Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume2 Chapter5 (section)

===Part 3===
That evening, Pashir seated beside Orba in the dining area. In the presence of the slave girl introduced as Mira who waited on them, Pashir mumbled on about his past.

He grew up in a western Mephian village and lost both his parents early on. In order to feed himself and his younger sister, his last remaining family member, he chose to work at a nearby mine. The working conditions were far from good and few measures were taken to guarantee their safety. Deaths were frequently tolled from overwork and cave-ins. No matter how many times they protested, they saw no improvement. The driving reason was because they saw the workers as little more than slaves.

Even then, it was a highly sought after job. Pashir quietly continued to work.

“Why was I born? What was I able to do? I never paid them a single thought. I was alive. That was all that mattered.”

Pashir said. Hearing nothing but the mumbles of fellow slaves, Orba could once more feel himself returning to his time as a slave.

Once, there was an incident that even trampled upon that meagre wish of Pashir’s. His sister, after procuring meat in the marketplace, showed up at the mines Pashir worked at. The person she asked for her brother's whereabouts was a bad one. He was a slave supervisor known for his lust.

He made up a lie and said that Pashir had committed an atrocious wrong. He then brought the younger sister indoors, where he proceeded to ravish her.

“I happened to pass by there, whether by some stroke of fortune by the Dragon God, or some terrible prank played by some evil unnamed god.”

His resentment having built up, Pashir immediately flew into a rage and beat the supervisor to death. It wasn’t too surprising Pashir was then restrained and sold off as a sword slave. It had been five years since then. He moved from arena to arena and survived them.

''Strong-armed Pashir''

Orba finally recalled that name. He was a veteran warrior, and also a sword-slave who would never be forgiven for his crimes. Like Orba, he had a plain fighting style. He did not adorn his body with any showy ornaments, nor did he try to adopt a gaudy personality. He fought plainly and won. That was why his name hadn’t spread far.

''But those kinds of people are the strongest.''

“It might be word of the mouth,” Pashir drank up the cold, tasteless soup and then expressionlessly continued, “but I’ve heard my younger sister has also been made a slave. Of course, I don’t know her whereabouts. There’s no way I could hope to know. I curse Mephius. I swear to bring Mephius to ruins. Supposing even if I die halfway, my soul will take over the one who killed me and I’ll make sure all of Mephius gets what they deserve.”

“...”

“The same goes for me. The hundreds of sword-slaves I’ve killed; their souls all cling onto mine. All day, all night, they whisper to me. ‘Kill the Mephians. Roast the nobles. Take back everything they’ve stolen from us. That is the mission imposed on you, the one who killed us.’”

Armed soldiers were situated in all four corners of the eating chamber. Orba paid them no heed.

“But with the way things are, nothing will change; only that the number of souls clinging on top of your shoulders will increase.”

“Exactly. If things continue the way they do, at least.”

Pashir was young and held the status of a sword slave, but he commanded a presence far heavier than any Mephius commander Orba had seen.

Afterwards, Orba also spoke of his own past. It was a past he did not want to mention. But to earn his trust, he had no choice in the matter. There was no need to exaggerate what really happened, nor put up an act. All of it was Orba’s truth. It was the truth, one Orba deemed he had to mention to deceive Pashir. He spoke of how the Mephius army burned his village, of how they stole his family away from it. As he spoke, his hands trembled. His body trembled. Oubary’s face came to mind. Oubary was within his reach, yet why had his chances of killing that bastard constantly escaped him? The answer was obvious. Because it was obvious, he needed to pretend it wasn’t. A man with the same circumstances. A man who bore the same resentment. A man who also consoled in him.

Before he knew it, Pashir’s hand rested on his shoulders. “What are you—” his mouth closed as he halfway muttered these words. He currently felt extremely sad for some reason. More than anger, he was overwhelmed in a pool of grief. Orba laid down his head and leaned his body against Pashir’s shoulder.

“Sorry for calling you a dog. You’re also the same as me. A gladiator burdened by their souls.”

Pashir then stared into Orba’s eyes. In a voice far more hushed than ever before,

“I’ve got something interesting to tell you. With those feelings, I’m sure you’ll become one of us.”

''Here it comes.''

Orba never felt more grateful to his iron mask than now. The sentiments that arose within him in that instant parted in a flash, replaced by the tension and temperament of a warrior now seeping out of him.

“What are you talking about?”

He tried to ask doubtfully. The surrounding sword-slaves were watching him with dagger glares. Pashir directed his gaze towards them. As if to end the silence, a few of them quietly nodded.

