Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 93: The Rampaging Behemoth (Part Three)

Just then, the side door suddenly swung open and five more combat warriors rushed out. Among them, two carried long spears and tall shields, one wielded a double-bladed axe, another held a Lucerne hammer, and the last was an archer.

Their entrance brought the brown bear’s rampage to a halt. The beast watched them warily—now, seven-tenths sated, its hunger had diminished from when it first entered, and it had regained the alertness of a top predator in the wild.

The five formed a tight formation: the spearmen at the front, the axeman and hammer-wielder flanking them, and the archer at the center. This small squad had no defense against attacks from behind. While reminiscent of the five-man formations used by Berion’s Norlandburg Infantry Regiment, there were notable differences.

In the Norlandburg Regiment, squads of five faced combat with two spearmen wielding round wicker shields—one at the front, one at the rear—while sword-and-shield fighters and halberdiers stood on the sides, and the crossbowman held the middle. Such a formation could defend on all four sides, quickly switching to a pursuit formation with spearmen leading, or a retreat with spearmen at the rear.

Yet the quality displayed by these five surpassed most infantry Berion had seen in this era—even the elite mercenaries of the Black Mountain Company could only match them. After all, this was an age ruled by heavy cavalry; who cared about the lowly infantry?

As the five warriors took their places in the arena, the sole survivor from the first bout tried to leave—after all, the door was open. But the two guards at the entrance refused him, handing him a sword and shield and ordering him back to fight. They told him he could choose to die in battle or to wait until the contest ended and be whipped to death.

Hearing this, the gladiator clenched his teeth in fury, picked up the sword and shield, and entered the arena. He hoped to join the five-man formation, but the brown bear gave him no chance.

He had scarcely turned from the doorway when the bear, which had just been confronting the five, suddenly charged and leapt, landing a heavy blow with its massive paw. The savage beast struck the gladiator’s neck, decapitating him with a single swing. His headless body sprayed blood before collapsing, staining the white sand of the arena with crimson, a tableau of death painted in mingled white and red—a canvas composed of five lives. The spectators erupted once more into frenzied shouts.

Having annihilated the first group of five, the brown bear leisurely feasted on the flesh of the cowardly gladiator. No longer famished, it grew picky, tearing open the man’s belly to consume only the heart, liver, and kidneys, leaving the rest of the viscera scattered across the white sand.

Watching the beast devour five men, the kind-hearted Bran and the ever-struggling Huck felt their excitement and fervor turn to sorrow and rage. Those five, now gone, could have been anyone’s sons, brothers, husbands, or fathers. For the sake of freedom or a hefty reward, they had given their lives in the arena.

No one would remember their names, nor the faces beneath their iron helmets. Only the blood and scattered flesh and bones bore witness that five men had once been here—only once, and never again. Berion gazed at the arena with a somber expression, his feelings akin to Bran and Huck’s, though now he could say nothing more.

A single person’s power is limited. When one cannot change the world, the best course is to change oneself, to improve those nearby, and to grow stronger. With enough strength, one can surely change the world.

Meanwhile, the five warriors in the arena held their formation tightly, awaiting the brown bear’s attack. They had witnessed its strength and savagery and trembled in apprehension; facing such a beast was no easy task.

However, the arena’s owner had raised the reward to three thousand denars. If victorious, each would earn six hundred—a fortune for ordinary folk. Tempted by this prize, they had braved the deadly risk, entering to fight beast and man alike. They knew the bear would be formidable, but seeing it decapitate a man before their eyes brought the danger home.

They now realized that this so-called ferocious giant was nearly impossible to overcome; they might all die here.

After finishing its meal, the bear stood, yawned widely, then lay down on all fours and began to sleep idly. The beast that had just raged and slaughtered now lay like a cat, unmoving and eyes closed, snoring on the ground.

Truly, with a full belly, man and beast alike seek sleep.

But such insolence from the bear was a humiliation to the five newly arrived warriors. Clearly, it regarded them as nothing, not even worth a glance.

Meanwhile, the crowd, eager for spectacle, showered the arena with jeers and taunts, urging the five to provoke the beast. They wanted to see the men fight the bear, craving excitement and danger.

Spectators are ever the same; they feel no sympathy for the suffering within the show. They care only for their own pleasure, their own experience. Having paid for their tickets, if the arena’s events failed to thrill, they would not be satisfied.

As expected, the five warriors eventually succumbed to the crowd’s mockery and insults, slowly moving toward the bear. Though they dearly wished not to disturb its sleep, in the arena, personal desires meant nothing; only relentless combat mattered. To win the great reward, one must slay all enemies before them.

The bear, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to danger, lying quietly as if unaware of the approaching threat.

The five warriors stopped four or five paces from the bear. Even so close, the beast showed no reaction; perhaps this fool from the Misty Mountains really was asleep.

The leader thought so, as did his four companions. They whispered among themselves, sending the boldest—the one with the double-bladed axe—to investigate.

If the bear truly slept, he would cleave its head with his axe, and the five would claim the three thousand denars with ease.

The chosen warrior approached cautiously, at first only daring to tap the bear gently with the axe’s head, fearing it was feigning sleep. But after several taps, confident the beast was truly asleep, he relaxed and even stroked its fur.

The fur, however, was nothing like a household cat or dog—matted with dirt and blood. Still, after an excited stroke, the gladiator gestured proudly to the audience.

No one had dared touch the bear that had just slaughtered five men, so the crowd responded with cheers and applause for his boldness.

But as the applause and cheers rang out, the bear suddenly opened its eyes and sprang up. The beast, only pretending to sleep, opened its bloodstained jaws and seized the gladiator who had touched its fur and prodded it with his axe.

After shaking him violently, it flung the torn body aside. Like a kite cut from its string, the gladiator’s corpse soared over the sand, trailing a graceful arc of blood before crashing down.

Graceful as the arc was, it was the grace of death. Seeing their comrade slain by the bear’s sudden attack, the remaining four shouted in fury.

The bear, not one to indulge their outbursts, responded with a roar so ferocious that it crushed their spirit on the spot.

The audience erupted again with applause and cheers—for the victor. The brown bear, winner of the shouting contest, fully deserved the acclaim.

Standing in the arena, the five warriors now felt the sting of abandonment, just as the previous five had, discarded by the crowd moments after entering.

Yet their leader did not lose heart. He rallied his comrades: “Brothers, it’s only a beast! We’ve killed wolves, hunted wild boars, fought bandits—what enemy could frighten us?”

Seeing their spirits lift, he pressed on: “Are we to spend our lives eating porridge every day, or risk it all to become small farm owners who can eat well each week? You decide.

A true man never admits defeat. Reach down, feel beneath your trousers, and tell me what you find.”

At his command, the three remaining warriors reached between their legs, baffling the audience—were these men followers of some strange cult, engaging in such vulgar gestures?

After feeling, the three loudly replied, “Chief, beneath our trousers are two eggs.”

The leader burst into laughter. “So long as you’ve got eggs, you’ve got courage! Only men without eggs lack backbone, afraid to face the bear head-on!

It’s the rule of the arena—unless the bear dies, we can’t leave. Brothers! Who’s with me to slay the beast that killed our comrade?”

“Yes!” the three shouted in unison.