White.
That was Riyan's simple impression upon seeing the face reflected in the window. It was because of his hair, nearly white, like ash left over after burning.
Likewise, his skin, slightly tanned by the sun but surely once as white as snow, and in the middle of it, black eyes that looked like pure obsidian, stood out.
‘I'm malnourished.’
Even though it was his own face, the deeply sunken cheeks stirred pity in him.
He didn't know who this body's original owner had been, but considering that he'd been fated to meet his end as a monster's prey, Riyan felt compassion.
Taking his eyes off the window, Riyan looked around the room.
‘Pretty good treatment for a slave.’
Berka's treatment was clearly generous. When he considered whether ordinary slaves were given private rooms, it was more likely that they weren't.
On top of that, in consideration of his having fought a monster and been thrown in prison, he had even enjoyed a few days of rest.
‘The wrist is fine like this.’
After rubbing the wrist he'd strained pulling his hand out of the shackles a few times, Riyan nodded.
Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, Riyan slowly took a deep breath. At the same time, he sorted out a few goals in his head.
First, he needed to know this place.
More precisely, he needed to know the world.
Judging from his conversation with Berka, it didn't seem vastly different from his past life. But there was definitely a sense of something off, and it was a matter he had to confirm.
Second, he needed to check his body.
That required combat.
His body had changed. Even so, whether he could regain the power he once had, his authority as a knight, was an important question.
Of course, there was no need to be impatient to resolve these.
Because.......
“Out! Training after the meal!”
He could start finding out today.
***
Bread, soup, and a chunk of salted meat.
The bread was hard, and the soup was thin. The salted meat was far too salty and reeked.
Of course, even this menu had an upside. The portions were large.
It was when Riyan, despite feeling queasy, was forcing another piece of meat into his mouth for the sake of his body's recovery and growth.
THUMP!
Someone sat down next to him. That he did so even though there were plenty of empty seats meant he intended to talk.
“You the famous rookie?”
At the question that came out of nowhere, Riyan replied while chewing his meat.
“I'm a rookie, sure. But I don't know about famous.”
“I'm asking if it's true you killed a monster. From the look of you, you couldn't even catch a single mutt.”
The owner of the voice looked Riyan up and down with suspicious eyes and continued.
“And speak to me with respect. I won't say it twice.”
Riyan turned his eyes. He saw a muscular, bald man with scars studded all over his face.
His clothes were the same as Riyan's. That meant he was a slave too.
Is he going to haze me just because he's a senior, of all things?
He'd been through this plenty in his past life. He was someone who had risen from a mere foot soldier to the knight representing his legion, after all.
So there was nothing new here. The logic of force had always been familiar.
Riyan picked up his bread with a calm face and answered.
“What happens if you say it twice?”
“This happens.”
In an instant, a fist appeared before his eyes, growing larger. Throwing a punch without warning? Riyan raised the bread in his hand just as it was and blocked the fist.
CRACK!
With a crisp sound, the bald man's expression stiffened.
Guess that hurt?
It was rock-bread so hard your teeth couldn't sink into it. The kind that only became somewhat edible after soaking in soup for a long while.
Turning the rock-bread this way and that, Riyan smiled faintly. It sure is hard.
“You bastard!”
“You're smiling?”
“You must want to croak!”
When the baldy clutched his hand in pain, those who had been watching kicked back their seats and surrounded Riyan.
It seemed that baldy was something like the slaves' leader.
Paying them no mind, Riyan slowly set down the bread. Then he tidied up the scattered bowls, lined up his utensils neatly, and to finish, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a rag that could hardly be called a napkin.
That series of actions, neither fast nor slow, looked like a restrained ritual.
At his unhurried behavior, the slaves faltered.
They felt an inexplicable unease they couldn't put into words. It could be called a physiological aversion.
Because such mannerisms were usually what they'd seen from those they had each once called their ‘masters.’
‘I miss this.’
Unlike them, Riyan was steeped in nostalgia.
Eldred had always said that a knight must act like a knight, and the same went for the squire who followed that knight, and he'd taught Riyan all sorts of etiquette.
Since Riyan had to believe Eldred's words even if he claimed you could cut steel with a carrot, it was only natural that those lessons had settled in as habits.
Having finished his meal, Riyan spoke. In a voice that was low and quiet, yet unmistakably clear.
“So, who's first?”
The slaves, who had faltered at Riyan's question, belatedly shouted as if shoved from behind.
“Kill him!”
As the men came clattering at him, Riyan's pitch-black pupils swept in every direction.
Then a familiar phenomenon arrived.
His body was weak, so he couldn't draw out his full power.
But the power engraved in his soul remained.
‘I can see it.’
Time seemed to slow.
Then a single shadow was drawn before Riyan's eyes.
