Chapter 16

The Drunken Tree Guard vs. The Sarcophagus Sitters

After defeating the Sauruses, our team enjoyed a short break before moving on to the next match. This time, our opponents were a particularly tough bunch to kill or even injure—a Khemri team composed mostly of undead players. Even after sustaining severe injuries, they could regenerate and return to the game within minutes.

The most frustrating thing was that they were, in some ways, a twisted reflection of us. Not the fastest or most agile, but with a lot of tough players. However, their Tomb Guardians were the worst—strong, hard-hitting monsters that were incredibly difficult to bring down. Each team could field up to four of these moth-eaten beasts.

In short, they were unpleasant bastards who were exhausting to fight. To make matters worse, there was always a chance you could catch lice—or whatever other critters might have taken up residence in their tombs over the centuries.

Not everything in my life was bad, though. There was one bright spot: the dice I received when I arrived in this world turned out to be real. I remember the evening after our game against the Sauruses. I rolled them as instructed, and before my eyes, a projection appeared, offering me the skill "Juggernaut."

A beam of light struck my head, and it felt like I absorbed a massive influx of knowledge and experience, as though I had undergone hundreds of training sessions focused solely on breaking through opponents. Tackles, leg grabs, and blocking stances became far less effective when I charged forward.

I demonstrated my new skill during the very next training session. A nearby alcoholic treeman became my target, and when I sprinted at him with all my speed, he stumbled backward. Kazran and Bron were stunned, and Korhil nearly dislocated his jaw in shock. That evening ended with an epic drinking session.

As I stepped onto the field, I hoped my new ability would help us win this difficult game. The opponents had four Tomb Guardians: one was mine to handle, another was assigned to the treeman, while Bron promised to do everything he could to stop the third. The fourth was left for Korhil and Rook.

On top of that, the undead team still had a full roster of tough players, with no obvious weak links among them.

The referee's whistle echoed across the field, and the brutal brawl began.

"Nnngh!" My fist slammed into the Tomb Guardian's gut, right under the diaphragm, hoping to force him to crouch.

But this undead bastard was immune to pain. My strike only made him take a step back before he retaliated. He struck my crossed arms with the force of a battering ram, nearly driving me into the ground with my cleats.

"Oh, you son of a—! You asked for it!" I muttered, taking a short run and delivering a Superman punch right to his jaw.

A couple of teeth flew out, along with some tattered bandages, and I saw his enraged face. He rolled his neck and tightened the wrappings on his arms as though he was preparing to beat me senseless.

"Oh, so you think rolling up your sleeves makes you tough? Well, roll 'em back down, because—" I didn't finish before the undead brute charged.

The difference in our height didn't stop me from locking him into a tight clinch. This negated his arm reach, but it didn't seem to matter to him. He started hammering at my head, neck, and shoulders without hesitation.

The blows were powerful but not fatal. Instead of scaring me, they fired me up. We began exchanging raw punches like Don Frye and Yoshihiro Takayama. All technique and strategy disappeared, leaving nothing but a brutal fistfight.

The Tomb Guardian grabbed my shoulder plate and launched hooks and jabs. I latched onto his necklace and pulled him down slightly, landing punches to his face. One punch snapped my head back; another sent his head sideways. He tried to knee me, but I blocked with my elbow. He countered my sidekick by bracing his thigh to absorb the impact. I yanked his necklace, smashing my helmet into his face, knocking out more teeth.

Despite this, I couldn't knock him out or destabilize him. He returned the headbutt, and stars burst in my vision as pain shot through my skull.

We completely forgot about the match or the ball. At that moment, our world shrank to a savage exchange of blows.

Five... ten... fifteen... twenty. I lost count and just kept swinging. My armor groaned and creaked under the strain, but it held firm. The massive mummy in front of me, meanwhile, was missing chunks of flesh beneath shredded bandages and damaged ornamental armor.

Despite the wear and tear, neither of us backed down. We relied on sheer willpower, pride, and rage to keep going. There were no dirty tricks like biting, groin kicks, or eye pokes. We both wanted to defeat the other cleanly.

