Rakuin no Monshou:Volume1 Chapter1

Chapter 1: Iron and Blood

Part 1

The outcome was decided.

The amphitheatre of Ba Roux shook. The many spectators that were crowded together unanimously shouted out the victor’s name and stamped their feet, creating a racket that sounded much like a tidal wave.

While the winner was being bathed in the passionate and boisterous cheers, the one who had received the opposite fate lay motionless beside his feet. Eventually, the loser’s headless body was struck with a hook and dragged away by the hands of two slaves.

The sun was still glaring even though it was near evening. The spectators’ faces were covered with sweat and glittering brightly, as if someone smeared them with oil, and their eyes, too, were sparkling with bloodlust, as they anticipated the next fight to be yet another battle to the death. Whoever just won or lost didn’t stay on their minds for long. It was only the heat of battle that left an everlasting taste, stood in the air, and kept whirling around the arena.

“Go, go!”

“Do it, kill!”

Today was another success. Because the more virtuous people living in the city, to whom the admission fees were no more than about a child’s weekly allowance, were able to watch the games, over a thousand spectators were gathered.

The next match was a cavalry battle. Both men were armed with spears, emerging from the east and west gates, and crossed each other at great speed. At the second charge, one of the men got flung off of his mount and, as he scrambled to get up again, the other swiftly jumped off his own horse to give the finishing blow.

Up next were two barely clothed men, who started to grapple each other with their bare hands.

Sword-slaves, the men who were the so-called gladiators. In compensation for doing these public, life-threatening battles, with just a few days of living, these people were granted all the food they wanted. Some of them were already born as slaves, some had been thrown into the arena for committing crimes, and there were even those who had personally applied to cast themselves into this living hell.

But if gladiators get well-known enough to become veterans, they receive a different kind of popularity from the crowd. One of them, named Shique, was a handsome gladiator who was popular among women and had just won the brawling match. He was strangely pretentious, bowing in a way much like a nobleman would, and notably, shrill voices rose from the crowd.

“Are you watching, brother? Shique just won!”

It was the voice of a girl yet in the more tender years of age, who was sitting in one of the grandstands among the front row seats. High pillars, that rose from the corners in the left and right, supported a roof that covered the stand. Only those who were able to pay a large sum of money were able to view the match from those special seats.

From the looks of it, the young man resting his chin on his hands next to her, whom she called ‘brother’, seemed to be dissatisfied. With a long cloth wrapped around his head, the ends dangling from both the left and right just like a believer of Badyne, it looked like he was concealing his face from the glances of people around him.

“Ahh, it is as you say,” he said. “The gladiator you had your eye on won. Now, isn’t that enough? Can we hurry and get something to eat? This place is giving me a headache.”

“Don’t say silly things.”

Not at all worried about the youth’s clear boredom, the girl gave a fickle laugh.

The next fight had already started, and the young man eventually decided to stay after all, although he rested his cheeks on his hands again with a bitter look on his face. How much blood had to be splattered around, and how many sweaty muscles did she have to see before getting tired of it?

He occasionally stole a sidelong glance at the young girl’s white skin and beautiful face. She had an innocence that matched her age, but a strange sensual and mature beauty as well – it was a view much more charming than that of the savage fight below.

Then, after about two battles, a new stage was being set in the arena. One huge stake got established in the centre, and a single woman was fastened to the top. She was a beautiful woman. Purposely made to wear torn clothes, each time she writhed in pain, her breasts and thighs swayed about while whistles came from the heated male audience.

Even so, there wasn’t one woman among the crowd who was worried about the tied-up woman’s ungracious position. At the same time the stake got put up, a big cage with approximately the same height was being carried in.

Inside was a raging beast, that was roughly seven or eight metres long. It’s slimy, green scales were flickering in the sunlight. It was a large dragon. Bred through repeated selective breeding by humans, it was of a variety called ‘Sozos’ that Mephius also used in wars.

Its clenched, humongous teeth, and each of its claws extending from six legs, were just like sharp swords. Probably because it was drugged, it seemed to have a somewhat repressed ferociousness and dulled instincts, but being hit by that bulk would nevertheless cause serious injuries, and it looked like it could blow away the steel cage like a toy.

“Now then! Gathered ladies and gentlemen!”

While it didn’t break out of the cage but tried to press against it, suddenly an orator standing on an elevation began to speak over a loudspeaker.

“Next, is the start of our programme. Once, the great dragons that established our culture roamed on the earth’s surface, but they were just the same as the bloodthirsty beast we look down upon now. There is no need to fear. We are the brave souls, the purest of minds, that took over from an era of space voyage. Not even by the dragon’s tusks and claws – not to mention its fearsome, terrible breath! – will we be outdone. Please, take a look at the evidence. On a terrifying false god’s mission to challenge these dragons of old, the figures of these brave men!”

