It was arm wrestling.
"Ruben!
Ruben!
You bastard, Ruben, you son of a bitch!"
A man named Ruben lost.
His wrist slammed back with a loud thud.
Some in the betting crowd screamed Ruben's name as if spitting blood.
The arm wrestling match was held outdoors.
Several tables were set in front of a tavern, and the owner, his nose red from drinking, bellowed:
"James wins!"
Someone shouted amidst the increasing noise.
"Hey, let me join in!"
Oara barged into the crowd without hesitation.
Enkrid stood idly by, turning his head to look at Aishia.
"She's always like that.
Get used to it."
Saying this, Aishia also moved toward the crowd.
She didn't seem particularly opposed to moving together.
Enkrid stepped toward the front of the tavern.
The owner, who seemed just as intent on drinking as selling, was already heavily drunk.
Yet even in his state, he recognized Oara.
"Hey!
That's not allowed!
That's cheating, Oara!"
Knights were respected by all, but they didn't impose that respect on friends.
Even knights had friends.
The tavern owner seemed to be one such friend, an acquaintance or companion of Oara.
Snorting, he voiced his objection, and Oara protested.
"Oh, why not!"
If one only saw her petulant behavior, she might seem like a mercenary who swung her sword a few times for coin.
But this woman could kill everyone here with just a few strikes.
"Come on, how could that be fair?
It wouldn't be a proper bet," said James, the victor.
He rubbed his flushed head, looking as if an octopus had taken up residence on his face, with no clear boundary between his forehead and crown.
"Do you see these frail wrists and still call it unfair?"
Oara kicked James from across the table and climbed onto a chair, shouting.
The man tumbled to the ground but quickly got back up.
"Hey, why are you kicking me?"
"Because you're annoying!"
Faced with her blunt response, the man nodded.
Was he accepting it?
Enkrid silently asked himself and continued watching.
The tavern, now free from the prohibition, had transformed into the opposite of what it was initially.
Though it wasn't quite a festival, the atmosphere was one of celebration and revelry.
"Oh, tell me again.
No one dares challenge these wrists?
Really?"
"None at all!"
"Oara, you're a knight.
Did you forget that?"
The tavern owner also chimed in.
Oara turned her gaze, her eyes hunting for someone who might say something she liked.
Among the crowd, there was a familiar soldier carrying drinks.
It was that same fellow who had been scrounging for money due to a lack of krona.
He seemed to have come here for work after his stint at the inn.
"Hey, you agree with them too?"
Oara pointed directly at the soldier.
He rolled his eyes a few times before answering.
"No, I think we should honor Lady Oara's wishes."
His response was sly, though his demeanor made it seem like a heartfelt pledge of loyalty.
Oara smiled brightly and said, "Drag him over and seat him down."
With a light jump, she leaped into the air and landed squarely on her chair with a thud.
Following her words, the surrounding men grabbed the soldier.
"Hey, hey, what's going on?"
"Shut up and sit down, you punk."
Oara laughed as she spoke, and soon the soldier was seated across from her.
"It's a bet!
If you don't like it, back out.
If the person you pick beats me, you'll get three gold coins.
If I win, you'll lead the charge in the next monster wave."
What?"
Leading the charge against a monster wave—a surge of creatures pouring out from the labyrinth—might as well have been a death sentence.
Her words drew hearty laughter from the crowd.
The soldier regretted not joining the fight when Jack the Blade had asked him last time.
Of course, even if he got the chance again, he wouldn't go.
He loved a woman who worked the alleys for a living, dreaming of taking her away and marrying her someday.
What did it matter if she'd sold her body?
Now, she offered herself only to him, and that was enough.
"Come on, man.
You only die once, not twice!
Besides, don't you want to marry Rowena?
Didn't you say you were broke?"
Oara's words spurred him on, and the surrounding jeers followed.
"Just do it already!"
"If you're too scared, give up on Rowena!"
Flustered, the soldier shouted back, "Shut up!"
He turned serious, then cautiously asked, "Are you going to pick someone from the knight order?"
"Nope."
Oara shook her head.
"You're not stepping in yourself, Lady Oara?"
"Absolutely not."
Oara's head bobbed vertically this time.
The soldier pretended to think deeply but had clearly already made up his mind.
Enkrid could tell.
Still, he acted hesitant, as if deliberating hard.
Some people were just naturally like that.
Not that it made him seem bad.
