Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C71

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Chapter 71: The King Beneath the Earth, Part 22

gazed at the young man seated confidently atop his silver warhorse, his emotions tangled. Thirty years ago, he had entered the ; only a few years prior had he stabilized in the mid-tier. Yet this youth seemed blessed by fate—no, even couldn’t reach the mid-gold rank at such a tender age unless they were chosen ones bound by destiny’s chains.

Yet chosen ones were invariably shackled by fate, their bodies incomplete from birth, like the blind Yura. Thus, Kulan never considered in that light. Pausing, he asked urgently:

“Boy, who is your ?”

“What?” Brandon blinked, confused.

“Don’t play dumb with me! Who is your Sacred Seal? You know what I mean!” The old swordsman grew flustered, stomping his feet. “This is important! Tell me now—”

“What are you talking about? What do I know?”

Brandon was genuinely perplexed. He’d assumed Kulan approached to warn him of something, but instead, the man bombarded him with cryptic questions.

Before he could respond, the thunderous voice above the arena interrupted once more:

“Mortal, will you continue your challenge?”

“Of course,” Brandon replied without hesitation.

“Boy, answer me!” Kulan shouted, pounding on the invisible air barrier. But Brandon merely gestured for him to wait, then raised his head, awaiting the announcement of rules from the enigmatic arbiter.

As expected, a line of emerald text appeared on his retina—

“.”

“The next battlefield is—the Nightmare Arena.” Simultaneously, the booming voice echoed in everyone’s minds, declaring the same.

Brandon’s expression shifted instantly.

“What is the Nightmare Arena, my lord?” furrowed her brow, glancing back and whispering.

...

“What is the Nightmare Arena, ?” At the same time, Mahler turned to his companion with the same question.

“I don’t know,” came the frail boy’s succinct reply.

“What are they arguing about?” Joka’s attention remained fixed on Brandon and Kulan. More concerned with whether their group could leave safely than this surreal world, he frowned.

“I don’t know,” Mahler echoed.

“But why does he keep challenging? There’s no one left here to save,” another youth questioned.

“It’s not that simple,” someone countered. “I don’t know where we are, but creating a place like this must have cost a fortune. Do you think it’s just for capturing or releasing people?”

His words resonated with many. They looked around anxiously.

“Bah, you don’t understand the whims of those nobles. Maybe they built this for fun.” Another scoffed.

“This might not be the work of nobles. If I recall correctly, we were in the mines earlier. I feel there’s something strange about what we unearthed.”

“Exactly. And let’s not forget—that thing earlier was a dragon! Everything feels unreal, like a dream. I’m not even sure if this is real.”

The speaker touched the cold iron bars as he spoke. Silence fell over the group.

“He’s after that sword,” Koven finally said. His voice wasn’t loud, but its weight carried through the murmurs of the youths.

The frail boy stared at the dark blade embedded in the central stone tablet. He’d noticed Brandon glancing repeatedly in its direction.

His observation struck a chord.

“So he doesn’t plan to save us?” one worriedly asked.

“Why should anyone save us?” came a skeptical retort.

“Koven?” Joka turned to his companion. In his eyes, Koven was the most knowledgeable and decisive person he’d ever met. Though quiet, his insights always carried weight.

“I’ll find a way,” Koven whispered, though it sounded more like self-assurance. “I’ll convince him.”

“How?” Mahler asked incredulously.

“By making a deal with him.”

Mahler’s eyes widened. “You’re not seriously thinking of trading with those worthless trinkets of yours, are you? If you anger him, it won’t end well for us.”

Koven didn’t respond, merely casting a sidelong glance at his friend.

...

“The Nightmare Arena is an extreme mode. Here, no matter how strong you are, your power is reduced to that of an ordinary person. Skill alone determines victory.”

“Skill?” Metissa’s delicate brows arched slightly. “What kind of skill?”

Brandon flicked the edge of his sword. “Combat skill.”