This made it clear they respected Pashir as their leader.

Pashir slowly revealed the plan to Orba. Of course, they took caution to lower their voices so the acting guards of the detention camp would not be able to hear them.

''Who would’ve thought...''

Orba thought as he listened on. It wasn’t something Orba hadn’t already considered, but this plan wasn’t exactly bold, nor was it very endangering.

Pashir planned to make use of the tournament and have the sword-slaves rise in rebellion.

They would rise to action the day after tomorrow, once the deciding match tomorrow ended and the victorious two to lead the two hundred slaves in a battle against the dragons were decided. On the climax of the festival, the seats of the imperial family and the senior statesmen would be fully occupied. The objective was to take them hostage.

“A sword will be handed to each of the slaves to eliminate the dragons. The surrounding guards will, of course, be watching over us carrying guns, but other than these two hundred slaves on the stadium ground, there are seventy or more gladiators who had previously participated in a match. The first move will be for them to raise an uproar and split the palace guards in half. There will be slaves attending to the services of the nobles and the affluential in the seating stand. I’ve brought some certain individuals amongst them over to our side. They will incite the other slaves.”

A grandiose plan. It was hard to say whether this plan would succeed or not, and even supposing it were to succeed, a great number of casualties would result. Not only the slaves and the nobles, but also the Mephians situated within the seating stand would likely end up caught in between.

“Will you do it?”

Pashir asked only this. Orba was aware the question held several implied meanings. If he didn’t agree, he’d likely be killed here in this place. His corpse might end up as dragon fodder, or be thrown into the incinerator found in the arena, each as likely to happen as the next. Orba spoke up.

“I have one condition.”

“What is it?”

Anxiety suddenly ran through him. A menacing gleam lodged within the surrounding slaves’ eyes.

“Let me kill the prince, Gil, with my own hands.”

After mentioning this, Pashir instantly bent his back. He burst out in laughter. To give his response, Pashir put his thick hand on Orba’s shoulder.

“That sits fine with me.” Pashir flashed his white teeth at the slaves. “He’s your prey. Do whatever you want with him.”

The slaves barely slept that night. They lay sprawled in a manner that didn’t arouse any suspicion from the guards, and as they pretended to snore, talked about the plan that would occur two days from now and joked of what would happen in the future to come. There were those who boasted how they would capture the nobles and make them take part in the arena. There were also those who thought of breaking into the nobles’ homes and quickly making a fortune. And there were those who insisted that they should set fire to Solon in order to issue a manifesto to all the slaves. But the majority of them, not too surprisingly, wanted to return to their hometown.

“There’s no place left for me to return to,”

A middle-aged slave said with a weak smile.

“Over twenty years have passed since I was made a slave. My mother was already getting old then, and now I’ll bet she’s long gone. I don’t even know if my village is still there or not.”

Even then, they insisted on returning. There might be nothing and no one there, but they still remembered their village. Clear in his mind was the figure of himself perched atop a rock, looking up at the sky. “I’ve come back!” Not as a slave made to kill others in public, but as a human being.

“Pashir, what will you do?”

One of the slaves asked. After thinking it over a bit, Pashir replied,

“Come to think of it, I haven’t really given it much thought.”

He said while forcing a smile. Another slave teasingly chimed in.

“Aren’t you going to be taking Mira with you?”

“What, how did it come to that?”

“Anyone’d think that after seeing you two. After we break free, that Agon chap might just take her away, you know?”

Everyone let out a snigger. Pashir turned the other way. They weren’t sure how long it’d been since they had been taken to the detention camp, but in these past few days, Mira and Pashir seemed to have gotten fairly intimate in their eyes.

While watching the lively scene before him, Orba being Orba thought of different matter. He had never heard the names ‘Oubary’ or ‘Noue’ amongst those taking part in the rebellion. Most likely, the instigator that taught Pashir and the slaves this plan never mentioned these two’s names.

''What does he hope to gain out of making the sword-slaves act out a rebellion?''

The same was for Princess Vileena.

''The timely assassination of Vileena in the midst of the confusion; that would clear Garbera of suspicion, but what would Noue gain from sacrificing the princess’ life?''

Orba cursed at himself for knowing nothing. If he were slightly more knowledgeable about international affairs, he would at least be able to draw some clues as to what Garbera, and more importantly, Noue could hope to gain from bringing disorder to Mephius.

This was different from a simple fight where he just picked up a sword and fought only to survive. Many motives were entwined, and a vast knowledge of affairs was required. The same went for war and politics.

Pashir returned to his serious face.

