Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 33: Champion
Lapulapu rested his kampilan against his shoulder, offering a silent nod. Billy let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.
"Finally," Billy muttered. "I was starting to think this damn room was gonna bury us alive."
The two remaining stone statues, resembling bats with hollow, glowing red eyes, reacted violently to the distraction. They swung their sharp claws wildly, even injuring each other in their frenzy.
"Should we kill them?" Billy asked, eyeing the chaotic statues.
"Nah, waste of time," Musashi replied, his hand steady on his sword. "Let's not bother."
Lapulapu approached the double stone doors, which led to a hallway lined with burning candles. As the trio stepped into the corridor, a soothing calm washed over them, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls.
They closed the door behind them, leaving the frenzied statues to their own devices.
The hallway was adorned with intricate murals. Some depicted grand wars, others showcased individual duels in vast arenas. The artistry was mesmerizing, covering nearly every inch of the walls.
Lapulapu examined the murals closely, his fingers tracing the detailed scenes. Musashi walked beside him, appreciating the depictions of battles and the skillful artistry.
Lapulapu slowed his steps, his eyes drinking in the murals like water after a long fight. He traced one scene with his fingers—two warriors locked in combat, one with a curved blade not unlike his own, the other holding a spear. The strokes in the art were clean, deliberate. Not just storytelling—this was memory painted into stone.
He stepped close, lifting a hand. His calloused fingers traced the outline of a warrior mid-swing, captured in the marble like frozen lightning. The style was clear—sharp lines, poised movement, flowing robes—all of it pulled from an ancient world.
Musashi stepped up beside him, arms loose by his sides. His gaze swept across from panel to panel, reading the body language like he'd been trained in it. "Good stance," he muttered, pointing to a figure bracing a spear. "Center of gravity's perfect."
The mural showed a duel—two fighters locked in, neither overpowering the other, but both pushing the limits of skill and grit. There was no blood carved, no violence for show. Just form. Tension. Movement.
Billy strolled behind them, hands in his coat, chewing on a dried fruit he pulled from somewhere. "How the hell do you understand these? You two are acting like you know this type of stuff."
"Art isn't about whether you get it or not," Musashi said without looking back. "Stuff like this—it tells history."
Lapulapu nodded silently.
Billy just scoffed.
Lapulapu moved to the next section. Here, rows of soldiers marched across jagged terrain, spears raised, shields angled just so. They weren't just battling—they were coordinated. Trained. Every carved footstep had purpose.
"They remind me of home," Lapulapu said quietly. "Warriors that move as one."
Musashi pointed to a commander near the center. "He's not shouting. Look at his hand—he's giving signals. Calm. Sharp."
Billy raised an eyebrow. "Y'all noticing the fingers now?"
They didn't answer. The next mural was a curve in the wall—an arena. A grand crowd carved in miniature, faces turned toward the center where two lone figures stood. One with a blade, the other barehanded.
Musashi leaned closer, his mouth curling into something near a smile. "Man chose to fight unarmed."
Lapulapu stayed silent, a hint of respect on his face.
Billy gave a snort. "Or he forgot to bring his own sh*t."
The details were tight, clean—like pottery turned to stone. The crowd wasn't just background; each face had weight. Some cheered. Some turned away. One wept. But all watched.
"People lived through this," Musashi said. "They wanted it remembered."
Lapulapu gave a quiet grunt of agreement. He studied the footwork in the carvings, the placement of knees and hips, the angles of elbows. The figures moved in his mind as he stared.
Further along, the murals shifted. Not less intense—just different. Warriors standing over defeated enemies, not in triumph, but in respect. In one panel, a fighter lifted their fallen opponent to their feet.
Billy stopped walking. "That's… huh."
"What?" Lapulapu asked.
"I thought it'd all be about winning..."
Musashi looked over. "You fight to grow. Not just to win."
Billy shrugged. "Speak for yourselves. I fight 'cause it's fun but mostly just running away."
Lapulapu gave the smallest smirk. "Honest."
At the far end, one last panel stood alone. A single figure, arms raised not in victory, but in invitation. Behind them, a mountain. Below, an open field.
Musashi's voice was low. "This one's calling others to rise."
"Or calling out to something greater," Lapulapu added.
Billy scratched his cheek. "Or they're just stretching."
Neither of the other two laughed. They just kept looking. Silent. Still.
Then, with a final glance, Lapulapu turned away from the wall, kampilan shifting on his waist. "Let's keep moving."
Musashi followed. "We'll carry it forward."
Billy sighed. "Y'all are getting dramatic again."
But even he looked back once, just for a second, before walking on.
Billy, glancing around, asked, "Do you sense anything from these murals?"
