Chekhov's Arena (1)
The stages of the Tutorial Factory numbered as many as the wings on the angels' backs. ...Well, not literally that many varieties, but damn close. Like maps in a space war game, there were steady sellers like Goblin Forest, Orc Village, or Moon Fortress Defense, where you'd rack up experience fighting the Demon King's main forces.
All these stages were recreations of the past through the angels' holy power—virtual simulations of real historical events, manifested by magic. Here, heroes became players carrying out missions.
"If the tutorial just kept going forever, it'd be like diving into a VR fantasy game, right?"
That was the assessment from a friend who'd once been a comrade. In online games, some fields draw crowds, while others get ignored after one clear. Goblin Forest, Orc Village, Moon Fortress—they were like that. And the place we were headed now, Chekhov's Arena?
'One of the worst.'
Survival rate: a measly 34%. Even averaging it out, out of three who entered, two died, and one limped through—brutal stats I'd heard from the angel in charge back then. Not the overall tutorial pass rate. Stage pass rate: about one in three.
Three went in together; one came out having cleared the arena, but so mentally shattered their whole constitution changed, with a solid chance of total breakdown afterward. An absolute hellhole stage.
Because of the difficulty? Nah, not that.
All tutorial stages were managed by angels, verified through their own meetings as "clearable by freshly summoned otherworlders." Meaning, was possible. It was just the shit you'd endure during the that made it dogshit and fucked.
For example.
"Wheeeeew!"
"Where'd they snag these ones from? Some eastern shithole?"
"Kee-hee-hee, that bitch is mine! Gonna fuck her raw right in the arena for everyone to see!"
Twenty prisoners dragged in like slaves, and the gladiators lining the sides whistling and jeering. Just look at those scumbags.
Phantoms summoned from the past, NPC-like remnants spouting the vilest crap.
"That fucker's glaring at me."
"Pissed? Call him out later and gouge his eyes."
"Hey, just tail him. Looks kinda pretty."
"Fuck, with all these chicks around, you're thinking of ass-fucking a guy? Insane?"
"Who said anything about dicks?"
Sexual harassment didn't spare just women. Lewd up-and-down scans, eyes screaming "gonna rape you right now"—rough humans preying on anyone weak enough to satisfy their urges, gender be damned.
'Not the kind of show for a tutorial.'
Normal tutorials aimed to churn out as many passers as possible. You might think "just experience this inhuman side of the otherworld once you're there," but Estiel sent me here anyway.
Because I'm a regressor and would know? Nope.
If so, she'd have tipped me off on some standard stage I'd recognize.
"Grrrrowl."
"H-Hiiik?!"
"Monster...!"
The real purpose was simple. This inhuman space was where I could operate freely.
"Wh-What's that...?! A t-tentacle monster...? Hiiik...! Nooo...!"
"Shut your trap, slave! Don't get cocky, you pathetic losers!"
"Losers?! I was forced...!"
Smack.
A guard swung wildly; one reserve hero took it to the face and crumpled.
"If Great Lady Chekhov hadn't shown mercy to trash like you, you'd have been mist on the execution ground long ago, you goddamn deserters!"
"D-Deserters?! I...!"
"This bitch!!"
Contempt filled the guards' eyes. That contempt turned to boots stomping them mercilessly.
"Ah, aaah...!"
The reserve heroes' faces twisted in despair. Only after watching one get trampled as an example—hell, a woman—did it sink in.
Tutorial stage or not, fuck up here and you'd meet a truly gruesome end.
"Huff, huff. Fuck it. One out of twenty dying ain't a problem. Yeah, if they're gonna die anyway, might as well get a feel—"
"That's enough, Lloyd."
A clear voice rang out as the guard started dropping his pants toward the fallen woman, like he was about to rape her.
"L-Lady Chekhov!!"
A red-eyed woman in a gothic dress. Her eyes slitted long, nails sharp and red-painted.
"Gh... vampire...?"
"Hmm. Deserters from the battlefield, yet you spot that I'm a vampire right away. Guess tales of Chekhov have spread wide among humans."
Might sound weird, but this was like AI chat. From afar, just story flavor.
