Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Exorcism
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Not all slaves have families.
But how many people could there be without at least one person buried deep in their hearts?
The more miserable their lives,
the deeper the sorrow buried in their hearts must be.
"Hold out your hand."
Psychometry.
Once again, I read the memory of the slave next to me.
A slave whose soul was worn down to the point of forgetting even speech.
But.
The slaves in those memories were all people with souls that could laugh ordinarily.
I intend to awaken their memories.
"You lost a friend here."
"……."
There was a slave who had lost a friend to harsh labor and whippings.
He was the only one this barren estate could rely on and trust.
When everyone else had forgotten themselves and silently toiled away,
he was the only one who never lost his humor or leisure.
He laughed even when whipped, so he got whipped more.
He laughed even when collapsing from exhaustion, so he was made to work more.
Because he took beatings so earnestly and worked so hard, he even earned the resentment of his fellow slaves.
So he died early.
"I'll let you erect a tombstone."
"……."
"Just pay ten Talants. I'll give you space in one corner of the garden for a tombstone."
And the enemy was me,
Karl Riddle.
Karl himself hadn't personally whipped a mere slave—
but what meaning would such an excuse have?
To this man, I was the sinner.
"If you can write your friend's name, I'll engrave it on the tombstone. If you can describe how good a person your friend was and what kind of life he lived, that too will be written on it."
So this was deception.
A cruel joke.
An insult to the dead.
I hope he sees it as an insult.
That way, his soul will revive that much more.
The more shame and anger he recalls, the more spark his soul will ignite.
"If you write an epitaph, I'll allow that too. If you can read the scriptures, I'll let you recite a prayer."
This was Karl's memorial for the dead.
An exorcism to drive out the demon called Karl.
"Your friend won't be forgotten in vain."
What Karl didn't remember, I will remember.
What Karl couldn't understand, I will understand.
If it's unknowable because it's already forgotten,
then you who still remember must tell me.
And I will remember it all.
Remembering what Karl could never remember—
this is
the proof of existence for the evil spirit called 'me',
who has possessed a mere novel.
"If you raise your own value in any way, that becomes my gain."
This should be excuse enough to make them believe.
The slaves' atmosphere changed.
Vitality returned to their lifeless eyes.
And then.
One slave who had been listening to my words opened his mouth and asked a question.
"……Is a comrade's name alright?"
Without permission,
he had regained his own voice.
That voice pleased me.
I was glad.
So I grinned widely and asked back.
"A comrade?"
"Yes. Before being sold into slavery, he was a soldier."
"Captured as a prisoner and made a slave, I suppose."
"……Yes."
The man had been a soldier.
In a world where people are traded as goods.
A soldier from one's own country is a hero,
but a soldier from an enemy country is a criminal.
It wasn't even particularly special to use criminals as slaves.
"From the Empire's perspective, he's an enemy soldier. But…… is that alright?"
In other words, making a tombstone for his comrade
meant honoring an enemy soldier.
His bravery,
his kindness,
how good a comrade he was—
he intended to remember it all.
It was entirely different from merely commemorating a slave's death.
And.
That irreverent question pleased me immensely.
"Hah. Who do you think I am?"
"……."
"I am the Golden Ear, Karl Riddle. Information about your origins is worth barely one Talant to me."
The slave's expression darkened at my response.
Seeming not to understand,
I smirked and explained again.
"Do as you like. If it's a right bought properly with Talants, whose name I engrave is none of my business."
"……!"
The slave's face brightened.
It was the first smile I'd seen in this slave dormitory.
These people could smile too.
I couldn't help but smile myself.
I clenched my teeth to suppress my twitching lips.
I swept my hand over my face.
My insides twisted.
I felt quite disgusted with myself for being able to smile in front of them.
Even so, I was glad.
"Of course, if you don't work properly, no Talants will be paid. Attempts at suicide or self-harm that damage my 'merchandise', or intentionally causing trouble with other merchandise, won't be forgiven either. Understood?"
"Yes……!"
Unable to hold back my smile, I fled the room.
The door closed.
I leaned against the wall and sighed.
Yes.
Now I have to live in a world like this.
Survive in a world like this.
This wasn't 21st-century South Korea, where one worried about livelihood or politics.
It's a world where people treat other people as merchandise,
and the weak die pathetically.
A brutal world like that.
As I stood there dazed, gathering my own realization,
Torsso, who had been watching, spoke up.
"You have good ingenuity, my lord."
"Ingenuity?"
"Yes. Making the slaves learn to read and write voluntarily to increase their value, right? Since they're using their free time to study on their own, there's no room for slacking. It's a good method that keeps the dim-witted ones useful in the estate while raising the value of those for sale."
