You Were My Sl*ve - Chapter 51

As confusion clouded her mind, Irid shook her head vigorously to clear her thoughts.

“At last, this glorious tournament has come down to the final two contestants! Allow me to introduce them: representing the Tooth family, Supimal! And… representing the Padisha family, Batum!”

Irid watched as Batum, the warrior of the Padisha family, stepped onto the stage. A towering figure with bronzed skin wrapped in a bandana, he was the champion of the largest arena in the South—a fighter the Padisha family had acquired by paying a staggering sum of money.

‘The winner must come from our family. The victor will be chosen as a warrior for the royal Ferma court.’

Irid needed a hunting dog. One who could move freely, even to the Manok Palace, should the need arise.

*

“You held out well, but this is the end.”

“Aaaaaargh!”

With a mighty swing of Batum’s sword, his opponent fell, blood spraying from the blow. As Batum approached the fallen rival, the announcer rushed out and hastily stopped him.

“The winner! The winner is none other than… Padisha! The one who has brought glory to the Padisha family’s sword—the name is Batum!”

The announcer’s booming voice declared the victor’s affiliation and name.

“What a terrifying fighter.”

“If no one had stopped him, he would have killed that man!”

While some recoiled at the champion’s brutality, the majority were exhilarated by it. The atmosphere of the banquet hall surged with excitement.

“Batum! Batum!”

“Of course, it had to be Padisha!”

The victorious Batum raised his hand with a stoic expression. Whatever the behind-the-scenes story might have been, on the surface, his victory was flawless. The fervor in the hall showed no signs of subsiding anytime soon.

“Still, it’s a shame. Watching commoners go wild is fun, but I wanted to see that noble one’s swordsmanship.”

“Who? Are you talking about His Majesty?”

“Are you drunk? How dare you bring up His Majesty!”

“Then who? Oh, you mean someone from the Omar family…?”

“Yes, him! I heard he couldn’t participate because he’s not in the capital….”

Overhearing the chatter, Irid grew annoyed. After all the effort to secure victory for the Padisha family, the spectators were fixated on someone else entirely.

‘Why is Omar family gossip coming up now? The star of the show is supposed to be the Padisha family!’

With a resolute stride, Irid made her way to the central stage to proceed with the award ceremony. As she approached, the stench of blood radiating from Batum’s body made her wrinkle her nose, and she hurried to wrap up the proceedings.

“Your Majesty, please bestow your royal favor upon Batum, who shall serve as a warrior of Shindar.”

At Irid’s request, Kazan rose from his seat. As planned, General Tortan ascended to the king’s throne, knelt, and presented the ceremonial sword of honor, an heirloom passed down through the royal family. The sword, plated in platinum and encased in a scabbard lavishly adorned with gold, silver, and jewels, was held aloft in both of his hands. Just as Kazan reached for the sword to officially recognize the champion, an unexpected commotion erupted near the banquet hall’s entrance.

The crowd, which had been focused intently on the stage, turned en masse to look toward the disturbance. People gathered to watch the martial tournament began parting like waves at the entrance, giving way to a figure advancing steadily toward the center of the hall.

Kazan frowned as he spotted the head of a horse from afar. It was a fully armed warhorse, which could only mean that whoever had brought it in was also armed. The unforeseen situation caused even Elona to grow visibly flustered.

‘Who is this? I thought carrying weapons was strictly prohibited during the festival. Could it be an urgent messenger?’

But the unexpected guest was no mere courier. At last, a man reached the center of the banquet hall and leaped onto the circular stage with ease.

He was a tall man, as large as Kazan himself. His sand-colored, dust-covered cloth armor and ash-gray bandana marked him as a soldier of Ashatra.

As silence fell over the hall and all eyes turned toward him, the man exhaled deeply, then untied the bandana from his head and let it drop to the floor. His silvery-white hair, hidden beneath the cloth, spilled down to his chest.

Elona felt a strange sense of familiarity, and just as she was about to place it, the man looked up and met her eyes.

A pair of unfamiliar violet irises locked onto her. His handsome face, which might have been strikingly beautiful, was marred by a large scar running across his nose and left cheek, giving him a rugged and intimidating appearance. Though the distance between them obscured the finer details, Elona was certain of one thing:

This was a man she had never seen before.

