The breezy forest at sunset should have been quiet and peaceful. Pen | fun | pavilion www. ｂｉｑｕｇｅ。 infoThere seems to be some kind of magical magic in this forest, which makes everyone in it more relaxed than usual. This inexplicable 'power' was equally effective for the Saatchi people, who were always as vigilant as cheetahs in the wilderness, and when they arrived in the forest, they gradually learned to sleep against the wall in the absence of enemies.

However, Alain must admit that everything in front of him was the most lively scene he had ever seen.

The arena is made up of logs split in half and cut into logs several meters high, with wooden stands erected outside. The stands were filled with spectators, who were constantly cheering, cheering, or swearing in the Saatchi language. The screeching sound of knives and axes colliding, and the muffled sound of sharp weapons cutting into flesh, came from within the field from time to time, occasionally mixed with hoarse roars or cries of pain.

Alain was no stranger to all of this, even if it was the first time he had seen it. The elders of the clan had told him that similar 'events' were held several times a year, organized by the largest clans, individually or jointly. The contest was contested not only by strong captives they had plundered from the South, but also by those of their own clan who wanted to gain glory and status quickly.

Regardless of life or death, it is common to fall into disability. Yet every Thatch who competed considered himself the one who made it to the end, albeit often the other way around.

There was a loud cheer, and Alain tried to listen, and was pleasantly surprised to make out his father's name.

"Let's get over here!" He hurried to the stands, showed the pieces of wood he had received from the soldiers of the First Army, handed the two prisoners to the nearby shirtless guards with white oil paint on their faces, and then managed to find a position in the back row, standing on tiptoe and looking out over the field.

His 'father' was standing in the center of the field. A worn-out two-handed battle axe was in his hand, blood still dripping from the blade to the ground. Father's body didn't have much blood on his body, and he didn't appear to be hurt, and Alain let out a long breath, feeling a stone in his chest finally disappear.

Four guards ran into the arena and dragged several people who had fallen to the ground out of the field. Their bodies were soaked in blood and they were clearly badly wounded. Two of them appeared to be twitching slightly, while the other two were unconscious - or dead.

"Well, just now, the great warrior, the Bear King of the Wasteland, Larum Lenor, has won again!" The man with a crown of antlers on his head in a cloak of animal skins dyed with oil paint shouted loudly as he waved the colorful battle axe in his hand, "The next round is the last one!" This time, he'll face eight formidable opponents at the same time! If he manages to survive and win, he can claim one of the highest honors of the Thatchs! He will be the clan's recognized warrior, and Garon Locke, the leader of the coalition forces of our great King of the Frostwolves, will grant him a wish in person! ”

Alain froze in place, the excitement aroused by the surrounding atmosphere quickly dissipated, and cold sweat soaked his back at some point. He didn't care what kind of glory his 'father' would get, and there was only one thought in his mind: in the next moment, the man who had protected the clan for twenty years would be alone against eight powerful enemies.

'Father' is not a wizard, just a warrior. In Alain's cognition, no matter how powerful a warrior is, it is extremely difficult to defeat eight with one. He seriously considered rushing into the arena to help 'Father', but reason - and the words from Glock - prevented him from doing so.

"Alain, what's wrong with you?" The boy blinked, "Are you worried about your uncle?" But as you said, since my uncle is here, he is sure. ”

This reassuring sentence somewhat eased his anxiety. He let go of his clenched fists slightly, licked the lower lip that he had unconsciously bitten just now, and tasted the slight saltiness.

The enemy marched into the arena in two columns, including five Sachi warriors and three Erna captives. They glanced at each other, dispersed in tacit understanding, each armed and carefully formed a semicircle, facing the only opponent in front of them.

On the battlefield, they are enemies. In the arena, they can also join forces to survive - at least until the battle is over.

Alain forced himself not to pay attention to them, and turned his gaze to Larum once more. Dozens of meters away, he saw his 'father' raise his head and meet his gaze.

He didn't know how his father had found him in the sea of people, but he could clearly discern the meaning of that glimpse. The 'father's expression was expected, with sighs and helplessness, but there was no blame.

Larum shook his head slightly, as if to say something. The stands were so noisy that Alain couldn't hear a word.

"Get ready—" The man with the antlered crown raised his long-handled battle axe and swung it to the ground, "Come on! Kill them! ”

The battle began.

Larum raised his tomahawk and stood still in all directions, with no intention of taking the initiative to attack. The eight men on the opposite side looked at each other for a moment, and the two Elna men took their short bows knowingly and aimed their arrows at the man's vital point; The remaining six men clenched their melee weapons and slowly approached Larum.

The man shook his head.

"As comrades-in-arms, you don't know what trust is." His voice was deep and penetrating, faintly overpowering the noise in the venue, "You like this have no chance of defeating me. ”

The next moment, the man turned into a galloping bull and swooped down on the person on the far right. The two Elna archers let go of their bowstrings, but with a casual swing of his tomahawk, Larum struck the flying arrows to the ground.

The man on the far right saw that the situation was not good, and hurriedly set up his weapon and tried to retreat to open up the distance. The man seemed to have anticipated the other party's response, and his body turned sharply to meet the warriors of his clan who were chasing from the other side, and his axe slashed down on his head. The blow was far faster than the man had expected, and he didn't have time to raise his hand to parry, and the tomahawk had already slashed into his head, killing him.

Larlum swung the axe blade and flung the corpse sideways towards his 'original' teammate. The seven remaining warriors each tried to dodge, revealing a flaw in their well-formed formation. Naturally, the man could not let go of such an opportunity, and he once again pounced on the man who was forced to be left alone, repeating the scene of a moment ago.

It was only then that Alain realized that the 'father' was not talking about it. He still underestimated his 'father' - or overestimated his own vision.

Each of these warriors can be called powerful, but in battle, they think about their own lives more than the outcome of the duel. This greatly reduces their cooperation, and the 'father' can use tactics or tricks to force the opponent to disperse and break them down.

However, this kind of thing is easier said than done. Only the best fighters will be able to seize every small opportunity to gain the upper hand in outnumbered battles, and Larum is just that.

The battle lasted less than three minutes. When the last opponent tried his best, and finally Larum broke his hands with the back of an axe, and had no choice but to admit defeat, the entire arena was boiling.