Vol 1 Chapter 1 (1/2)

Chapter 1: Iron and Blood

Part 1

The outcome was decided.

The amphitheatre of Ba Roux shook. The many spectators that were crowded together unanimously shouted out the victor’s name and stamped their feet, creating a racket that sounded much like a tidal wave.

While the winner was being bathed in the pa.s.sionate and boisterous cheers, the one who had received the opposite fate lay motionless besides his feet. Eventually, the loser’s headless body was struck with a hook and dragged away by the hands of two slaves.

The sun was still glaring even though it was near evening. The spectators’ faces were covered with sweat and glittering brightly, as if someone smeared them with oil, and their eyes, too, were sparkling with bloodl.u.s.t, as they antic.i.p.ated the next fight to be yet another battle to the death. Whoever just won or lost didn’t stay on their minds for long. It was only the heat of battle that left an everlasting taste, stood in the air, and kept whirling around the arena.

“Go, go!”

“Do it, kill!”

Today was another success. Because the more virtuous people living in the city, for whom the admission fees were no more than about a child’s weekly allowance, were able to watch the games, over a thousand spectators were gathered.

The next match was a cavalry battle. Both men were armed with spears, emerging from the east and west gates, and crossed each other at a great speed. At the second charge, one of the men got flung off of his mount and, as he scrambled to get up again, the other swiftly jumped off his own horse to give the finis.h.i.+ng blow.

Up next were two barely clothed men, who started to grapple each other with their bare hands.

They were sword-slaves, or so-called gladiators. In compensation for doing these public, life-threatening battles, these people were granted a few days of their lives and the minimum amount of food required to get by. Some of them were already born as slaves, some had been thrown into the arena for committing crimes, and there were even those who had personally applied to cast themselves into this living h.e.l.l.

But if gladiators got well-known enough to become veterans, they received a different kind of popularity from the crowd. One of them, named s.h.i.+que, was a handsome gladiator who was popular among women and had just won the brawling match. He was strangely pretentious, bowing in a way much like a n.o.bleman would, and notably, shrill voices rose from the crowd.

“Did you see that, brother? s.h.i.+que just won!” [1]

It was the voice of a girl yet in the more tender years of age, who was sitting in one of the grandstands among the front row seats. High pillars, which rose from the corners in the left and right, supported a roof that covered the stand. Only those who were able to pay a large sum of money were able to view the match from these special seats.

From the looks of it, the young man resting his chin on his hands next to her, whom she called ‘brother’, seemed to be dissatisfied. With a long cloth wrapped around his head, the ends dangling from both the left and right just like a believer of Badyne, it looked like he was concealing his face from the glances of people around him.

“Ahh, it is as you say,” he said. “The gladiator you had your eye on won. Now, isn’t that enough? Can we hurry and get something to eat? This place is giving me a headache.”

”But it is only beginning, is it not? Did the smell of blood sicken you? You, the successor of the lands of Mephius?”

“Watch your mouth.”

Not at all worried about the youth’s clear jumpiness, the girl gave a fickle laugh.

The next fight had already started, so the young man was forced to stay after all and rested his cheeks on his hands again with a bitter look on his face. How much blood had to be splattered around, and how many sweaty muscles did she have to see before getting tired of it?

He occasionally stole a sidelong glance at the young girl’s white skin and beautiful face. She had an innocence that matched her age, but a strange sensual and mature beauty as well – it was a view much more charming than that of the savage fight below.

Then, after about two battles, a new stage was being set in the arena. One huge stake got established in the centre, and a single woman was fastened to the top. She was a beautiful woman. Purposely made to wear torn clothes, each time she writhed in pain, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs swayed about while whistles came from the heated male audience.

However, the woman was in no position to be bothered with their obscene looks, for at the same time the stake got put up, a big cage with approximately the same height was carried in.

Inside was a raging beast that was roughly seven or eight metres long. Its slimy, green scales were flickering in the sunlight. It was a large dragon. Bred through repeated selective breeding by humans, it was of a variety called ‘Sozos’ that Mephius also used in wars.