In a way, he was amusingly transparent.
His thoughts were plain to see.
Oara folded her arms, smirking, and waited.
"I'll ask Sir Oliver to represent me."
His choice prompted jeers from some of the soldiers.
Enkrid spotted a man with arms twice as thick as the others'.
Though short in stature, his stocky frame and thick jaw gave him a powerful appearance.
Smaller than Oara in height but renowned as the strongest in arm wrestling at Thousand Stone—a squire of the knight order, Oliver.
"Is that allowed?"
The soldier hesitated, gauging reactions.
He was clearly aware of the rules and cautious about his choice of a squire.
Oara waved him off.
"I accept the challenge.
Now, who should I pick?"
Feigning contemplation, Oara scanned the crowd dramatically.
Oliver patted the soldier's shoulder and took a seat, his physique radiating raw, innate strength.
Oara rested her chin in her hand as if deep in thought, then turned to Oliver.
"Oliver, you'll throw the match, right?"
"I won't lose."
His immediate response earned a decisive nod from Oara.
"My champion is you.
Come on!"
Her finger pointed right past Aishia—to Enkrid.
"Me?"
Watching the spectacle, Enkrid blinked, then asked.
Unperturbed by his interruption, Oara declared, "Or should I send Aishia?
Look at those delicate wrists of hers!"
Apparently, she had a habit of mocking others' wrists.
"If you're scared, you can back out.
You might get hurt," Oliver said.
Despite his polite tone, his expression radiated a fierce competitiveness.
Enkrid stared at him briefly before stepping forward.
Oara grinned and moved aside.
Enkrid took his seat, meeting Oliver's gaze.
"Don't worry.
You won't get hurt.
Oh, I mean you, not me.
I'll go easy on you."
"Go easy?"
Oliver's face hardened at the provocation.
"I meant I'll make sure you don't get hurt."
Enkrid's words were calm yet taunting.
"Is that so?"
Oliver's expression tightened, veins bulging prominently across his forehead.
His arms were equally thick, his veins looking ready to burst.
Enkrid rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean but solid muscles honed through the Isolation Technique.
Though not as thick as Oliver's, they were compact, compressed through Audin's rigorous teachings.
"Place your bets!"
Oara shouted.
It was time for the match.
Spectators swarmed in—those training nearby, idlers, even gamblers abandoning their dice.
"Still, betting on Oliver seems like the smart choice, right?"
"His opponent's a semi knight, though.
The demon slayer."
"You're clueless.
Even Lady Oara said Oliver's strength is unmatched!"
"So?
You don't know Sir Oliver?
He could crush even a demon's hand in arm wrestling!
Haven't you heard of Giant Arms Oliver?"
Bets began piling in favor of Oliver.
Enkrid, however, remained indifferent.
Someone placed a tankard of beer next to them.
The pewter mug brimmed with golden liquid, topped with frothy foam.
Oliver took a hearty swig, exhaled deeply, and then rested his elbow firmly on the table.
Thud.
Visually, he resembled a stone golem shaped into human form by some crazed mage.
Enkrid grabbed his own mug and drank.
It was bitter yet fragrant—a refreshing and satisfying beer.
After finishing his drink, Enkrid mirrored Oliver, placing his arm on the table and clasping his hand.
It truly felt like gripping the arm of a stone golem—unbelievably solid and heavy.
Oliver met Enkrid's gaze, but Enkrid lowered his eyes, reflecting inwardly and focusing.
Was it a lack of competitiveness that made him willing to lose?
A carefree disposition or humility?
Quite the opposite.
Enkrid was the type of person who latched onto a challenge until he won.
In short, he abhorred losing.
However, he used all his strength and willpower to ensure victory in the next battle.
If winning were possible now, he wouldn't entertain the idea of defeat for a second.
As the noise around them quieted, Oara gave the signal.
"Begin."
Both Oliver and Enkrid exerted their strength simultaneously.
Crack.
The table groaned but held together.
Oliver's strength could easily be described as monstrous.
His grip alone might justify the claim that he could crush a demon's hand.
However, sitting across from him was a man who had trained in the Isolation technique under beings far stronger than Oliver.
Enkrid unleashed the full force of his Will, channeling it to his muscles in an explosive surge.
It had been rare in his life to exert himself to this degree.
'Giant's Strike.
He employed a technique learned through swordsmanship.
Or, as Rem would call it, the strength of a giant using every ounce of effort.
