the banquet hall were warriors. Those unfamiliar with combat simply enjoyed the bloody spectacle without a second thought. Among them, Elona’s reactions stood out the most.

“Die, you scoundrel!”

“Eeeek!”

Every time a warrior shouted and swung their weapon, Elona recoiled, clutching her ears in fear.

For Kazan, watching her reactions was far more amusing than watching the tournament itself. Oblivious to his scrutiny, Elona was determined to fulfill her role as his attendant, even as the tournament’s violence clearly unnerved her.

More than once, Kazan stifled a laugh as he watched her. No one noticed his restrained amusement—except Irid, whose sharp gaze occasionally flicked toward him with suspicion.

“The King seems… oddly pleased,” Irid thought.

She knew Sindar well enough to assume he had already noticed her tampering with the brackets. She also knew he wouldn’t bother confronting her over something so petty—though she had braced herself for him to be irritated.

But what was with those fleeting smirks she kept catching on his face?

“W-what does it matter? If he’s in a good mood, that’s better for me.”