“After the final match, the emperor will personally hand out the golden helmet of Clovis. But that won’t be the time to make our move yet, Orba. Killing the emperor alone won’t grant the slaves freedom.”

The motion to assassinate the emperor at that time as the first phase of the plan had been considered. Though of course, even the victor would have his weapon confiscated during this occasion, and the slaves wouldn’t exactly be in the position to move. And the emperor would be surrounded by soldiers armed with bayonets. The success rate was never high to start with, and even supposing they killed the emperor, while it might strike a big blow to Mephius, it would only serve to meaninglessly strengthen oppression against the slaves.

''However—''

Supposing then, the uprising successfully went according to plan, what would ultimately become of the slaves?

Orba might not have voiced it out, but his chest seethed with anger.

''It’s fine to go back to your hometown. It’s fine to kill the nobles. But then what? What will happen to Mephius and the people living in it?''

Orba’s anger wasn’t directed towards the slaves. Noue, Oubary, Zaat—it was towards these devious characters and also one other, whom was unable to fully share the slaves’ feelings of anger because of his position—himself.

''There’s bound to be lots of casualties. I’m worried the provincial lords, in fear of the slaves’ uprising, will slaughter those leading them.''

What was he thinking and who was he thinking as? Orba’s mind was a wreck.

''At any rate,''

A portion of Noue’s laid out plans was now in his hands. It was for this sole purpose that Orba returned to being a sword-slave a second time. He had also stained his sword in blood.

''I’ll have you pay me back duly.''

Orba returned to the palace well after the break of dawn.

It being a time of the festival, the guards pleasantly greeted the prince. No one made mention of his illness or anything of the sort.

It had been a while since he stayed awake all throughout the night, but Orba was wide awake. He couldn’t forget the figures of the sword-slaves at the detention camp. Amidst their dirt and grime-covered faces, their eyes shone profusely. The majority of those slaves did not speak of the future. They did not know whether they would live to see tomorrow. It was pointless even if they thought about it. And despite this, the sword slaves that gathered around Pashir all looked towards the future together. Though that being the case, it wasn’t as if they foolishly bet everything onto this plan. Rather, the thought of not knowing whether they would die the next day weighed on them more than anything.

And yet, they were willing to shed their blood, break their bones, and give up their life for this future that until now, they could never hope to have. What would they do if they found out they were being strung along?

''Fuckin’ hell!''

Orba felt an urge to kick the wall. Would it be better if he were only nothing but a gladiator? Then he would have burned the plan onto his body with awakened interest, embrace his overflowing anger and eagerly fight against Mephius without giving a second thought. However, the current Orba was not so. In exchange for his iron mask, he had obtained the mask of Gil Mephius. To protect this mask that possessed the authority to help him retrieve the many things he’d lost, he would unfortunately need to protect Mephius.

“Your highness.”

Dinn greeted Orba in his room as he was deep in thought.

“I’m going to take a nap.” At hearing Orba’s unexpected announcement, Dinn’s eyes widened.

“Please wait, your highness. Vileena-sama has entrusted something to you.”

“Entrusted something? So she came here again? Did you manage to deceive her this time?”

“No, it was Theresia who had brought this along with a message from the princess.”

What Theresia presented was a golden medal wrapped in cloth. The medal was fastened to a thin chain, and seemed meant to be worn around the neck.

It was once a customary practice amongst the Garberan royalty to award those who performed distinguished war services or other meritorious deeds. The medal was said to bestow the name of camaraderie to its holder, and be given to loyal friends and subordinates. It had primarily evolved into something royalty still in their adolescence and the sons and daughters of nobles gave to their retainers in half jest.

Inscribed on the centre of the coin was Garbera’s national emblem of a horse and a sword, and also inscribed was Vileena’s name, a gesture that implied proof of their ‘unyielding and everlasting friendship’.

“‘Please give this to Orba-sama’—she said.”

“To Orba? Not to ''me''?”

“Like I said, to ''you''.”

Oh, Orba finally registered. Orba intended to face Dinn wearing the mask of Prince Gil, but the situation had produced a moment of confusion.

The medal had a diameter of five centimetres, and didn’t seem likely to hinder him even if he wore it under his clothes.

''Orba is a dear friend''

Those words rang in his ears. It was, at the very least, proof of Vileena’s friendship with he who tread near death’s door.

After changing into the clothes Dinn brought to him, he threw himself onto the bed. His body was fatigued, but he had a considerably hard time falling asleep. Though he understood a significant portion of the enemy’s plans, there were so many parts still veiled that he couldn’t easily make a move.

