Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Weapon Making (1)
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Right after the battle ended, my fellow mixed-blood gladiator slaves and I returned to our cells with exhausted faces.
Leaving the crowd's cheers behind, we entered through the exit we'd just come from and handed over our weapons.
At that moment.
"Good work."
The busty beastkin guard behind me offered some unexpected praise.
"Y-Yes...?"
"I said good work. Ha, must be because you're a mixed-blood—your ears must be clogged."
"Thank you..."
She'd always been so cold, so this pure praise caught me off guard, leaving me stunned for a moment.
A short while later, we returned to our original cells.
"Attention."
As everyone entered their cells and the iron-bar doors closed, the guard raised her voice to address us.
"You're the first mixed-bloods to survive your debut match like this. Honestly, I'm impressed. Of course, everyone here knows that."
The guard, who had been giving pure praise, suddenly glared at the gladiator slaves—everyone except me.
"The only reason you survived was pure luck! You barely made it thanks to having a skilled comrade! You're still trash!"
"......"
"Ugh..."
"......"
I could see the other comrades shrink back at her icy words.
And with that, she'd said what she wanted to. The guard got to the main point.
"My name is Karga. I'm a half-beastkin. You survivors of the first match will follow my orders for a while. Got it?"
""......""
"Answer me—!!"
"Eek...!!"
"Y-Yes!"
"Understood!"
"......Hoo, then starting tomorrow, the real labor begins. Rest your weary bodies until then. Dismissed."
With that, the busty beastkin guard—...Karga—turned and walked away.
As she passed by the cells, she glanced at me briefly before turning her head and continuing on.
'Karga... a half-werewolf, huh.'
If she's a werewolf, she's surely a descendant of that guy.
Arkan, the beastkin character I played second.
'Her eyes are golden, so I knew she wasn't pureblood... Well, a pureblood wouldn't be a guard anyway.'
Arkan was a silver-haired, silver-eyed wolf beastkin.
In contrast, this busty guard named Karga had red hair and golden eyes.
'Can't I draw Arkan's interest through this guard big sis...?'
Arkan was one of the ancestor characters I played with top-tier physical abilities.
Top-class among both lawful and chaotic races.
If he took an interest in me and granted his power, most battles wouldn't be a problem.
And then.
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ [Ancestor 'The Creating Mortal' shouts in rage!] [Ancestor 'Eternal Teacher of the Fairies' flips you off!] "Ah..."
The forgotten squabble between those two ancestors flared up again right before my eyes in message form.
'Gotta figure out this side first...'
Before Arkan, there was the newly met dwarf ancestor, Morduin.
Gaining his favor came first.
So, I decided to try speaking to Morduin.
I knelt on one knee, clasped my hands, and assumed a praying pose.
"Praying in gratitude after the battle...?"
Curious murmurs from the comrades around me reached my ears.
"I knew he was different from us... Makes sense."
"Same mixed-blood, but that respect for his ancestors...! Impressive...!"
"Ugh... I've lived cursing my bloodline... but you..."
Somehow they were spouting nonsense, but I ignored it and began praying in earnest.
"Great ancestor of mine..."
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ [Your voice echoes through the Feast of the Stars...] [Ancestors who responded: 1] '......Huh?'
But only one responded.
Obviously, it had to be the elf ancestor, Elisis.
Meaning Morduin was ignoring my call.
'Ah... Come to think of it, Elisis responded after I cleared her abs workout condition...'
Just showing interest didn't mean communication.
Right now, Morduin was only watching me in anger.
Watching didn't mean he wanted to talk.
'So, I need to raise his favor...'
What a headache of a system.
'How do I raise Morduin's favor...?'
Morduin was a production character I'd raised as a craftsman, though he could fight.
Gaining his power would give excellent equipment abilities.
Weapons and armor were crucial in gladiator matches.
His power would definitely prove useful for survival.
"Hmm..."
Then, I recalled what the busty beastkin guard Karga had said earlier.
'Then starting tomorrow, the real labor begins. Rest your weary bodies until then.'
Real labor was starting.
'Labor for combat slaves...? Well, gladiator matches are once a week, so leaving slaves idle would waste resources.'
The gladiator city of Parion made its money from mercenary work and arena fights.
But there were other tasks too.
Building structures, digging canals, farming, etc.
Anywhere labor was needed.
"Ah!"
Suddenly, a spark lit in my mind.
The city's massive forge.
'There was definitely a huge forge because of the arena fights...'
This city-state's forge was as massive as those in great nations.
Weapons broke often in fights, and mercenaries needed gear too.
Such a huge forge would need tons of labor.
'This is it...!'
I'd found a way to gain Morduin's favor.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The next day.
After a miserably early, awful breakfast.
Our overseer, Karga, came to the cells.
"From today, you'll work for the city. Having survived, you worthless mutts who devour the city's food need to earn your keep at minimum."
Snap!
With that, Karga cracked her whip toward the floor.
"Eek...!"
"Scary..."
My fellow gladiators yelped in terror, but honestly, my eyes were only on her heaving chest.
'No, not the time to get distracted.'
I snapped to attention, stood rigidly, and raised my hand.
"......Number 17, what? Got a question?"
Luckily, Karga didn't lash me.
With an indifferent face, as if just hearing me out, she asked.
"Could I! Request a specific workplace?!"
"...You want to choose your assignment?"
"Y-Yes, just a humble suggestion! If not, I'll obey orders!"
"......Where do you hope for? Speak."
Maybe thanks to my strong performance in yesterday's match.