‘And yet… why does he seem… familiar somehow?’

As her confusion mounted, Kazan’s cold voice cut through her thoughts.

“Zahhak Omar. As a noble, observe proper decorum. That is not a place you are permitted to stand.”

Zahhak Omar! The name rippled through the crowd, sparking a wave of murmurs. He was the heir of the Omar family, a celebrated warrior, and a young general of Ashatra. Many had already named him the likely champion of the tournament.

Yet Zahhak, despite being rebuked by the king, only smiled nonchalantly.

“Your Majesty, shouldn’t you welcome me first? I’ve just returned from breaking my back in Parsion, and this is how I’m greeted? Not even a drink offered—only a scolding?”

With a sly grin, he strolled forward with a relaxed air.

Standing beside Batum, Irid seethed with frustration as she watched him.

‘That reckless fool… he’s ruining the entire tournament!’

Before Zahhak could continue to stir trouble, Irid urgently addressed the king.

“Your Majesty, while it is proper to celebrate General Zahhak’s accomplishments, the ceremony remains unfinished. I implore you to honor Batum, who bled for your glory.”

“Oh, so the tournament is already over?”

Zahhak’s casual remark cut her off, his tone dripping with mockery. As Irid cast him a glare of disdain, he looked over the victor, Batum, with a keen and curious expression. After scrutinizing him for a moment, Zahhak let out a chuckle.

“A gladiator, huh?”

Irid’s complexion turned pale as fury and panic rose within her.

“Lord Omar, please hold your tongue…!”

“Does anyone here fail to recognize that brand on his arm? Of course, those who’ve lived their whole lives in Ferma might not know the ways of the South. Otherwise, how could such sacrilege go unnoticed—allowing a purchased gladiator to compete in the royal tournament?”

“Zahhak Omar!”

“And more importantly.”

His mocking tone echoed throughout the hall, laced with thinly veiled contempt.

“A gladiator is just a sword-wielding clown, after all. Do you truly believe someone like this is worthy of Shindar’s honor, Your Majesty?”

“What did you just say…!”

The towering Batum’s glare, seething with rage, locked onto Zahhak. Despite the fact that Batum was at least a head taller, Zahhak’s violet eyes met his gaze unflinchingly. A crescent-shaped smirk curled Zahhak’s lips, and his voice dripped with arrogance.

“Such insolent eyes.”

And then, it happened. Zahhak’s figure vanished from Batum’s sight in an instant.

A moment later, gasps of horror rippled through the crowd.

“Argh! Kyaaaaagh!”

Batum’s anguished scream echoed throughout the hall. The massive warrior, trembling, clutched his face as he collapsed to his knees. In Zahhak’s hand gleamed a scimitar, drawn so swiftly that no one had noticed it before. Crimson blood dripped steadily from the weapon’s gleaming blue blade.

“My eyes! My eyes!”

It wasn’t hard to guess what had occurred. Blood streamed from between Batum’s trembling hands as they covered his face, and the crowd collectively held their breath.

‘How could something like this happen in such a brief moment?’

Even the audience, who had cheered wildly for bloodshed during the earlier matches, reacted differently this time. A chilling sense of dread swept over the hall, leaving it eerily silent. Zahhak, however, grinned as though he were genuinely enjoying himself, watching the wounded Batum writhe in pain.

“A vermin like you—how dare you look me in the eye.”

Beside Kazan, General Tortan widened his eyes in fury.

“Lord Omar! What is the meaning of this insolence, drawing your blade in the presence of His Majesty’s court?”

“Oh, my dear General.”

Zahhak exaggeratedly let the blade drop from his hand and raised both arms in a mocking gesture of surrender.

“I merely sought to address the insult to His Majesty, who was wronged by this servant’s arrogance. I, Zahhak Omar, acted to spare His Majesty the trouble of dealing with this matter himself. I humbly beg for His Majesty’s forgiveness.”

He then performed an elaborate bow, as if he were a theatrical performer on stage. His demeanor, entirely unlike that of any other noble, left Elona wide-eyed with shock as she glanced nervously between Zahhak and Kazan.

‘Is something catastrophic about to happen?’