Olpasbet, the Prison City
Olpasbet, the Prison City
That was the essence of leasing.
A traveler with a taste for a particular prisoner could pay the lord a modest fee and borrow them. For the duration of their stay in the city, they'd have a convict to serve them—as one might keep a concubine.
Sometimes, if the arrangement proved agreeable, the visitor would simply purchase them outright.
In the Kallus Empire, to which the prison city of Olpasbet belonged, slave trading was legal. None of this was unusual.
The prisoners lining the streets, casting flirtatious glances at passersby, had good reason to invest such fervor in their smiles and invitations.
Half the leasing fee went to the lord. The other half went to the prisoner. Most travelers who visited Olpasbet were wealthy, so the pay wasn't bad. And if you happened to catch the eye of someone generous, you might persuade them to buy you outright—escape your sentence and live as a mistress instead.
But the core of the transaction was unmistakable.
Slavery, licensed by the Baron of Olpasbet.
Aslan regretted the words even as he thought them, but he'd had little choice.
He hadn't accomplished anything in the city yet. He still had no clear grasp of how to advance the main quest. Amid all that, he couldn't afford to kill or injure anyone.
He'd practically been thrown out of the inn just for nearly starting a fight. If he'd actually killed someone, he'd have become a prisoner himself. No matter how deeply Olpasbet steeped itself in vice and pleasure, it wouldn't be lax enough to ignore a murderer—especially not when the victim was one of the city's own unique commodities, its convicts.
Aslan had his reasons. He wasn't sure the girl would understand them.
When he turned his head, he saw the truth of it. Angie's eyes were clouding over with fresh suspicion.
"You want to lease me?"
She'd know what leasing meant even without a long incarceration. The streets were full of prisoners working the crowds, selling themselves to travelers.
The girl's expression curdled. She seemed to believe the meal he'd bought her had only been a lure for that purpose.
Aslan studied her and weighed his options.
He understood the necessity of leasing all too well.
This city carried a monster's nest in its belly. Every prisoner here had to pay tribute just to survive. Those who didn't pay didn't live.
Angie didn't look like she had the money.
Perhaps she could throw herself on Harod Claw's mercy, but she clearly had no desire to do that. If she'd wanted to, she wouldn't have crossed the dragon-kin in the first place.
Aslan had to build his plans around the girl's survival.
Given the circumstances, leasing seemed a reasonable choice. The only awkward part was the act of leasing itself. Once it was done, as long as Aslan didn't do anything untoward, she'd have nothing to resent. If he provided her with food, clothing, and shelter worth the name, he might even soften her wariness.
And if he leased her, she'd stay with him. He wouldn't have to worry about her safety.
The suggestion had been thrown out to defuse a tense moment, but Aslan meant to use it.
"Yes," he said.
If he was going to carry this out, he couldn't lie about it. It was easier to state the facts and persuade her than to hide his intentions, work behind her back, and get caught.
Angie's face twisted, as expected. Aslan spoke again before she could refuse.
"I'm not leasing you to do anything to you."
The girl, who'd been looking at him as if he were some pervert, raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"The hell is that supposed to mean?"
Whatever depraved acts she might have imagined, whatever hidden hungers she was bracing for—those only came into play when the traveler leasing a prisoner wanted something from them. Against that backdrop, Aslan's words left her wavering in the flickering scarlet lamplight.
"Exactly what I said. I'm not leasing you because I want something from you. I'm leasing you because I want your help."
"My... help?"
"Yes."
Doubt rose in her golden eyes. Aslan pressed the opening.
"I'm a Master."
A Master.
In truth, that title was little more than a label on the War God's list of desirable prey. But the world saw something different.
An adept among adepts.
A paragon above all others.
The absolute peak of human skill.
The Masters were the greatest warriors on the planet, judged by a standard beyond mortal opinion—measured by the gaze of gods.
Because of that, most Masters worked as mercenaries or sold their services to nobles as fixers and bodyguards—at least until a Warrior Monk killed them. That made it easy to plant the idea that a Master asking for help was something out of the ordinary. Easy to make her feel she was needed for some special task only she could perform.
The proof was right there, without looking anywhere else.
"...What kind of Master?"
"Master of Combat."
"Combat..."
Seven Masters existed in total.
Sword, Blunt Weapon, Spear, Unarmed, Bow, Magic, Combat.
All were considered supreme in their fields. But an unspoken understanding ran beneath it all: the greatest among them was the Master of Combat, who commanded every weapon and always drew forth victory.
Beyond the weight of that reputation, the girl's memory offered its own evidence. Aslan had crossed the street and reached her before she or the dragon-kin could react. When Harod had been about to resort to force, Aslan had checked him and made him back down.
Angie couldn't help but recall those moments. She couldn't help but be swayed.
Silence settled for a moment. The girl rubbed under her nose and shifted her eyes.
The wariness was gone from them now.
"So what does a big-shot Master of Combat want from me?"
The words came out blunt, but her eyes glinted and her voice had climbed a little, carrying something like anticipation.
"I told you. I saw you fight."
"You did."
"I'm the Master of Combat. When I see someone fight, I can gauge their potential to some degree. And from what I saw... your talent is exceptional—unbreakable fighting spirit, broad adaptability, the ruthlessness to strike at vitals without hesitation. You're exactly the kind of person I want at my side."
