Lord of Rot

The slaves rushed the weapon racks at the first possible moment. Some grabbed spears, long enough to keep themselves at a safe distance. They fought bare-chested, where even the slightest scratch could mean the difference between life and death.

Others grabbed leather shields. These were light enough to defend against arrows and spear thrusts and protect their lives.

The crazier ones grabbed flails. The slave Sidor Sea Water had bet on was just such a man. He charged the nearest slave, swinging his spiked flail from left to right. The other slave instinctively raised his knife to block, but the flail easily smashed it aside before striking his jaw.

SPLAT!

His skull shattered, and blood splattered everywhere.

The headless corpse staggered and fell.

"Aaaah!" A lady screamed, hiding in her male companion’s arms. He took the opportunity to hold her close and comfort her. It was impossible to tell if her scream was genuine.

The lady’s scream was merely a prelude, followed by a thunderous, tsunami-like roar from the crowd.

"Smash his skull!"

"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

The crowd went into a frenzy. Sidor, sitting next to Leech, also started shouting in excitement. "Haha, get into it, Leech!" he urged.

Someone had died, and Leech didn’t feel good about it. ’Although I once controlled a corpse to kill my own teacher, I don’t enjoy killing. Unless it’s absolutely necessary, I especially dislike watching people die—particularly a meaningless death like this.’

The battle was fierce. The slave Sidor had bet on had already killed three men, and the ground was littered with the mangled corpses of his handiwork.

In contrast, the black-haired slave Leech had bet on snatched two little knives, then turned and fled to a corner far from the others. The slaughter seemed to have nothing to do with him.

Leech greatly admired his combat style: ensure your own survival first. But the crowd couldn’t accept it. They wanted roars, blood, severed limbs flying through the air, and smashed skulls—not some coward hiding in a corner.

Finally, another slave spotted the black-haired man hiding in the corner. He charged, scimitar in hand. It was an unusual blade used by the grassland Warriors of the Endor Plateau; anyone unskilled with it would likely injure themselves first. The slave lacked a grassland warhorse, but he was still fast on his own two feet.

"Chop that guy’s head off!" someone shouted.

"Kill, kill, kill!"

Cowards were not welcome here.

But the slave running with the scimitar suddenly collapsed. His forward momentum sent him rolling a short distance even after he hit the ground.

The slave was dead, a little knife embedded in his forehead.

The arena fell silent for a moment, then erupted once more into screams and cheers. It made no difference to the spectators who died, as long as someone did.

The black-haired slave walked over, planted a foot on the corpse, and pulled his little knife free. Then he retreated to his corner once more.

"An expert thrower," Sidor Sea Water said with some surprise. "You’ve got a good eye, Leech."

"I didn’t expect it either," Leech replied.

The Extraordinary Knight, Wild Horse, even commented, "Anything would become terrifying in his hands."

’A throwing expert who earned the approval of an Extraordinary Knight?’ Leech was suddenly very interested.

Back in the arena, three slaves had noticed the black-haired man. Weapons in hand, they slowly closed in. The black-haired slave grew cautious; he only had two throwing knives.

In the distance, the slave with the flail was in trouble. Overwhelmed by multiple attackers, he was cut down. Sidor sighed, then turned his attention elsewhere.

When they were still ten paces away, the black-haired slave struck. The two slaves flanking him collapsed simultaneously. His precision was chilling—he didn’t even need to tilt his head to aim. A casual flick of his wrist was a guaranteed hit.

Seeing that the black-haired slave was now unarmed, the last attacker roared and charged.

Without his little knives, the black-haired slave was immediately on the defensive. He could only dodge, but was eventually stabbed in the shoulder with a longsword.

But in the very instant he was stabbed, he dodged toward a nearby corpse. He rolled on the ground, snatched up the fallen slave’s scimitar, and twisted, flinging it. The blade flew past the pursuing slave.

The scimitar landed diagonally in the dirt. The slave’s head slid from his shoulders, and his headless corpse toppled to the ground.

The battle had been raging for some time now, and the scorching midday sun beat down on everyone.

The ground was littered with corpses. The smell of blood, mixed with the stench of feces released from the bodies upon death, drifted over the audience.

Ultimately, the battle concluded with the black-haired slave, the expert knife-thrower, as the victor. However, he was also severely wounded.

Leech accepted his winnings—13 Silver Moons—and asked Sidor Sea Water, "Are the slaves from this arena for sale?"

