When I decided to use the coliseum to gain experience, I set a personal rule: unless I was in a truly desperate situation, I wouldn’t use the taunting ability of my Masochistic Brat Skill.
The taunt in Masochistic Brat Skill was absurdly powerful—enough to break ga balance. It could provoke not only opponents at my level but also those far stronger than , even including demonic gods.
And when soone fell under its influence...well, let’s just say it turned them into NPC-like puppets, driven solely by the urge to “teach a lesson” to the obnoxious brat before them.
Of course, it wasn’t without limitations. No matter how broken a skill is, it’s still a kind of status effect, and people could resist it with enough willpower. The Second Queen, despite her anger, had kept her composure, which ant only soone at her level could maintain their rationality in such a state.
Though seriously, doesn’t King Soladin have a weird taste in partners?
The First Queen was a powerhouse in the ga, and Benedict once ntioned that if the Second Queen hadn’t beco royalty, she would’ve likely led her family’s knight order.
Strong won. A bit of a twisted taste in power dynamics.
…Could it be that’s why King Soladin could laugh off Lucy’s taunts?
Ahem. Back on topic. Using such a powerful skill recklessly in the coliseum would be counterproductive. I wanted to get used to the back-and-forth nature of real combat, not just show off as a power player.
So, unless it was urgent, I decided to keep my mouth shut.
‘…Maybe he’s just a bit annoyed?’
"I hope your arrogance is backed by skill."
I couldn’t argue with my ntor’s observation. The grip on Baut’s axe was taut with rage—it was no small matter.
Sigh. Maybe I should just skip the pleasantries and stay silent. Anything else seems to just make things worse.
‘Watching my reputation get torn to shreds in real-ti?’
Look at the audience—they’re glaring at as if I’m so disgrace that needs to be purged.
‘Then what is it?’
‘And that ans?’
The mischievous laugh from my ntor quickly spread to . He was right. Imagining their faces as they scrambled to justify their shock would be rather satisfying.
"Are both sides ready?"
"Ready."
‘Yes.’
“Can’t you tell? Or is that glass eye you’re wearing just for show?”
"...Then let the match begin."
As soon as the referee announced the start of the match, Baut lunged at with an aggressive charge.
A straightforward, overconfident attack, as if convinced he could simply crush with his strength.
Watching his painfully predictable move, I smiled and channeled divine power into my shield.
The downward strike from his massive axe was brutal, as if intending to split like firewood.
A weaker opponent might shut their eyes, anticipating the grueso outco.
But not .
I knew that attack wouldn’t leave even a scratch on my shield.
Clang!
The sound of tal against tal rang out, and the audience gasped.
Not at a grueso sight, but in astonishnt at the outco a small girl had produced.
Seeing the shock in Baut’s eyes as his axe bounced off my shield, I almost felt the urge to taunt him again, but I held back.
Another word, and this bald giant might completely lose it.
Ah, I keep calling him Baldy in my head.
But it’s hard not to—his gleaming scalp just catches the sunlight so annoyingly well.
Even as I mused to myself, my body acted instinctively.
With his axe knocked back, Baldy’s torso was wide open, and my mace slamd into his side with a sickening crunch.
“Ggh!”
He bit down on his lip, trying to endure the pain, but his body betrayed him. With his ribs shattered, he stumbled, struggling to hold the weight of his weapon.
Without missing a beat, I raised my mace again.
First, I struck his knee, bringing him down. As he knelt, I swung my mace toward his face.
Sensing imminent doom, Baldy squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself, but his expectations were off.
Just before impact, I stopped the mace right at his nose.
“Heh.”
The sight of a supposedly fearso brute trembling with his eyes shut was too much to resist—I let out a stifled laugh.
Using the mace’s end to nudge him over, I turned to the referee.
The referee, snapping back to attention, quickly raised his voice.
"The victor! Lucy Allen!"
Odd. Why is the crowd so silent? They cheered the other winners, yet now it’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
"That’s my girl! Well done, Lucy!"
...
Snicker.
One shout from Benedict fills the whole coliseum. With his enthusiasm, I hardly need anyone else’s praise.
On the second day of the coliseum matches, Baron Bardronel sat in the VIP box, watching the fighters clash below with a rather sour expression.
It wasn’t because anything had gone wrong.
If anything, this tournant was proceeding more smoothly than ever. Fighters, aware of Benedict Allen’s presence, sought to perform honorably before a living legend. The coliseum staff wore smiles as the matches proceeded without incident.
The event was far from failing; every seat was filled, with people even crowded on the stairs—a testant to the tournant’s popularity.
"Is that Lord Allen’s daughter?"
"She’s beautiful."
"Is she really that strong? She doesn’t look it."
"Just watch. You’ll see soon enough."
