Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume1 Chapter1 (section)

=== Part 2 ===

“Two years.”

The gladiator, Orba, staring up at the darkness surrounding him, suddenly murmured those words in his mouth.
Although only ‘two years’ into this line of work, it had been full of hardships, blood, and corpses. How many times had he struggled for his life, only to have both his feet chained at the end, spend the night in the slave pens, where his only pastime was to train all morning in order to keep living as a sword-slave? And then there would be another fight.

No one, except Orba himself, expected him to be able to live through more than five battles. Two years ago, when Orba first set foot in the arena, he’d still been fourteen years old. His body had been even thinner than it was now, and he’d hardly been able to handle the weapons.

However, at the moment of truth, he’d survived. He brandished the weapon held in his hands, chosen from one of the few weapons he was able to wield, to the limits of his power. He only knew how to fight by recklessly charging in. As he gained experience, his skill, the thickness of each of his muscle fibres, the mastery of new weapons, as well as the opponent’s corpses he stepped over, increased every time he emerged from another fight.

And so, two years passed. Orba didn’t know whether that was a long or a short time. Sometimes, he thought he was a considerably old person, but he also felt like a youngster at times who still didn’t know anything at all about battles.

Anyway, maybe it simply had to do with the fact, that he had not been blessed with the opportunity to see his own face. Lying face up, he was still wearing the same iron mask he wore in the battle ring. Because it had never been removed those two years, the other sword-slaves belonging to the same Tarkas Gladiatorial Group<!--Can’t think of a better name for 剣闘会--> had no way of knowing his true face.

“Get up, slaves! You hate wakin’ up? Then get ready for your worst day yet!”

When morning came, another day for the slaves began. The one in charge of training the sword-slaves, and the slaves’ main supervisor, was Gowen, who drove everyone from their bedrooms and made them start cleaning the accommodations.

When that was finished, taking care of the lions, serpents, boars, tigers and the like – the animals that were used in the arena – was waiting. In particular, taking care of the dragons was hard work. Even taking care of the small- and medium-sized dragons was too much for a single person to handle, but taking care of the large-sized Sozos dragons was far worse. While it was expected for slaves to die by the sword, many had also been crushed underfoot by these dragons that were purposefully trained not to grow accustomed to humans.

Orba set foot in the vast dragon’s abode, which was much larger than the slaves’ dwellings – far from it – and resembled a castle courtyard, but he stopped in his tracks when he noticed the back of a woman.

She was Hou Ran. Of all the other slaves ordered to feed the dragons, she was the only one who directly touched the dragons’ scales. Of course, the dragons’ legs and necks were wrapped in chains, as it was not necessary to carry out yesterday’s example, but that was by no means an absolute guarantee. At a distance that would even cause a gladiator to hesitate, greeting each dragon one by one, she gently touched their scales with her fingers.

“Orba.”

Calling out his name, she quickly turned around.

“So I’ve been found out.”

“I’ve been told by the ‘voice’ of the dragons.”

Ran smiled. She seemed truly unsuitable in an all-men, not to mention savage, sword-slave detention camp, and Orba still hadn’t gotten used to her defenceless smile.

Her skin like polished ebony, combined with hair that seemed to have turned pale, gave off a mysterious charm. Originating from the Dragon God worshipping nomads that roamed in the western mountains of Mephius, unlike her primarily reclusive kin, Ran had exceptionally been brimming with curiosity, secretly boarded one of her tribe’s caravan wagons and came over to the outside world. Because she never told him exactly what had happened after that, he did not know when Tarkas hired her, and how she could take care of the dragons single-handedly like this.

“Do these guys know my name?”

“Their ‘voices’ come like images into my head. They all know your face, Orba. You’re liked by the dragons.”

While it appeared idiotic, in fact, it seemed like her pupils, clearly giving the impression of being deep under the sea, held some kind of intelligence lost to civilized men. From the other side of the fence, the small-type dragons were poking out their snouts and snapping at him.

