A Wish to Grab Happiness

I can hear the spear.

The sound of the sword and sword joining together and making that iron whimper sound across. The repeated sounds, many times, gush Garrist's arena. His voice bounced and flew, twirling, as if the arena itself had become one creature.

But it is never about glorifying each other's battles. It's not fun cheering for swords to overlap each other.

It's just which blood dyes the universe, what time, paints the sand on the arena red? That's all I expected.

In that ugly cheer, the golden hair, shakes.

It receives, pays and sometimes stops with its own sword, wielded many times from the opponent's gigantic body.

Even that makes me think that, on the other hand, there is no means to attack and that life is no longer ahead of the Beast's fangs. The audience's voice swirls louder and jumps up the sand. It's not that easy to die. More, I told you to entertain the money. But like I said.

Will it live up to that expectation? The owner of the golden hair slips through and prevents the slaughter of the Great Swordsman, one step later, in a place called Paper Weight.

Was it something like this? No, I'm sure he wasn't like this. Not so powerful, but so far, not so sharp.

- Still, it was much stronger than this.

The golden, right eye shakes.

The sword swung away from the invisible left. I see. That blow must have been a more thoughtful blow than he was. But still.

Gold, brilliant. A double-edged sword in his hand cuts the space with an auspicious speed. Open your body halfway, avoid the sword approaching from your left as it rotates, and do so, keep it that way.

- Zahan.

It was like stroking the wind. It just sounds like a blade passed between the air. That's all, the offense, which seemed fierce, was lightly settled.

Excitement of the Great Sword, from the neck of a man with a giant body, the blood erupts to escape. Give it a whirl, as if it were such an organism from the beginning.

"Winner, Hert Stanley!

Once again, the arena becomes a creature and gives it a boom.

◇ ◆ ◇ ◆

"Helt, you don't know how to take care of yourself. Welcome as a hobby of mine. But as an uncle, I disagree completely."

There was a Buckingham Stanley figure in the Garrist Kingdom Arena, a room that could not even be described as its holding room, just stacked bricks. Unexpectedly, Helt blinks those golden eyes.

Although my uncle has certainly changed, his bizarre behavior here is decreasing. I never thought I'd get to this place again.

"Uncle, as a cathedral depository, we have not even acted in a deviant manner. Besides, it can be good training."

In response, the helt gently loosens its cheeks. To that appearance, Buckingham had what a delightful and otherwise subtle look on his face.

My uncle's feelings were understandable to Helt.

The fall of the walled city of Galuamaria, thereby losing its home name Stanley.

All I have is that name. The Lord's Father was unaware of his whereabouts, and when it came to the next Lord's self, he lost his left eye and was not even sure of his consciousness for a time. I thought I'd finally regained consciousness, and I was waving my sword casually in the arena. Well, whoever it is, it's something my uncle can predict in his chest.

Helt, however, understood the feeling but was unable to hold himself back. Based here in Garrist, there is a lot to live for. That's for sure, thanks to my uncle. Twelve minutes, I understand.

I'm sure if I once saw who I am now, I'd say. That the deed was not the right one. You can't say it's good.

But no. No, it's not. Now I am convinced that this is the right thing to do. If I didn't, I wouldn't have been able to tie up the emotions that were leaking whimpers around my body. If we don't throw this body into the blood tide of the struggle, we won't keep it normal.

Neither Hert nor Buckingham will open their mouths, a little, silence. Later, Buckingham opened his mouth slowly.

The way of settling down had fallen somewhere once, losing its jokingly stained colour, and its majesty as the principal proxy seemed to be as wrapped around the voice as the moustache of the mouth.

Helt even felt like that was what his uncle had lost his fun as a human being.

"- I'm going to tell you. Pleasure, the time has finally come to snap the necks of those who have defiled our homeland with their earthly feet. How wonderful!"

There is no figure of man in the arena, where the heat of the fight cooled and from the cheering creatures became just a brick and clay mass. Precisely, so much so that when it rains, the vagabonds come looking for a house.

So I guess the voice of my uncle, who gladly tells me what was decided today, was strangely tense.

Hearing Buckingham's eagle nose swinging, twisting the words to the end, Helt unwittingly broke his cheek. It's like, I can't stand it. But like I said.

"Absolutely delightful, my nephew!

Oh, if it was on my old uncle, he would have understood what laughter means now. My once admired uncle seems to have gone some distance, and behind Hert's chest, a little pity builds up.

"- No, it's not. When it couldn't have worked, I accidentally laughed. No one, no one, he's got it all wrong."

Hert's words fall on dry sand and the wind winds up the sand. Buckingham looked open and seemed to be overmeasuring the sincerity of the word.

"I know perfectly well. He couldn't have died because of something like that."

It's a joke. You cheat, you kill him.

There's no way I can do that. He couldn't have died because of that. I don't even know if it's a witch or a woman called that.

In an attempt to get outside, he leaks his exhale as he hangs his coat on his shoulder. Much, much colder. But the blood in your body is hot, as it rebels against the cold. With the fever of battle, you can't even offset it.

This fever has been going on since that night.

I'm sure the opponent who fought in the arena today handles the sword more sharply than he does, more powerful than he is and more accustomed to fighting than he does. But still, he was stronger. That's what my left eye remembers.

"Helt, your words are as if you wanted them to be, even your desire tells you. What do you think? Do you have any thoughts?"

Buckingham rocks his lips wonderfully. As if I was distressed by how the words Hert tells me bounced back because they have a certain sound rather than aspirations.

Helt flaunts his shoulder, brightens his right eye, and opens his mouth. My lips got a little lost.

"Oh, my God, I guess you say it. I'm sure, he's the enemy. He said it had to be."

Yes, on that battlefield. During Gallu Amalia's Sword Trident, he did say so. Otherwise, he said he'd just crawl miserably.

Will it be true?

I wonder what happened to me and him in a world completely different from this one, in a time when I turned a completely different page. Were they enemies with necks, or were they shoulder-to-shoulder allies? I don't know all that. So when it comes to understanding, one thing.

But when it comes to thoughts, I think I wanted to get along with him, with Mr. Rugis, with friends, that's what I could call him.

Until now, no one has ever been able to match their fangs with themselves. When I was tempted, no one even did, trying to make a special impression on me and catch up.

At some point, I even accepted that the world was like that with people.

But how about him, Rugis? Himself and the only being who, grinding fangs together and overlapping swords, carried me on top of it. A being who put his hands up to me in an attempt to catch up with this person.

I'm sure that's what I wanted as a friend. In the chest, groping, unspoken emotions shake.

Blood, it's hot.