God of Trash-Chapter 83. Arch ’em

“Arch ‘em swords, bad boy,” Rhys encouraged Archem with a vicious glint in his eye. He lifted his hand to match Archem’s bared sword, a chunk of dark metal barely visible in the palm of his hand.

Archem growled and swung down with all his might, putting his whole pu—ahem, self into it.

To be honest, Rhys was pretty sure fifty percent of the arch ‘em bullshit he was making up was nonsense—no, a hundred percent—but it bothered Archem, and that was what mattered. He’d say any amount of nonsense, so long as it antagonized the person on the other end. His long history as the shit-talker on coms in FPS games meant he could keep up an endless stream of trash talk mid-battle, as long as the other person got frustrated by it. And Archem was the perfect victim. He didn’t even have to hit the heights of his skills to piss the guy off. He could say literally anything, and Archem’s face would tint a deeper shade of red. Honestly, he was kind of enjoying himself… though he was pretty sure Archem didn’t share that sentiment.

Archem’s sword swished through the air, gleaming with ferocity. Seconds before it carved through Rhys’s hand, he activated the lump of metal in his hand. A cauldron formed of blue light manifested, and Archem’s sword cleaved into it, cutting halfway through—but not all the way through.

Archem stared, confused.

Rhys grinned. He waved, and with a flicker of his fingers, cast the rat projection. He was already under attack, so the rat immediately leaped up his body, swirled around his arm, and jumped at Archem. Archem shouted in shock and jumped back, pushing away from Rhys, only to find his sword lodged in the cauldron’s intent.

The rat jumped from Rhys’s arm to Archem’s and quickly clambered up to his shoulder. Archem batted at it with his free hand, only for the rat to crawl past him. It nipped at his ear, then darted away when he tried to smash it with his shoulder and head, dashing around to claw at his eyes instead. Archem yelped and jumped back, discarding his sword.

“Surprised?” Rhys gloated. Honestly, so was he, though he’d never let Archem know. He’d forcibly activated that cauldron’s intent, emphasizing not its desire to be the best cauldron, but instead its defensive desires, focusing on every part of the cauldron that wanted to hold strong against potions and resist the pressure from within itself. As a result, it had held up better to Archem’s sword than Rhys could have imagined.

He threw the cauldron intent, and consequently, Archem’s sword, behind him, off the platform, then turned to his opponent, prepared to take another attack.

Archem batted at his head and shoulders, struggling against the rat. He stumbled around, desperately keeping the vermin from gouging out his eyes. The rat scurried over his hair, reaching for them from above. He brushed it off, only for it to bite his hand, claw on, and scramble up his arm again. Panicked, he beat at it, dancing around wildly. “Get it off me! Get it away!”

Rhys raised his brows. Huh. That was easier than he’d thought. He hadn’t had to use his impurities at all, not burn them, ignite the star, or use his filth potions for evil. So much for ‘I belong in the upper brackets, not down with the trash like you!’—or whatever Archem had said. It looked like he was just as trash as Rhys was, though then again, that might be exactly why Rhys was able to handle him so easily. The trash master versus the trash? The battle was predetermined. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Mustering his strength, he spun around and hammered Archem in the chest with his heel. Archem staggered backward, still fighting the rat, and stumbled off the platform.

The referee, a Purple Dawn teacher, stepped forward and raised her hand, pointing toward Rhys. “Match—Rhys, of Infinite Constellation!”

Rhys turned to the crowd and bowed. He received little applause, nor had he been expecting much. There were dozens of battles going on right now. Most of the attention was focused on the higher-profile fights, like Bast’s, or the higher-tier ones, like Ev’s.

“Who cares? Just—get it off me!” Archem squealed, still battling the rat.

Oh, right. Rhys snapped his fingers, and the rat vanished, fading into a waft of blue smoke. Archem stumbled one last step back, then let out a relieved sigh. He dusted off his shoulders, straightened, and shot Rhys a dirty look. “What was that filthy spell?”

“Just a trashy technique. I take it you aren’t fond of rats?” Rhys asked.

“Who is?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don’t mind them so much myself. They’re clean and intelligent, and they’re kind of cute once you get over their rattiness.”

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Archem gave him a look of absolute disgust. “No.”

“More for me.” Rhys lifted his head and searched for Bast’s match. It took surprisingly long to find the man’s Solaire costume, with its white robes, when so many other students wore white. When he finally did, it was just in time to watch Bast flash across the stage and send the other student flying off the platform with a strike so fast Rhys couldn’t follow it at all. He raised his brows. As expected of Bast, honestly, but all the same—wow. His friend had really come a long way. He smiled, proud of him. Even back when they’d been picking through the trash, he’d seen that potential in Bast. Now, he was glad to see everyone recognize that same spark he’d seen.