The source of Baron Bardronel’s displeasure was none other than Lucy Allen, the girl who effortlessly commanded the audience’s attention.
When she’d entered the coliseum, he hadn’t believed she’d make it far. While she was rumored to have exceptional talent for her age, she was, after all, just a child who hadn’t even graduated from the academy.
Surely she wouldn’t survive long among the Teresia Empire’s seasoned warriors.
If she could last until facing his son, all the better. But even if she lost before that, it would be entertaining enough.
However, his expectations were shattered on the very first day.
Baut, who’d consistently placed well in past tournants, was defeated without even landing a solid hit on Lucy.
Those who hadn’t seen the match might dismiss it as luck, but having witnessed it firsthand, Baron Bardronel couldn’t deceive himself.
He had seen her shield effortlessly repel Baut’s full-strength blows.
He had watched her seize openings and land decisive strikes with her mace.
He had found himself gasping in admiration as she executed a flawless sequence of attacks.
Baron Bardronel acknowledged that the rumors about Lucy’s prowess weren’t exaggerated—in fact, they might have been understatents.
Regardless of his personal feelings, Lucy Allen’s skill was undeniable.
After that, she continued her winning streak.
Dyal, who used spirits to annoy his opponents and was notorious for his hit-and-run tactics, was left powerless against Lucy’s shield.
Hanan, a noble scion who’d honed his swordsmanship through years of wandering, managed to land a aningful hit but ultimately couldn’t overco her defenses.
Even Gav, fad as a martial artist, tried to break through her shield with a flurry of blows but was worn down by Lucy’s relentless healing and resilience.
By the end of the first day’s matches, Baron Bardronel realized he’d underestimated the Allen family.
"Ah, finally, Bardronel’s son and Lucy are facing off," soone remarked nearby.
"...Yes, it seems so."
Baron Bardronel, watching his son enter the arena, forced a smile, but his heart was filled with unease.
After observing Lucy Allen throughout the previous day, he had to admit she possessed extraordinary talent worthy of the Allen na.
Her petite fra concealed knight-level physical strength.
Her skill with the shield had frustrated nurous opponents.
And her mace struck with pinpoint accuracy whenever an opportunity presented itself.
Yet, above all, it was her unshakable composure that posed the greatest threat.
Her arrogant tone, the look in her eyes that belittled her foes, and that taunting smile—these masked her true nature. But having watched her battles, Baron Bardronel knew her composure was her greatest weapon.
No matter her opponent, she never rushed.
She never charged blindly.
Her calm, calculating approach behind her shield resembled a seasoned knight more than a young girl. And so, Baron Bardronel couldn’t be certain of his son’s victory.
Surely, his son was physically stronger.
Surely, he had far more combat experience.
So, in theory, he held the advantage. But why couldn’t Baron Bardronel imagine his son winning?
“Damn it! That cursed shield!”
“Heh. You’re looking pretty desperate. But does swinging like that do anything? Think you can even scratch my shield playing knight like a little kid?”
After just a few minutes into the match, Baron Bardronel lowered his head, unable to watch his son’s humiliation any longer.
The outco was obvious. As long as Lucy Allen manipulated the match with her skillful tactics, every advantage his son held would be rendered aningless. He would exhaust himself, hamring away at her shield, only to lose.
"Keep trying. Maybe if you’re dedicated enough, I’ll let you win. Who knows?"
"Shut up! My sword isn’t finished yet!"
"Does my voice annoy you? Then silence , if you can. Can’t do it? Then just listen quietly. Like a good loser."
As the one-sided nature of the fight beca apparent, Benedict, initially cheering Lucy on, began to glance nervously at Baron Bardronel.
"Uh, Baron Bardronel… My daughter ans no disrespect, she just gets a little, uh, worked up in the heat of battle."
Benedict’s attempt to console him only deepened Baron Bardronel’s frustration, but he forced a smile.
After all, Benedict Allen was worthy of respect.
“It’s fine, Lord Allen. There’s no need to apologize.”
"...But—"
“My son lacks, while your daughter excels; what comfort could I possibly need?”
As Baron Bardronel tried to mask his discontent, the match concluded. The victor was Lucy Allen, and his eldest son lay defeated on the ground.
"...Well, now I can only hope your daughter wins the entire tournant."
And he truly ant it. Her victory would at least lessen the humiliation his family would face.
“I’d hope so too, but that might be difficult. My daughter’s certainly a genius, but she still has much to learn.”
“No need to be modest, Lord Allen.”
“No, no, Baron Bardronel. This isn’t modesty; it’s simply the truth.”
Normally, Benedict would have proudly boasted to the point of exhaustion, but not today.
Instead, he examined the roster with a cold, calculating gaze, different from how he usually looked at his daughter.
On the list, he spotted the na of a forr opponent.
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