That shadow took his own form.
Then the figure began to move fiercely, tracing a single line. Springing from its seat, throwing punches, dropping low, leaping and swinging its leg.
It was like an instant.
The time it took to trace the whole process was about one blink of an eye. And in that brief moment, Riyan engraved all of it.
“......!”
All that remained was to express what had been engraved.
First, springing up from his seat, he slammed a headbutt into the leading man's jaw. He stepped on the chest of the guy as he went flying and somersaulted in midair. Then, as he came down, he struck the back of the head of the one coming at him from behind with his knee.
Next, dropping nearly flat, he dodged the fists and kicks bearing down on him, then spun his body and kicked the shins of the flailing men, knocking them down.
After that, stomping on the joints of the fallen bastards like stepping stones, he moved toward the one keeping his distance—the flustered baldy still clutching the fist that had met the rock-bread—and leapt.
Finally, twisting his waist in midair, he swung his leg like a whip.
“Guhhk—!”
Struck in the temple by the spinning kick unleashed in midair, the baldy smashed through a table and rolled across the floor.
“.......”
In a mere ten-odd seconds, the inside of the dining hall had gone as quiet as a dead mouse.
Meanwhile, Riyan, who could be called the cause of it all, quietly caught his breath with a calm expression.
‘My body's condition really is a problem.’
After just one brawl, his heart was pounding as if it would burst.
On top of that, his muscles and bones were so fragile that the wrist he'd planted on the floor and the top of the foot he'd kicked with throbbed.
It seemed his body had overexerted itself to produce what he'd engraved.
‘A slight dislocation in the wrist, and a crack in the top of the foot?’
Of course, a frail body was a problem time would solve, but he couldn't help feeling frustrated for now.
“Hm.”
But controlling one's expression was a basic virtue in combat.
Hiding the pain, Riyan looked at the rest, who stood far off with their mouths hanging open, and tilted his head.
“What are you doing? Not coming?”
“Uh, uhh.......”
The slaves who had kept their distance, perhaps having only meant to laugh and chatter over an amusing spectacle, were awkwardly stammering when it happened.
The baldy, finally coming to, got up and bellowed.
“You son of a bitch, I'm really going to kill you!”
Then, spotting the meat knife on the serving counter, he started running toward it.
Seeing him, Riyan spoke slowly, but in a clear and distinct voice.
“Don't pick it up.”
Despite the warning, the baldy was determined to get the knife into his hand.
At that, Riyan's hand moved quickly. He picked up a wooden spoon from the table, snapped off its head easily with a push of his thumb, and whipped his hand forward.
WHSSSH!
The pointed handle flew with a chilling sound and pierced the back of the man's hand.
“AAARGH!”
A chilling scream rang out.
***
Haral, an instructor at the Rhodus Gladiator School, came to the dining hall when the slaves failed to assemble even though it was training time, and was left dumbfounded by the sight he witnessed.
“So you're saying that kid did all this?”
“Yes, sir!”
At the answer from a slave gladiator nervously stealing glances at him, Haral's head filled with questions.
Hazing itself was nothing special. Since this was a school where rank was determined solely by strength and martial prowess, hazing also served to tell whether a rookie was a leaf that showed promise.
So, as long as no one was broken too badly, it was tacitly tolerated.
But this situation—what was he supposed to say about it.......
If it was serious, it was serious. The place was lined with guys who had something broken somewhere, and even the one who'd been playing boss was groaning with his hand pierced through.
‘Do I have to punish him?’
Even hazing got punished if it crossed the line.
But did the same rule apply when the victim and the aggressor were reversed?
Suddenly, Haral recalled what Director Berka had quietly told the instructors.
‘That one's special. So give him what he asks for whenever you can. But make sure you evaluate him properly.’
Nodding for the time being, Haral looked for the star of this incident.
Riyan, was it?
Ridiculously enough, the kid, knowing full well it was training time, was sitting in the shade of a tree in a corner of the training grounds, blankly gazing at the sky.
Walking up to him, Haral spoke in a calm tone.
“Riyan.”
“Yes, Instructor.”
“The name's Haral.”
“Understood, Instructor Haral.”
A clear, transparent voice.
Haral let out an incredulous laugh.
Sixteen or seventeen, maybe? He had a decent frame, but his body was skin and bones, as if he'd gone a long time without eating and knocked around in squalor.
That aside, the dread and terror that newly admitted slaves usually showed were nowhere to be found, even if you washed your eyes and looked. All the more so since he looked downright at ease.
‘And we threw him out as feed.......’
Considering that only the ones who seemed completely useless were thrown to the monsters as feed, it made sense at a glance. Judging by appearances alone, he looked like he'd never survive in this harsh environment.