After five or ten minutes, exhaustion started to set in for me, while the undead brute was simply falling apart faster than he could regenerate.

"You're going down, bastard!" I roared, leaping onto him.

My spiked boots sank deep into his flesh, and my belt gave me just enough support to stay balanced. Without wasting a second, I began pounding his face with a flurry of punches and elbows. A few solid hits to his temple finally broke his resistance. He collapsed onto his back, and I kept hammering his head like dough.

"Just die already! Die! Die!" I shouted, blinded by rage, as I began headbutting him for good measure.

"Hrrrrk..." The undead wheezed as I shattered more teeth and crushed his throat. Now, all he could do was rasp and hiss.

I spread my arms wide and slammed both fists into his temples.

Crunch. His skull caved in.

Just as I was about to continue, ignoring the referee's whistle signaling the end of the first half, a kick landed in my side, sending me sprawling.

"Hmm. You're pretty good for a mortal, taking down that weakling. But after the break, you'll face me!" A female voice rang out. A Tomb Guardian stepped forward, dressed like an ornate priestess.

She turned to say something to her fallen comrade before leaving the field. I wanted to shout back, but my teammates were already dragging me to the locker room.

"Ha-ha-ha! Buri, you were incredible! What a brawl you had out there! Especially when you climbed on top of that damned undead and started pounding its head like an anvil!" Bron laughed, clapping me on the shoulder and pushing a mug of ale toward me, which I immediately drained.

"Yeah! It was so brutal and ferocious that I saw several Khorne-worshiping fan groups start fighting each other in the stands!" Rook grinned at me, despite missing a few teeth and looking like he'd been in a nasty bar brawl. His eyes, however, gleamed with joy.

"Damn undead! You hit them, and it's like they don't even care! That bitch was practically laughing at us while Rook and I tried to bring her down! She giggled and swatted us away like children!" Korhil cursed, ripping off a shoulder guard mangled by claws and replacing it with a new one.

"Alright, listen up, you lazy pigs! Half the match is over, and we're stuck! Neither side has scored a single touchdown! I don't care how you do it, but you need to score at least three, or I'll run you into the ground during training!" Kazran bellowed, pacing the locker room. "Bron! Baha! Stop your foreplay with these bandage puppets. Either make a touchdown or punch a hole in their defense!"

"But—" Bron began to protest but fell silent as Kazran's fist hovered near his nose.

"I know it's fun beating on those ragdolls, but you'll exhaust yourselves before you bring them down. We're here to win, not for a sparring match. So do as I say! Oh, the ref's calling everyone back onto the field! Chug another mug and get moving!" Kazran practically kicked us out, forcing some dwarves and humans to down their ale mid-stride while rushing to relieve themselves.

Stepping back onto the field, I took my position. The undead woman who had promised to face me earlier kept her word, standing directly opposite me. Her gaze radiated a mix of disdain, amusement, and superiority.

"Mortal, you have the great honor of becoming a toy for Amenet the Beautiful! Not even time could strip me of my beauty," she smirked, running her hand over her cleavage, which was at least a size five.

"Brr. No thanks. Let's stick to the old-fashioned way and just beat each other up," I replied, shaking my head.

"Ha-ha-ha. Mortals. What can one expect from you? You don't understand the true power of beauty. Enough talk—time to teach you a lesson," she said, clenching her fists and readying herself for battle.

"Oh, great. A teacher," I muttered, pulling a grimace and lowering into a defensive stance.

The referee's whistle blew, and we charged at each other.

From the first clash, I realized she was in a different class than my previous opponent. Amenet was more agile and experienced, countering many of my strikes. She blocked or closed the distance to sap my hits of speed and force. Some attacks she even absorbed with her chest, which, while not steel-hard, felt like striking an exceptionally firm punching bag.

As if her solid defense wasn't enough, she also had razor-sharp nails that left shallow scratches and gouges. To make matters worse, she laughed after every successful block or counter.

It was maddening. The fight felt like a positional stalemate and a war of attrition, one I was slowly losing. Even my endurance, boosted by a few mugs of Bugman's, began to wane. She, however, seemed unaffected by my strikes. At one point, she even started blocking most of my punches with her chest, as if mocking me and showing off.