Its clenched, humongous teeth, and each of its claws extending from six legs, were just like sharp swords. Probably because it was drugged, it seemed to have a somewhat repressed ferociousness and dulled instincts, but being hit by that bulk would nevertheless cause serious injuries, and it looked like it could blow away the steel cage like a toy.

“Now then! Gathered ladies and gentlemen!”

Suddenly an orator standing on an elevation began to speak over a loudspeaker, eager to finish his speech before the beast broke out.

“Next, is the start of our programme. The great dragons once roamed the earth and have likely established our culture, now they are no more than this bloodthirsty, simple beast we look down on. There is no need to fear. We are the brave souls, the purest of minds, that took over from an era of s.p.a.ce voyage. Not even by the dragon’s tusks and claws – not to mention its fearsome, terrible breath! – will we be outdone. Please, take a look at the evidence. Behold the figures of these brave men who challenge this dragon of old, this beast of a terrifying false G.o.d!”

From the eastern gate, a single gladiator stepped forward. In the man’s hands, who sported a muscular body, was an iron ball connected to a chain.

“Ballchain Verne!”

The audience’s cheers became even louder, for he was a gladiator who could pride himself in being one of the most famous fighters in Ba Roux. The man was about in his mid-thirties with dark skin, and he responded by waving a hand to the ladies and gentlemen in the audience. Then,

“It’s the Tiger!”

“Look, Iron Tiger Orba!”

A swordsman, also alone, walked out, but from the western gate.

”How eccentric,” the young man commented on the steel blue mask that was covering gladiator’s face. As if imitating a tiger, small fangs protruded up from the lips, leaving only a small s.p.a.ce for the mouth of this man named Orba underneath. Cut out into two splits were openings where the tiger’s eyes would’ve been, but naturally it was only Orba’s eyes peeking through. And, despite a tiger normally having rounded ears, the mask had pointed ends at both sides instead – it was almost as if horns were coming out from the corners.

However, that was all; he had no other outstanding character features. In comparison with Verne, he had an almost feeble body build, and he only held a simple, common longsword in his hand.

The spectators started ridiculing him, saying,

“Look at his thin body. Just one hit of the ballchain will completely smash him up!”

“They say he took off Meier the Baron’s head at the Arena of Tidan after only two strikes. Let’s see him do the same to our Verne. Go on then!”

“This Iron Tiger Orba,” the girl said, as her cheeks blushed with excitement. “Isn’t this his first appearance in Ba Roux? But he seems to be famous. Do you know of him, brother?”

“How should I know?”

“My, what a cold reply. Fine, if you’re so bored with being here, why don’t we have a little bet on this game? Maybe it’ll end up getting you a little interested.”

“A wager, is it? For what, and how?”

“Simple. Of those two about to fight, who do you expect to win?”

“That’s stupid. How’s that even a bet? Even I know the name of that Verne guy. And his physique is way better. Even an amateur can see that. You're just trying to rip me off, betting on the clear victor yourself, aren't you?”

“My, you’re a difficult customer! But that’s fine. You can just sulk away like that as long as you like. And I even thought of bringing you along so you could have a little distraction. But I got it, I understand – you hate spending time with Ineli. If that’s the case, I will never invite you again, don’t worry!”

The girl stiffly turned away her face, as the young man panickingly stopped resting his chin on his hands.

“W-Wait. I was wrong,” he said. “I’ll bet on that masked swordsman. That’s what you want, right?”

“No. Ineli decided to bet on that swordsman first. You can take Ballchain Verne, brother.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because I like him.”

Even though you can't see his face? – was what the young man was about to say, but he stopped himself in time. He couldn’t afford to displease her even more.

“Now then,” the orator said, raising his voice again. “Will Orba or will Verne take up the role of the hero and set that woman free? Or will these rivals be fighting in vain, as the cage breaks and this poor, beautiful lady ends up in the dragon’s stomach?”

From there on, the two swordsmen would battle, and the winner would rescue the woman – or, as the orator stated, ‘a certain princess from a ruined country’ – from the dragon’s clutches, and also earn a night of love-making. Or so the scene was set out to be.

The two men both stepped forward at the same time. As they approached each other, the lack in Orba’s physique became all the more apparent. Verne spoke in a voice that could be heard by those in the front row seats.

