Chapter 155: The Curtain Falls on the Performance, Reluctant to Part

The arena was quiet.

This silence hung in the air because, when people encounter a situation they can hardly comprehend, they simply do not know how to react.

The turn of events had been too rapid and too sudden; the great bear had gone from towering ferocity to a dying struggle in the span of just a few short minutes.

Yet this stillness was soon broken. From the first person to the very last, they simultaneously awakened to the same undeniable truth: Olaf belonged to the past, and a new arena champion had been born.

--Dovahkiin Viktor Corleone.

Then, irresistibly, cheers, applause, and the heavy, rhythmic foot-stomping unique to the Fist of Fury burst forth. The spectators joined voices in a unified chant, "Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin!"

With hands raised high, the youth stood as the victor, bathing in the glory and the roaring acclaim.

By the railing of the side gallery, the four second-generation heirs watched the victor in the center of the pit. They felt the vibrations of the foot-stamping of the Fist of Fury—the highest accolade reserved exclusively for a champion, directed purely at an individual. Since the ascension of the penultimate champion, it had been a very long time since such a ritual had taken place.

"What an incredible fellow. I genuinely want to have a bout with him if the chance arises," Svanhild murmured to herself.

Cerys frowned. "Don't be absurd. Olaf looked completely unharmed on the outside, but given that final dying state of his, his insides might have been pulverized into pulp. It must be some unique striking technique."

"That's precisely why it's worth the challenge!" Svanhild's eyes burned with eagerness.

Standing nearby, Svangerg remained entirely silent.

Hjalmar spoke in a steady tone, "Our King Bran is coming out."

Sure enough, the arena gates swung open next, and King Bran an Tuirseach of Skellige walked into the arena, followed by his elite guard.

Outside the gates, two men stood talking in place.

Master Druid Ermion: "...Don't worry, Crach. Nenneke was right; the boy is clever and steady-minded. That was the impression I got when I spoke with him the other day. He knows what he is doing, and he won't say the wrong thing."

"Skellige needs heroes, not 'legendary heroes,'" the head of Clan an Craite declared, crossing his arms.

The cheers and applause of the crowd quickly died down. Although it was rare for the king to personally step out to bestow praise, it was not without precedent, though it had grown quite uncommon in recent years because the former champion had clearly had little regard for royal accolades.

This was only the second time Viktor had laid eyes on King Bran. After personally arriving in this realm, living in this city, and gathering a wealth of intelligence, looking upon this seemingly majestic and hearty king once more gave him an entirely different perspective.

King Bran was undoubtedly unique. Among the countless Skellige monarchs throughout history, he was the first to master the art of "compromise." At banquets, using exquisite wine, affectionate words, and appropriate exchanges of interests, he bent one unruly clan chief after another to his will.

The mother of his eldest son—the Queen—was his finest partner. People said that Birna kept every suspicious rumor or action stored in her mind during the banquets, only to whisper them to her husband when they lay in bed at night.

In the present setting, facing such a man, the youth placed a hand over his chest and bowed, his etiquette and demeanor utterly flawless.

"Valiant King of Skellige, Viktor Corleone greets you." His voice was deep and solid, carrying to every corner of the arena.

Stepping up before Viktor, King Bran placed his hands on his hips. "Tell me, young man, where do you come from, and where are you bound? What is it you seek in this land?"

His voice was ringing and resolute.

The lowering head of the youth clearly caught the hidden implication in those words.

He raised his head and spoke in a clear voice, "I come from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania. Having crossed the Koraz Desert, I have come to Skellige.

"I hope that during my stay in this land, I may gain the friendship and assistance of you all.

"I shall remain briefly in this realm of warriors for a few months to purge monsters and hone my craft, before returning to my homeland."

Ermion raised an eyebrow. "Well spoken. Quite clever."

Crach grunted in a gruff voice, "Acceptable. At least he implicitly declared he has no interest in power. On the flip side, however, the fact that he'll be leaving soon might make people lose the desire to patronize him. Originally, there was even a chance he could have become Tuirseach's son-in-law."

"Or an Craite's son-in-law," the druid remarked dryly.

Highly satisfied with the answer, the king puffed out his chest and announced, "Warrior Viktor, you shall find what you seek here. I, Bran an Tuirseach, welcome you on behalf of all Skellige."

Then he paused for a few seconds: "Welcome, Dovahkiin!"

Hearing the title confirmed by the king's own lips, the entire audience erupted once more into a frenzy. The earth-shaking foot-stamping resounded to the heavens, and the name of the Dragonborn was thereby sealed.

...

That afternoon, in the arena's underground mortuary.

No sooner had they sliced open the bloated abdomen than blood gushed forth like a fountain, instantly splattering the three men and the walls in a chaotic mess.

