Off to Fetch Her Ladyship the Slave

"So I get first go, then?"

"The hell are you saying, are you crazy? Obviously I eat first."

"She's a virgin. You think I'd hand that over willingly?"

"Fuck, then what?! You think you can take me?!"

"Both of you, screw off. I'll eat her first, quick, and then it's your turn."

"What the hell — who was that just now?"

At the crackle of the transceiver from the doorway at the back, all three of them whipped around.

I'd planned to make a magnificent entrance, booming Stop right there! in my deepest voice. Total failure.

"I'm this woman's owner."

Late, but a man can still strike a pose. Ta-da. The master's grand entrance. Impressed?

Erina lifted her head, found me, and her face lit up. She was probably expecting me to pull out that incomprehensible lightning magic of mine and save her all over again.

"Things are about to get a little busy on my end, so I'll radio you once it's all wrapped up."

"Ah, fuck — I told you, didn't I?! This is why I said we should gag her."

"Why don't you just keep on walking, old man?"

"You came here hoping to stick it in too, didn't you? Wait your turn — we found this piece of fuck-meat first. Sit tight and behave, and once we're done eating, maybe I'll let you wash the dishes."

No getting through to these guys. And old man? I'm only thirty. Although... in this world, thirty is about the age you'd have married years back and fathered a couple of kids, so I suppose I can't argue.

"This woman is a slave I purchased, and she ran away. I've come to collect her. Look — I even have the certificate."

I pulled out the deed stamped with the Stonefield slave market's seal and pointed to the inverted-triangle mark at the very bottom of the document, then to the brand of the exact same shape etched into Erina's lower belly.

There was no better evidence than this. Of course, all it proved was her status as a slave — to make it airtight, the way every other slave owner did it, I would have needed to carve my name or a personal sigil inside that inverted triangle, leaving a mark declaring her mine.

Even after all that, these boys weren't about to cut me any slack. Freckles and pimples still bumpy across their foreheads and cheeks — one look told you they'd barely crossed into adulthood, boys who hadn't yet shed their baby faces.

Still, carelessness would be fatal. The kids around this town got little more than an elementary education and their heads are empty as drums, but from the time they could walk they were trailing their parents through ranch work and farm chores from dawn to dusk, and in raw strength alone they're a match for any grown man.

Don't go thinking of them as the high school delinquents who scrap behind the convenience stores back in my old world. Be careful. Underestimate them for being young or unarmed, and you could end up in far worse shape than if you'd crossed a band of bandits.

First, before fists fly — talk.

"Well, if that's how it's going to be, I have no choice. Guess I'll have to fetch the guards~"

They froze. In that instant, every hand that had been kneading and tugging at Erina's body went still. The word guards had just drawn some serious aggro — which is to say, those bastards were, as expected, Greenhill locals.

Like hyenas circling a kill, the boys rose to their feet one by one. A short one, a scrawny one, and a great bear of a boy — one of each.

"Ha... this old man. I told you I'd let you have a go if you waited your turn quietly, and you're still running your mouth?"

"Do we know you? Didn't think so~"

Crack. Pop. Crunch.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Good lord, how do their joints pop that loud? Anyone walking past would think bones were actually breaking. Don't flinch. Boys like that only get more cocky if you show fear, and then they come charging.

"Ready to listen now?"

At that, the short one at the very back — his expression wavered, just slightly. He knew me. But I could see him working hard to pretend otherwise. When had he seen me? Had he been by the shop at some point?

Anywhere in the world, when three or more people gather, one of them is the leader. The biggest of the bunch stepped out in front of me and eyed the three-section staff in my hand with a contemptuous little smirk, like the thing was a joke.

"What's that supposed to be? You planning to hit us with it?"

"I'd sincerely prefer not to. It's an unused product, you see. The moment it becomes secondhand, the price takes a discount."

I suppose it does look laughable. A three-section staff doesn't carry a blade like a sword — from the outside it's nothing more than a strangely shaped short stick. I'd just have to use it and then palm it off on some sucker as brand new. The packaging was torn open, but I always unbox my deliveries and sell the contents anyway, so as long as the thing itself doesn't get scratched, it's fine. Even if I swing it a few times before selling, no one would ever know.

Oh, right — this is a weapon, isn't it? Here I am, having sworn up and down never to sell weapons to the people here, and the second I lay eyes on merchandise I'm already scheming to move it. Honestly, me.

"Old man, walk away while we're being nice. You never saw anything here. You never even met us."

"Rex. Let's just go."

"Shut up."

The short one had clearly placed me by now, and he started angling for the exit. So the biggest one was named Rex. Rex, Rex, Rex... I really had heard that name somewhere. Whose boy was he?

"What's this, then?"