“It doesn’t look that way,” Orba said with a thin smile.

At the time Orba turned up two years ago, Hou Ran was already at the detention camp. Back then, although she didn’t make direct eye contact with the others employed by Tarkas, she didn’t even open her mouth to him. Whether they would see Orba’s face or hear Ran’s voice first, soon became the target of bets among the sword slaves short of entertainment.

But, one time, Ran was about to be roughed up by several new sword-slaves who’d recently come into the camp. Orba just happened to pass by and had beaten them up, and ever since then Ran had at least been able to speak to him a bit.

“I heard you were attacked by a Sozos at Ba Roux.”

“''I'' was the one who attacked the Sozos,” he emphasized. “It suddenly started getting violent.”

“Even with drugs, it’s useless to imprison its heart by force. If I had been the one supervising it, such a thing would have never happened.”
[[Image:Rakuin no Monshou v01 035.jpg|thumb]]

She bit her lips, but it was not because she was concerned about Orba or the visitors. With the figure of a girl patting the nape of a medium-sized Baian dragon in the corner of his eye, Orba finished his own work and left the dragon’s abode behind him.

After feeding the animals and cleaning was done, it was time to tend to their weapons. Because they left their own lives in their care, they carefully did them one by one. Whenever they handled weapons, about ten guards in full armour acted as supervisors. Naturally, they were there to make sure none of the sword-slaves tried to revolt.

Then, after finishing a meal with a sorry amount of bread and soup – the survivors of yesterday’s gladiator matches were treated meat and fruit as a reward – they each began their training at the start of noon. Just like when they’d been tending the weapons, there were armed soldiers on the lookout, but this time, the chains that connected both feet were taken off.

Sword-slaves that lasted over two years like Orba were extremely rare. Lives were lost one after another, and new faces always appeared again on the next day. Gowen tirelessly taught them the step work of how to hold a sword or how to handle a gun, and trained them thoroughly until they were fully prepared.

Orba also had some of the newcomers as opponents. Sometimes they clashed swords, just like in an actual fight, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to part with a limb or lose his life in the midst of training..

Today, there weren’t any casualties. But that did not have to mean they were lucky. The next day may hold an even more miserable fate, and grislier deaths may be awaiting for these gladiators.

When all the faces of the sword-slaves had turned dark, their skin wet with sweat and covered in dust, Orba moved to the fence separating the training grounds from an aisle on the other side and caught sight of Tarkas’s figure.

Saying “At ease!” at the newcomer, Orba rushed up towards him.

Also noticing the masked man, Tarkas stopped in his tracks. There was a feeling of distrust slipping through his sagged cheeks.

“What is it, Iron Tiger? Ahh… good job yesterday.” He had a look on his face as if he just now remembered he forgot to feed his pet dog. “Verne was quickly becoming a well-known gladiator. The other gladiator troupe started talking about wanting to pit him against you. ‘Can’t we earn back all the money we invested in Verne that way?’ – don’t try that sarcastic bullshit on me. Well, I suppose I feel a bit grateful as well. And killing that Sozos—”

“Tarkas, how much longer do I have to continue winning?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s been two years already. I’ve kept winning all the time. How many times do I have to be the ‘main event’ like yesterday. Isn’t it about time you take these chains off of my feet?”

Sword-slaves, all of them, were each exchanged on a contract when bought by a merchant. Although Tarkas seemed to handle it quite vaguely.

“Don’t think I can’t read. Even a slave should have the right to look into my contract. I’ve been waiting here, Tarkas. I should’ve been allowed to leave a long time ago.”

As Orba spoke right in front of him, Tarkas sharply put a squinting look in his eyes.

