Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World - Chapter 337 Festive Capital
Chapter 337: Chapter 337 Festive Capital
Renn nodded. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”
Michael didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head either. He simply turned back toward the now-empty stage.
He agreed.
Tomorrow would be different.
Michael could feel it.
Not from anything concrete. Just a quiet certainty.
There were stronger nobles waiting. Possibly hidden participants. People who had probably been chosen even before the competition started.
There was no way the Duke would place treasures out like a saint.
Michael knew it in his bones.
The real trial begins tomorrow.
If it was only the people here now, this competition would’ve already ended in his favor.
Renn rose from his seat with a groan, stretching his limbs. “Well, I’m getting sleep. I need all the strength I can muster tomorrow. Assuming no one dies from nerves.”
He hesitated, then added, “You should sleep too, Dragon. I’d hate to lose you to insomnia before the real war starts.”
Michael didn’t reply, but his lips twitched.
A twitch that almost passed for a smile.
Renn walked off, shaking his head.
Michael remained seated for a few more moments, watching the horizon darken.
The sun was setting.
Tomorrow… surprises awaited.
“Should I have fried or roasted potatoes? Or both?”
********
The next day, the capital came alive like a beast roused from slumber.
Dawn had barely touched the horizon when the streets of the capital began to swell.
Merchant stalls rolled open with practiced efficiency, banners were raised, and the scent of roasting meats and spice-soaked bread filled the air.
Today wasn’t just any day.
Today, the Duke’s competition would finally open to the public.
No more waiting behind closed doors. No more whispered rumors or secondhand tales of mysterious youths and shocking upsets.
Today… the city would see.
The people had waited long enough.
For a while now, speculation had run rampant.
Talk of monstrous commoners, fallen nobles, strange names like “Mic Nor” and “Uga” and “the sword-wielding commoner who made a noble surrender.”
Whispers had become discussions. Discussions turned to debates. And debates—full-blown anticipation.
But now, all that ended.
Now, the stands would open wide. The arena’s vast decks—reserved for the public—had been sealed during the first stages of the trial, available only to a small audience.
But today, the stone gates parted, and the commoners poured in like floodwater.
The noise was thunder.
People with business who wanted to take advantage of the traffic had smiles on their faces that looked more intimidating than they should be.
Vendors shouted for attention.
A few bards stood atop crates, retelling embellished versions of the trial so far—most of them wrong, all of them dramatic.
“Did you hear?” one woman gasped to another as they rushed to the arena gates. “A noble fell yesterday without even being touched!”
“No way!”
“I swear! They said the boy just looked at him and the noble collapsed!”
“That’s… that’s not even fair!”
Fair?
No one cared.
Not the crowd.
Not today.
Because fairness had nothing to do with the show they’d come to see.
This wasn’t about honor or politics or family prestige. Not for them.
This was spectacle.
They wanted to see spells clash and weapons fly.
It wasn’t often commoners got to witness supernatural battle firsthand.
But today?
Today they had front-row seats to gods-in-the-making.
Even the nobles’ side was more crowded than usual.
Members of distant houses had arrived overnight—some in carriages, others by mounted rare beasts, still more through expensive teleportation slips.
The stands filled with young lords and ladies, their retainers, and their endlessly gossiping attendants.
Of course, not all eyes were on nobility.
In fact, many weren’t.
To the common man, nobles were arrogant people with fancy clothes and thick wallets.
What mattered was what they could do.
And rumor had it… some of the strongest weren’t nobles at all.
People kept whispering one name in particular.
Mic Nor.
No one knew where he came from. No records. No family. No known association with any guild, faction, or house.
But yesterday—yesterday—he had dropped a royal-blooded noble like a sack of potatoes without even lifting a hand.
People wanted to see that.
The butcher’s son, the old carpenter with the crooked back, the wide-eyed little girl gripping her mother’s sleeve—they didn’t care about noble hierarchy.
They wanted explosions. They wanted awe.
And they were ready.
The city’s inns were packed, the streets jammed, and makeshift illusion viewing platforms had been erected in buildings or on buildings by mages who wanted to make money from those without entry tickets enter the arena.
The capital city hadn’t been this festive for a long time.
Even the sky seemed to approve—cloudless, deep blue, and bright with promise.
At the arena gates, officials guided the crowds through runic checkpoints.
Security had tripled.
Guards stood tall in full ceremonial gear, more for intimidation than safety.
Inside, the stands filled fast.
Excitement buzzed like lightning caught in a net.
Michael moved with purpose, slipping through the morning crowd.
The cheers of the city rose around him, festive and chaotic, but they hardly reached his ears.
He had other things to think about.
Unlike the previous days, he wasn’t dressed in casual robes or unassuming garb. Today, he was ready.
Black armor clung to his lean frame—smooth, form-fitting plates of lightweight alloy reinforced with mana-treated fibers.
Subtle arcs of green shimmered faintly along the lines, whispering to those with trained eyes that this wasn’t simple gear.
Behind his back, his spear was sheathed.
The exposed part of the greenish-black metal humming softly as if aware battle was close.
His hair, long and dark, flowed freely behind him, brushing the top of his neck as he walked. And on his ears—small, almost unnoticeable—were the earrings.
Siren’s Echo.
The same artifact that had saved him weeks ago during the corrupted monster ambush.
Michael adjusted them absently. He didn’t need to test them. He knew they worked.
He looked the part now.
When the trial ended yesterday, the officials had informed them that participants were to enter from a different path—one of the side tunnels near the base of the arena.
Michael had paid attention.
It was the same route, he suspected, they used to transport the monsters for the first trial. It was discreet.
And more importantly—it was separated from the fanfare.
That was fine by him.
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