"Normally, they aren’t for sale," Sidor said, shaking his head. "And I’d advise against buying one anyway. They’re defiant and difficult to discipline. Some even kill their own masters—they’re wild and untamable. Of course, they’d probably agree if your offer is high enough. But for a slave like the one we just saw, it would cost at least 20 Silver Moons."

"How much?" Leech thought he had misheard.

’The slaves I bought before... the expensive ones were only two or three Silver Moons, and the cheap ones were practically free. Twenty Silver Moons? That’s two or three hundred copper stars! That’s enough to buy a meal of black bread for everyone in Porcupine Territory.’

"What, you’re thinking of buying a slave to take back with you?" Sidor could see what Leech was thinking.

"I’ve taken a liking to that one."

Leech pointed at the black-haired slave.

The Extraordinary Knight Wild Horse Chaotic Stone, who had been standing beside them the whole time, spoke up. "He’s on the verge of death."

The black-haired slave was indeed in bad shape. He had a deep gash on his stomach. Though his intestines weren’t spilling out, it was clear from his condition that the Extraordinary Knight was right. He was dying.

He was beyond saving.

"If he’s just a slave on the verge of death, he’ll surely be much cheaper," Sidor remarked.

...

The champion received his cheers while the bodies of the vanquished were tossed into a pit for a haphazard burial.

But deep inside the arena, the champion of the last battle was alone. He clutched the crudely bandaged wound on his stomach, leaning against a corner and quietly waiting for his life to slip away.

The chains on the door rattled open, and the slave owner walked in. "From this day forward," he announced, "this lord is your new master."

The slave owner didn’t even glance at him; his only real concern was exchanging the slave for money before he stopped breathing.

The man who entered wore leather boots and a fine robe, with a badge bearing a Porcupine crest on his chest.

’A nobleman!’

"Get up!" The slave owner raised his whip, but the nobleman frowned. "He’s worth five Silver Moons alive," he said. "But if he dies..."

"If he dies, how could I dare take your money, esteemed lord?" the slave owner said with a fawning tone.

"No, the five Silver Moons are already yours. But if you strike my slave and he dies, you will have infringed upon the property of a nobleman. For that, you’ll be sent to the gallows."

The slave owner gave an obsequious smile and repeatedly said he wouldn’t dare.

The black-haired slave knew it was time to get up. Clutching the wound on his stomach, he started to walk. Every step sent a wave of excruciating pain through him, squeezing sweat from his pores, but he endured it and followed the nobleman. Just as the lord had said, the man had spent five Silver Moons on him. He was his property now.

Along the way, the pain caused his consciousness to fade. All he knew was that he followed the nobleman for a great distance, leaving the arena and walking down a bustling street.

People in the crowd fearfully avoided him. Some looked at him with disgust, others with pity.

They eventually came to a remote, deserted path. In the distance, a castle was visible. ’That must be the lord’s residence,’ the slave thought, ’something I could never have dreamed of touching.’

Closer by, several carriages and guards were waiting quietly.

"What’s your name?" the nobleman stopped and asked.

"Dog," the black-haired slave replied. Only now did he realize how weak his voice was.

The nobleman continued, "Do you know you’re about to die?"

"I know." Dog remained standing.

"If you’d received medical treatment right after the fight, you might have lived," the nobleman said. "I wanted to buy you immediately, but that slave owner stalled until he was certain you were on death’s door. Only then did he agree to sell."

’I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not.’ Dog’s head was spinning; it was a struggle just to remain standing.

The nobleman said, "Is there something you want to ask?"

"I’m about to die. Why did you buy me?"

"I need your corpse," the nobleman said.

"You’ve already bought me." Dog didn’t seem to care what the lord said. ’I am just a slave. A slave has no freedom, except the freedom to take their own life.’ "You’re the one who got me out of that place. That was always my dream. So when I die, my body is yours."

"You may also be reborn, in a way," the nobleman said cryptically. "Get in the carriage. Try to hold on for a little while longer. Take a few more looks at this unjust world... It will also ensure you’re fresher."

’Fresher?’

Dog lay on the floorboards of a carriage that had been cleared out just for him. He gazed up at the sky. It was the first time he had ever felt so at ease.

His thoughts began to wander. He remembered his childhood, the last few years, the fight from today.

’Dying like this... it’s not so bad, I suppose.’