From the eastern gate, a single gladiator stepped forward. In the man’s hands, who sported a muscular body, was an iron ball connected to a chain.

“Ballchain Verne!”

The audience’s cheers became even louder, for he was a gladiator with the intention to compete for either first or second place in Ba Roux. The man was about in his mid-thirties with dark skin, and he responded by waving a hand to the ladies and gentlemen in the audience. Then,

“It’s the Tiger!”

“Look, Iron Tiger Orba!”

A swordsman, also alone, walked out, but from the western gate.

He was a little eccentric, and there was little else that could be said about this young man, as the gladiator’s face was covered by a steel blue mask. As if imitating a tiger, small fangs protruded up from the lips, leaving only a small space for the mouth of this man named Orba underneath. Cut out into two splits were openings where the tiger’s eyes would’ve been, but naturally it was only Orba’s eyes peeking through. And, despite a tiger normally having rounded ears, the mask had pointed ends at both sides instead – it was almost as if horns were coming out from the corners.

However, it certainly caught attention.

He had no other outstanding character features, either. In comparison with Verne, he had an almost feeble body build, and he only held a simple, common longsword in his hand.

The spectators started ridiculing him, saying,

“Look at his thin body. Just one hit of the ballchain will completely smash him up!”

“They say he took off Meier the Baron’s head at the Arena of Tidan after only two strikes. Let’s see him do the same to our Verne. Go on then!”

“This Iron Tiger Orba,” the girl said, as her cheeks blushed with excitement. “Isn’t this his first appearance in Ba Roux? But he seems to be famous. Do you know of him, brother?”

“How should I know?”

“My, what a cold reply. Fine, if you’re so bored with being here, why don’t we have a little bet on this game? Maybe it’ll end up getting you a little interested.”

“A wager, is it? For what, and how?”

“Simple. Of those two about to fight, who do you expect to win?”

“That’s stupid. How’s that even a bet? Even I know the name of that Verne guy. And his physique is way better. Even an amateur can see that. Besides, no matter who I bet on, you will try to rip me off in the end anyway.”

“My, you’re a difficult customer! But that’s fine. You can just sulk away like that as long as you like. And I even thought of bringing you along so you could have a little distraction. But I got it, I understand – you hate spending time with Ineli. If that’s the case, I will never invite you again, don’t worry!”

The girl stiffly turned away her face, as the young man panickingly stopped resting his chin on his hands.

“W-Wait. I was wrong,” he said. “I’ll bet on that masked swordsman. That’s okay, right?”

“No. Ineli decided to bet on that swordsman first. You can take Ballchain Verne, brother.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because I like him.”

Even though you can't see his face? – was what the young man was about to say, but he stopped himself in time. He couldn’t afford to displease her even more.

“Now then,” the orator said, raising his voice again. “Will Orba or will Verne take up the role of the hero and set that woman free? Or will these rivals be fighting in vain, as the cage breaks and this poor, beautiful lady ends up in the dragon’s stomach?”

From there on, the two swordsmen would battle, and the winner would rescue the woman – or, as the orator stated, ‘a certain third daughter from a ruined country’ – from the dragon’s clutches, and also earn a night of love-making. Or so the scene was set out to be.

The two men both stepped forward at the same time. As they approached each other, the lack in Orba’s physique became all the more apparent. Verne spoke in a voice that could be heard by those in the front row seats.

“So, you call yourself a tiger, huh? I’ve heard your name. But, there’s nothing more unreliable than a rumour. You can try to hide your face, but I can see the skin underneath. You’re still young, just a kid.”

Ballchain Verne’s thick lips, in proportion to the rest of him, bended into a smile.

“I’m sure the mask is just a bluff so people wouldn’t make fun of you. You’re not a tiger, you’re just a mangy cur! I’ll teach you what a real man’s battle truly is all about!”

Facing Verne, who was loudly laughing at his shoulders, Orba didn’t reply. Probably assuming his nerves were blown away, Verne gave a sneering look, took up a defensive stance, and slung the ballchain over his shoulder.

“Start!”

There was a pointed signalling voice, but it halfway disappeared into the further increasing sound of the audience’s cheers. In an instant, Verne made his move.

He wielded the iron ballchain with all his strength. At first, the masked swordsman was about to rush in, but, as if panicked by his sheer force, he quickly stepped back. There was a small spark as the iron ball chafed against the mask. It was enough for Verne to take pursuit of the stumbling Orba. The huge iron ball, which was much larger than a human head, approached with the howling of the wind, and Orba continued to avoid it by stepping back.

