The Training Ground
Kenon looked somewhat unkempt, a stark contrast to the immaculate Liscal. He did not give off the same air as Illima, either. A quick glance revealed the slave brand on his skin, suggesting he was likely a former slave turned overseer.
“Time to return to your quarters,” Kenon said.
Muslan replied without missing a beat. “Is there any way to wash up?”
“You mean a bath?”
“Yes.”
“It’s possible.”
Baths cost more than meals. What surprised Muslan was how closely the facility resembled a modern public bathhouse. The floor was paved with rough stone to prevent slipping, drainage grooves ran along the edges, and a massive communal tub dominated the center.
Few people were present. Muslan had expected the water to be filthy, but it was surprisingly clean. The place was well maintained.
He also noticed something else interesting: even slaves were not denied basic comforts here. As long as one had money, even a gladiator slave could enjoy a decent life. Money was the key.
Muslan immediately understood that this very system could become poison for the gladiator slaves. Once they grew accustomed to such comforts, fewer would strive to escape their status.
Muslan washed thoroughly and purchased a fresh set of clothes. They were little more than loose, crude cloth draped over the body, but they were an improvement over what he had been wearing. At least they did not look ready to tear apart at any moment.
Back in his room, Muslan drank and then sat cross-legged to perform qi circulation. As he cultivated, he reviewed the information he had gathered at the dining hall.
‘Come to think of it, I never asked their names.’
He suddenly found himself curious about the two men.
From evening until dawn he cultivated, then stole a short rest at first light.
He had crossed the great mountain of forming a dantian. All that remained was to accumulate qi within it.
Fortunately, the money he had earned from the Galland fight was still enough to keep him supplied with alcohol. With drink available, Muslan’s progress was remarkably swift. Not long after his battle with Benzol, he had already reached another stage. Though his internal energy remained minuscule by martial standards, it was an invaluable asset to him now.
After waking, his routine began with heading to the training ground. He wanted to meet the one-armed man and the one-eyed man who had shown him goodwill.
Kenon followed at a respectful distance, never drawing close. Once Muslan entered the training ground, however, Kenon remained outside and waited.
Slaves were already inside, sweating through their drills. Liscal stood at the center, watching the new gladiator slaves while conversing with another overseer.
Some trained diligently nearby, while others loosened up leisurely in the corners. Dus belonged to the latter group.
Obben and Isaac trained in a separate area along the outer edge of the ground. Their corner was tucked away, requiring one to turn past several obstacles, making it seem as though they trained in deliberate isolation.
Muslan only spotted them after completing a full circuit of the training ground.
“He came after all.”
“See? I told you he would. It wasn’t because of his background.”
The one-armed man and the one-eyed man recognized him at once and approached.
“Now that I think about it…”
“Think about what?”
“I never asked your names.”
“True. We never introduced ourselves either. We may be gladiator slaves, but we still have names. I’m Obben.”
The one-eyed man laughed heartily.
“I’m Isaac.”
The one-armed man spoke next.
“We can’t stop you from watching even if you don’t join the drills. Take a good look. You’re bound to pick up something useful.”
With that, the two began sparring, wooden weapons in hand. Their skill was respectable. Muslan could see openings immediately, yet their experience in real combat was evident.
They also possessed a fatal flaw—one that would shorten their lives if left unaddressed.
‘Should I return the favor?’
He had already confirmed the information they gave him yesterday was accurate. Unlike Liscal, Kenon had answered every question without hesitation. Muslan had cross-checked the details and found them true. That meant the two men had offered their goodwill without ulterior motives.
Because of that, he was considering helping them. Even fixing the most obvious flaws would improve their chances dramatically.
Obben’s weakness was excessive aggression. He possessed great strength and stamina, and he knew it. As a result, his body was covered in countless minor wounds. Luck had spared him anything worse than the loss of an eye so far, but that style would not sustain him much longer. Moreover, his reliance on raw power and endurance left him vulnerable.
Combat required control of tempo. Without it, seizing the initiative became difficult. Obben lacked that control. His overwhelming pressure might work against weaker opponents, but veterans who could endure and counter would find him an easy target.
