Salvation of the Scum Fifth Prince

Damien looked at Soren silently, with a somewhat pitiful look. It seemed that this master of his only knew how to attract bad luck.

Soren felt the gaze and frowned.

Well, there was nothing to do about it. He signed up for it, and it's not as if he hadn't considered the possibility at all, although he hoped it wouldn't happen. He cursed the God of Death — which was perfectly fair considering that being's involvement — and then listened quietly. 

Brioc Laurier was included in the names shouted. Under the last name, 'Laurier', he would be part of the twelve first participants.

This also meant Soren wouldn't have to face him early on, and considering that the devilish mage had shown some interest in him, being chosen turned out to be a benefit after all. Although Brioc alone getting called on while Soren had freedom would be much more ideal, it was better not to think of 'what ifs'.

"Will you fare alright, master?" 

It was a question that sounded similar to worry, except there were no signs of such feeling behind the boy's tone. It was more like Damien was genuinely curious to see if Soren had anything up his sleeve.

Even Soren wasn't certain.

While fighting with hundreds of people wasn't something he wasn't used to, and he had done similar training in the illusion room a few days ago, real people were more complicated.

They would resort to dirty tricks, or reveal hidden strengths.

"Don't know." answered Soren honestly as he threw off his jacket, revealing the soft fabric that covered his body, giving him a regal look even if he were about to fight.

Whatever the case, he would have to face the fight. Luck was also a strength, and he, unfortunately, didn't possess it.

Thinking about the novel, it was a little frustrating.

[It was only when a few dozen people were left that Raphael entered the scene. He had carefully watched the participants in the background and understood the way most fought during this competition. The current 'champion' on the eleventh stage had fought for several rounds, displaying a significant strength, however, was weakened and had revealed most of his secrets.

Raphael grinned.

For him, a known enemy who was exhausted was like fighting a child. He didn't think twice about jumping onto the stage, underneath the blaring lights.

He would win.

Undoubtedly.]

'Unfair.' thought Soren to himself as he recalled the text. To begin with, that stupidly powerful protagonist would've made it to the top even if he had been picked as the starting twelve, yet Soren, whose body had improved dramatically but only to a certain extent, did not possess that same ability.

He sighed a little, before tying his hair into a messy bun at the back of his head, rolling his sleeves up for the battle. The elegance of his outfit had decreased after doing so, but Soren found it more convenient to be able to see his tattoo at all times, engraved into his pale skin as a 'U'.

Deciding there was nothing left to do, he walked down to the stages. Since he was the first name called out, he would be standing on the first stage, one that stood in the center of the town, surrounded by tall houses. Each stage was at least a hundred meters apart to accommodate the crowd, and to not distract the fighters.

If Soren walked in any direction for a few minutes, he would reach the next stage. 

"Hey, it's you!"

Soren paused at the voice and immediately walked faster.

"Wait, stop!"

Soren didn't stop.

Until finally, the person skidded ahead of him, balancing on the ground with a 'Woah!' along with a grin that Soren found anything but reassuring.

Brioc grinned excitedly. "We meet again!"

"No."

"What? What'd you mean no?"

"It means," said Soren as he turned around. "I'm leaving."

"Isn't that kind of rude? Come on, are you participating in the competition? You are, aren't you? Come fight at my ring!" rambled Brioc as he almost jumped in the spot, behaving in a somewhat silly manner. If only Soren didn't know that this mage was a bloodthirsty monster who enjoyed going on rampages, slaughtering all in his path.

Honestly, it shouldn't have been a surprise to see Brioc. 

Considering that this person rivaled Celine in her love for battles. But what Celine sought was the pure thrill of fighting and running wild, while Brioc sought death and chaos.

Which, to say in the least, was a little dangerous.

“Can’t.” said Soren without blinking.

Brioc frowned. “What? Why?”

“Master will be participating as one of the starting fighters.” interrupted Damien at the perfect time.

It seemed that the teenager always knew when Soren finally didn’t feel like replying at all, and interjected at that exact moment. When Damien left, that treatment of playing a polite, well-mannered butler would completely change.