"But that changes nothing. Here, if you can't prove your worth, you're just slaves to the top warriors or monster chow. Want to survive? Get strong. That's the only way you're worth the coin I paid."
...Once you're the ones in it, everyone realizes: this is life-or-death survival beyond UFC.
"Some don't seem to get it, so let me explain. Lloyd? What do the prisoners gathered here have to do?"
"Yes! Simple! Prove your strength!"
The guard saluted at Vampire Chekhov's command.
"Rack up 5 wins surviving fights in the arena, and you're freed—back to soldier duty!"
"Lloyd, your role as guard?"
"Fools who got a lady's mercy despite deserting, still clueless? Punish 'em as a guard!"
"Right. So... no raping yet."
Yet.
Everyone swallowed hard at Chekhov's words.
"Not unless they prove irredeemable trash."
How to Survive as an Arena Slave
A bit later, I was tossed into an even shittier underground room than the cell where Goblin stage dropouts gathered—some crudely dug wide basement.
"Ugh, uuu...."
Like the auditorium-sized room from when Estiel summoned dropouts before. Wide enough for twenty beds. So with all twenty shoved in, we just spaced out and sat wherever—no big deal.
"In five days, all you fuckers hit the arena! Train, write your will, whatever! Details in that manual!"
Guard Lloyd chucked small booklets—one per head.
Scribbled inside, crooked handwriting from various slaves—like a rolling testament of last words, crammed with all sorts of crap.
"Wh-What the hell is this...!"
"Stir shit up pointless-like, and you're first in the arena!"
Mouths shut.
Thud, thud.
After Lloyd left.
"Sob, hic...."
Finally, we could settle into our time as reserve heroes tackling a tutorial stage—in quiet.
'If I'd come here in the first playthrough, my mentality would've been half-broken for real.'
First playthrough, not second? The whirlwind shit right after summoning would've left me dazed.
Small wonder—these "survival logs" were bloodstained, contents utterly hopeless.
All we could do was...
"Wh-What happens to us now...?"
Group action. Ragged prisoner rags, ankle irons, the shit we'd endured getting dragged here—it all hammered home we were prey.
They knew it too. Everyone here died in stage 1. Out of 108, only 20 gathered—so the other 88 were dropouts from passed stages, rejects.
"Um, ma'am. What do we do...?"
"How the fuck should I know?! If I did, would I be here?! Wait, you're that bitch who ran with me from the goblins?!"
"Wh-What...!"
Chaos. No focal point to lead, we'd just waste time till quiet death.
Anyone to step up as leader here—
'None?'
Nobody. Park Chang-su might've fit personality-wise, but he was nerfed hard by penalty—physical stats way down.
'Instinctively knows. He's the weakest now.'
Looked buff like some gym rat, but actual stats? Average untrained woman level or worse.
Only two knew: me, and him.
"Hey."
"Wanna live? Listen to big bro."
Park Chang-su finally stepped center.
"Stick with me if you wanna survive. I'll carry."
Flexing muscles, showing off. Pre-arena pumping with drugs? Ripped enough to burst the rags.
"Th-That guy's...)
"Leader died too..."
A guy from the summon group snarked.
"What?"
Park glared, feinting a kick at the irons.
"H-Hiiik...!"
Too bad. Close look would've shown no real power—just bluff. But he cowered, blind to it.
"Listen up. Cooperate with me, we live. Stage 1 was just bad luck."
Persuading, leading, while side-eyeing me.
"Whatever went down in stage 1, goal now is survive together, right?"
Openly trying to gloss over killing me.
"Huh?"
"........."
I ignored him, flipping through the survival log.
And at the end.
"........."
Three slips like wedding meal vouchers. I couldn't hold back the laugh bubbling up.
◈ Redeem at arena shop for items/food
◈ Earned from wins (not inventory item—must hold physically)
Not inventory-bound—just hold 'em. And this room? One big space where all twenty could mingle.
'Hmm?'
Felt eyes. Amid the panicked chaos, one woman met mine.
"........."
Blonde chick. Clutching an Exchange Voucher from her survival log, just like me.
Memory jog: definitely—
Shin Yu-hee. 20-year-old freshman glimpsed right before her death.
'You're the one.'
Found her. My sex partner.
...EXP shuttle.