“So, you call yourself a tiger, huh? I’ve heard your name. But, there’s nothing more unreliable than a rumour. You can try to hide your face, but I can see the skin underneath. You’re still young, just a kid.”

Ballchain Verne’s thick lips, in proportion to the rest of him, bent into a smile.

“I’m sure the mask is just a bluff so people won’t make fun of you. You’re not a tiger, you’re just a mangy cur! I’ll teach you what a real man’s battle truly is all about!”

Facing Verne, who was loudly laughing at his shoulders, Orba didn’t reply. Probably a.s.suming his nerves were blown away, Verne gave a sneering look, took up a defensive stance, and slung the ballchain over his shoulder.

“Start!”

There was a pointed signalling voice, but it halfway disappeared into the further increasing sound of the audience’s cheers. In an instant, Verne made his move.

He wielded the iron ballchain with all his strength. At first, the masked swordsman was about to rush in, but, as if panicked by his sheer force, he quickly stepped back. There was a small spark as the iron ball chafed against the mask. It was enough for Verne to take pursuit of the stumbling Orba. The huge iron ball, which was much larger than a human head, approached with the howling of the wind, and Orba continued to avoid it by stepping back.

He rolled over the ground, excessively jumped aside, and finally bustled about by making an evasive gesture – which invited laughter from the spectators.

“Look at that, it seems the swordsman you like can’t get out of a tight spot,” the same young man said. “Or could it be that this fight isn't so fair and square?”

“You think?” the girl said, looking straight ahead as she put a finger to her plump and florid lips. “If that’s so, then why hasn’t the match ended yet?”

“That’s because his opponent keeps pitifully running from place to place.”

“I wonder why Verne can’t corner an opponent who so clumsily keeps running away.”

The young man wanted to say something in return but kept his mouth shut. As he watched, he noticed that Orba wasn’t outright retreating, but kept circling around his opponent while maintaining a fixed distance. And it looked like Verne was no longer able to attack and pursue his opponent so hastily either.

Probably because he lost his temper, Verne put all of his strength into tossing another blow. The iron ball flew past Orba’s shoulder and – although it seemed obvious to the bystanders that this was like a golden opportunity – he only returned a slight thrust with his sword, while once again taking his distance.

“Get serious!”

“Stop messing around!”

The audience stopped laughing and started jeering down at the arena. Not only at Orba, but also at Verne who didn’t seem able to take down his constantly fleeing opponent.

“You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” Verne howled.

When he tried to rush at Orba diagonally, the girl suddenly raised her voice, “Ah!”, in surprise.

Orba, who had until now only retreated backwards, suddenly started to pitch forward. Stopping in his tracks, Verne, too, took the opportunity to strike another blow.

Orba tilted his body wide to the right, avoiding the iron ball and, as he rotated on his left toe, flashed his sword in a diagonal uppercut. The moment the chain got cut apart, a strange, clear sound echoed throughout the arena, then Orba twisted his body again and swung his sword downward with the force of a thunderbolt.

Verne’s cranium was split in two and the giant collapsed soon after.

“M-Magnificent!” the orator cried.

However, because it had happened so swiftly and came with such an unexpected conclusion, the audience was looking rather flabbergasted. Although the awkward silence wrapped around the arena, the victor didn’t seem to care either way and headed up to the stake, and, borrowing the hands of a number of slaves to lift it from the ground, used his sword to cut the ropes that kept the woman bound.

With a shout of delight, she joyfully clung onto his neck, only to be pushed away with a confused look on her face as...o...b.. immediately started to return to his gate.

The girl in the special seat – she had also been staring agape at the sudden fall of the curtain – slowly began to form her lips into a smile. That gladiator named Orba didn’t seem aware of the audience at all. As if stating the only reason he was here today was to fight, and to kill as he was told.

“He… took out Verne.”

“With one blow.”

After that moment of silence, voices praising Orba began to raise little by little. Now that the mood had grown uneasy for the visitors, slowly the clapping of hands, the awkward stamping of feet, and cheers appropriate for a victor started to fill the stands. Then, almost at the instant the arena had returned to the state it was supposed to be in, the air shook heavily.