Archem gripped his shoulder. “Where are you looking?”

Rhys pushed him off. “Anywhere but here. The match is over. Go home.”

“I refuse! I refuse to acknowledge that match. The rat frightened me, and I wasn’t able to fight at my full potential. I demand a rematch!”

“Neat. I don’t accept,” Rhys said, still walking away.

Archem jumped in front of him, baring his sword at Rhys’s neck. “Fight me, or die here like the rat you are.”

Supremely unworried, Rhys lifted one finger up and pushed Archem’s sword away from his neck. When Archem fought back, he exerted all of his full strength while pretending not to put in any effort. Archem’s grip was far from the sword’s tip, as a sword demanded. Rhys’s finger was right next to his neck. He was able to exert far more force on the sword’s tip, even if Archem had the advantage in absolute strength, and pushed the tip away from him. It was a significant exertion, and sweat sparked on his back as he pushed, but Archem had no way of knowing that.

In any case, he wasn’t worried about Archem’s threat. They were surrounded by far more powerful mages. True, some of them might be happy, or at least uncaring, if Rhys died, but the referees and random visiting teachers had no knowledge of who Rhys was, at least not at at a glance. Someone would step in long before Archem made good on his threat… if the man even had the balls to murder him in cold blood.

He looked Archem in the eye the whole time, then finally said: “No.”

“No? You—”

“If the rat frightened you, then that was still my win. If I triggered some phobia of yours and weakened your mind to the point you couldn’t fight back, that was still my win. If you have some deep-seated rat-associated trauma, that was still my win. If people know you fear something, they’ll use it against you. Harden your mind and overcome your fear, don’t demand that those who are trying to defeat you consider your weaknesses and not provoke them. Don’t blame me for making you scared; blame yourself for allowing yourself to fear rats. If you can’t overcome your fear, then become strong enough to win, even when you’re terrified. In a real battle, do you think your enemy will take their foot off your throat and not stab you in the heart because ‘oh, I’m afraid of rats, I wasn’t able to fight well?’”

Archem’s face paled. He took a step back. “That’s—this is a tournament, not—”

“It’s a tournament, yes, but what is the purpose? To find the winner of this tournament? Or to find the mightiest warrior?” Rhys pointed out.

Archem’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He lowered his sword.

Snap.

A red glowing rope wrapped around Archem’s arms and legs, binding them together. He jolted, barely catching his balance before he fell. His sword fell to the ground.

“I’ll take it from here,” the referee said, stepping past Rhys. She looked at Archem. “You’ve been disqualified from the loser’s bracket and any second rounds of tournament eligibility. Come with me. We’re going to have an interesting discussion with your teacher.”

Archem’s face grew even paler. He looked as though he wanted to run, but with a flick of her fingers, the referee’s rope lifted into the air, taking Archem with it. A miserable expression on his face, Archem was carried off. Rhys beamed and waved as the boy was carried away, laughing under his breath. Idiot.

Bast’s match was over, and so was his. Rhys spent the rest of the morning watching matches, taking mental notes on his future opponents. The muscle-bound freak he’d seen near Ernesto fought like—well, like a muscle-bound freak, while the cloaked figure ended the battle so quickly that he learned almost nothing about their fighting style, except that they used a mysterious dark flame that seemed to make their opponent faint at a touch. It was good to learn he shouldn’t touch that flame, but aside from that, he had no idea if he should fight at range or in melee, or anything else about their skills and techniques.

The first day only involved one fight per competitor, since there were so many competitors in the tournament. When there were no more interesting matches to watch, he changed his clothes and sold potato chips as Rina. He only had the stall open for two hours before he sold out. The crowds who had showed up to watch the matches were new to the idea of potato chips, fresh off their boats in a new land, and excited to try new things. Rhys was happy to capitalize on all of it, and closed his stall with his pockets full of fresh gold. He separated half of it out for Bast and headed back to his room to rest for a moment before his regularly scheduled potato chip frying session.

As he approached the door, a strange rushing sound caught his ear. He froze just outside the door, listening. It was a strange, familiar rush, mixed with a dripping sound, like water… like heavy rain.

His eyes widened. Could it be? She was maybe associated with Purple Dawn and the sound of rain, plus, she had vanished mysteriously without explanation after he’d run into her on the upper peak. He steadied himself, then threw the door open.

A dark-haired, pale vision of a woman with skin so moist it looked as though you could squeeze it and dew would come out lounged on his bed in white robes that were so soaked they were all but translucent. An umbrella was propped between the bedframe and the wall, pouring water from its underside to continuously soak the water nymph… or whatever she was.

“Hello, Lira,” Rhys greeted her.

She smiled, showing her sharp, shark-like teeth. “Hello, trashman.”