Salvation of the Scum Fifth Prince

Deimos still hadn't regained conscious after the Death Saint healed him. It was almost as if he were in a worse state than before, if not for the colour that had returned to his cheeks.

Celine had said simply, "Well, he was pretending to be fine, so the healing process knocked him out. It's fine, he's alive, trust me!"

Of course, Vincent looked hesitant and suspicion — though Soren couldn't blame him for that. Celine wasn't exactly the most trustworthy person, nor the most reliable from appearance, even if her strength was extremely high.

Anyway, she didn't want to do much more talking, dragging Raphael out by the arm.

Or at least, tried to, only for him to be like an unmovable rock. Only once she let go did he follow behind her to who knows where.

Damien's eyes had lit up, and Soren ended up dismissing him.

The boy probably was interested in watching the fight between crazy and crazier.

So now, Soren was a pitiful boy, stuck in a room with a comatose beast, and a silent beast.

Just kidding.

Soren himself was more dangerous than the both of them combined — for his lacking sense of justice. It was his leisure indifference to most things, children and cute animals excluded, that made him one to be weary of.

He glanced at Deimos' pained, but sleeping expression to confirm that he was indeed saved, and headed toward the door.

It was rather anti-climatic, but some things were just that way.

Though he had managed to discover that it had been mages that attacked the Second Prince. Celine has said she absorbed the traces of mana left in Deimos' body. It was a lucky coincidence that the mana was compatible. Unless it was common in this world, though Soren wouldn't know.

"Wait."

Soren ignored the voice, turning the handle.

"I said wait, Soren." repeated Vincent again, eyebrows furrowed as he grabbed the younger's arm.

Soren frowned, although really, he was always frowning, wasn't he? "What?"

".....for saving Deimos, thank you."

"...?" Soren's mouth slightly opened in surprise — a word of thanks was not what he had expected.

To scare Soren even more, Vincent continued, "And I apologize for my words."

Soren stared at him dumbly, shocked. Well, it was true that humans were creatures of surprise, and to understand somebody properly, you could only become them. Thus, there was not a single person who had no secrets.

Even so... Soren felt he had misjudged Vincent's character.

Not that it was surprising, since his ability to understand people was less than that of an ant.

Worse than an ant.

He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

He paused and then said, "Okay." He then moved to leave again, but Vincent stopped him once more.

"Raphael. You made a bet with his strength, but how did you know of how strong he is?"

Ah, the ever-so observant Vincent, of course, he had to ask.

Not that Soren had to answer.

Instead, Soren asked, "Do you know how strong he is?"

"He is undoubtedly stronger than any guess I could make."

"And how do you know?"

"I am able to sense it."

"Oh." Soren twisted the handle. "I sensed it too."

".....that is unrealistic considering everything. You do not have the power to do so, and cannot suddenly gain it."

"How well do you know me?"

"What?" Vincent looked taken-aback.

Soren continued, "We aren't close, so there are things I've hidden from you."

Suddenly, Vincent couldn't say anything to refute it — the same silence as they had during their last conversation. The First Prince had almost forgotten.

Well, almost. Forgetting the change that occurred so suddenly in his brother was impossible.

"Oh, I won't be eating dinner tomorrow or the day after." said Soren suddenly, interrupting Vincent's thoughts.

Soren had actually planned to ask Damien to inform them, as he didn't know what the aftermath of the fighting competition would be, and didn't want to deal with questions.

Since Vincent had pulled him aside, he might as well ask now.

Vincent's lips drew a thin line as he asked, "Why is that?"

"Busy."

"Busy with what, exactly, Soren?"

Soren pushed the door open. "The usual. I haven't gone out in a while to play."

It wouldn't have been strange to hear a little while ago, but from the Fifth who had changed in ways that couldn't be explained, and that bland, indifferent tone when speaking, it became incredibly strange.

"I recall warning you not to cause any trouble."

"Not trouble, just fun." replied Soren as he finally tired of the conversation and pushed the door open without another word.

Vincent once again stared at the disappearing back and frowned.

But who was Soren to know?

Well, more like, would he even care?

He strolled out, making his way to his room. Damien had prepared a disguise tomorrow, and Soren could use his pretend identity once more.

As for his name, 'Count Raphael', he decided to keep it in the end.

Raphael was already suspicious of him, so it mattered little. To change his identity would be the most suspicious thing he could do, and he didn't know what sort of information Raphael could gather.

That hippo with the luck of leprechauns, fated to have run-ins with the powerful, fated to gain precious artifacts.

Only not fated to be successful.

Maybe he wasn't so lucky after all.

Thinking that, Soren almost smiled. He wasn't one to find joy in another's misfortune, but Raphael had a way of annoying him, to the point he thought of that popular acronym in his old world: 'LOL'.