It was the roar of the Sozos Dragon.

It might have been the drug wearing off, or an instinctive reaction to the smell of blood, but all of a sudden it started swaying its enormous body from right to left, shattering a portion of its cage. One of the slaves who’d been in the process of towing everything away, was caught and raised from the head by the dragon’s claw. Before he could resist, his torso disappeared into the Sozos’s mouth.

There was the sound of breaking bones. And at the same time as the awful sound of salivated chewing could be heard, the arena grounds were suddenly filled with screams. In the midst of all the fear and panic that rapidly swept over the area, the Sozos rather calmly stretched out its limbs further and emerged from the broken cage.

Being pulled along into the crowd that strived to be the first to escape, the young man from earlier almost fell to the floor. But then, he was pulled along by a hand from the side.

“This way. Hurry!”

It was one of the soldiers who’d been guarding the special seats. As he rattled around with a sword and gun, he tried to bring the young man back inside.

“W-Wait. Ineli’s…”

Although he tried to resist, he couldn’t move freely as he kept being jostled by the crowd of people trying to escape. Then, he heard a suspiciously familiar, high-pitched scream. Right in front of the Sozos’s forepaws beyond the dividing wall, was a figure that belonged to no one other than Ineli. The girl had turned a pale colour as she had tumbled over from the gallery, and it looked like she was about to lose consciousness any minute.

The dragon’s long snout opened from top to bottom. As the rows of tusks, similar to sharp pointed swords, opened up, they formed long threads of slaver. The young man was about to involuntarily avert his eyes, when a thin streak of blood spouted from the Sozos’s neck. The gladiator arena’s employed guards had rushed in with guns. However, because they were close to the seats, they could only shoot at point-blank range, and from the way they stood, they hardly had the nerve. While they were conflicted at what to do while it approached, the Sozos turned around quickly and hit them with a single blow of its tail, fully sending several people flying.

The girl had sank down to the floor, her eyes opened wide looking at her surroundings.

Then, from those eyes, she saw.

There was a shadow that ran past the Sozos’s flank like a gust of wind. Just before it came up against the brick wall that divided the seats from the ring, the shadow kicked against it and soared up into the air. A man with a tiger-imitating iron mask jumped into the girl’s sight, the figure of Orba the gladiator landing on top of the Sozos’s head.

Even though she had just witnessed him running up to the Sozos from behind while the dragon was distracted by bullets, she couldn’t suddenly believe it.

Despite Orba’s slim body, his joints and muscles seemed to fortify his arms like steel as he grabbed a firm hold of the dragon’s neck. While further sandwiching its neck between his legs, he held on tight with one arm and, with his other, brought his sword down into the head.

It swung its long tail around and rocked the ground by stamping its feet, but the dragon still struggled, not able to shake off the gladiator. It shook off a second strike. But the third tore through its scales, as tough as iron armour, and pieces of flesh and blood got splattered about. However, the sword broke when it came to the fourth strike, but at that time the other gladiators rushed in.

“Orba!”

Receiving a thrown sword from a brown-skinned swordsman, Orba once again raised it for a fifth attack, following the exact same process as earlier, until he fully caved the middle of the blade into the crown of the dragon’s head.

Its golden eyes goggled longingly at the skies. Just before its huge body sunk from the neck, the swordsman had swooped down next to the guest seats.

The girl, still kneeling on the floor, was looking up at him. It was almost as if he came from a tale, for she felt like a princess caught by an evil wizard, and although she fixed her eyes on him with a throbbing heart, of all things, the would-be-hero gladiator continued his walk, completely ignoring her, and nimbly jumped off the dividing wall and back into the ring.

There was still a cloud of chaotic fear hanging over the arena as he showed her his back and took his leave, but rather than drifting the air of a victor, he looked more like a solitary figure that could hardly endure the stares on him.

“A-Are you okay?”

She turned her eyes to the young man she had brought with her, who came running up to her with bated breath, and suddenly got an odd sensation. She had only seen it with a pa.s.sing glance earlier, but the eyes underneath that swordsman’s mask seemed to closely resemble those of the young man.

