Chapter 102 (1/2)
Grandpa Vremya had already read the rules of the robotics competition on his way to the competition grounds. This wasn’t an ordinary robotics competition, one where contestants would be given the same starting materials and told to complete tasks. This was Metal Warbots! A fierce arena where battle robots would fight to the figurative death! After all, how could the annual robotics competition of the capital planet of an intergalactic federation attract any attenders without some violence? Ever since the olden days of humanity, people would rally to watch gladiators slaughter each other. Peasants would flock to public executions, hoping to get a front-row seat of a hanging. Spectators would watch men and women pummel each other in an octagonal ring, cheering as faces were bashed in. Without violence, how could Metal Warbots hope to make a profit?
There weren’t many rules in Metal Warbots: the robots had to be under a certain weight and size limit; the robots had to be controlled by a human; and surrender wasn’t an option. The match ended when the enemy robot was rendered incapable of movement. Afterwards, the contestants would be given an hour to repair their robots, getting it ready for its next match. Other than that, everything else was allowed in Metal Warbots—even battlesuits modified by titan hearts and titan blood.
The contestants waiting room was spacious; it had to be to accommodate all the competitors. There were over a thousand of them. The entry requirements were so relaxed that even Grandpa Vremya could waltz in at the last minute to sign up. Not only did the owner of Metal Warbots turn a blind eye to this, but he actively encouraged anyone and everyone to participate. The more robots there were, the more violence there’d be! The longer the competition lasted, the more sales in overpriced food and drink there’d be. The audience might be dissatisfied watching two amateur robots duke it out, but that was easily resolved. If the owner noticed a lull in the action, he’d personally spice things up by raining down explosives to see who’d last the longest or by adding more robots into the fray. He was the owner; the rules didn’t apply to him! If the contestants didn’t like it, then they could take their t-shirts and leave!
People enjoyed Metal Warbots because it was entertaining, and the owner knew that. In fact, he was the one who was the most entertained. If he didn’t have a love for watching robots slaughter each other, would he have founded Metal Warbots in the first place? The owner, Mr. Metal, was obsessed with combat robots and everything about them. In fact, his favorite place to be before Metal Warbots began was in the contestants’ area, previewing all the machines and imagining them in different scenarios. Of course, most competitors preferred keeping their robots stored away in their interspacial ring, but some flashier contestants left their robots out in the open. Those were the ones Mr. Metal paid attention to; after all, to reveal everything before the fight, didn’t that require some amount of confidence?
An odd sight appeared in Mr. Metal’s view. Although Metal Warbots was popular, it had its own niche audience—mostly hotblooded, young men. It was very rare for someone so old to enjoy Metal Warbots, but it was even rarer for an old man to be competing! Old folk never really enjoyed the twists Mr. Metal added into his program. One minute, they could be engrossed in two robots having a serious boxing match—albeit a slow one—but then lava could pour into the arena from the ceiling and ruin the fight! Betting on Metal Warbots was a surefire gamble because no one, not even Mr. Metal, knew what was coming next. It took a certain mindset to enjoy senseless violence, and most old people had outgrown that mindset long ago.
Mr. Metal approached the old competitor, who was tinkering with a robot that looked suspiciously like a person inside of a battlesuit. “Hello! Is this your first time competing?”
Grandpa Vremya glanced at the man who had approached him. Then, he turned back towards his golem. Although his wealth wasn’t capable of purchasing large plots of land in an area where real-estate prices were on par with purchasing far-away planets, it was still enough to buy him a battlesuit. He had to purchase one since he had returned Joanne’s battlesuit to her, and he had no intention of joining the army to obtain a free one.
“Old man,” Mr. Metal said with a smile that wasn’t really a smile. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Mr. Metal, the owner of Metal Warbots! If it wasn’t for me, do you think you could be here today? Loosen up, will you? We’re all here to have fun and enjoy the festivities.”
“I’m not,” Grandpa Vremya said, not taking his eyes off his golem. He was inspecting the formation lines made of titan blood painted on the battlesuits surface. “I’m here to crush everyone, win, and showcase my golem-creation ability to the intergalactic society.”
Mr. Metal burst out into laughter. There was a twinkle in his eye as he patted Grandpa Vremya’s battlesuit’s shoulder. “How about I help you out?” he asked and glanced at Grandpa Vremya’s nametag. “Elder Vremya, eh? You’re going to be one of our opening competitors!”
“I don’t need your help,” Grandpa Vremya said, but at that point, Mr. Metal had already walked away. For a brief moment, a stunned expression appeared on Grandpa Vremya’s face. Someone had actually walked away from him before he declared the conversation as over? Only he could do that! It was a good thing Azalea wasn’t here, or she’d never let him live this moment down.
“Tough luck, old man,” someone beside Grandpa Vremya said. “You shouldn’t have treated Mr. Metal that way. Don’t you know how much power he has in Metal Warbots? If he’s displeased, he can drop a bomb on your robot for no reason!”
“It won’t even come to that,” another competitor said. “Metal Warbots always opens with the Dominator.” The competitor glanced at Grandpa Vremya, noticing there wasn’t any reaction. “Dominator is the title given to the winner of last year’s Metal Warbots. The current Dominator has held the title for the last seven years!”
Grandpa Vremya snorted and put away his battlesuit. It seemed like Mr. Metal really was helping him out. If the battlesuit defeated the seven-time reigning champion, wouldn’t that make him famous? There was a dinging sound, and simultaneously, everyone’s bracelet flashed. Upon entering the competitors’ area, Grandpa Vremya had been given one to wear. It had a display, and there were a few functions on it, including one to place bets. On the bracelet’s display, the first match was announced! Elder Vremya’s robot, Battlesuit, would be facing off against Nile Company’s robot, Dominator Metal Croc! The first thing Grandpa Vremya did was place a bet on his own victory. Why would he pass up the chance to earn money by simply pressing a few buttons?