The Silver Elf maiden fell silent, contemplating. It sounded advantageous, yet she sensed otherwise. Though her lord hadn’t mentioned it, she guessed nothing about this arena would be straightforward.

Brandon looked skyward. Soon, rows of golden text appeared, written in Dwarven, ancient and modern Cruzean, Tower Tongue, Elvish, —and a language that sent shivers down Brandon’s spine:

He rubbed his nose, pretending not to notice the familiar block characters.

But this wasn’t unusual. For ancient civilizations, the absence of obscure languages would seem stranger. What captured everyone’s attention was the content:

1. Power Dissolution: Both combatants’ strength is forcibly reduced to below 10 units.

2. Skill Dissolution: All abilities except designated skills vanish automatically.

3. : The designated skill is swordsmanship.

Yuta sucked in a sharp breath. While Brandon’s raw power amazed her, she knew better. Unlike innate strength—where The Enlightened Ones might possess silver-rank abilities from birth—swordsmanship required decades of training. Without immersion over years, no amount of talent could earn one the title of master. Across , Cruze, and Vonder, were often white-haired elders nearing the end of their days.

“Don’t worry, Yuta,” Cinnabar’s soft voice came from behind. She sensed the mercenary leader’s unease but had faith in Brandon, hiding her concerns deep within amber eyes. “Lord Brandon’s swordsmanship is formidable—”

“I know his swordsmanship is formidable,” Yuta responded, frowning. “But we still don’t know who his opponent is.” Her voice lowered. “Even in Eruin’s history, there are many renowned swordsaints.”

Cinnabar stiffened, anxiety creeping in.

Brandon shared their concerns. His thoughts mirrored Yuta’s. Nightmare challenges weren’t simple. He began wondering which swordmaster he’d face.

Gripping his sword, he felt the light dim slightly. In an instant, Metissa, the silver warhorse, and even the Wind Spirit Spiders vanished.

A collective gasp rose around him.

Even the ’s abilities had been stripped away. Brandon felt a chill run down his spine. He’d hoped this seemingly cheat-like ability might bypass the rules, but clearly, the Planeswalker role remained bound by this world’s laws.

Fortunately, Brandon hadn’t grown overly reliant on being a Planeswalker. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, scanning his surroundings cautiously.

When the light dimmed, he found himself standing on unfamiliar terrain—no longer sandy but coarse granite blocks forming a vast arena.

Surveying the field, he spotted a black silhouette to the north. Narrowing his eyes, he recognized the figure immediately:

“?”

“The Crossed Swords, Buga.”

The same name flashed through Kulan and Yuta’s minds. Buga’s reputation in Eruin was notable, especially his unique stance, easily recognizable to the seasoned swordsman and mercenary captain.

Kulan frowned deeply. He’d met the prodigious youth years ago and knew Buga’s mastery of the blade. Still, he took slight comfort knowing Tobbs’ lineage wouldn’t falter—they were descendants of greatness.

Yuta, however, exhaled in relief. As a passing mercenary, she’d glimpsed Buga from afar in Lantonilan. Though familiar with his style, she believed him easier to handle than legendary masters.

But before either could finish their thoughts, another shadow emerged.

Brandon cursed inwardly. The newcomer was none other than White Knight Eberton.

Then came a third shadow—Viscount Teste.

And a fourth. Brandon broke into a cold sweat, recognizing the figure all too well. He nearly dropped his sword.

Standing directly south of him was his grandfather.

“Tobbs,” Kulan’s face darkened.

“That’s…” Yuta’s expression twisted, her throat tightening. “Ha… Ha… Harasgolon…”

“Who’s that?” Cinnabar frowned, puzzled.

Yuta turned to her awkwardly, unable to speak.

But Brandon had no time to dwell on these reactions. He realized the magnitude of the trouble ahead—

Facing four opponents alone.

“You gotta be kidding me!”