Unfazed by the torrent of plasma, the chief coroner and his two assistants cut further inward, only for their faces to turn pale with shock, horrified by the sight before them.

"How... how on earth was this accomplished? This is impossible!"

"Incredible... the skin remains completely undamaged!"

"Yet the internal organs inside are almost entirely beaten to ruin."

"To run around with internal injuries this severe—the internal bleeding must have been like a torrential flood. No wonder Olaf collapsed so quickly."

The three exchanged glances. In their long and venerable careers, they had seen far worse scenes—such as the penultimate champion beaten to death by Olaf previously, whose viscera had been in a similarly chaotic state. The problem was that back then, there had at least been external trauma like completely shattered ribs.

Yet in Olaf's present case, bones, flesh, and skin were entirely unblemished, while only the internal organs had suffered devastating blows. Staring at one another in silence, all three found it utterly incomprehensible.

For a giant bear, to inflict such unmitigated internal damage would require nothing short of ultra-heavy weaponry. Yet the unmarred state of bones, flesh, and skin completely ruled out that possibility. Moreover, they had both witnessed the fight on-site; it was undeniably the work of mere fists.

One assistant, somewhat more imaginative than the others, suddenly suggested, "Shall we open up his head and take a look?"

Since all three had watched the battle earlier that day, the others instantly grasped his meaning.

Working together to pry open the skull, they found precisely what they had anticipated: absolute mush.

The chief coroner looked at his two colleagues, pondered for a moment, and spoke, "This technique must be a unique Eastern pugilism, where internal force penetrates muscle and fat to strike directly at the depths. It's uncertain whether defensive measures would have any effect against it.

"What is certain is that after absorbing nearly a hundred consecutive blows, almost all of Olaf's internal organs ruptured. Shall we tentatively name this technique 'Hundred-Crack Fist'?"

The assistant on the left nodded. "Agreed."

"Agreed," said the assistant on the right.

"Then I shall report this finding to the king and file it into the archives."

...

On the evening of the champion's turnover, the banquet hall of Tuirseach on Undvik was once again a scene of intertwined goblets and clinking cups.

It was a welcoming banquet held to greet a new friend of the clan—Viktor, the Dragonborn visitor from east of Zerrikania—while his friends and entourage were also included among the honored guests.

One could certainly say they were simply looking for any excuse to throw a feast, but regardless, as the pretext for the celebration, the youth was obliged to sit within, enjoying the hospitality characteristic of the isles.

Drinking deep and eating heavy meat, the experience was quite remarkable.

Much like the buffet banquets popular on the mainland, the entertainment featured wandering bards singing, jester performances, and local-style brawls.

Hjalmar gulped down a massive swig of liquor. "...Haah, don't worry, it's fine. Rarely does a banquet pass without bloodshed; once they get drunk, they start fighting. It's considered standard entertainment here."

"Yet they look like they're fighting rather fiercely?" Viktor took a small, polite sip.

"Everyone pulls their punches; they aren't going to take lives. Killing someone means paying with your life in return. Or rather, shall we go over and take a look?"

Glancing around, Viktor confirmed that Dandelion was currently establishing a new artillery position, Ciri was boasting to a few people, and Angoulême was dragging Cerys along in high spirits.

The slightly tipsy youth and the eldest son of Clan an Craite walked over to the edge of the pit to observe the brawl.

To his surprise, Svanhild stood on the opposite side, likewise watching the competition. The youth nodded to her in greeting.

The presence of the Dovahkiin drew a brief ripple of commotion, but upon realizing he had no intention of stepping into the ring, the atmosphere quickly warmed up again.

No one issued him a challenge, for Olaf's corpse was still fresh in memory; just today, under the gaze of everyone present, he had beaten Olaf to death with his bare hands.

Furthermore, he had already announced earlier that he was returning the championship title to the "Fist of Fury," meaning a new tournament would commence next month.

With the championship returned once more to human hands, there were plenty of contenders vying for it. One would have to be quite out of their mind to challenge the youth at a banquet.

...And yet, someone actually did.

"Viktor, I can call you that, right?" The speaker was Svanhild. The heroine had just finished off a massive tanked flagon of mead, and her eyes were now sparkling brilliantly.

"May I challenge you? I'm terribly keen to test out your 'Hundred-Crack Fist'!"

Blinking, the newly appointed Dovahkiin felt somewhat dumbfounded. What did she say? She wanted to test what of his?

His alcohol-fogged brain whirred for a moment before he realized they had dubbed his bear-slaying technique the "Hundred-Crack Fist." Though somewhat subtle, it was nevertheless fitting and appropriate.

