Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: How Much Talant Does a Person Need?
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How much Talant does a person need?
It had become the season of bitter cold.
Snow and frost were impartial.
The harsh midwinter visited without distinction between noble mansions and peasants' hovels.
However, the civilization created by humans imposed hierarchy and order even on this equitable winter.
A slave's winter was harsher than a noble's.
Some slaves had their toes amputated due to frostbite,
and some quietly closed their eyes, unable to endure the cold wave.
Such a winter passed slowly,
but left certain wounds behind.
"We're fortunate this winter's losses were light."
"...Losses."
Slaves were valuable property.
The winter cold ruined many things, but the most expensive loss was always people.
The slave who learned and mastered letters to erect a tombstone for his friend,
the slave who organized gatherings with the others for meat stew,
many talented slaves vanished like melting frost.
And cemeteries were truly expensive commodities.
Some people
couldn't even claim a foot of earth to lie on in their final moments.
The great author of his past life, Leo Tolstoy, wrote in his short story How Much Land Does a Man Need?
about how much land a person truly requires.
The story's conclusion was this:
A person needs only about three arshins of land—enough to bury them after death.
"How are the bodies of dead slaves disposed of?"
"They're piled inside an old quarry that's no longer in use."
"A quarry?"
"There's nowhere else to dump them."
What a person needs is enough land to lie on after death.
And slaves were not people.
For a slave, who was merely an item,
even being buried quietly under the earth to return to the soil was an extravagant luxury.
For them, being piled atop already rotting corpses and those still decaying at the cold, dark bottom of a mine shaft—colder and darker than the earth itself—was the fitting repose after death.
Thus, slaves were truly objects.
The end of a slave was not mourning, but disposal.
"...What happened to the Talant held by the dead slaves?"
"The overseer recovered it properly."
"The ledger?"
"Here it is."
If I were a bit more sentimental,
I might have gone to that mine shaft myself.
Seeing the cold corpses of the already dead,
I might have felt such disgust from the sensibilities of a 21st-century South Korean unaccustomed to bodies
that I vomited.
Even while retching, I might have grasped a dead slave's hand,
used my ability—which only glimpses the past—to see who they had been before dying,
and mourned the deceased slave.
But I wasn't that resolute.
I feared the corpse poison festering in the mine shaft piled with rotting bodies.
I feared that horrific sight.
I even feared growing accustomed to corpses and no longer vomiting.
I value survival above all.
I don't want to die.
Truly, I don't want to die.
"..."
Did those slaves also yearn for life?
Nets to prevent jumpers still hung in the slave dormitories.
They hadn't been needed recently,
but that grim sight starkly showed they were still commodities that couldn't even choose their own death.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling a moment of fatigue.
Winter was nearly over,
yet a chill like sin crawling up my spine lingered.
Only after that cold eased
could I open the ledger Torsso handed me.
"This slave bought a tombstone every time he saved up Talant."
"..."
"Aside from Talant for meals, he spent it all to honor the souls of the already dead. No wonder he ended up like this."
All I could know about these dead slaves was
their appearance from my vague memories
and a few items and numbers in the Talant ledger.
Yet that alone was enough to recall who they had been.
This was a person who spent money on the dead.
A person who believed in souls.
A person who thought the departed could be comforted.
A person who believed lost souls wandering to heaven could rest briefly by the living.
In his final moments, this person must have pictured himself standing on the path to paradise.
I opened the next ledger.
"This slave often gathered others for meat stew."
"..."
"He'd urge everyone to pool money for stew, but slyly contributed the most Talant himself. Seeing he bought black bread too, he probably melted it into the stew to fill up—not for himself, but to create a gathering for the others."
He personally gathered people and contributed the most Talant for meat stew,
yet took the smallest share.
The other slaves surely knew.
Some would shamelessly exploit that kindness,
while others gratefully accepted it.
He was a slave with popularity.
A pushover, but one who could easily gather others.
Anyone could trust him with their Talant at his gatherings.
A good person.
"..."
I continued reading the ledgers.
Without using my right hand's ability,
the numbers in the ledger revealed much about those slaves.
No—perhaps even more than my ability could show.
How a person spends their money reveals who they are.
Anyone from 21st-century capitalist Earth would agree.
Thus, these ledgers held not mere numbers.
They were
epitaphs showing who the dead had been.
"Torsso."
"Yes."
"I can use the dead slaves' Talant in their place, right? As their owner, their property is mine. I promised not to take it arbitrarily, but after their death, it rightfully returns to me, their master. Correct?"
"...Yes."
In truth, I had no need to use the slaves' Talant.
Talant was currency I minted,
and the goods they bought with it were distributed by me.
But
I deliberately used this cumbersome system.
"I'll buy tombstones. Tombstones with their names."
"..."
Because
it had meaning only if bought with the money they earned themselves.
It wasn't my mercy.
It wasn't me remembering their names.
This was what they left behind themselves.
"Is the Talant they left insufficient?"
"...No. It matches exactly if we use all they saved before dying."
When Talant was first issued,
slaves spent it all on bread without saving.
But now, they each held about 10 Talant.
They had come to trust it.
That this 'Talant' wasn't some malicious noble's whim or prank.
It was gratifying.
"..."
How much land does a person need...?
These slaves
couldn't even have a mat of earth to lie on after death.
But
a person doesn't necessarily need land.
They had no land, but
they had money.
10 Talant.
What a person needs is
10 Talant to leave their name behind after death.
"Your Excellency."
"Yes, Torsso. What is it?"
Torsso, taking back the ledger, hesitated with an ambiguous expression—unclear if smiling or frowning—
then cautiously spoke.
"...Could I receive Talant too?"
"Hm?"
"Even less than the slaves is fine. I'd like some Talant along with my salary."
"What for?"
"..."
"Well, it's no trouble. Consider it done."
"Thank you."
Slave dormitory.
One slave went to the overseer, clutching a crumpled Talant bill.
10 Talant.
Enough for tasty white bread or to borrow a book from the library.
"I want a tombstone."
"Whose tombstone?"
"...James, the slave from this dormitory who died this winter."
"Ah, that meat stew lover."
"Yes."
The overseer pulled out a ledger and checked something briefly.
The slave waited quietly.
He didn't want to irk the overseer with needless noise.
Soon after,
the overseer smirked, closed the ledger, and shook his head.
"That won't be possible."
"Pardon? Why— I brought exactly 10 Talant."
"It's not about that."
"...Because James was a slave?"
This was the first time the slave had come to buy a tombstone.
Until now... he'd only spent Talant on tasty food.
So he feared perhaps slaves couldn't have tombstones.
But the overseer's response differed from his expectation.
"No. His tombstone's already been made."
"...Pardon?"
"No need for two. You don't have to buy one."
"...Who erected James's tombstone?"
James always yielded the small bits of meat in the stew to others.
Many slaves liked James.
It wouldn't be odd if another slave had bought one first.
But he too had received favors from James.
He wanted to cover at least half—5 Talant.
Once he learned who bought it,
he'd go to that slave and hand over 5 Talant personally.
So the slave thought.
"His Excellency did it himself."
"...Pardon?"
But again,
the overseer's answer strayed far from expectation.
"Your master, Count Riddle His Excellency, paid the Talant."
"..."
The slave stared blankly
at the 10 Talant in his own hand.
It felt strange.
Truly, strangely off.