The one called Rex snatched in one lightning-fast motion the slave certificate from my other hand. Chances were excellent he couldn't read a word of it. Unless you were a capital-district native, the illiteracy rate in most cities ran past half the population — which is why so many of the shop signs in Greenhill's market street were pictures instead of letters.

"It's a slave purchase certificate. Authentication seal, date of purchase, all properly in order."

"What's a scrap of paper matter? The first man to stick it in an empty fuck-hole is the owner."

Riiiip.

He tore the slave certificate clean in half, slow and deliberate, making sure I watched.

Why, you little... Now that actually pissed me off. Given my line of work, I take documents, certificates, and receipts seriously — and I personally cannot stand people who trash them like they're nothing.

"You three live in Greenhill, don't you?"

"Like you'd know, old man!"

"All three of you look like Greenhill boys to me. If we end this here, I'll say nothing to anyone. But if you cross the line one step further—"

"I said it first, didn't I? Walk away, and I don't touch you, and this ends here."

"Rex, I'm telling you, let's go."

"I told you to shut your mouth, Henson!"

Henson? I definitely heard Henson just now. Could he be the youngest son of the butcher's family?

"You wouldn't happen to be Henson, the youngest boy of Plenty Meat Butchery?"

!!!

There it was. The way his face slowly crumpled said yes.

"I'm a general goods merchant. Luciel. Luciel's General Store. The one with the green roof."

".....Ah..."

"I was at your father's shop just the other day, buying meat."

"...."

The atmosphere turned excruciatingly awkward.

In case anyone's wondering why I bother buying meat in another world when I could just order it online, let me settle that quickly. Meat, at least, is overwhelmingly cheaper here — roughly one-twentieth the price of ordering it through the internet. The catch is that refrigeration technology hasn't developed in this world, so I only go to the butcher on slaughter days, buy enough to blow the doors off my studio apartment's fridge, stockpile it, and then take out a little at a time whenever the craving hits and grill it up. The texture's chewier than the meat back home, too. Delicious.

"Fuck it!"

Apparently deciding that further conversation was a waste, the big one — Rex — came charging straight at me.

Come on, then. I'd been standing by this whole time, waiting for you to come in!

I twisted aside at the last instant and let him glide right past, and he slammed full-tilt into the half-open door and toppled out into the yard.

CRASH!

"Yeah, let's take it outside. It stinks in here."

With the door hanging wide open, I strolled out after him.

Maybe because his first charge hadn't landed, he was back on his feet in an instant and started throwing punches. All that bulk gave him real destructive power — and made him slow as molasses.

Whoosh!WHAM!

Nothing to dodge. Just block with the staff!

CRACK!

"AAAAAAAAGH!"

The sound of bone meeting steel alloy rang out crisp and true, and the big boy clutched his arm. Apparently he'd only just figured out the thing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was a hunk of metal. That was going to hurt far worse than he'd imagined.

"UAAAAAAAAGH!"

He powered through the pain and came at me again. For all his looks, the boy had genuine grit. All that whooshing was intimidating, sure — but a swing that doesn't connect is just noise. Get past the initial terror that enormous frame inspires, and from there even a man with no martial training like me could hold his own well enough.

Why? Because I was holding a good weapon.

I had a gun too, but short of life or death I would never use it. I'd already confirmed every one of these boys was Greenhill-born. The gun was for moments when my life was under threat, and nothing less. Bandits you can kill with a clear conscience — but no matter how vile these kids acted, their parents were all still alive and living down the road.

I kept plenty of distance and waited for his strength to bleed out, and when the frustration boiled over into one big, wild swing — that was my opening. There! The left shin, this time.

CRACK!

"AAAAAAAAGH!"

That one would hurt plenty too. Sure enough, there was the big boy hugging his leg, rolling head over heels across the middle of the yard.

"Where'd this son of a bitch get a freak weapon like that! You gonna help or not? Will!"

Realizing he couldn't manage alone, the big one called for the beanpole. Big one: Rex. Anchovy: Will. Short one: Henson. All three names, accounted for.

The second one emerged holding a hoe with a handle rotted pitch-black — God knows where he'd dug it up, probably off the barn floor.

"HYAAAAAAH!"

How very considerate — the beanpole screamed before attacking, helpfully announcing I'm coming in now! and gifting me the timing. Thank goodness. The kids here can't fight worth a damn.

WHAM!

THUNK!

He'd overloaded the swing, and the hoe's head buried itself halfway into the yard's dirt — at which point I brought the staff down across the middle of the handle.

SNAP!

The hoe handle split into two perfectly even pieces. Partly that was the rotted wood, sure — but the staff's durability deserved its share of the credit.

"What... what is that thing?! What the hell is it made of?!"

