Gregorian Empire, Province of Numidia.
Port City of Cartag. 11:05 A.M.
At last, I reached the Coliseum's entrance.What I didn't expect was to run into some random guy. His expression shifted the moment he saw me.
Assistant: "You're a participant, right?"
—Yes, I am. Here's my invitation.
Assistant: "Are you Caliptos, Andrade, Hurtia… The Abuser?"
—I'm The Abuser.
Assistant: "Alright, whatever. Enter through that gate. It'll take you straight to the arena."
—Thanks.
Assistant: "Don't mention it. Just put on a good show."
—Relax, I will.
I stepped into a dark passage lit only by torches, until at last I could glimpse the Arena from behind iron bars.
The roar of the crowd was undeniable—thousands strong, heated, bloodthirsty. They wanted a spectacle. They wanted carnage.
Then a voice echoed across the amphitheater, announcing me:
Announcer:"Do not be fooled by his name—for this slave… is unjustly strong. Ladies and gentlemen, from distant lands… standing among slave trash, here he is: The Abuser!"
The gate creaked open. I didn't walk out of the shadows yet—not immediately. I wanted to see how the crowd would react to my name alone.
Predictably, they were confused.In a setting like this, a name like mine was twisted. Obscene. Bound to spark whispers, mockery, disgust.
But through the CI-Mask, music thundered in my head—music I had missed for so damn long.
Cultural misunderstandings? Mockery? I didn't give a damn. Quincy tried to stop me, though:
[Master, please. Your emotions are unstable. Music may stabilize you… but it could also deeply worsen that instability.]
—What I'm about to do is none of your business, Quincy.
[I honestly think you're about to humiliate yourself, Master… a public shame you'll never recover from (ʘ ‿ ʘ)]
—Since when do AIs know what "shame" is?
[I just know… Why are you doing this? ( ● _ ● )]
—Quincy, there are five reasons why a man stops caring about public opinion.
[And what are these so-called reasons, Master? (ಠಿ _ ಠ)]
—One: he's in love. Two: he's lost everything. Three: he's been hurt too many times. Four: he's disappointed in life. And five: he no longer wants to live.
[So which one is it for you? (⊙﹏⊙)]
—None. I'm just taking advantage of being a nobody whose face no one knows.
[That's it? …You really feel no shame at all? (ರ_ರ)]
—I do. But I choose to ignore it.
[Then don't do it, Master. (─﹏─)]
—I'm going to dance. Not to look like a clown… but to remember what it feels like to—
[To what, Master? (◎﹏◎)]
—To feel free. To be the original madness that I am.
The crowd's jeers rang out:
—"Hahaha, he's not The Abuser, he's The Fraud!"
—"Release the beasts already, slaves face death braver than this clown!"
—"We paid for blood, not to watch a joker stall!"
Their words stung a bit, sure.But I still stepped forward into the arena's center.
Through the helmet, a 2013 banger pulsed at full volume—"My Type" by Saint Motel. I cranked it loud enough that at least a few in the stands would hear my taste in music.
I looked up at the crowd. Yes, embarrassment clung to me. But I focused on myself, breathed in, and for a moment… forgot them.
I began to dance.
And as I did, memories came flooding back.
Tears pricked my eyes. Nostalgia burned in my chest.
So many thoughts, so many people I'd left behind.Back in high school, college—so many habits I clung to, all to hide the condition of my hands. Always pointless. I just didn't want to be branded "the sick kid," or "the nervous freak."
So I reshaped myself, turned extroverted though I was an introvert at heart. At first it was just to fit in… but then I realized—that was me. That was who I am.
But once it went public that I was a Dreifus, everything changed. I could never act the way I had before. Maybe that's why my brain dug all this back up.
Those logs I left behind… I hoped someone would find them.But now I realize: in this world, I'm free of that cursed expectation.
Maybe that's the one good thing about being trapped in this rotten game world.But the price? Never seeing the people I love again? Too high.
"No. What the hell am I thinking? Dance is expression—joy, style. Not sorrow."
If I dance now, if I do anything crazy—it's for me.Not to fit in. Not out of protocol.For no other reason than this:
"I am a nobody. And I can do anything."
Even if the whole world judged me, I wouldn't give a damn.
I shook off the sadness, lifted my spirit.
Lost in it, I didn't notice the Goblings charging. Even so, I wasn't about to let these green tutorial demons ruin my flow.
So I dropped into breakdance—"the windmill"—dodging their swipes.
And then—
[Ding]
[System Notification: You have discovered the Hidden Passive Skill «Combat Rhythm» — Epic (B) Rank]
But before I could check the skill, the crowd turned on me harder:
—"We want a fight, not a clown!"
—"We paid for blood, not this buffoon dancing!"
—"Refund our money!"
The Announcer scrambled to salvage the mood:
Announcer:"To raise the difficulty for our beloved Jester… we bring in the challenger for this unusual gladiator—straight from the dark lands of Britain. The Infernal Hounds!!"
I froze mid-step, punching a Gobling in the face:
—Wait. The what?
The floor rumbled as trapdoors opened beneath the arena. From a cage, three monstrous hounds emerged.
Hairless, massive, skin black as obsidian, eyes glowing crimson. Their level flashed in my visor—Infernal Hounds.
Quincy piped in at once:
[Master, these creatures are called Infernal Hounds for their high affinity with the fire element. ( ° ₃ ° )┛]
—Okay… and are they dangerous?
[Not to you, Master. But what makes them feared is that they hunt in packs. (Ʊ ˾ Ʊ)]
—Good tip. Thanks.
I raised my gaze to the grandstands—and there was Galio. That bastard was the Announcer himself.
So I asked Quincy what the "preliminaries" really meant.
He explained, detailing everything.
Turns out the preliminaries weren't for the gladiators—they were tests for the beasts.If I survived, killed every monster, I'd qualify for the tournament. But in truth, survival was rare—impossible, even.
Now it clicked. The arena beneath my feet, soaked in blood, littered with viscera. Goblings still gnawed on corpses that hadn't even cooled.
And while I had been busy dancing like an idiot… real people—NPCs, but still—had died.
Soldiers in ornate armor moved to the cages. The crowd screamed again:
—"Tear the clown to pieces!"
Finally, the hounds were unleashed.
And with burning rage in my chest, I said to Quincy:
—Quincy, I want to deliver lethal blows to everything that moves.
[At once, Master (ᕗ ≖ ▭ ≖ )ᕗ… Full Combat Adjustment to 9%]