Soren nodded in acknowledgement, and Brioc’s face fell unhappily. 

“Seriously? ‘Kay, then I’ll see you in the finals!”

For some reason, Brioc sounded absolutely confident in that result. While the mage’s arrogance in himself was not unwarranted, his certainty with Soren made the prince uncomfortable.

‘Ah, I want to hide away.’

He wasn’t one to run, but these people were too troublesome. Of course, peace should be put before anything else, and Brioc was the very definition of chaos.

“I’m leaving.”

“Ok, see you!” Brioc waved, stepping aside to allow Soren to pass without doing anything.

It almost gave the illusion of a childish, energetic person who wouldn’t harm anybody at all.

A shame it was the opposite.

Soren’s shoes sounded against the cobblestone as he walked up on the raised, dirt stage. Under the eyes of the surrounding people, his currently jet hair fluttered in the empty air, as his eyes coldly looked ahead.

A monitor stood at the side, assigned to prevent people from teaming up, and from the participants fleeing.

“We will begin shortly. Are you ready?” asked the person in a monotone voice. 

Most likely, their strength would rival the top fighters in this competition. Not that it mattered if they weren’t participants, since Soren didn’t intend to break any rules this time.

Ironically, even if he wasn’t ready, the battle would begin. It was more of a customary saying that all monitors asked.

There were few that wandered around the first stage anyway, most choosing to look for the more known fighters who would guarantee a thrilling battle. Soren was, after all, a strange person that alluded a noble air of laziness, rather than the natural imposing aura of participants.

The ones that did watch him were either just aimlessly watching, or intended to scope out his abilities with the belief that he was weak. In all fairness, Soren really didn't seem interested nor dressed for the blood-thirsty competition that was to come.

It wasn't his fault — Damien had chosen his clothes, and purposely or not, they had not been as low key as Soren would've liked.

Not that they were flashy, but compared to the other clothes worn fit for a fight, Soren looked as if he were going to take a relaxed stroll through the city, and possibly take a sip of wine by evening. 

There was some benefit to it.

The first dozen challengers would undoubtedly be weak — only the weakest would underestimate their opponent and recklessly charge forward simply because of his stance or clothes. Or the ones who were arrogant and overconfident in their strength, often leading to their destruction.

The first challenger stepped forward. The man seemed to be in his middle ages, wearing a tattered white shirt and pants, one hand shoved into his pocket as his red hair seemed to shine even brighter under the cave's natural gloom. Soren was a good head taller than him, peering down indifferently.

However, to this unfortunate soul, he assumed that this was just another noble trying to play around.

There were a few who chose to do that every year, only to regret it and never return. The man had been worried since many of the names he heard were participating were infamous for their abilities, but this foolish noble had unluckily been chosen as the first twelve.

Even if the man didn't win, he only had to survive for a while longer to gain some honour. For the first battle, he'd beat his opponent to a bloody pulp until he couldn't even move again!

The unlucky one, who was it really?

As soon as the monitor uttered, "Start." The red-haired man lunged forward, fists flying in reckless abandon.

The punch was strong, powered by the natural strength of the man, but Soren easily tilted his head to the side to avoid it, moving his body so it skimmed past by a graze. 

'Too predictable.'

Pure strength could not compare to endless experience.

The man's movements grew even clumsier as he grew frustrated, rushing around like a wild boar as he attacked. Soren continued to dodge them, before the man roared, "Damn! Can you only dodge?!"

It wasn't that, but Soren wanted to conserve his energy as much as possible.

There was a way he could win, and it was one of the most hated ways that existed — he only had to buy time. The person on stage would have to continue fighting until the other surrendered or died, or until the day was over. It wasn't a matter of how many one bested, but if they survived until the end. 

Some would call it cowardly, but in winning, there was no such thing. Soren cared little for 'pride'  in such cases, nor morals and integrity. He wasn't looking for honour; he was looking to survive until the end.

For several hours, he continued to dodge using the most minimal of movements.

Actually, for those who knew no better, he was a skilless coward trying to buy time. For those with perceptive eyes, they would understand the difficulty in reacting at the precise time, and moving only enough to have the attack graze the body. It also allowed Soren to hide his skills for future battles, using only the most basic reflexes.