He rolled over the ground, excessively jumped aside, and finally bustled about by making an evasive gesture – which invited laughter from the spectators.

“Look at that, it seems the swordsman you like can’t get out of a tight spot,” the same young man said. “Or could it be that this fight isn't so fair and square?”

“You think?” the girl said, looking straight ahead as she put a finger to her plump and florid lips. “If that’s so, then why hasn’t the match ended yet?”

“That’s because his opponent keeps pitifully running from place to place.”

“I wonder why Verne can’t corner an opponent who so clumsily keeps running away.”

The young man wanted to say something in return but kept his mouth shut. As he watched, he noticed that Orba wasn’t outright retreating, but kept circling around his opponent while maintaining a fixed distance. And it looked like Verne was no longer able to attack and pursue his opponent so hastily either.

Probably because he lost his temper, Verne put all of his strength into tossing another blow. The iron ball flew past Orba’s shoulder and – although it seemed obvious to the bystanders that this was like a golden opportunity – he only returned a slight thrust with his sword, while once again taking his distance.

“Get serious!”

“Stop messing around!”

The audience stopped laughing and started jeering down at the arena. Not only at Orba, but also at Verne who didn’t seem able to take down his constantly fleeing opponent.

“You bastard!” Verne howled.

When he tried to rush at Orba diagonally, the girl suddenly raised her voice, “Ah!”, in surprise.

Orba, who had until now only retreated to the back, suddenly started to pitch forward. Stopping in his tracks, Verne, too, took the opportunity to strike another blow.

Orba widely tilted his body over to the right, avoiding the iron ball and, as he rotated on his left toe, flashed his sword in a diagonal uppercut. The moment the chain got cut apart, a strange, clear sound echoed throughout the arena, then Orba twisted his body again and swung his sword downward with the force of a thunderbolt.

Verne’s cranium was split in two and the giant collapsed soon after.

“M-Magnificent!” the orator cried.

However, because it had happened so swiftly and came with such an unexpected conclusion, the audience was looking rather flabbergasted. Although the awkward silence wrapped around the arena, the victor didn’t seem to care either way and headed up to the stake, and, borrowing the hands of a number of slaves to lift him from the ground, used his sword to cut the ropes that kept the woman bound.

With a shout of delight, she joyfully clung onto his neck, only to be pushed away with a confused look on her face as Orba immediately started to return to his gate.

The girl in the special seat – she had also been staring agape at the sudden fall of the curtain – slowly began to form her lips into a smile. That gladiator named Orba didn’t seem aware of the audience at all. As if stating the only reason he was here today was to fight, and to kill.

“He… took out Verne.”

“With one blow.”

After that moment of silence, voices praising Orba began to raise little by little. Now that the mood had grown uneasy for the visitors, slowly the clapping of hands, the awkward stamping of feet, and cheers appropriate for a victor started to fill the stands. Then, almost at the instant he nearly left the grounds, the air shook heavily.

It was the roar of the Sozos Dragon.

It might have been the drug wearing off, or an instinctive reaction at the smell of blood, but all of a sudden it started swaying its enormous body from right to left, shattering a portion of its cage. One of the slaves who’d been in the process of towing everything away, was caught and raised from the head by the dragon’s claw. Before he could resist, his torso disappeared into the Sozos’s mouth.

There was the sound of breaking bones. And at the same time as the awful sound of salivated chewing could be heard, the arena grounds with suddenly filled screams broke loose. In the midst of all the fear and panic that rapidly swept over the area, the Sozos rather calmly stretched out its limbs further and emerged from the broken cage.

Being pulled along into the crowd that strived to be the first to escape, the young man from earlier almost fell to the floor. But then, he was pulled along by a hand from the side.

“This way. Hurry!”

It was one of the soldiers who’d been guarding the special seats. As he rattled around with a sword and gun, he tried to bring the young man back inside.

“W-Wait. Ineli’s…”

Although he tried to resist, he couldn’t move freely as he kept being jostled by the crowd of people that tried to escape. Then, he heard a suspiciously familiar, high-pitched scream. Right in front of the Sozos’s forepaws beyond the dividing wall, was a figure that belonged to no one other than Ineli. The girl had turned a pale colour as she had tumbled over from the gallery, and it looked like she was about to lose consciousness any minute.

The dragon’s long snout opened from top to bottom. As the rows of tusks, similar to sharp pointed swords, opened up, they formed long threads of slaver. The young man was about to involuntarily avert his eyes, when a thin streak of blood spouted from the Sozos’s neck. The gladiator arena’s employed guards had rushed in with guns. However, because they were close to the seats, they couldn’t just shoot at point-blank range, and from the way they stood, they hardly had the nerve. While they were conflicted at what to do while it approached, the Sozos turned around quickly and hit them with a single blow of its tail, fully sending several people flying.