“So, where do you plan to go? Surely you can be released from my hands, but you’ll still be a criminal. You don’t have the money to pay off your remaining prison term. Or maybe you want to work in the Tsaga Mines along the western border? Poisonous gases, wild man-eating beasts, human-hunting Geblin tribes, and – of course – extremely miserable and rigorous labour. If it’s the same hell, or if you think you may have it better off here, hurry up and get back to your training. And don’t ever speak to me like an equal, until you’ve become a full-fledged swordsman that earns his pay.”

Thrusting his thick finger in Orba’s face, Tarkas quickly took his leave, heading for his office. Behind him, unfamiliar faces followed suit. Considering this was a place where legs were tied up in chains, they were probably newly procured slaves.

Orba was silent. His eyes were teeming with rage however, but Tarkas’s words weren’t lies either. Concerning Mephian law, you can basically either sell your life or go to prison. Like the Mines of Tsaga that Tarkas spoke of – should he apply for the country’s public service, accompanied by dangers, and sell himself off as a slave there?

Grasping the fence tightly in his hands, he lost all sense of feeling in his fingers before he knew it, Orba remained there standing in place.

“What are you doing, Orba!? Get back here!”

After finally being rebuked by Gowen, he went back to practice. As always.

A few hours after that, after washing their bodies with a cupful of water, it was time for their second meal of the day. Orba, rounding up his body like a hunchback in the corner of the dining hall, was almost grasping at his food. As a habit, he couldn’t go through a meal without reading a book.

Then,

“Orba, good job yesterday.”

Another sword-slave, the one named Shique, nestled onto his back, and Orba roughly shook him off with his hand.

“That ballchain Verne chap. When the match was decided, I didn’t know what to do. If you seemed to get into a huge disadvantage, I considered shooting him down from the outside.”

“Go away. Unless you want me to wound that smug face of yours.”

“Ooh, scary. But I wouldn’t mind any wound you give me, for it’ll become a bond between me and you.”

Even though it was hard, despite Shique’s chuckling behaviour, to make an accurate judgement on whether he was serious or making a joke, Orba didn’t socialize with him either way. The handsome Shique had grown out his hair and even used make-up when it came to a gladiatorial battle. And just like that, because it seemed to further his degenerate good looks, he was tremendously popular among the female crowd. Even though the person himself was a self-styled, huge misogynist. 

“However, I expected no less from you, Orba. Even without me lending you a hand, you managed to make a truly magnificent performance. Are you, both in name and reality, Tarkas’s top gladiator, I wonder?”

“I wouldn’t say it was magnificent.”

Gowen, the one in charge of training the gladiators, made his appearance. Although Orba showed plain the annoyance in his eyes as he sat down at the same table, he didn’t seem to mind.

“Although you did well, it’s a fact that it was also dangerous. When you broke in, your timing was still too hasty. It’s a bad habit of yours to take risks when you’re driven into a corner, even if only by a bit. You should spend more time putting an effort into ensuring your predominance. Although Verne was a brilliant swordsman, he wasn’t the type to target his opponent’s weak points. But a more observant opponent could easily see through your quick temper, and sweep you off your feet.”

He was a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, but he still had a stout and tanned body, and the peering glances he gave the sword-slaves were filled with intensity.

“His opponent was that Verne, though. That guy was, curiously enough, in perfectly good shape,” a new voice called out, belonging to Tarkas Gladiatorial Group’s number one giant, Gilliam.

He had been in the same arena as Orba and Shique the day before, carrying a battle-ax on his shoulder, and with that the three strongest sword-slaves were gathered together. With long auburn hair in as much disorder as possible, his face, grinning with clenched teeth, had a look as intimidating as that of a wild lion.

“When I heard you had to go against Verne, I honestly thought you ran out of luck. Well, you don’t have bad skills. But, as usual, you still don’t know what it means to be a gladiator. It’s worthless if you win gracelessly. It won’t satisfy the guests. The way you carelessly kept running from place to place and then suddenly decided the match with one blow was just not entertaining at all. You’ve got to hit them up front.”