And there was yet another man who focused a long look at Orba’s back, surprised for another reason.

“No way, he is alive.”

He wiped the sweat from his slightly slacking chin with the back of his hand. Standing behind the young man’s back - he was also one of the men who’d been at the special seats - he was speaking to himself in wonder as the unique smell of blood drifted about.

“Orba was his name? Two years... Two entire years, huh.”

Part 2

“Two years.”

The gladiator, Orba, staring up at the darkness surrounding him, suddenly murmured those words in his mouth. Although only ‘two years’ into this line of work, it had been full of hards.h.i.+ps, blood, and corpses. How many times had he struggled for his life, only to have both his feet chained at the end, spend the night in the slave pens, where his only pastime was to train all morning in order to keep living as a sword-slave? And then there would be another fight.

No one, except Orba himself, expected him to be able to live through more than five battles. Two years ago, when Orba first set foot in the arena, he’d still been fourteen years old. His body had been even thinner than it was now, and he’d hardly been able to handle the weapons.

However, at the moment of truth, he’d survived. He brandished the weapon held in his hands, chosen from one of the few weapons he was able to wield, to the limits of his power. He only knew how to fight by recklessly charging in. As he gained experience, his skill, the thickness of each of his muscle fibres, the mastery of new weapons, as well as the opponent’s corpses he stepped over, increased every time he emerged from another fight.

And so, two years pa.s.sed. Orba didn’t know whether that was a long or a short time. Sometimes, he thought he was a considerably old person, but he also felt like a youngster at times who still didn’t know anything at all about battles.

Anyway, maybe it simply had to do with the fact, that he had not been blessed with the opportunity to see his own face. Lying face up, he was still wearing the same iron mask he wore in the battle ring. Because it had never been removed those two years, the other sword-slaves belonging to the same Tarkas Gladiatorial Group had no way of knowing his true face.

“Get up, slaves! You hate wakin’ up? Then get ready for your worst day yet!”

When morning came, another day for the slaves began. The one in charge of training the sword-slaves, and the slaves’ main supervisor, was Gowen, who drove everyone from their bedrooms and made them start cleaning the accommodations.

When that was finished, taking care of the lions, serpents, boars, tigers and the like – the animals that were used in the arena – was waiting. In particular, taking care of the dragons was hard work. Even taking care of the small- and medium-sized dragons was too much for a single person to handle, but taking care of the large-sized Sozos dragons was far worse. While it was expected for slaves to die by the sword, many had also been crushed underfoot by these dragons that were purposefully trained not to grow accustomed to humans.

Orba set foot in the vast dragon’s abode, which was much larger than the slaves’ dwellings – far from it – and resembled a castle courtyard, but he stopped in his tracks when he noticed the back of a woman.

She was Hou Ran. Of all the other slaves ordered to feed the dragons, she was the only one who directly touched the dragons’ scales. Of course, the dragons’ legs and necks were wrapped in chains, as it was not necessary to carry out yesterday’s example, but that was by no means an absolute guarantee. At a distance that would even cause a gladiator to hesitate, greeting each dragon one by one, she gently touched their scales with her fingers.

“Orba.”

Calling out his name, she quickly turned around.

“So I’ve been found out.”

“I’ve been told by the ‘voice’ of the dragons.”

Ran smiled. She seemed truly unsuitable in an all-men, not to mention savage, sword-slave detention camp, and Orba still hadn’t gotten used to her defenceless smile.

Her skin like polished ebony, combined with hair that seemed to have turned pale, gave off a mysterious charm. Originating from the Dragon G.o.d wors.h.i.+pping nomads that roamed in the western mountains of Mephius, unlike her primarily reclusive kin, Ran had exceptionally been br.i.m.m.i.n.g with curiosity, secretly boarded one of her tribe’s caravan wagons and came over to the outside world. Because she never told him exactly what had happened after that, he did not know when Tarkas hired her, and how she could take care of the dragons single-handedly like this.

“Do these guys know my name?”

“Their ‘voices’ come like images into my head. They all know your face, Orba. You’re liked by the dragons.”