"If you survive this match, perhaps I'll take you as my personal masseur. Your soft little kitten paws are so soothing. It's like I've returned to my mortal days for a moment. Hee-hee-hee," she giggled, though to me it sounded more like the laugh of a hyena preparing to cackle.

I attempted my climbing trick again, planning to unleash a flurry of blows to her face. But she kept slapping me away, maintaining a distance that was advantageous to her and frustrating for me. Even trying to grab her for a grapple only made her laugh. She joked that I was like a little kitten trying to nuzzle her.

"You're infuriating, you witch!" I growled, only to receive a sharp slap to my helmet.

"Tut-tut-tut! What a dirty mouth on this little kitty! Naughty! Naughty!" she snapped, her strikes coming faster and harder.

I had to retreat into a full defensive stance. Her claws were dangerous, and my armor didn't offer total protection. Gritting my teeth, I weathered her blows.

"Baha! I've got the ball! Stall her!" Korhil shouted, seizing an opportunity for a breakaway.

"Oh, another kitty toy? But you're defective. Let me fix that—maybe poke out an eye for symmetry," Amenet sneered, shifting to intercept him.

"Shit, I need to think of something fast, or she'll crush the poor guy with her... uh, assets. Huh? Assets! That's it!" A crazy idea popped into my head, and I charged her with my arm outstretched.

"Oh?! I knew it! You've finally realized the magnificence and allure of my chest! Ha-ha-ha. HUH? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!! AAAAA!!! PERVERT!!!" Her triumphant smile vanished as she realized my intent.

"Gotcha!" I grinned wickedly as I grabbed the bandages around her chest and yanked them with all my strength.

My plan was simple. Even in my previous world, women hated being exposed in public. I figured this undead queen wouldn't be any different.

What I hadn't anticipated was what would be revealed.

The bandages snapped, and out spilled her "chest"—dried, sagging mounds that looked like the ears of a spaniel. A mutant spaniel that had spent centuries in a tomb. They flopped out like fire hoses unrolling across the grass, and the stench of tanning chemicals mixed with incense made it even worse.

"AAAAAA!!! NO!!! DON'T LOOK!!! AAAHHH!!!" Amenet shrieked, scrambling to cover herself and shove them back in.

"MY EYES!"

"WATER! ALCOHOL! SOMEONE LET ME WASH OUT MY EYES!"

"OH GODS, MAKE IT GO AWAY!"

"HRAAARGH!"

Everyone on the field—living and undead—was thrown into disarray. Players, referees, and even the fans in the stands were traumatized. The undead tried to bury themselves or fling their skulls out of the stadium. Dwarves and humans ran to barrels of water or beer, desperately trying to erase the horror. Some dunked their faces while chugging gallons of ale, hoping to drink themselves into oblivion.

Korhil, as an elf who cherished beauty, fainted on the spot. For him, the psychological blow was too much to bear. His mind shut down, mercifully sparing him from further torment.

The game was forgotten. The ball remained untouched near Korhil. Everyone was preoccupied with purging the mental scars left by Amenet's... reveal.

I wasn't spared either. Alongside the dwarves, I dunked myself into a barrel of Bugman's, but even that struggled to erase the memory.

Eventually, a technical draw was declared, and no one protested. No one wanted to relive the horror.

Amenet disappeared after the match. Rumor had it she was searching for a wizard to erase the memories of that day or a necromancer to "fix" her problem. But honestly, I doubted anyone would help her—not even the most hardened necromancers or undead surgeons would risk their sanity or eyesight. Beauty truly is a terrifying force, especially when it's terrifying in itself.

As for me, I developed a mild phobia. I spent Korhil's savings and my own on access to an elven dance channel. A week of drinking and watching graceful elven maidens restored my sanity.

After that match, Blood Bowl leagues implemented a rule banning female Khemri players from using their chests to demoralize opponents. The bribes to overlook such infractions were so exorbitant that hiring multiple star players was cheaper. Even then, most referees refused—no amount of gold was worth enduring that weapon of mass destruction.