Feeling the wall of gear difference firsthand, the beanpole faltered for a beat. His eyes flicked around, hunting for another weapon. Why, you little—

CRACK!

This time I stretched my arm out long and low and whipped the staff across Will's calf. Behold: the rod of love!

"AAAGH!!!"

Thud.

"Huh?"

While my eyes were pinned on the beanpole, the big one came sliding in low from underneath. He's strong! Like I keep saying — years of shoveling cow dung mean Greenhill men come with raw strength as a factory default! The tackle knocked my balance out from under me, and down I went too.

He immediately tried to climb aboard and mount me, but I kicked at his face and shoved at his shoulders, thrashing hard enough that he abandoned the mount and clamped both hands around my ankles instead. The idea was to pin me flat while I was down — and then let the others wail on me at their leisure.

"Take his weapon! Get the weapon away from him!"

Just as I'd called it. Rex was bellowing at Henson, who still stood rooted near the barn door. But the butcher's boy just stamped in place, agonizing over what to do. Probably because he knew all too well what awaited anyone who beat up a neighbor and had to live with it afterward.

Every merchant flying a sign in Greenhill — myself included — was registered with the merchants' guild, and if word of this got out, his father's shop could land in very deep trouble. Well, well. Henson, at least, was a kid who could think a step or two past his own nose. One out of three brats had a properly working head on his shoulders. What a relief, truly.

"KYAAAAAAH!"

Right on cue, a naked Erina came bursting out past the door, screaming. She was limping, but she could still run, so her injuries couldn't be all that grave. But instead of bolting immediately, she swept the yard with a quick look, snatched something up, and tore off straight past the fence.

"Get back here, you slave bitch! Hey! Fuck — I lost her because of you!"

Whether he was cursing me for ruining his good time or blaming Henson for letting the woman slip away, I couldn't tell — Rex was spraying profanity in every direction at once, full area-of-effect.

"Will! What the hell have you been doing this whole time?!"

Meanwhile, the beanpole seemed to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠agonizing over which to grab — a thin wooden stake propped against the barn's plank wall, or a rake whose handle was rotting away just like the hoe's had. Apparently ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠neither met his standards as a weapon, because he'd picked up both and was giving them each a test swing.

For the moment, my view of him was cut off — and, wow, this bastard has insane grip strength?! If this went on, my ankle was going to be wrecked. Did he have a secret membership at some hidden otherworld gym? No matter how hard I shook my leg, he would not let go.

Let go?! Let GO?!

Then what do I do?! Take more hits, obviously!

I sat my upper body up and, groaning like a zombie, hammered blow after blow down onto the back of the boy latched onto my lower half. Out of humanitarian principle, I spared his head.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

THWAAACK!

"AGH, ugh! Gahk! Aghk! Ughk!!"

He was taking the staff head-on. Even through it all, he flailed one hand around trying somehow to snatch the staff from my grip — hopeless. Every time he tried, I went after his wrist or fingers with obsessive precision. There! That spot's open too! You block there? Then I whack here! You cover here? Ooh, look, there's open again!?

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! CRACK!

"Ughk! Stop hitting me! You dirty coward!"

Who exactly was calling who a coward here? Even though the head was the easiest target of all, I hadn't landed a single blow on it. Crack a man's skull with an iron rod and he dies or ends up crippled. Think of this as a loving spanking from your uncle, kids. Sexual assault is a bad thing. You mustn't force sex on a woman who doesn't want it.

The preachy old-fogey mindset was seeping into my bones more and more. That's right. Thirty is plenty old enough to lecture people.

This guy... I remembered now. As I kept hammering him, I studied his scrunched-up face, and it came back to me — I'd seen him before. Many times, at that. He was one of the boys who threw stones at me three years ago, back when I'd first arrived in this world, knew nothing, and slept rough in the streets begging. He'd aim, with obsessive dedication, for my... you-know, and on the rare occasion one of those landed clean, it hurt like hell.

He was a genuine little brat back then — and in three years he'd grown into this? Do the kids in a ranching village graduate from swiping watermelons and melons to rustling whole cows? Because it looked like he'd bulked up by devouring an entire cow single-handedly, horns to tail-hair.

Without meaning to, I was avenging the past. And sure enough, none of the rage or catharsis those memories should have stirred was coming. Just like yesterday, when I'd killed a man, most of it still felt unreal — like I was grinding through NPCs in a game. The ache in my ankle and the shock traveling up the staff into my palm were real enough, though.

Around the time I felt the grip on my ankle slowly going slack, a voice came wailing and pleading from behind me.

"Stop hitting him! We were wrong, we're sorry!"

When Henson screamed it, I finally stopped the beating. Rex, black and blue from head to toe, went slack-eyed at last and crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.