He sprawled across the soft duvets and closed his eyes. It had been a tiring day... even though he had done nothing but bicker with people.

Not that he's call it bickering — it was more like he was being an honest, good-mannered adult while others argued with him.

Because of course, he wouldn't argue with other people.

If Raphael heard his thoughts, he would probably also use the acronym: 'LOL'.

By the time Soren woke up again, Damien was already waiting for him with his clothes laid out on a dresser. The Prince felt a little lazy as he rolled over, squinting at the teenager with bleary eyes.

Did he want to move?

No, he didn't want to move.

He walked somewhere along the fine line of lazy and active, dependent on his mood. Though he typically showed a rather sleepy appearance.

A slender arm stretched out, grasping at the side table as he found the bag of candy he had bought.

During the time in the training room, he had gone through a few bags, since they helped him stay steady on his feet. Actually, Soren was a little surprised he hadn't gotten sick of the flavour, as if someone had specially handcrafted it for him.

Through half-open eyes, he sat up, ignoring the messy mop of white on his head as he absentmindedly chewed on a candy.

Damien watched silently as always — he had already witnessed such a scene.

Finally, having finally woken up, Soren moved to get ready.

Like any other battle, there were several rounds to the competition. Twelve fights would take place at the same time, and the winner would keep fighting until they survived to the end. Then, the twelve winners would move onto the semi-finals, until the top two competed for first place.

The longer you stayed in the ring, the greater of a disadvantage you would be in. The glory of staying on from the beginning was incredible, but not worth it.

The smarter and stronger competitors waited toward the end to fight — when their opponent was tired, but they were in their best condition. It wasn't exactly fair, but one shouldn't expect much from an illegal competition.

However, the first person was picked at random, and often, they weren't the strongest.

For that reason, it would get the battle going, with many attacking because of their belief in winning, or out of arrogance. Sometimes even the strongest would arrogantly charge first, and some even reached the finales. Soren believed in his strength, but he knew the limitations of his body and wouldn't recklessly take action first.

If he died, nobody would realize. Not that he could, of course.

The fighting ring was located in an old, abandoned building on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Once, a grand estate had stood there, but in time, things had changed and the building was left alone.

Underground, the fighting ring thrived.

It was almost like a small town, even, which one couldn't even fathom imagine how it had been created. The most probable answer was dwarves, masters of architect and natives to the ground.

However, even Vincent was unable to discover the secrets to the illegal town, nor the solution to closing it down.

Whoever built the area and also continued to fund it was a power above the Crown Prince of Qazia.

Though for what reason, it couldn't be guessed.

"Let's go." said Soren, dressed in a dark overcoat, draped over his shoulders that was lined with delicate blue.

It was clipped over his shoulders, held by a single sea-blue gem that seemed to carry the mysteries of the ocean depths.

Underneath, he dressed in clothes suited for fighting: knee-high combat boots with enough space to move comfortably, and enough girth to stay stable. Followed by long, slim fitting black pants and a loose black shirt with a single blue ribbon.

He had wanted a more low key look, but Damien had said that for his noble identity, a mysterious, not-too-fancy yet still luxurious look would suit him.

The teenager had also made a deal with Lydia Jones, the woman who had sold him the candy, and bought flexible, breathable fabric that still looked expensive.

Well, it was relatively expensive.

But when Damien came back, he said, "It was free, master."

Soren, of course, had asked why.

In response, Damien said, "It was an apology. For using charm magic on you, didn't you realize?"

"Oh."

He hadn't realized. Although he thought the woman was oddly beautiful, which she was, magic or not, he didn't think any magic was used on him. Soren never had an interest in appearance, but he assumed that the original's emotions caused that appreciation.

The reason behind it, too, he cared little to figure out. He had mentioned the truth behind Lydia Jones' identity as a warning if she dared to cross him, and she had likely figured him out as well.

In business, the most important thing wasn't if you could trust the other person, but if you could understand them.

With understanding came the best methods to deal with the other.

Well, it did no harm. Free clothes were free clothes, and this prince was broke.

Extremely so.

The proper reaction for that, Soren believed, was: 'T^T'.

What he didn't realize was that the charm magic had failed on him. Lydia was not one to do things half-heartedly and didn't take anybody she acknowledged lightly, thus casting a potent magic that failed.

Well, he'd learn about that, eventually. Maybe. Who knows?

Soren had asked if Damien was interested in the battle, to which the fox replied, "I am sorry, Master. My skills are not adequate enough to participate."

Which, of course, was complete and utter nonsense.

That scheming little fox.

Little in the sense he probably had more muscle than Soren under those long-sleeved clothes, but hey, let's not think about that.

Soren was still gaining muscle, okay?

Though most likely, Damien was more interested in lingering with the crowd and having a front-row seat for all the battles. He enjoyed fights like any other, but the teenager was not as bloodthirsty as Celine, and preferred watching.