Several powerful competitors silently recorded his name and appearance in their hearts at that moment.

This person... was definitely not weak.

Actually, one could learn a lot from his movements. From the way, he adjusted his body, to the way he reacted naturally as if they were instincts trained over time. 

Unknown to the lazy prince, while his watchers remained few, an increasing number of stronger participants took an interest in him. After all, didn’t the strong admire the stronger?

Soren managed to drag out the battle until his opponent was a huffing mess. He had to admit, this red-haired fellow was persistent. That was the reason he didn’t try to knock him down quickly. The man was strong, but Soren was both strong and wise.

The experience was the power he had that rivaled few, a secret cheat one could call it.

"I-I..."

"Surrender?" offered Soren generously.

The man was breathing heavily, hands on his knees as he looked on the verge of collapse. If Soren had been running around throwing punches for the same amount of time, he'd likely have been in the same condition. "That— No way!"

"Ok. Come at me then."

"....."

At that moment, the man seemed to understand a humiliating truth.

As the cold blue eyes looked down at him through the mask indifferently, as if he hadn't posed the slightest bit of trouble, the man felt as if he were kneeling before a Lord. The subtle pressure that didn't exist to spectators, that horrifying mysterious aura of disinterest that one could only feel after a fight, the man felt it. 

His pride screamed at him to say, "I won't surrender!" and yet, something in him warned him to stop. 

It was like when facing a deadly beast, your survival instincts would kick in and leave you immobile. A sense of dreading fear that was embedded to the depths of your soul — it was that same feeling.

He choked on his words as he huffed, and finally gave into resignation. "I concede." said the man unwillingly, dragging his tired body off the stage with another word.

Soren watched him quietly, wiping the dribble of sweat that trickled down his forehead.

Of course, even dodging took some energy, even if he limited his movements. However, it wasn't to the point of absolute death and much better compared to the time in the illusion world.

He walked to the side of the stage and looked at the monitor calmly as if the several hours hadn't done anything to him. 

"Again."

"You have a five-minute rest in between if you would like."

"Again."

Waiting would only allow others to analyze his movements, and he wasn't tired to that point either. It was better to keep up the momentum that had started, allowing his body to completely adapt without stops.

It wasn't recommended, but Soren didn't like stopping halfway through.

Not to mention, he wanted to hurry up and get these borings fights over with. At least moving around was a little interesting, if it was interesting at all.

The next challenger stepped up.

This time, it was a slender youth with dark eye bags, making him seem much older. Although his body was covered in ragged clothes from head to toe, Soren could see the bony wrists that protruded from the thin cloth. By no means was this person a fighter, nor was it likely that he was here just to let loose.

Soren narrowed his eyes. 

'Isn't that...'

"Begin." called out the monitor with a steady tone.

As soon as the last sound rolled off his tongue, the boy lunged. Soren, just as before, moved sideways before a light pain rushed up to his wrist. His eyes moved down, but the youth didn't give him time to stop.

He rushed forward again in reckless abandon, dull brown eyes showing traces of desperation. 

Another cut appeared on Soren's arm.

Then another, and another. The small scratches were enough to disturb a fighter who relied on their every sense, but not large enough to be noticed by those watching. 

The youth had a hidden weapon.

But that wasn't the main issue.

As Soren jumped backward to completely avoid the swing, watching as his shirt fluttered with his movements, black strands grazing his eyes while he watched, his frown deepened.

'This boy...'

Soren jumped back again, but the blade still reached him. The boy's speed grew faster by every moment as any sense of reason left his eyes, moving in a way that would end up harming his own body.

'He's moving too fast.'

Was he hiding some special skill?

But Soren's instincts were quite good, and he didn't notice the natural sense of violence that often followed fighters. There was something wrong, something unnatural. 

When the boy launched another attack, Soren opened his mouth and said, "Hey."

"What are you doing?"

The attacks continued without pause as if Soren's words fell upon empty ears. Then, as the boy's rags flitted once more, Soren's eyes narrowed upon a familiar sign. 

The Third Religion.