A Calculated Gamble
After dealing with Speas, Muslan found himself earning even larger sums. Yet the ways he spent his money never changed.
Protein-rich meals. Alcohol. The occasional bath.
He asked for nothing beyond that. He paid for no special training, sought no new weapons, summoned no physicians, and called for no women. Because of this, Muslan’s wealth continued to accumulate, coin by coin.
“Haa…”
It was the hour when everyone else had fallen asleep. As always, Muslan worked to clear the heavy fog of drink from his mind while circulating the Chwihyeon-gyeong technique.
“Hm?”
He was the first to notice the commotion outside. The disturbance came from far away, yet this time it was different. A considerable noise was reaching all the way to the arena where he stood.
He registered the sound but paid it little mind—until Liscal’s voice rang out sharply.
“Everyone, out!”
Muslan and the other slaves filed into the open air. A light rain was falling. Isaac, Obben, and Chira naturally took their places at Muslan’s side.
“Word is there’s a rebellion,” Obben said without preamble.
“A rebellion?”
“Aye. They say one broke out in the Fourth District. That’s why we’ve been called up—to help put down the rebels there.”
“A rebellion… and they’re sending us?”
“It’s the middle of the night. We’ll have to hold the line until the regular garrison arrives.”
“Isaac, how long has it been since the last one?”
“About five years, I’d say.”
“There have been rebellions before?”
“Yes. The last one was in the Fourth District too. Rumor has it the conditions there are especially harsh.”
“Harsh conditions…”
“The arena owners in that district are brutal. That’s probably what sparked it.”
“But is it wise to bring us along?”
“It’ll be fine.”
“If any of us turn, the damage could be severe.”
“We just have to hope none of them are that stupid. Even if casualties mount, the rebellion will be crushed in the end. The Empire isn’t that fragile.”
While they talked, Liscal appeared in full armor and took his place before the slaves. Behind him, soldiers began handing out weapons.
“A large-scale rebellion has erupted in the Fourth District,” Liscal announced. “The rebels are pushing into the Third. Our task is to stop them. You’re in luck—Lord Roccom has decreed that anyone who fights will have half their debt forgiven. Step forward if you’re willing to earn that mercy.”
None of the slaves moved. Isaac and Obben remained still as well.
“No one’s volunteering? Is it because they’re fellow slaves?”
“Nobody here knows anyone in the Fourth District. Even among gladiator slaves, there’s no real bond. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“They value their lives too much to rush in.”
“From what I’ve seen, the arena matches are dangerous enough…”
“This is different from a match. The fact that they’re arming us too means the uprising is massive. If the Fourth District couldn’t contain it, we’re looking at a real war. Getting caught in that is a death sentence.”
“Do you think the rebellion will grow that large?”
“It won’t.”
This time it was Isaac who spoke, his voice firm.
“The rebellion is doomed to fail. That much is certain.”
“Yet its effects are already reaching the Third District.”
“That’s possible.”
“And if it spreads across the entire region?”
“Impossible. Once the Empire’s regular forces arrive, it’s over. I don’t know what gave them the courage to rise up, but when knights using mana breathing and mages wielding spells enter the field, the rebels won’t stand a chance.”
“Are they truly that strong?”
“Monstrously so.”
Magic… I can roughly imagine what that entails.
Having lived as a modern man, Muslan had seen mages in novels and films. The concept didn’t particularly intrigue him. Whatever form it took, he doubted it would differ greatly from his memories.
Knights, however—the so-called superhumans who had reached that realm—did spark his curiosity. What exactly was this mana breathing technique? The clear physical changes it produced suggested it operated on principles different from internal energy. Muslan wanted to witness it firsthand.
Escaping slavery was already part of his plan, so he gave it little extra thought. If he continued as he had, freedom would come soon enough. Even if overwhelming foes appeared, he could handle them.
He had already formed his dantian and was steadily growing stronger—more precisely, he was reclaiming the full extent of his former power. In the arena he played the drunken fool to draw attention, but he was no jester and no attention-starved performer.
Every move he made was calculated. He had attracted notice exactly as the odd-eyed girl had advised, building popularity solely to buy his freedom.
What concerned him now was life after slavery—how he would survive in the Empire.
He had already chosen one path: he would become a mercenary. More accurately, he would found his own mercenary band.
