Rober, Alcon, and Phylas settled onto the rough, hard wooden benches, blending into the noisy, boisterous crowd of the Demas Arena. The subterranean air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap wine, oily smoke from the torches, and the faint, lingering metallic tang of blood from previous bouts.
On the central sand floor, minor, uninspiring fights unfolded continuously. They were mostly clumsy brawls between drunken mercenaries or amateurish sword duels between drifters looking to earn a few coins. Their combat skills were unremarkable, consisting of weak, inaccurate blows, and usually ending quickly and tediously. The crowd, while still cheering, did so mainly to alleviate boredom or to curse the losers.
Rober observed silently, his calm eyes sweeping over the fighting floor, then across the crowd. He had little interest in these meaningless skirmishes. His main purpose in coming here was to learn more about this dream world and to find opportunities, clues, that might help him.
Alcon was different. After the wine at Demas Tavern, he was noticeably tipsy. He constantly shouted encouragement, cheering excitedly for any fighter who showed slightly more aggression, while loudly criticizing and mocking the weaker combatants.
Phylas, despite having swapped his noble attire for the garb of an old fisherman, retained his air of leisurely composure. He leaned back against the seat, occasionally taking a sip of wine from his rough pottery cup, his eyes scanning the arena with curiosity and amusement, as if watching a captivating street play.
It was only after some time, when another match concluded amidst the audience's jeers and complaints, that a middle-aged man in somewhat gaudy clothing stepped onto the center of the sand floor. He was likely the manager or announcer for this arena.
He raised both hands, attempting to capture the attention of the noisy crowd.
"Hail, warriors and brethren who love battle and blood!" he yelled, his voice hoarse but strangely amplified in the underground space.
"Tonight, we have a special event! An event you have all been waiting for!"
The crowd quieted slightly, turning curious eyes towards the man.
"The Demas Arena" he continued "is greatly honored to be chosen by the crew of the ship Maika as the venue for top-tier sword fights! They promise to bring us dazzling displays of martial skill, fiery confrontations, and breathtaking moments!"
As soon as the name "Maika" was announced, a section of the stands occupied by a group of rough-looking, raggedly dressed men erupted in jeers, mockery, and derisive laughter:
"Maika? Ha ha ha! Those little rats think they can organize sword fights?"
"They're only good at running away at sea! Ashore, they're just a bunch of weak, useless!"
"Let's see if those failures are as pathetic here as they were out on the waves!"
Rober turned to look at the group. They looked hard-bitten, dusty, and dangerous. Their tanned, weathered skin bore simple tattoos, skulls, crossbones, or strange sea monsters, on their arms or bare chests. Some were shirtless, revealing muscular but heavily scarred bodies. Others wore short, coarse tunics, faded and stained by salt. Their feet were either bare or clad in simple, worn leather sandals. Their eyes were cold, full of hostility and contempt as they hurled their insults.
Alcon, slightly drunk, heard the mocking, offensive words and grew irritated. He turned to Rober, grumbling "Damn it! Who are those guys, talking so nastily? It sets my teeth on edge!"
Rober and Phylas could only exchange glances and shake their heads with weary smiles. Alcon's own tongue, at times, was hardly less sharp than those pirates'.
But Alcon's seemingly idle question once again unintentionally activated the Sage System in Rober's mind. Detailed information about this pirate group, their origins, composition, activities, and even the crimes they had committed, flashed clearly into his consciousness.
He turned to Alcon and Phylas, lowering his voice:
"They... are pirates."
Phylas looked surprised.
"Pirates? How can they appear so openly here?" he asked, his tone tinged with disbelief.
Alcon, hearing the word "pirates" and fueled by alcohol, immediately became belligerent:
"Pirates, so what? Phylas, if you give the word, I'll go over there and teach them a lesson!" He started to get up, rolling up his sleeves as if preparing to brawl.
Rober groaned inwardly. The power of alcohol is truly terrifying! He hears 'pirates' and still wants to pick a fight. He quickly grabbed Alcon's collar, forcing him back down onto the bench.
"Sit still, Alcon! Don't cause trouble!"
Then, he turned to explain to Phylas:
"Phylas, these pirates are essentially just a motley, mixed group, comprised of outlaws, exiles, people fleeing their homelands, gathered from many different lands and nations."
"They typically operate in distant waters, outside the territorial seas of our kingdom of Ethiopia" he continued.
"They specialize in robbing lone merchant vessels or small ships lacking the means to defend themselves. Because they operate outside our waters, the kingdom's patrol ships find it very difficult to capture or pursue them. Furthermore, without clear evidence, caught red-handed, the authorities cannot convict or punish them."
"After seizing goods" Rober elaborated "they bring them back to this seaport, disguise themselves as ordinary merchants, and sell the stolen cargo cheaply on the market. With the money earned, they indulge in revelry, buy weapons, repair their ships, and then return to the sea to commit new acts of piracy."
"Our kingdom has implemented various measures to combat this piracy" he said.
"Such as assigning warships to escort merchant convoys, for example. But even that measure isn't entirely effective. Once the convoys reach waters outside the kingdom's sovereignty, the pirates attack and rob them as usual."
Rober paused briefly, then added, his tone somewhat speculative:
"Perhaps the crew of the Maika are among their most recent victims. And their renting this arena to organize 'special' sword fights might be for more than just entertainment. I suspect we're in for quite a performance tonight."
As if to prove Rober's words, the pirates in the corner section erupted again, continuing their shouts, curses, and mockery directed at the Maika crew, their language growing increasingly vulgar and offensive.
Suddenly, from the opposite seating area, another group of men, dressed more neatly in sailors' attire, stood up furiously, shouting back at the pirates:
"Shut your stinking mouths! Filthy pirates!"
The pirate faction, hearing the shouts, looked across the arena. Their leader, a tall man with a long scar across his face, immediately recognized the other group. He burst out laughing, a sound full of contempt and derision.
"Oh! So it's the rats from the Maika! I even recognize the voice of that idiot I kicked around earlier!"
The sailor who had been mocked turned crimson with rage. He pointed a finger at the pirate leader and yelled "You piece of trash! What did you say? Dare to repeat that?"
The pirate leader showed no fear. He smirked, revealing yellowed, chipped teeth. Anger was visible on his face, but he restrained it. He spoke with disdain "I said, losers should know their place! You should feel lucky you're still alive to crawl back ashore!"
Angry glares shot between the two groups like sparks. The air grew thick with tension. The entire arena seemed to fall silent, anticipating the imminent outbreak of a brawl.
Suddenly, another voice cut through the tense atmosphere, shattering it, but only serving to pour oil on the fire:
"So noisy! Call yourselves men, just standing there barking like dogs?"
That voice... sounded incredibly familiar! And it came from right beside them!
Rober and Phylas simultaneously felt a chill run down their spines. They turned to look at Alcon. He was still lounging back in his seat, tipsy, and continued in a tone dripping with contempt and challenge:
"Barking dogs don't bite. Clearly just a bunch of harmless weaklings!"