System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 303: Underground Truce
A bright, sunlit morning.
In the southeast corner of Novigrad, beside the canal, stood a converted warehouse.
Novigrad’s Fistfighting Tournament of 1261 had begun.
The contest had a long history. It first appeared several centuries ago, during the celebrations after humans defeated the elves.
Later, rulers kept the sport to temper the bodies of the people and stir their will to fight, so they could face the frequent conflicts between kingdoms. To this day, it had endured as a popular traditional pastime, second only to Gwent.
In any city of the North, outside taverns or in alleys, one could always see sweat-stinking, muscular men forming a circle, waving their fists and shouting encouragement.
“Honored ladies and gentlemen, brave and fearless pugilists, welcome to the site of the annual Novigrad Fistfighting Tournament...” The middle-aged host with slicked hair called out in a ringing voice. “Have you had enough of drowsy, long-winded, boring Gwent matches? Next, we will offer you a no-holds-barred, hearty, most thrilling contest, letting you feel up close a feast woven of blood and death.”
The host’s gaze swept like an inspection over the three great gangs around him, and over more than a hundred fierce-looking fighters. The fighters immediately answered by waving their fists and roaring in fury.
Bloodlust and male heat filled the entire warehouse.
“Are you ready, everyone? I can already see the answer on your impatient faces. But allow me a few more words.” The host smiled. “This tournament has prepared the most considerate service for our honored guests. Wine, food, everything you could ask for, and music ... No music is more moving than the shouts of warriors fighting with all their might.”
The spectators farther out flushed with excitement. Some middle-aged noblewomen could not help touching the developed muscles of fighters close at hand, then trembled all over.
At his words, the audience surged madly toward the men with bamboo baskets tied around their waists, throwing bag after bag of coins at them like newly rich merchants, spittle flying in their faces.
They were more frenzied than peasants at a morning market.
“Number thirteen, Dark Scarecrow, ten crowns!”
“Number thirty-five, Serpent-Skinned Crocodile, twenty crowns!”
“Number sixty-eight, Desert Butcher, fifty crowns!”
...
“The Underground Fistfighting Tournament has only one purpose, make your opponent lose the ability to fight, or make him surrender of his own will, then take the title of Fist of Fury.” Francesca Beryn stood on the second floor of the warehouse, both hands resting on the railing as she looked down at the seething crowd below. “But there is one premise. Within the rules ... any cheating is expressly forbidden. Offenders are directly eliminated, even have hands or feet chopped off and are banned for life.”
“What do the masters think? Does this rule make sense?”
Five yards away, on the other side of the warehouse, Roy glanced at the dense crowd of thugs around the Beggar King, the Butcher, and the Collector, then exchanged looks with his two companions.
Only he, Letho, and Kael had come to this meeting.
Orin and Flavius were still outside avoiding attention, lest someone set a trap and catch them all at once.
But he had not expected the three giants to come in person for negotiations. That was enough respect.
The Beggar King was not much different from the kindly, gentle-faced man in Roy’s memory. In the future, when sorcerers and nonhumans were persecuted by the Eternal Fire, it was this man who stood forth and, for only a meager payment, offered life-saving shelter and protection in his stronghold, Rotwood.
He hated fanaticism and discrimination of every kind. On that point, Roy rather admired him.
The Butcher’s mohawk was exactly like Kantila’s, but his temper did not seem as explosive as imagined. At least, facing the three Witchers, he and his fortress-like subordinates kept honest silence.
As for the Collector, Olof Bild, he was actually a sorcerer. The amulets and rings all over him gave off faint elemental fluctuations. His eyes were disdainful, and his expression was the most unfriendly.
That was somewhat beyond Roy’s expectations.
Those who spent day and night studying magic usually had little time to spend on grasping for power.
If there were exceptions, then according to Roy’s memory, most of them were schemers.
“Of course. Without rules and principles, would the whole world not fall into chaos?” Bald Letho answered on behalf of the Witchers. “So in our last action, we punished only the rulebreakers and harmed no innocents.”
“You spared that poor woman. Right then I knew the masters were principled men.” The cockscomb-haired dwarf waved to the side, and at once a muscular dwarven woman with a face full of beard walked out through the crowd, carrying a bottle of red wine. She filled the cups. Three Witchers, the three giants of Novigrad, each received one.
“What I admire most is principle. Just like myself. So long as no one touches my bottom line, we are all good brothers, good mates. Otherwise, I swear, I will pull that blind bastard’s guts out through his navel, tie them in a knot, and throw him into the sea to feed the sharks.”
“This cup is for the masters’ rare and precious principles.” The dwarf suddenly raised his cup.
Under the bright lamps, amid the roaring crowd, six hands raised their cups.
They drained them in one draught.
“The wine is drunk,” Olof Bild suddenly set down his cup and said coldly. “Witchers, is it not time to give an explanation? You had barely arrived in Novigrad before you defied law and order and killed one of our colleagues. Whatever the reason, you committed a grave mistake.”
“Oh, Your Excellency wants to settle accounts with us?” The three Witchers suddenly lifted their heads. Three pairs of beast-like vertical pupils stared straight at him with oppressive force.
That cold gaze pierced like knives. The Collector’s breathing hitched, and even the magic circulating inside him paused for an instant.
The men behind him immediately clamored and pressed forward.
“Everyone calm down. Lord Olof, have your people step back. Did we not agree that this negotiation values peace?” the Beggar King demanded.
The man snorted coldly, but had no choice but to rebuke his subordinates and make them withdraw.
“Masters, please stay calm. This meeting is not to assign guilt, only to seek peace. Let us put every disagreement in the open and talk plainly.”
“That is best. We do not wish to make more slaughter either,” Letho said calmly.
“We have also made inquiries in private ... about Alphonse Willie’s deeds.” The Beggar King rubbed his golden signet ring and glanced downstairs. In the middle of the ring, two muscular men with cloth wrapped around their fists had already begun beating each other. “He did indeed provoke you first and offend the masters without cause. But you directly wiped out his headquarters without even giving an opportunity for explanation, or allowing us to mediate. Was that ... an overreaction? Too savage? Right, that Cat School master is not here this time. Can you fully represent his meaning?”
“Lord Beryn, we and our Cat School brother have a life-and-death bond. Our answer is also his answer.”