But he had survived, and had shown what he could do instead.
And the Rhodus Gladiator School gives opportunities to those who are ready to prove themselves.
Scratching his head, Haral asked.
“I'm guessing they picked the fight.”
“They did.”
“Why'd you do that to Yarik's hand?”
Yarik, Yarik. Is that the baldy's name?
Riyan answered calmly.
“He picked up a knife.”
“A knife?”
“Yes.”
“Bringing arms onto the premises is supposed to be forbidden.”
“It was a knife for cutting meat.”
“Was it?”
Now there was justification.
The line was drawn at fistfights. Not only crippling or killing someone, but using a blade in an uncontrolled situation was strictly taboo. In other words, Yarik had crossed the line.
Though it was an undeniable fact that Riyan had drawn blood too.......
“Spoons are an exception.”
Haral chuckled. That wasn't a blade, after all.
If someone pointed this out and proposed banning spoons, the director would probably beat them personally with a spoon, for all anyone knew.
Besides, the whole world would laugh at it as a school that raised gladiators afraid of spoons.
“All right. Riyan, follow me. I hear you wanted to choose your own weapon.”
“Yes, I did.”
Haral crooked a finger and turned around, and Riyan followed behind him.
Seeing Riyan's awkward gait, Haral tilted his head.
“You hurt?”
“A little.”
“Well, I suppose those guys didn't go down without a fight.”
In truth, it was because he'd failed to control his strength, but Riyan didn't bother correcting him.
Walking slowly, Riyan looked around.
The Rhodus Gladiator School was not small in scale. It seemed well organized, and each section appeared well allocated for its purpose and use. A scaled-down barracks, one might say. At least, that was how it felt to Riyan.
Riyan took in and memorized the layout several times over, feeling an inexplicable familiarity. Soon they reached the armory, and Haral opened the door and waved his hand.
“Take whatever you want. You wanted a quality weapon, right? No place spares less expense than our school. So even if nothing here satisfies you, it'll be hard to get anything better. Keep in mind that you're a slave.”
Hearing Haral's words, Riyan slowly stepped inside.
There were many kinds of weapons. From basic swords, spears, and shields to maces and clubs, and even chain sickles and axes so huge you had to wonder if a person was really meant to use them.
Going over to where the swords were displayed, Riyan looked them over casually.
‘Excellent.’
Even at a glance, the forging and polishing seemed far from ordinary. Good material must have been used as well, since every one had an even surface and a uniform color, with none of the blotches that usually appeared when there were impurities.
To Riyan, for whom supply had always been a problem across countless battlefields, it felt like a treasure trove.
‘Isn't this the level of something made by a master craftsman?’
Was it as Haral said, that they spared no expense and provided enormous support? But if so, the sorry way they were stored didn't seem to match the quality of the weapons.
Trying a few swords in his hand, Riyan spoke.
“Do knights use swords like these too?”
“What? Knights?”
Haral snorted.
“Are you asking if those high-and-mighty folks use swords like these? Are you being sarcastic?”
At Haral's sharp reaction, Riyan tilted his head.
‘This does seem to be the world I knew, but what on earth is with this reaction.......’
The gear here was clearly excellent. What sort of gear did the knights here wield to warrant a reaction like that?
Feeling puzzled, Riyan finally settled on a sword. One that was reasonably long, reasonably thin, and reasonably weighty.
Then, turning around, Riyan looked at Haral and spoke.
“I've chosen.”
“Good. Bring it out.”
Despite Haral's words, Riyan was lost in thought for a moment before speaking again.
“Instructor Haral, there's something I'd like to ask of you.”
“A favor? You've already got your weapon.”
“It's not that. It's something else.”
“Cheeky. What have you shown me that I should reward you?”
Haral snorted.
The weapon, fine—Director Berka had promised that from the start. But granting any other favor needed proper justification, and the kid hadn't shown anything yet besides wrecking the place during hazing. How presumptuous.......
“.......”
No, wait.
Haral suddenly recalled Berka's words again. To grant what he wanted, but evaluate him properly.
‘Can the hazing count as a kind of evaluation?’
It could. There was no room for doubt.
Since he'd been hired as an instructor at the Rhodus Gladiator School, it had been rare for anyone to get through hazing without trouble. And there had never been a single case of someone taking down all his opponents like the kid in front of him.
Scratching his chin, Haral finally nodded.
“Well, go ahead and say it anyway. What do you need? For the record, no women or booze. Those two are privileges you only get on days you win a match.”
Haral had gotten ahead of him, assuming it would naturally be something like that, but what reached his ears was completely unexpected.
“I don't need things like that. Just get me a book.”
“......A book?”
“Yes, a book. I need a history book.”
It didn't take long for Haral's face to go blank.