Getting a feel for the enemy’s moves and taking over their plan from the beginning was the safer way. Furthermore, it would enclose on the enemy’s guarded measures, and contain their next move.

However, it was a fact that it would bring about many casualties as a result. If the sword-slaves were to rise in rebellion simultaneously with the slaves within the stadium grounds, the number of deaths would be nothing to make light of. What was he to do? Should he execute the plan as a gladiator and keep the damage to a minimum?

Orba brooded over his alternatives, finally falling into slumber.



Winding the clock back a bit, it was around the time Orba was at the detention camp listening to Pashir’s stories of the past.

Tomorrow, the time when the gladiator tournament reached its climax, would be welcomed by the boisterous citizens celebrating the festive mood and oppositely, the sullen faces of those tormented in agony.

On the western edge of Solon was a mid-sized parade ground. It served as both the point of arrival and departure for air carriers. There lay a one hundred and fifty metre tall tower whose top floor was used as an aircraft dock. The occasion was a naval review—in other words, an air parade. Watching the ships take off to the sky was also a sight of grandeur. In addition, some tens would be selected from amongst the people to board a cruiser and observe the assembly of formation of a fleet from the sky. This matched the battle against the dragons taking place in the arena as the centrepiece on the final day.

Of course, even the docking area had undergone strenuous preparations before the festival. The mechanics and the slaves that were charged with supporting them through labour and menial tasks worked tirelessly without sleep or rest, and some twenty slaves had collapsed. And to show the fruits of their labour, the dock was now decorated with air carriers lined neatly against one another.

However, a problem arose before the awaited day of the parade as they performed their final check. When they checked the ether emission firsthand when doing a trial run for flight functionality, the air carrier gave no response. The one with the problem was the Solon garrison flagship that would be placed in a key position on the parade two days from now.

The mechanics were urgently called back from the festival and quickly performed an inspection, then switched to repairs. However, whatever the problem was, it did not seem they would fix it until the beginning of the parade. Presently, the dock within Solon was cluttered with ships, and while it may be called a parade, civilian ships were lent out for money so as to increase a province’s fleet size in every way possible. The fleets of the other provinces were in no way inferior by means of appearance—Mephius was after all, a country that did not have many dragonstone ships in its possession—and they currently had no ship capable of filling in the vacant space left by the flagship. 

There, perchance a man of character happened to come see the ships. He was the commanding officer of the Blue Bow Division comprised of soldiers under Lord Zaat, Gary Lynwood. He held the qualifications of a Winged Dragon Officer, and was expected to have his own fleet of air carriers within the Blue Bow Division at some point in the future, or at the very least, be suitably promoted and given command his own air carrier and unit and ascend to an important position.

“You’ve come right when we need you.”

On hearing the mechanics’ troubles, a joyous countenance spread across his usually long, drowsy face.

“In a base stationed between Solon and Idolo my unit plundered from Garbera during the war is a dragonstone ship. In order to study their technology, we repaired it and kept it intact. Our Blue Bow Division had wanted a ship, so we turned it into a Mephian one—mainly in appearance—and also refurnished it. I’ll bring it here. Considering the time now, I’ll have it over late into the night if you won’t mind.”

The mechanics expressed their deepest gratitude. They couldn’t even begin to imagine what punishment might be handed down to them if the parade were to suffer a setback.

Normally, no one was allowed into the air carriers within the district of Solon, with the exception of the garrison guards. This was thoroughly reinforced without exception and until the day of the festival when the parade came to a close, they would not be able to return to their bases. Naturally, security both in and outside of the dock was strict. Late into the night, the guards took turns to keep a lookout even when Gary brought over the arranged ship.

Although that was the case, their guard duty likely never entailed them meeting any suspicious individuals or catching any intruders, for they only stood watch and never bothered going ''inside'' the ships. They were completely unaware that Gary, known as the Thunderclap, and the outstanding members of the Blue Bow Division waited in anticipation, nor that someone had arranged for the garrison’s flagship sabotage and that the one to do the deed had been a former mechanic posing as a slave.
<noinclude>
==Translator's Notes and References==
<references/>

{| border="1" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" style="margin: 1em 1em 1em 0; background: #f9f9f9; border: 1px #aaaaaa solid; padding: 0.2em; border-collapse: collapse;"
|-
| Back to [[Rakuin no Monshou:Volume2 Chapter4|Chapter 4]]
| Return to [[Rakuin no Monshou|Main Page]]
| Forward to [[Rakuin no Monshou:Volume2 Chapter6|Chapter 6]]
|-
|}
</noinclude>