For someone like a sword-slave, it wasn’t just about winning the match. You had to be popular, in short, make sure that a lot of visitors come to see that gladiator alone. Plain gladiators, after finally having earned a pile of money, would be thrown before wild animals or dragons on their own, only to satisfy the sadistic tastes of their customers.

That was why the gladiators – every one of them – strove to hone their skills, and also tried to appeal to the audience with flashy personalities in order to survive. Some decorated their body with gaudy armors, some made a show out of dragging out their opponent’s heart after their demise, while others inked their bodies with mysterious tattoos.

As for Shique, he dramatically claimed to be ‘a descendant of an ancient royal dynasty’.

“This time, go against me, Orba. I’ll teach you what it is to fight for real.”

“Not interested.”

“Haha, are you afraid of me?”

“Oh, I am. I’m scared. So, get lost.”

“You bastard!”

As Orba continued eating his meal in his usual stooped behaviour, Gilliam pushed him in the back.

“Stop it!” Gowen commanded. 

If there was a disturbance, the soldiers belonging to the gladiatorial group would rush in, so for the time being Gilliam took his leave with a reddened face.

“Come to think of it, some strange newcomers have appeared,” Gowen said, after some time had passed, as if he suddenly remembered. It looked like he was talking about the ones Orba had seen too, trailing behind Tarkas back then.

“Strange? Like, with horns in their hair, and the bulge of a tail in the back of their pants?” a sword slave named Kain interfered.

He was a boy, the same age as Orba, who came to the detention facility a year ago and took after him. He wasn’t that great physically or with a sword, but he excelled in dexterity, especially when handling handguns or rifles.

“Or maybe a survivor from the Ryuujin<ref>Dragon people.</ref> Tribe, doesn’t that sound romantic?”

“Ryuujin, Geblin, or whatever type of person appears now, I probably wouldn’t even be surprised. This is a sword slave company after all, a trading place for all kinds of races.”

“It’s a much simpler story. I heard every last one of those guys hardly have any skill at the sword.”

“What…?”

Kain stretched out his arms, seemingly uninterested.

“I mostly can’t believe Tarkas would have bought a bunch of good-for-nothings without a grumpy face. But he seemed in an unusually good mood.”

“Oh?”

“Certainly. For a master like Tarkas, whose eyes are always dazzled by the shine of gold, it sounds really strange, right?”

“Good mood? That guy?” Orba said, remembering the situation with Tarkas during the day.

“I’ve known him longer than you. The only times I’ve seen Tarkas in a good mood was when he got the chance to earn a huge amount of money.”

“Then again, I wonder if it’s nobles who came to visit. About an exhibition match, or something like that. Those newcomers could’ve also been nobles who were asking to be bought. Or maybe they’re political offenders who opposed the Mephius Empire. Could there be a request for them to be gruesomely fed to dragons in public?”

“There’s a strange intensity to your words, because I can’t read your face.”

“Anyway, where’s the new book? It’s been three months since I’ve asked for it.”

Losing interest in the conversation, Orba inquired about something else. The other guys had all started raising different topics among themselves. By tomorrow, they were likely to fight as opponents even if they were gladiators working for the same firm. The idea of deepening a friendship more than necessary had never been in Orba’s mind from the start.

“Ahh, it’s been purchased. It’ll be here tomorrow. However… although it seems a little late to say this, you’re a bit unusual too. Of the guys here, even those that can read and write letters, I doubt they’ve ever read more than a hundred in their life.”

Plucking at a skin of chicken, Gowen glanced over at Orba.

“Sometimes, even I’m almost driven with the impulse to tear off that mask. What’s the true face that lies underneath? There are times I think you’re only a young wild brat, and there are times the cool-headedness of a man who has survived many battlefields peeks through. Yesterday was like that. You took the appropriate actions against a Sozos without flinching.”

“Are you praising me or not?”