The slaves, and even Riddle's retainers,
would think this was my true purpose.
Preserving merchandise value,
and further increasing it.
The Golden Ear Karl trying a new way to manage his goods.
Isn't that a fairly reasonable interpretation?
"……Yes. That's right."
So they could believe it.
They would believe in my greed, not my goodwill.
They would believe that if it makes money, the Golden Ear Karl would grant them unlimited hope.
The Golden Ear Karl
could sell even hope for money.
All I wanted to buy was that much belief.
"Hope is money. Now that they have a goal, they'll do their utmost to raise their own value."
"Well, whether those beastly, lazy things can even study properly is questionable."
"They will study properly."
For them now, learning to read is a matter of survival.
Survival of the soul.
Not for a better life, but just to live.
They have no choice but to save up Talants.
"Because they're desperate."
Everyone wants to survive.
That's instinct.
I believe in human nature.
"On to the next room."
The deeper we went into the building,
the more the dormitory's atmosphere became 'human'.
In other words,
it was the kind of scene one would typically imagine for 'slaves'.
"This is the room with the newly arrived slaves."
Moans came from inside the door.
Sobbing sounds.
Voices tormented by the loss of freedom.
"The good merchandise will be groomed nicely and resold, and any usable ones will be trained in the estate and put to labor."
Sounds that anyone could imagine meant 'slaves' were inside.
A predictable tragedy lay beyond this door.
"There are still untamed slaves, so please be careful."
"Let's go in."
"Yes. I'll open the door."
The moment Torsso opened the door,
I finally felt 'familiarity'.
Not familiarity from experience.
Familiarity from vague imagination.
"……Noisy."
"Yes. They're slaves who haven't been trained yet."
Hands are bound.
Feet are shackled.
The intensely unpleasant, violent atmosphere I imagined when I first heard the word 'slave'.
People moaning in agony,
people thrashing about,
people shedding tears in sorrow,
people sweating coldly in fear.
The typical image that comes to mind for slaves.
The image I had imagined.
Dirty, miserable, tragic.
That imagination played out here like a play.
"Eeeek—! Untie this! Do you know who I am...?"
One slave wailed.
"Hic... Mom... I miss you..."
One slave sobbed.
"Ugh..."
One slave trembled.
"Eeeek—."
"Kk..."
"It hurts..."
This was the extent of what I could imagine.
"How clumsy."
A vague, clumsy tragedy that a newly enslaved person might imagine.
The pain of physical violence,
the rebellious spirit that any oppressed 'person' must have,
the despair of losing everything,
the hope that maybe they can escape this situation,
the will not to submit.
"Even becoming miserable... is clumsy."
Just as I hadn't imagined what they hadn't,
they too probably couldn't even imagine it.
How miserable it is to have no freedom—
they don't know yet.
Even though they've already become slaves, they still don't know.
That even remembering language,
moaning in pain,
holding hope—
that a life exists where everything is determined by necessity,
they don't know yet.
"You must be the newly arrived slaves."
And they won't come to know it in the future either.
These people won't learn such things.
"Hold out your hands."
One slave slapped my hand away.
One slave cautiously extended a trembling hand.
One slave wouldn't unclench his fist.
"How insolent."
They were still people.
"Do you think struggling like that will make your handcuffs and shackles any lighter?"
They would remain people.
"Do you think your rebellion holds any meaning?"
They wouldn't forget that they were people.
"Remember this. The name of the person who sold your freedom."
If you forget that you are people,
then.
I will remember that you are people.
"I am Karl Riddle."
And I will teach you again and again.
Over and over, persistently,
until you're sick of it,
so you never forget.
"Let's see how long that rebellious spirit of yours lasts."
You are people.
After losing her parents and wandering the streets,
Lemon thought her life had hit rock bottom.
She didn't know then.
That even rock bottom has a bottom!
'They sell a person into slavery for stealing a bit of bread...? Crazy guards...'
Instead of feeding and housing a captured orphan criminal in jail,
engraving a slave mark on them and selling for a decent price as extra pocket money—
that this was common for underpaid guards.
Lemon didn't know.
And the price of ignorance was harsh.
Sold to that infamous 'House Riddle' mansion, after all.
'Should I kill myself...?'
Lemon wanted to make a big decision, but held back for now.
Not because she valued her life.
With hands and feet bound, the only way to make a big decision was to bite her tongue,
but there was no guarantee biting her tongue would kill her immediately.
She didn't want to die feeling the sober pain of her tongue being severed.
'...Wait for now.'
And this brief patience
was the best decision Lemon ever made in her life.