Reborn As a Pirate - Chapter 201

Chapter 201: Sacred Duel!
Let’s rewind a few minutes to when the chaos began.

As the hundred-meter claw shattered the boundaries of the underground maze, a dense gray fog obscured Ryan’s vision. His expression tensed with alarm.

Beside him, Freni’s eyes sparked with a dark blue light, and from the ether, a spectral blue hand emerged, reaching through the fog towards Ryan.

But as the hand closed in, the fog suddenly cleared, and Ryan was nowhere to be found.

—

Ryan found himself abruptly transported from the chaos into the “Overthrow Palace.” The grand hall was eerily silent, save for the presence of “Red Kite,” who sat regally in the high seat, his gaze fixed on Ryan as he entered.

Ryan’s expression was stern as he absorbed the unexpected reality of his situation. The “Temple of Overthrow” had utilized the “Mask of Overthrow” as a conduit, whisking him away without his consent, a maneuver he hadn’t agreed to.

He chided himself internally, “Even free from the ‘Blood Oath Contract,’ attempting to seize control comes with its consequences…”

Standing before the enigmatic Red Kite, who occupied the high seat, Ryan’s voice carried a chill, “I was never informed that the Overthrow Palace possessed the capability to compel someone’s presence.”

“Apologies…” The response came in a soothing, resonant tone from “Red Kite,” whose puppet-like form belied an unexpected warmth. “It was a dire necessity, truly. I hope you can forgive this intrusion.”

“I assure you, I’ll compensate you with a gift that will surely meet your expectations, Mr. Ryan Leland.”

A hint of relief softened Ryan’s features. While the forceful summoning irked him, the promise of amends, especially considering the generous gift after his last mission eased his ire.

“Alright, let’s skip the formalities. What’s so urgent that you had to pull me here without warning?” Ryan asked, his frustration ebbing slightly.

Usually, operatives of the Temple of Overturn used code names, but “Red Kite” addressing him by his full name, Ryan Leland, felt unusually personal.

“We’re pressed for time, so I’ll be succinct,” Red Kite began, her voice urgent. “Mr. Ryan, I require your assistance as a [juror] in a [holy duel].”

“The duel is with Pope Libra, Saint Berg Cavendish.”

Ryan’s immediate response was a flat refusal, “You’re asking me to sign my own death warrant?”

He was vaguely aware of the Libra Pope’s formidable reputation as a seasoned fourth-level extraordinary professional, far beyond any novice at that level.

Despite recent victories, such as defeating the “Skeleton Knight” and strengthening his abilities, Ryan was acutely aware of his limitations. Facing someone of Pope Libra’s caliber seemed a fool’s errand.

“The odds would be insurmountable.”

“Hold on, don’t rush to decline,” Red Kite countered with a reassuring smile. “You should know I wouldn’t risk my life lightly. As a participant in the [Sacred Duel], your life and mine will be bound together. Do you think I’d gamble with our lives so carelessly?”

Ryan’s brow furrowed, “Wait, are you the Water Drop Princess?”

Recent events had broadcasted Princess Ariel’s actions with the “artifact – the sacred scales” to everyone on the island, leading him to connect the dots.

Red Kite shook her head gently, “I won’t deceive you. I am not the Water Drop Princess. My true identity is irrelevant to our current situation.”

“You can call me Miranla.”

Returning to the matter at hand, she clarified, “I intend to use the ‘Artifact – Holy Scale’ to cap the spiritual power within the Holy Duel Arena to the third level. This levels the playing field, reducing the Pope’s advantage.”

Her explanation hinted at a strategy that relied not just on brute strength but cunning and resourcefulness, an approach that might just turn the tides in their favor.

Miranla, known as “Red Kite,” spoke with a compelling earnestness, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “I’ve observed your prowess in the depths of the underground labyrinth. Among those confined to the third level, I’ve yet to encounter anyone as formidable as you.”

Her gaze was steady and persuasive as she continued, “That’s why I’m reaching out for your assistance. Should you agree to help, you’re welcome to claim any treasure from the vaults of the Saint Thomas Palace.”

She paused to let the gravity of the offer sink in, then added, “Within those vaults lies a high-level rare artifact, the national treasure of the Santos Kingdom. That’s the best I can offer you.”

“So, Mr. Ryan, what do you say?”

Ryan absorbed Miranla’s words, his mind racing with the implications. Spiritually capping participants at the third level didn’t necessarily cripple a fourth-level professional, who would still retain their advanced professional skills. These abilities could allow them to outperform the typical constraints of a third-level fighter.

Yet, for Ryan, this proposition held a different allure.

If his opponent, none other than Pope Libra was also restricted to third-level spirituality, then even this formidable adversary might be within his reach.