“I’m praising you. Other than taking up a sword and fighting for yourself, you calmly consider the circumstances. Although I think you may actually be better suited as a leader, if not for that quick temper of yours. You like books about history and people, get absorbed reading them late into the night, and swallow their knowledge.”

When meeting him for the first time, basically from the time he was bought by the Tarkas company, Orba’s face had been covered by a mask. Ever since then, he hadn’t taken it off even once. Of course, everybody wanted to know why. They wanted to see his face. They wondered about his origins.

In the beginning, it worried Gowen that Orba met fists with them in response to their curiosity and suspicions. But when half a year had passed, he thought of the makeshift excuse that ‘a magician put a curse on it’ and after a year the teasing stopped, and soon nobody asked him about it anymore. Although some newcomers occasionally asked him about it, Orba was able to turn a blind eye.

“What do you gain from reading a book? At least, at the place where I was born and raised, you didn’t gain respect no matter how many books you owned.”

“It sounds like you’ve been raised by ape men or Geblin.”

“Watch your language, Orba. I think I’m especially kind to you considering the circumstances. If it doesn’t matter to you, I too can adopt that same attitude.”

Behaving like a man who couldn’t understand a joke was one of Gowen’s beloved habits. Orba revealed a stifled smile, but the deep-wrinkled sword-slave training official unexpectedly gave a serious look.

“As a sword-slave, normally, you only try your best to survive for the day. Some go back out into this corrupted world, but, because they can’t live without committing yet another crime, there are some people who are content being a sword-slave for the rest of their life,  – although, for most, their ‘whole life’ would probably be very short – but, you’re different. You, at least, do not get absorbed in the killing and focus on the future. After that, I always think: Hey, what should I say to such a man? Should I tell him to throw away a future like that? When it’s only hard, even if you hold onto it with such devotion? Or should I tell him to seriously hold on to that hope? Because it will be the strength for him to live this through?”

“Did you secretly drink some alcohol, gramps? You’re talkative.”

“I’m being serious.”

Gowen stubbornly shook his head. Orba decided he had truly gotten drunk.  Usually, Gowen wouldn’t have remained silent after being called ‘gramps’.

“Who is it that you fight for? The other sword-slaves, yourself, or do you have some other goal in mind?”

“I don’t know.”

Scuffing his words like a boy, Orba turned away his face. He didn’t want his inner feelings to be seen, where he was trembling like a child.

Finishing his meal, Orba quickly left the dining hall. Although the sword-slaves could walk about freely, there was nothing but the dining hall and the bedrooms at the detention camp. It was called a bedroom, but it wasn’t much different from a stable to keep livestock. As he lay down in a corner, Orba stared at his own hands.

It had been two years since then. Even today, he could remember it so well. And if he hadn’t confirmed it himself, those ‘two years’ would’ve been no more than a number. For two years, Orba had barely stayed alive, surrounded by the smell of blood, guts, and iron.

However, he killed, survived, did it all over again, and what was the point in all of that?

Orba turned over on the floor. He had already grown accustomed to the feel of his hard mask touching the ground. It was as Tarkas said. Even if he was freed from being a slave, he didn’t know more of how to live the ‘clever’ way of life, but it seemed that Gowen had misunderstood something – he was not waiting with hopes for a future like that. Supposing he did…

Under the thin shadow formed by fangs, Orba tightly gnashed his teeth.

''If I do live through this, then what do I do?''

It was decided. He was tired of doing things over and over in the arena, the massacres, the blood, the fights, killing each other. On the way back, he was never able to think of things like ‘it’s okay’ or ‘it’ll get easier’.

An inexplicable anger was stuck in the glitter of his eyes, on the other side of the mask.

''I’ll get it back. I’ll take it back. And for the ones who took it away from me, even though it is not enough, I will have them fully taste the pain of the agonizing cries from all the people I’ve killed these past two years.''