Lapulapu shook his head. "No, I just felt a sense of sincerity when looking at these murals."
They continued forward, the candle flames flickering as they passed, shadows dancing on the walls.
The trio stood at the threshold of the hallway, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Lapulapu, ever perceptive, broke the silence.
"I feel an ominous energy emanating from the end of this corridor," he murmured.
A hush fell over them as they exchanged wary glances. The hallway stretched before them, its end shrouded in an impenetrable black void.
Billy, ever the impulsive one, took a tentative step forward, his figure absorbed into the darkness.
"Welp here we go!"
"Hey wait you idiot!" Musashi shouts. Irritation in his voice.
He and Lapulapu followed suit.
As they ventured deeper, the void responded to their presence. With each step, light began to pierce the darkness, illuminating structures that materialized around them. Massive walls rose high into the ceiling, enclosing them within a circular grand arena.
Above, millions of spectators erupted into deafening cheers, their faces indistinct but their energy palpable. Their attire is reminiscent of Greek clothing.
"New challengers have come!"
"I've been waiting for ages!"
"Our champion will thrive!"
The arena was a marvel—majestic in its design, reminiscent of ancient coliseums yet surpassing them in grandeur. The architecture spoke of a time long past, with intricate carvings and towering columns that seemed to touch the heavens.
The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming, making them feel the trio insignificant and honored to stand within its bounds.
Musashi's eyes narrowed as he scanned the roaring crowd. "Are they real?" he questioned, skepticism evident in his tone.
Billy, always one to test boundaries, hands an uneaten piece of fruit. With a smirk, he hurled it towards the audience. The fruit sailed through the air, passing effortlessly through the figures, unbeknownst of the fate of the fruit. The crowd remained unfazed, their cheers unwavering.
"Guess that answers that," Billy remarked, a hint of unease creeping into his voice.
Lapulapu stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the center of the arena. "This place… it feels like a memory given form," he mused. "A testament to battles fought and warriors honored."
Musashi nodded in agreement. "It's as if the very walls are alive with the echoes of past conflicts."
The trio stood in contemplative silence, absorbing the weight of the arena's history. The energy of the place was undeniable, a blend of reverence and anticipation. They couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched, not just by the phantom audience, but by the very essence of the arena itself.
Suddenly, the crowd went quiet.
From the highest point of the arena, a shadow stirred. Then it dropped. A shape fell slowly, descending like a god from the heavens. Not falling—arriving. The black void behind it shimmered, warping with each beat of two massive wings.
It touched the arena floor with the weight of silence.
A humanoid figure. 3 meters tall. Built like a war machine. Every muscle carved like it was sculpted from granite. Birdlike talons clicked against the stone as it stepped forward. Its head was avian—sharp beak, eyes black and endless. Two wings arched from its back, feathers darker than the void they just left.
No one said a word.
Then the crowd of spectators went wild shouting in unison!
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
Billy's hand twitched near his revolver. "Well," he muttered. "That's not a good sign."
Musashi tilted his head slightly. "That their champion? Looks so ugly."
Lapulapu didn't speak. He studied it—posture, stance, the way it moved. Its balance. It's breathing. All signs of a fighter.
Then the creature moved.
No roar. No challenge. It just stepped. Smooth and slow, like it didn't need to rush.
"Should we hit it first?" Billy asked, half-joking.
Musashi shook his head. "Nah, Let's watch. See what it does."
The champion spread its wings wide—arms outstretched like it was calling thunder from the sky—and let out a roar that shook the walls.
The trio grimaced, instinctively bracing themselves against the force of the sound.
Then the voice boomed—not from its beak, but from the very air around them.
"My beloved people, I hear your cries! Your champion has arrived!"
The creature's chest swelled with pride. "I am Protathlitis of Korox! Defender of glory! Breaker of wills!"
He pointed his talon at the three below him.
"And you—poor, lost challengers—you have stepped into my arena… for death!"
From the void above, the phantom audience erupted.
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
"Champion!"
Billy blinked, then leaned slightly toward Musashi. "Um… what."
Musashi didn't answer. He was too busy staring up at the thing, jaw tight, one hand slowly drifting toward his wooden katana.
Lapulapu didn't flinch. He rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck, quietly, like he was preparing to carry something heavy.
Protathlitis raised both arms, basking in the praise of an audience that wasn't really there.
"Your bones will be buried beneath this sacred floor! Your names—forgotten!"
Billy exhaled. "Man, he talks a lot for a bird."
Musashi cracked his neck. "He's theatrical. Arena types usually are."
Lapulapu stepped forward again.
The champion saw that and grinned—if a beak could grin.
"Yes! Let the first blood be spilled!"