The girl had sank down to the floor, her eyes opened wide looking at her surroundings.

Then, from those eyes, she saw.

There was a shadow that ran past the Sozos’s flank like a gust of wind. Just before it came up against the brick wall that divided the seats from the rink, the shadow kicked against it and soared up into the air. A man with a tiger-imitating iron mask jumped into the girl’s sight, the figure of Orba the gladiator landing on top of the Sozos’s head.

Even though she had just witnessed him running up to the Sozos from behind while dodging stray bullets, she couldn’t suddenly believe it.

Despite Orba’s slim body, his joints and muscles seemed to fortify his arms like steel as he grabbed a firm hold of the dragon’s neck. While further sandwiching its neck between his legs, he held on tight with one arm and, with his other, brought his sword down into the head.

It swung its long tail around, rocked the ground by stamping its feet, but the dragon still struggled, not able to shake off the gladiator, as it shook off a second and a third attack tearing through scales that were equal to an iron armour, and flesh and blood got splattered around. However, although the sword broke when it came to the fourth attack, at that time the other gladiators rushed in.

“Orba!”

Receiving a thrown sword from a brown-skinned swordsman, Orba once again raised it for a fifth attack, following the exact same process as earlier, until he fully caved the middle of the blade into the crown of the dragon’s head.

Its golden eyes goggled longingly at the skies. Just before its huge body sunk from the neck, the swordsman had swooped down next to the guest seats.

The girl, still kneeling on the floor, was looking up at him. It was almost as if he came from a tale, for she felt like a princess caught by an evil wizard, and although she fixed her eyes on him with a throbbing heart, of all things, the would-be-hero gladiator continued his walk, completely ignoring her, and nimbly jumped off the dividing wall and back into the rink.

Although there was still a cloud of chaotic fear hanging over the arena as he showed her his back and took his leave, rather than drifting the air of a victor, those collected stares he received seemed to bother him, and he looked like a solitary figure.

“A-Are you okay?”

She turned her eyes to the young man and his companions, who were running up to her with bated breath, and suddenly got an odd sensation. She had only seen it with a passing glance earlier, but the eyes underneath that swordsman’s mask seemed to closely resemble those of the young man.

And someone else,

“No way, he is alive.”

There was a man who focused a long look at Orba’s back, surprised for another reason. He wiped the sweat from his slightly slacking chin with the back of his hand. Standing behind the young man’s back, after all, he was also one of the men who’d been at the special seats, and as the unique smell of blood drifted about, he was speaking to himself in wonder.

“So it is Orba. Was it two years? Yes… two years.”

Part 2

“Two years.”

The gladiator, Orba, staring down the lurking darkness, suddenly murmured those words in his mouth. Although only ‘two years’, in 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’s another fight.

No one, except Orba, 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 rink. Because it has never been removed those two years, the other sword-slaves belonging to the same Tarkas Gladiatorial Group 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 to handle for a single person, but come to take care of the large-sized Sozos dragons was very much, 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. One of the other slaves ordered to feed the dragons, she was directly touching the dragons’ scales. Of course, the dragons’ legs and necks were wrapped in chains, as it’s 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, despite 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 there were difficulties with Ran seeing his true face through her eyes, or listening with her voice, soon became the target of bets among the sword slaves short of entertainment.

But, one time, Ran was about to be roughed up by a new sword-slave who’d recently come into the camp. Orba just happened to pass by and had beaten him 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.”

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 being excused for a meal 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 does not have to mean they’re lucky. The next day may holds 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 it 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 Shaga 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 Mephius’s law, you can basically either sell your life or go to prison. Like the Mines of Shaga 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, 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. Like 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 into his back, and Orba wildly 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 handsomely 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, only if even 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 the see that gladiator alone. Plain gladiators, after finally having raised around a pile, would be thrown before wild animals or dragons on their own, only to satisfy the sadistic tastes of their customers.

That’s 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 armours, 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 descendent of and 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, who had.

“Stop it!” Gowan 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 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 look uninterested but stood on the tips of his toes.

“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 have all started raising different topics among themselves. By tomorrow, they was likely to fight an opponent even if they were gladiators working for the same firm. The idea of deepening a friendship beyond 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 it may practically be better for leading types, you like books about history and people, get absorbed reading them late into the night and swallow their knowledge, and there’s also that quick temper of yours.”

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 past, 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 occasionally, some newcomers asked him about it, but 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 there are some people who are content being a sword-slave for the rest of their life, because they can’t live without committing yet another crime – 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? The other sword-slaves, yourself, or do you even have a purpose?”

“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 as 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.

References and Translation Notes

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