Recalling when he had first invented the trick—trying to punch his own belly once and feeling nothing, only to strike a few more times and suddenly rolling on the ground in agony—the impulse to share that joy with the lady before him flared up for a second... before being swiftly suppressed.

It was simply too dangerous. A moment of carelessness and there would be no saving whoever tried it.

Noticing that everyone around was waiting for his reply, while Hjalmar, Svanhild, and the others who knew the true terror of the Hundred-Crack Fist wore grim expressions, the atmosphere suddenly grew somewhat pregnant with storm clouds.

After a brief thought, Viktor smiled, lifted two large flagons of mead from a nearby table, and gestured with them. "Very well, if you can out-drink me!"

Before his words had even faded, a hand suddenly shot out from beside him to snatch one of the flagons. "That won't do. The woman of Clan Sundvold has already had a round. To be fair, you should drink a flagon with me first."

The speaker was the little kestrel of Clan an Craite. Cerys had appeared by his side at some unknown moment, her gaze fixed on Viktor with blazing combativeness. Her previous defeat in the handshake clearly hadn't dampened her spirits in the slightest.

The youth rubbed his nose; an alchemist knows no fear. "Fine! I accept your challenges!"

And so, that night, hosts and guests enjoyed themselves to the fullest.

...

Before becoming a master of aphrodisiacs, one must first be a master of hangover cures.

--Anonymous
......

On the afternoon of the second day following the banquet, at the docks of Larvik port, Viktor and Angoulême hurried over to bid farewell to an old friend of their traveling company, the bard Dandelion.

He had successfully established yet another artillery position and given himself a strict choice of running or dying.

Fortunately, Viktor had already proven his identity as the Dragonborn, granting Dandelion freedom of movement. Coupled with the youth paving the way with crowns, he had quickly hired a thoroughly reliable ship captain willing to transport the poet back to Novigrad.

The captain's name was "Sogrois"—yes, that same bastard who was enthusiastic about spreading poetic culture while concurrently dabbling in maritime sightseeing.

The old acquaintances exchanged brief reminiscences of their "long-awaited reunion," learning that the young lord Arian, whom they had once toured with, had already departed, bestowing a reward generous enough to keep the captain living comfortably for quite some time.

Handing Dandelion the address of the "Fergus Blacksmithing Shop" along with a letter to be delivered to Yuna, and urging him to ensure the message was delivered, the Phantom Troupe bade farewell to the bard once more.

Watching the silhouette of the sail carrying him away into the distance, Viktor sincerely hoped Dandelion wouldn't stir up any further trouble. Then again, if even a Dovahkiin could be handled, the bard would likely find it hard to cause him any more grief in the future.

...

Two afternoons later, at the very same Larvik port, along the very same docks, Viktor and Angoulême—along with the scoundrel Vigi—came to bid farewell to the troupe's new friends: the an Craite siblings and Svanhild.

Originally, they had intended to stay a few more days, but first, word arrived from Hindisfjall that matters required Svanhild's attention back home. Thus, despite her lingering reluctance, she had to temporarily abandon her plan of challenging the Dragonborn.

On the other hand, the patriarch of Clan an Craite had spent a few days conversing with his uncle, King Bran, and upon concluding their business, he was returning to Great Skellige. The an Craite siblings were consequently accompanying their father back to Kaer Trolde.

Standing on the port to watch the two sailing ships recede into the distance, Angoulême waved continuously at her two new sisters. Viktor, meanwhile, pondered the conversation he had shared with Crach an Craite just before their departure—one for which Crach had specifically summoned his children to listen in.

Crach, the lord of Clan an Craite and master of Kaer Trolde, sported a mane of ginger-red hair and was known as the "Sea Boar."

As the most powerful lord in Skellige, he possessed all the traits of a hero while striking terror into the hearts of his enemies. Following the First Northern War and the destruction of Cintra, Crach had refused to sign the armistice, swearing a blood oath to make Nilfgaard pay in blood.

Thus, even though peace had been struck between North and South, Skellige continued to raid Nilfgaardian shipping lanes and burn down their riverside fortresses.

Yet such an iron-fisted figure had spoken to Viktor with utmost amiability and grandfatherly kindness.

"If nothing keeps you here, you'd best leave Undvik sooner rather than later. Meaningless flattery is ultimately meaningless; take that as advice from an elder, lest you get entangled in unnecessary trouble.

"Think about what goals brought you to the islands. No need to rush your answer to me—just remember, whenever you come looking for me, Clan an Craite will be willing to aid you. This is a debt I owe to Ciri."

Hearing Crach speak thus and mention Ciri, the brother and sister immediately straightened up. "...Father!?"

Crach waved a hand to cut off their questions, continuing, "Viktor Corleone is a sworn brother acknowledged by Ciri. I hope... you, too, will regard him as a brother, rather than as the Dragonborn."