Forming such a group would not be simple. There were countless factors to consider. What manner of creatures were these monsters the others spoke of? He needed far more information.
This was an opportunity—the chance to observe the Empire’s superhumans, mages and knights alike, in actual combat.
“No one else? This is a rare chance. Do you think only debts will be forgiven? There will be other rewards—women among them. Truly, no one?”
Liscal asked again, yet still no gladiator slave stepped forward. Their expressions showed no fear, only the quiet certainty that there was no reason to volunteer.
Then someone raised a hand. Liscal’s face lit up—until he saw it was Muslan. His brow furrowed slightly.
“Am I not allowed?”
Liscal shook his head. “You are.”
Isaac and Obben stared at Muslan in shock.
“The debt will truly be halved?”
“It will. This order comes from the highest levels of Airs. It is a binding promise. I never expected you to volunteer, Muslan. I thought you had no interest in such matters.”
“I have plenty of interest in debt.”
“You could die.”
“I’m not exactly safe where I stand now.”
While Muslan and Liscal spoke, two more hands rose—Isaac’s and Obben’s. After a brief exchange, Chira lifted his hand as well.
“You three have been spending a lot of time together lately… Loyalty, is it?”
“We’re interested in the debt too,” Obben replied. “We’ve been saving money these days.”
“If you two had stayed away from gambling, you’d have left this place long ago.”
“Ah, come on, no need to bring up ancient history.”
Isaac scratched his head with a sheepish grin. Obben chuckled as well.
“With your skills, you could have been managing other gladiator slaves by now—at least until you lost that eye and arm.”
Liscal’s voice carried genuine regret.
“Why dig up the past now? So, are we accepted or not?”
“There are no exceptions, and we’re short on volunteers. I’m grateful you’re joining. You’ll receive more than what was promised.”
“Assuming we survive, of course,” Isaac said with a bright smile.
“Yes—assuming you survive. Don’t worry. I’ll be going with you.”
Liscal hadn’t expected so few to step forward. For a rebellion large enough to spill into another district, every extra fighter improved their odds. That was why he had turned to the gladiator slaves.
Yet even slaves who had endured brutal conditions still possessed one choice: they could at least decide that the place they died would be inside the arena, not on some distant battlefield.
“I’ll ask once more. Anyone else?”
No one moved.
“Gather your weapons. Take as many as you like.”
The armory held an abundance of arms. Obben, Chira, and Isaac already possessed their preferred weapons, so they only donned light armor. Muslan, however, examined the racks carefully before his gaze settled on an unexpected choice.
“Do you know how to use that?”
“I do.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone from Maran wielding a bow…”
It was true. Maran was a kingdom of magic; if one could wield spells, they were superior to bows.
“Still, we use them. There are even mages who fight with bows.”
“So you can handle one?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. If you know how, take it. You may carry whatever you please.”
There were many bows, of varying quality. Fortunately, Muslan possessed the eye to judge them. More than that, given the right tools, he could craft one himself.
Before fully immersing himself in the murim world, he had served in the military. His closest comrade there had been a master archer who not only shot but also made his own bows. Muslan had learned the craft from him.
Afterward, bow-making became one of his hobbies. Unlike blades, bows required no elaborate equipment—only skill and simple tools. The skill itself, however, was exceedingly rare.
Having forged countless bows, his judgment far exceeded the ordinary. The bows before him looked no different from those he had known in the murim, yet when he tested a few, surprise flickered across his face.
Their performance was far better than their plain appearance suggested. It was not a matter of flawless craftsmanship—these bows were crude by comparison, their storage poor, their limbs slightly warped. What astonished him was their draw weight and elasticity.
“Those were made from monster sinew. They’re not easy to handle.”
“They feel quite good.”
“Their power is excellent, yes. But I’ve never seen anyone use one properly. They belonged to slaves brought here long ago—their original owners are gone. Take whatever you want, but remember: you’re heading to a battlefield, not a festival.”
“I understand.”
“Your lack of tension is what worries me.”
“Better than being tense, isn’t it?”
Muslan smiled faintly.
“You… are you truly from Maran?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The way you carry yourself doesn’t feel like it. It’s as if you’ve spent decades in this world already.”
“If that were true, I wouldn’t still be here.”