With my victory over Bardict, the Sprex Gladiator Troupe's fame soared even higher.

Several members had gained recognition, and even begun attracting their own fans.

Surprisingly, my fan base seemed to consist largely of aristocratic daughters and merchant heiresses—likely drawn to what they perceived as my clean, non-lethal image since I didn’t slay my opponents outright.

The Royal Capital Gong's street vendors had even started selling items like "Tyrant's Skewers" and "Tyrant Fur Garments." Strangely, they were flying off the shelves.

However, the loss to the Sloyder Gladiator Troupe had weighed heavily on the team, and in the sixth match on the morning of the thirteenth day, the troupe suffered another defeat, losing 2–3 against the Stunner Gladiator Troupe.

Now, only the seventh and eighth matches on the fifteenth and twentieth days, respectively, remained before the ninth and final match.

The upcoming seventh match on the fifteenth was against the Bearhug Gladiator Troupe, led by none other than Cradle.

On the day of the seventh match, the atmosphere within the Sprex Gladiator Troupe was complex.

Cradle, who had once been a key member and comrade, was now appearing before them as an opponent.

While Sprex was off retrieving the match orders, I sat in a corner of the waiting area with Emera.

"…Yamato, can you fight Cradle?"

"Of course, no problem."

"I’ll cheer for you, and I want you to win, but… I didn’t want you two to fight like this," Emera said in a trembling voice, sniffling as she spoke.

I gently patted her head. "Don’t worry. Leave it to me."

Hearing this, Emera gave a faint smile and leaned against me, her tension easing.

There was no way I could betray that trust.

Steeling my resolve, I prepared for the match.

After a while, Sprex returned to the waiting area in a hurried, uncoordinated dash.

"Hey! Matt! Look at this!"

He thrust a wooden board in front of me.

It was the match order, and both Cradle’s and my names were listed—but not as I had expected.

Cradle was listed as the third fighter, while I was placed last, as the fifth.

"…Cradle’s supposed to be Bearhug’s poster fighter," I muttered.

Sprex frowned and nodded.

"Yeah, in every match so far, he’s taken the spotlight in the final bout. But today, he’s not. Could it be he didn’t want to fight you and swapped spots?"

"Can they even change the order like that?"

"Sure, it happens when someone’s injured or worse. Even something subtle, like a hidden fracture, can justify a change. But this is the Sword Tournament, meant to be shown to the king. Usually, the main event features the top fighter. It’s a point of pride for a gladiator troupe," Sprex explained, then snatched the board back.

"Your opponent’s the original Bearhug poster fighter, Bulld. Maybe Cradle and Bulld fought over the position and Cradle lost?"

The possibility of Cradle losing surprised Emera, who gasped.

"Is Bulld really that strong?"

Sprex gave a slight nod. "His personality’s a mess, but he’s undeniably tough. He’s been in the Gladiator Tournament multiple times and always fought as the main attraction."

While listening to Sprex, I glanced toward the stage area.

Bulld’s strength would become clear once I faced him. I didn’t think Cradle would avoid fighting me, but I also couldn’t imagine him losing unless his opponent was exceptional.

"…No point overthinking it," I said, shifting my mindset as I went to check on the other fighters preparing for their battles against the Bearhug Gladiator Troupe.

Unfortunately, the pressure of facing Cradle as an opponent seemed to weigh heavily on them. In the end, only one of our fighters managed a victory.

Cradle, as expected, claimed a decisive win, showcasing his usual strength and leaving a powerful impression.

"…Good luck," Emera whispered, her encouragement tinged with unease, her face shadowed with worry.

She seemed troubled by the contrast between Cradle’s usual dominance and the looming presence of Bulld.

"I’m off," I said, smiling to reassure her before heading toward the stage.

As I stepped onto the arena, a thunderous roar of cheers enveloped me, the sheer volume pressing down on my body.

But as the cheers reached a peak and I raised a hand, the noise rapidly subsided.

I felt a presence behind me. Turning, I saw a figure standing before the opposing gate.

It was a man clad in mismatched light armor, wielding two massive cleaver-like swords. His long, dark brown hair spilled wildly from a helmet shaped like a skull.

This was Bulld, the Berserker—a name earned through his ruthless, unorthodox fighting style.

Bulld’s reputation for disregarding convention made him a challenging opponent. Few dared to face him outside of monster battles, which added to his cult-like following. His strength and violent charisma had earned him a spot in the Sword Tournament.

As Bulld crouched low and launched himself forward, the crowd erupted into cheers, as if this sudden attack were an anticipated spectacle.

Bulld’s movements were erratic, his laughter maniacal as he charged at me with surprising speed.

"Ka! Kakahaha!"

His distorted grin and unnatural laughter matched his wild approach.

I stepped back, swinging my sword to disrupt his timing, but Bulld parried with one cleaver and rolled diagonally across the ground.

Before I knew it, he was at an angle to my front, already raising his sword.

Impressive.

I nearly praised him aloud.

I blocked his strike with my shield, countering with a kick to his midsection. Bulld tumbled backward, but not without skill—he had raised a knee and curled his body to absorb the blow.

His reflexes and vision were razor-sharp, his technique honed.

"Ka!" Bulld laughed, springing to his feet and charging again.

Our clash continued, each strike and counter showcasing Bulld’s unique, almost feral style.

He was a challenge unlike any I’d faced—a gladiator in the truest, rawest sense of the word.

"Ka! You’re strong!" he shouted mid-battle, grinning wildly.

"You can talk?" I replied, surprised.

His eyes widened briefly before he burst into laughter.

"Interesting! Very interesting!"

"You’re not half bad yourself," I said, deflecting his twin blades while preparing my next move.

Bulld’s recklessness left gaps in his defense, which I exploited.

With precise timing, I managed to disarm him and execute a crushing hold, using my own body to lock his movements.

Pinned and immobilized, Bulld let out a guttural scream as I tightened the hold, his body arching in agony.

The crowd roared in approval, the arena alive with energy.

Finally, I slammed him into the ground, shattering his helmet and leaving him sprawled unconscious.

Rising to my feet, I raised my hands to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers.

The Bearhug Gladiator Troupe claimed victory with a 3–2 score, but this match would be remembered for the storm it stirred.