Isaac fought similarly, likely because the two were close. The difference was that Isaac’s physical abilities were slightly inferior to Obben’s. In exchange, he showed better control over tempo, giving him the advantage in a prolonged bout.
At present, however, Obben held the upper hand—because Isaac carried a direct injury.
His lower back.
Isaac’s waist was clearly compromised. He avoided any movement that placed excessive strain on it, which disrupted the flow of his combat. Muslan could see it plainly.
‘A favor for a favor.’
Just as he prepared to speak, a large black man—smaller than Dus but still imposing—came running over.
“Chira! You overslept again!”
Obben shouted. Chira, apparently unable to speak, blinked and gestured with his hands to communicate.
Chira possessed an extraordinary physique. Long limbs, cleanly sculpted muscles, and a thick neck. His movements showed no lack of flexibility, and his leaps displayed excellent elasticity. He bounded across the ground like a horse, each step springy and powerful.
Muslan had assumed Chira was as skilled a gladiator slave as Isaac or Obben.
He was wrong. Chira was a new gladiator slave who had only fought twice—and lost both times. His survival in the next match was far from guaranteed.
Muslan could not understand it.
‘With that physique, why? Because he cannot speak? Or is there a mental issue?’
While Obben and Chira conversed through gestures, Isaac sidled over.
“That’s Chira. He’s from the Chira tribe, so we just call him Chira. As you can see, he can’t speak. He’s under a curse. His body is too sturdy, but because he can’t talk, he couldn’t keep up with training. That’s why we look after him.”
“Is that allowed?”
“It is. Liscal gave permission.”
“He grants that kind of leeway?”
Isaac chuckled.
“You don’t think much of Liscal, do you?”
“Not particularly…”
“Liscal is a good overseer. I don’t know how he treated you, but in this line of work, he’s one of the better ones. At the very least, he doesn’t treat gladiator slaves as disposable.”
“Disposable…”
“He gives people chances. That alone makes him decent.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ll see for yourself. When an owner treats you like expendable goods, a lot of gladiator slaves die.”
“It seems that’s exactly what my owner intends.”
“Then drink less. And win. Keep winning and stay alive. In this world, owners won’t mistreat a gladiator slave who keeps winning or one who’s popular with the crowd. You have the potential to become both. If you win your next match, consider using the prize money to learn proper boxing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Muslan had no intention of reducing his drinking. The Chwihyeon-gyeong technique grew through alcohol, and now that he had formed a dantian, he would need to drink even more. Still, there was no need to explain that.
“By the way, how long has your back been bad?”
“?”
Isaac, who had been watching Obben and Chira spar, widened his eyes as though he had seen a ghost.
“How did you know?”
“I know a bit of medicine.”
“You… weren’t you the crown prince?”
“I was.”
“And you know medicine?”
“Maran doesn’t discriminate in such matters. So I’ll ask again—how long has your back been troubling you?”
“……”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Ah… no. About a year.”
“I can fix it. That back of yours. That’s why you’re using your feet more, isn’t it? And why your stamina drains so quickly.”
Isaac’s expression grew even more astonished.
“You…”
“Don’t say anything.”
“You understand combat…”
“Yes. But please don’t mention it.”
“Our lips are sealed.”
“Good. I’ll trust you. So—if you can fix my back, will you do it?”
“If it can be fixed, your life will last longer.”
Isaac’s condition was what modern medicine would call a slipped disc. It was not yet severe, but left untreated it would worsen until even basic movement became difficult. A few simple exercises performed consistently would correct it.
Muslan demonstrated several movements for Isaac, guiding his posture while using his limited internal energy to probe the injury. Though his qi was shallow, it was enough to loosen some of the blocked meridians.
“Doing these will really help my back?”
“Try them for a few days. You have nothing to lose.”
Isaac was conflicted. Even physicians had declared his back beyond treatment. He had been told only a high-ranking priest or a recovery mage could help, so he had given up hope.
Yet he decided to trust Muslan. The things the young man had said could only come from someone with genuine insight into combat. Spotting a back injury from a single glance at their sparring required more than ordinary perception.
More importantly, Muslan had no reason to lie.
“If it doesn’t improve, you can stop.”
Muslan smiled brightly.
“With that smile, how could I refuse? I’ll give it a real try.”