Instead of whipping me for being cheeky, Karga straightforwardly asked my preference.
I beamed and answered vigorously.
"The forge!"
"Explain why."
"To learn more about weapons and armor for the arena fights!"
"Learn about gear, huh..."
At my prepared answer, Karga smirked.
Perfect.
Seeing that smile, I felt certain.
"Good attitude. Approved. Head to the forge."
"Thank you!"
"...Save the thanks. I'm just letting a fool who wants to walk into hell do so."
"......Pardon?"
That moment, I realized.
Karga's smile wasn't approval of my answer.
It was mockery toward a foolish combat slave.
"You fuuuck—!!!"
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ [Ancestor 'Eternal Teacher of the Fairies' cheers you on!] I glared at the mocking message and hoisted the iron bar with all my might.
"Hey!! New slave!! Move it!!"
"Yes sir!!"
The forge was the size of a small castle.
Inside was a hell of labor.
An environment where the scorching heat made your lungs feel like they were cooking.
Brutish tasks hauling heavy iron and materials.
And if you slowed even a bit, incoming whips and vicious curses.
'Am I insane...!!'
Was choosing the forge really the right call?
Were there no other options?
I felt like I'd gotten cocky after one arena win.
No, well, in the game, you couldn't feel this heat and labor.
If I'd known, I might not have volunteered...
"Arrrgh—!!"
But quitting wasn't an option.
Could I really win the next match with just the Quartet of the Wind?
Yesterday's opponents had crude weapons compared to ours.
If Barkain's hammer had clashed with my axe, mine would've shattered.
No matter how much Quartet of the Wind boosted mobility and weapon control.
No weapon meant no victory.
So...
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ "Heh, Number 17. So, what workplace today? I'll give you a special chance to choose."
"......"
The next day, Karga offered Number 17 a choice.
Choose the forge again, or give up and flee to something easier.
Karga expected the latter.
'Mixed-bloods are all the same...'
Wanting to study gear for matches was praiseworthy.
But a mixed-blood was still a mixed-blood.
He wouldn't choose hell twice after experiencing it.
Karga figured this mutt would quit and pick elsewhere.
However.
"Send me to the forge...!!"
"......"
Number 17 gritted his teeth and chose the forge again.
Her prediction wrong, Karga looked at him with surprised eyes.
Then smirked.
"Good. ...You're a useful mutt for once. I like the grit."
"Ugh...!"
"Number 17! Forge duty again today!"
"Thank you!!"
Karga didn't hate gritty mutts, even if they were mutts.
Thus, Number 17 was assigned to the forge once more.
And around lunchtime that day.
"Hmm? That slave assigned here again?"
"Ah, yes. Seems so."
Godin, the half-dwarf Master Craftsman of Parion's armory forge, eyed the Number 17 combat slave who'd come yesterday too.
"Did he piss off the boss? How's he get forge duty two days straight?"
The forge was the most avoided workplace in Parion.
It paid well for the hardship, but the brutal conditions deterred even citizens.
For unpaid slaves, it was the worst place to get stuck.
Godin figured Number 17 must've committed some grave sin for two straight days.
But his subordinate's reply was unexpected.
"He... volunteered."
"What?"
"Begged to do it himself."
"...First day, maybe ignorance. But after trying it, he crawls back? Why?"
"Dunno. Said he wants to learn about gear before matches..."
The subordinate smirked, recalling what Karga said during handover.
"Must be crazy. Head injury maybe?"
"Hmm..."
The half-dwarf Godin observed Number 17 closely.
Face flushed, hauling heavy iron bars.
Clearly suffering.
What reason for volunteering twice?
Curiosity stirred in Godin.
And shortly after.
"Um... Excuse me."
"Hm? You're..."
"Combat slave Number 17."
Morning work ended; everyone was off for rest and lunch.
Then, a thoroughly worn Number 17 approached Godin.
And spoke in a strained voice.
"Please. Could I... use the forge?"
"What?"
"I want to... make a weapon myself."
"......"
"Not from scratch...! Repairing failures is fine...! Anything, please...!"
Godin stared blankly at Number 17.
His subordinate's words resurfaced.
'Dunno. Said he wants to learn about gear before matches...'
A gladiator wanting to learn gear-making.
"Hmm... Can't understand it."
"Pardon...?"
"Wanting to make weapons. I get wanting to win arena fights, but... why make them yourself?"
"......"
Godin questioned the slave with genuine curiosity.
It was pure bafflement.
Logically, acquiring weapons was far easier than making them.
So, what this slave should beg for was.
——Just give me a good weapon.
That would've made sense.
Yet this slave insisted on making one.
Godin wondered why.
And then.
"......"
The slave, lost in thought briefly, opened his eyes wide and met Godin's gaze squarely.
"...——What weapon could I trust besides one forged by my own hands."
"Wha...?"
The slave's eyes burned too fiercely for a mutt.
Yes, an intense gaze evoking that great forge master's furnace.
The half-dwarf Godin burst into laughter at Number 17's demeanor.
"Ha, hahahaha!!"
It felt so much like his great ancestor Morduin, despite being a mutt slave.
As a descendant bearing the legendary smith's blood.
There was no reason not to open the forge's doors to one who knocked.
"I like it! Fine, use it freely when it's idle! Ask if you don't know something!"
"Really?!"
Godin clapped the beaming Number 17 on the shoulder.
Mutt or not, Godin oddly took a liking to this one.
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ [Ancestor 'The Creating Mortal' grips his hammer while watching you.] And it wasn't just Godin.