"Grrrr!"
Oliver let out a groan, something between a growл and a whimper.
Crreeeeak.
The table trembled, cracks spreading across its sturdy wooden surface.
Oliver's arm started to tilt slightly to one side.
Snap!
The table finally gave way, the section under Oliver's elbow collapsing.
Even with the table's support compromised, Oliver struggled to hold on.
"Is it a draw?"
A soldier muttered.
Enkrid stopped at that moment.
Oliver steadied his breathing.
After holding out for a while, he relaxed his grip.
"I lost," Oliver declared.
"Nooo!"
A soldier, a man apparently close to Rowena, let out a wail of despair.
Yet those who had lost their bets burst into laughter, cheering enthusiastically instead.
"Wow, impressive strength!"
"Hey, big guy, is your stamina as impressive at night?"
Several soldiers cracked jokes, and someone retorted, "What good would it do you to know?"
"The soldier deserves another chance.
How about a drinking contest this time?"
Oara extended a hand of salvation to the despondent soldier, though it was unclear whether it was angelic or devilish.
"Let's do it!"
The soldier, full of determination, squared his shoulders.
Enkrid nodded approvingly, deciding there was no harm in fully embracing the camaraderie for one night.
Strong spirits were brought forth.
Enkrid drank the unnamed liquor.
By his fourth glass, the soldier's eyes glazed over, and he collapsed, shouting, "I love you, Rowena!"
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Enkrid set down his glass, smirking.
"Next."
He had no intention of losing this challenge either.
"I'm up," Oliver declared, only to pass out after a single glass.
Strong in body but weak to alcohol.
Oara downed her drink, as did Aishia, who opted for a light fruit wine.
Nearby, some soldiers started gambling with dice, while others began swapping bawdy tales.
Enkrid overheard two women making particularly risqué jokes and silently marveled at their audacity.
Even Rem eventually joined in.
"Why am I the only one left out of the fun?"
he complained, blending into the lively crowd.
Soon, Luagarne and Dunbakel also joined, turning the tavern's front into a bustling carnival.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Oara asked.
Enkrid, already tipsy, replied, "It's heartwarming."
And he meant it.
As the sun set, casting a golden glow over the town, the soldiers chatted loudly.
Some on duty cursed under their breath, "Damn it, why's everyone so lively today?"
"Unlucky bastards!"
others jeered in response.
One commander lamented his woes to Oara, and a squad leader awkwardly tried to balance praising Enkrid with not offending Oara.
One soldier confessed love at first sight to Aishia and promptly got pummeled for it.
It was a truly vibrant scene.
As twilight gave way to night, Oara wandered among the soldiers, listening to their grievances while drinking.
At one point, she left briefly and returned with a large log to replace the broken table.
"Fetch a plane!"
Her carpentry was rudimentary at best, so a petite female squire from the nearby lodge took over, skillfully crafting a new tabletop.
The night continued with laughter and revelry.
"I like this town," Oara declared drunkenly.
Enkrid, who had spent several days here, agreed.
This was a garrison where deserters were common, yet those who remained genuinely loved the place.
"A final bastion guarding the frontier—impressive, isn't it?"
Pride radiated from them.
"If we fall, the towns behind us will be destroyed.
Do you know that?
If the Maelstrom expands its territory, this entire region is doomed."
They spoke with a deep sense of duty.
"This is my job, so I do it.
What's the problem with that?"
Their commitment was unwavering.
Living on the Maelstrom's border meant constant danger, but it also cultivated mental and physical resilience.
"Ah, this is great!"
Oara shouted, clinking her glass with Enkrid's.
The alcohol-fueled night passed, and Enkrid returned to his lodging to sleep.
Rem, who had joined the drinking midway, was already snoring.
Luagarne, who had indulged in a special bug-based dish alongside the drinks, remarked, "Exquisite," clearly satisfied.
Dunbakel, meanwhile, was curled up in a corner, softly snoring.
Enkrid closed his eyes.
In his dream, the ferryman asked, "Having fun?"
It was a hundred times more unsettling than forewarnings of impending doom.
Just as Enkrid was about to respond, he woke up.
The same routine greeted him—warming up and working up a sweat outside.
Luagarne soon joined him, followed later by Dunbakel.
"Do you even sleep?"
By noon, Oara arrived again, clad similarly to the previous day but carrying a long, slender sword.
"Rest day's over," she announced.
It was a welcome change of pace.
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