Even the poor weren't cut off from stories. Tall tales and rumors became their adventures.
And this was a girl who'd dreamed of leaving the squalid safety of the slums to become a mercenary. She'd have at least a spark of that adventurous spirit.
That was what Aslan was counting on.
A Master who'd spotted her potential, seeking to recruit her—an ally, a protégé. The beginning of an adventure story. He was selling her the fantasy.
It was working.
Her expression had moved past unease into something swelling with hope and expectation.
Aslan extended his hand to seal it.
"I need someone I can trust at my back. Will you be my companion?"
The girl let a small, genuine emotion soften her face. Her lips twitched.
Then, as if determined to play it tough, she bared her teeth and reached out.
Angie's small hand met Aslan's broad palm with a sharp clap and held firm.
"Fine. I'll do it. I... I needed someone to watch my back too."
She was putting on a show of bravado, but Aslan smiled anyway. Despite her words, hope ran deep across her face.
Still, if she's tied to the main quest, she's not just some random nobody.
Traveling together worried him a little, but that was a problem for later.
If they cleared the main quest and she never appeared in another one, that would be fine too. Once she saw the things Aslan had been fighting—the things hunting him—her fighting spirit would break easily enough.
As his thoughts concluded, the girl abruptly asked, "But why leasing? If you just bought me outright..."
Aslan shook his head.
"Someone's chasing me. They might already be in this city. A prisoner purchase draws too much attention. So instead..."
Meeting her questioning sidelong glance, he looked her in the eye.
"I'll lease you first. Once we're prepared enough, I'll break you out."
"What?"
The words startled her. Her eyes went wide, and she spun to check their surroundings half a beat late. Mercifully, no one close enough to hear had the presence of mind to react.
"Shit—thought someone caught that."
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and turned back to Aslan. He was already walking.
Angie fell in behind him. "Why?"
"Because you're not ready yet."
It was true that someone was pursuing him. A Warrior Monk, most likely—one who'd hired mercenaries to capture him. But Aslan doubted the monk was inside the city. A Warrior Monk stood out too much among priests.
And it was also true that she wasn't ready.
The girl's limbs were thin. Her hair hung in matted tangles that sometimes hid most of her face. Her clothes were relatively clean, but they didn't pass as proper everyday wear. Getting her into a state where she could survive even basic combat would take real effort after the leasing was done.
The girl pouted a little at being told she wasn't ready, but she seemed to accept it. She didn't press further.
"So where are we going now?"
Aslan glanced back at her and jerked his chin toward the castle at the city's center.
"To lease you."
*
Prisoner-related matters—leases, purchases, and the rest—were handled by the lord's personal secretaries or their assistants. The leasing process itself wasn't complicated. You only needed money and the willingness to fill out paperwork.
Aslan worked the quill in front of the secretary's assistant with an odd sense of familiarity.
His personal details went onto the parchment, followed by a request to lease one Angela Tail for a period of one month.
The assistant watched the fluid penmanship with detached indifference, half-focused on other documents.
When the form was finished, Aslan slid it across the desk. The assistant took it, scanned it briefly, and said, "Twenty-one silver coins."
"...Hhk."
The girl behind Aslan let out a choked gasp. Aslan pulled silver coins from his pouch, counted them meticulously, and handed them over.
The assistant accepted the coins with a blank expression, checked each one, swept them into a wooden box, and bowed his head.
"Thank you for your discerning choice. May you enjoy your stay in Olpasbet. Should any issues arise with the leased prisoner, or should you have any complaints, please return here..."
The assistant's smooth recitation faltered. He was staring at someone just past Aslan's shoulder.
Aslan turned to look.
A thick-jawed middle-aged man in armor stood watching him.
"His Lordship requests an audience. Please accompany me."
The warrior's tone was remarkably courteous. Aslan hesitated. He couldn't recall doing anything that would warrant the lord's attention.
Refusing was out of the question. Ready to bolt at any moment, Aslan followed the man.
The warrior led him up three floors. The higher they climbed, the more the air thickened with a strange dampness. The smell of burning drifted through the dim torchlight and lamplight.
"Here."
The warrior stopped before a large office at the very center of the third floor. He gave the door a light knock and stepped aside.
"Enter."
The voice from behind the door was a man's, on the higher side.
Aslan shot a glance back at Angie, then stepped inside.
Behind the desk sat a man in fine attire—stocky, layered with dense muscle and flesh, wrapped in a pale blue doublet. A middle-aged man who could only be the Baron of Olpasbet.
The baron regarded Aslan with a long, measured look, then nodded.
The warrior who'd guided Aslan in shut the door and planted himself in front of it, blocking the exit.
When no other signs of hostility followed, Aslan studied the seated nobleman through narrowed eyes.
"A pleasure to meet you. Master of Combat."
The Baron of Olpasbet skipped straight to pleasantries.
Aslan frowned.
Master of Combat was a famous title—partly on its own merits, partly because the Warrior Monks spread it around. But it wasn't common for someone to recognize Aslan's face and immediately identify him.
"Not long ago, you were working with mercenaries at Nechagni. What brings you all the way here?"
It was rarer still for anyone to know what he'd been doing recently.
As Aslan studied him with open suspicion, the baron let a greasy smile spread across his face.