After a reflective pause, Ryan locked eyes with Milanla, his decision clear. “I accept your invitation.”

His choice was driven by the substantial reward, certainly, a treasure trove from centuries of accumulation at the Palace of Santos was too good to pass up, potentially holding the key to restoring his [Unnamed Ship Sculpture]. But beyond material gain, there was the matter of his professional growth.

As the [Gluttony Hunter], advancing required the successful execution of a “Joy Ceremony” during a grand event, witnessed and approved by a large crowd. Given the widespread attention on the sacred duel due to the light screen, victory here would effortlessly fulfill that requirement, observed by thousands.

Of course, the risks were non-trivial. Pope Libra’s renown as a seasoned fourth-tier professional was well deserved.

But what venture in this world was without peril? Especially now, with the Black Knights ever on his heels, every chance to enhance his capabilities was crucial, provided the risks were manageable.

Upon hearing Ryan’s acceptance, Milanla’s smile broadened, warmth touching her usually impassive features. “Then, it’s all in your hands now.”

“My Purple Wind Knight.”

—

In the Holy Duel Arena, under the gaze of countless spectators.

Ryan, his identity obscured by a purple mask, slowly lifted his head. Across from him stood an elderly man adorned with a regal crown, his bearing imposing.

“You are my opponent, correct?” Ryan’s voice, though light, carried across the arena, his tone tinged with a confident smile.

“Pope of Libra, Saint Berg Cavendish.”

With a resonant “clang,” Ryan drew his greatsword, the sound slicing through the murmurs of the crowd. His aura surged, a potent mix of vigor and spirit, rising like a beast unleashed, ready to challenge the skies.

————————————–

On the remote island, as the Demon God of Lipal descended into a sudden, eerie silence, the horde of monsters that had surged from the depths of the broken seal froze in place. They stood as motionless as statues, caught in an invisible web of stasis.

This unexpected pause granted a brief respite to the island’s inhabitants, who had endured the brunt of a catastrophic onslaught. The turmoil had erupted so swiftly, so violently, that they had found themselves utterly unprepared.

Survivors gazed upwards, their eyes fixed on the luminous barrier that shimmered above. Their faces were etched with a mixture of awe and profound relief, a tapestry of emotions too complex for words.

Above them, the Holy Duel Arena unfolded. Radiant beams of golden light cascaded from the sacred artifact known as the Sacred Scale, suspended high in the heavens. The light scattered like a celestial mist after a rainstorm, enveloping the scene in a hazy, sanctified glow.

The last embers of the summoning circle flickered out, carried away by the gentle breeze. Ryan lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the figure across from him, the Libra Pope, adorned with the crown that symbolized the zenith of divine authority. His face was an unreadable mask of solemnity.

“So it’s you…”

The Pope’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice devoid of emotion yet tinged with a grudging respect. “You are indeed commendable for having overcome the priests of the Ancient God Association.”

“But…” His voice trailed off, heavy with implication.

“Is this the extent of your confidence in challenging me?”

As he spoke, his eyes shifted to Miranla, the Fire Witch, who sat quietly on a stone pillar, her appearance frail yet her smile enigmatic.

Suddenly, a sharp hiss cleaved the air, a blood-red streak that sliced through the golden light, weaving a tapestry of crimson and gold across the sky.

Behind the Pope, a massive fox tail, remnants of a vanquished deity, unfurled protectively. But it was not enough.

“Crack!”

Purple blood sprayed like petals in the wind as a blood-red spiral spear halted mere inches from the Pope’s forehead. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

“This bears the mark of divine relics…”

His gaze upon Ryan shifted, now filled with a new-found seriousness as he materialized his golden scepter. “I underestimated you.”

Ryan’s expression remained stoic, his eyes revealing a mix of surprise and contemplation. It was the first time his “Spear of Blood” hadn’t completely penetrated an opponent’s defenses. This was merely a probing attack, yet it was evident that Pope Libra had also not expected such force. The brief exchange hinted at the immense power that lay within each combatant.

Ryan’s attention was drawn back to the giant fox that loomed behind Pope Libra. Miranla’s voice, calm and resonant like that of the mythical “Red Kite,” whispered into his ears.

“These are the remains of the Devil of Separation, Ancient god, the origin of the calamity that sealed the town beneath the island’s labyrinthine caves.”

“The divine essence of Ancient god lies in resurrection, an almost eternal regenerative force.”

“After a millennium in confinement, the soul and divinity of the Demon God Lipal have been fragmented by time’s relentless scourge, leaving behind nothing but a hollow shell. Yet, even in this state, he possesses a regenerative capacity beyond mortal reach.”