"You confirmed the princes will not be in the area?"

"Yes, I have, master. Would you like to change your identity, as Vincent may have recognized you in the previous auction?"

Soren shook his head. "Leave it."

"Understood." replied Damien politely.

The ride to the location didn't take long, and security was lax. It hadn't taken long to enter the building and be led to the underground area from the hidden shaft underneath the stairs.

Soren confirmed his identity as a fighter, blue eyes observant under his jet mask. The entire area was crawling with people, wandering around and exploring, or getting ready for the battle. Many took the opportunity to sell items, to make secret deals under the darkness of this town.

After all, once the competition was over, the town would mysteriously shut down and nobody would be able to answer. It was the safest place for crime, but also the most temporary.

Throughout the town were several stages, spread out across on display.

Tomorrow, Soren would stand there.

However, as he maneuvered through the crowd, he could feel several stares boring into his skin. Most of the participants were returners, hoping for another chance at glory, or even for the newer challengers, they often would have some fame to their name.

But 'Count Raphael' was a person who had appeared out of nowhere, eluding a sense of cold elegance that could not be faked.

Though Soren wasn't trying to do that, not at all.

He glanced around and approached a decent-looking person in the crowd. "Hello, I'm a participant. Where do I go?"

A young man turned back towards him, eyes glimmering with curiosity. "Oh... I've certainly never seen you before. You're also a participant?"

The person had a charming face, with youthful features that made him seem much younger than he likely was. Chocolate strands of hair dangled thoughtlessly in messy tumbles while the purple orbs glowed with a hungry interest.

An interest that was unlike that of Damien's curious eyes that seemed to mercilessly pierce through the tallest of walls, but an interest that was like looking upon prey, like a hyena trying to seek out its prey.

For some reason, Soren felt it looked familiar.

"Yes."

The man looked more interested — a look that reminded Soren of a certain crazy saintess. "Oh~ I can tell, you look quite strong!"

"...ok."

"Come on, such a boring answer, aren't you more excited? You can go wild, run free~"

"Not interested."

"Then are you interested in the prize? Is it the money, or the opportunity at a job, I wonder?"

"Job?"

Soren didn't remember hearing about that in the book, but thinking about it, Raphael had been one to ignore the boring speeches and rules, and also had left after gaining what he had wanted in the battle without waiting for any other news.

The other's violet eyes gleamed. "Don't you know, Mister~ Whoever's backing the fight had gotta be powerful... isn't that interesting?" Then he laughed and tossed his hands behind his head casually, thinking. "For the commoners here, a job opportunity that could give them enough gold for a lifetime or two... that's the real prize."

"Oh. I'm not interested."

"Well, didn't think you'd be." laughed the baby-faced man. "Considering how you dress and all, but..." He leaned in close, a wide smile spread across his lips as he asked, "How exactly does a noble that's never been heard of before, suddenly appear?"

Soren didn't flinch.

Nobody had questioned it, or at least not to his face. It was true that the sudden appearance of 'Count Raphael' would stir some rumours, even more so after he wrecked some havoc. At least at the beginning, Soren hadn't expected he'd be called out for it — not that it mattered.

It seemed that the baby-faced man found his indifference amusing, as he jumped back and laughed. "Hahaha, well~ I'll see you later, Mister Count~!"

Soren watched him leave through the underneath of his hood and said, "Damien."

"Yes, master?"

"Pull out the blades."

There was a popular saying in games, stories and similar things: The weapon always chose the master.

It wasn't wrong, so to speak, but it wasn't quite right either. Of course, Soren could use the blades that Damien had gifted him with if he wished to, and over time, that weapon would become something more than just a tool.

A weapon was your most trusted ally, a partner, and a friend.

For fighters, that one weapon which you could fight at your best with was one that would stay by your side.

It was as if it had its own soul.

For the weapon's that were part of the 'Cursed Tattoo' Series, they all had a conscious, although Soren had yet to discover his own's. Only some of the tattoos in the series manifested as a weapon though, while others came in odd powers or strengths.

But they weren't the only ones who could form a conscious.

Several rare artifacts possessed that same conscious and actively sought a partner even in their slumber. Only when they paired up with somebody could they release their full potential, so it was only natural they would seek a user.

'As expected.'

Sitting quietly in the heart with a pulsing glow, as if their heartbeat were steadily increasing, calling out for that connection that they felt —

The beautiful dark golden twin blades, 'Infernal Sanity', had found its destined master.

The person with mysterious, arrogant lavender eyes that carried the weight of lives and the bottomless stench of blood — the person who could become the most useful of allies, or the cruelest of enemies;

The runaway prince of the Haze Kingdom, Brioc Laurier...

Was taking part in the competition.