While it appeared idiotic, in fact, it seemed like her pupils, clearly giving the impression of being deep under the sea, held some kind of intelligence lost to civilized men. From the other side of the fence, the small-type dragons were poking out their snouts and snapping at him.

“It doesn’t look that way,” Orba said with a thin smile.

At the time Orba turned up two years ago, Hou Ran was already at the detention camp. Back then, although she didn’t make direct eye contact with the others employed by Tarkas, she didn’t even open her mouth to him. Whether they would see Orba’s face or hear Ran’s voice first, soon became the target of bets among the sword slaves short of entertainment.

But, one time, Ran was about to be roughed up by several new sword-slaves who’d recently come into the camp. Orba just happened to pa.s.s by and had beaten them up, and ever since then Ran had at least been able to speak to him a bit.

“I heard you were attacked by a Sozos at Ba Roux.”

“I was the one who attacked the Sozos,” he emphasized. “It suddenly started getting violent.”

“Even with drugs, it’s useless to imprison its heart by force. If I had been the one supervising it, such a thing would have never happened.”

She bit her lips, but it was not because she was concerned about Orba or the visitors. With the figure of a girl patting the nape of a medium-sized Baian dragon in the corner of his eye, Orba finished his own work and left the dragon’s abode behind him.

After feeding the animals and cleaning was done, it was time to tend to their weapons. Because they left their own lives in their care, they carefully did them one by one. Whenever they handled weapons, about ten guards in full armour acted as supervisors. Naturally, they were there to make sure none of the sword-slaves tried to revolt.

Then, after finis.h.i.+ng a meal with a sorry amount of bread and soup – the survivors of yesterday’s gladiator matches were treated meat and fruit as a reward – they each began their training at the start of noon. Just like when they’d been tending the weapons, there were armed soldiers on the lookout, but this time, the chains that connected both feet were taken off.

Sword-slaves that lasted over two years like Orba were extremely rare. Lives were lost one after another, and new faces always appeared again on the next day. Gowen tirelessly taught them the step work of how to hold a sword or how to handle a gun, and trained them thoroughly until they were fully prepared.

Orba also had some of the newcomers as opponents. Sometimes they clashed swords, just like in an actual fight, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to part with a limb or lose his life in the midst of training..

Today, there weren’t any casualties. But that did not have to mean they were lucky. The next day may hold an even more miserable fate, and grislier deaths may be awaiting for these gladiators.

When all the faces of the sword-slaves had turned dark, their skin wet with sweat and covered in dust, Orba moved to the fence separating the training grounds from an aisle on the other side and caught sight of Tarkas’s figure.

Saying “At ease!” at the newcomer, Orba rushed up towards him.

Also noticing the masked man, Tarkas stopped in his tracks. There was a feeling of distrust slipping through his sagged cheeks.

“What is it, Iron Tiger? Ahh… good job yesterday.” He had a look on his face as if he just now remembered he forgot to feed his pet dog. “Verne was quickly becoming a well-known gladiator. The other gladiator troupe started talking about wanting to pit him against you. ‘Can’t we earn back all the money we invested in Verne that way?’ – don’t try that sarcastic bulls.h.i.+t on me. Well, I suppose I feel a bit grateful as well. And killing that Sozos—”

“Tarkas, how much longer do I have to continue winning?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s been two years already. I’ve kept winning all the time. How many times do I have to be the ‘main event’ like yesterday. Isn’t it about time you take these chains off of my feet?”

Sword-slaves, all of them, were each exchanged on a contract when bought by a merchant. Although Tarkas seemed to handle it quite vaguely.

“Don’t think I can’t read. Even a slave should have the right to look into my contract. I’ve been waiting here, Tarkas. I should’ve been allowed to leave a long time ago.”

As...o...b.. spoke right in front of him, Tarkas sharply put a squinting look in his eyes.

“So, where do you plan to go? Surely you can be released from my hands, but you’ll still be a criminal. You don’t have the money to pay off your remaining prison term. Or maybe you want to work in the Tsaga Mines along the western border? Poisonous gases, wild man-eating beasts, human-hunting Geblin tribes, and – of course – extremely miserable and rigorous labour. If it’s the same h.e.l.l, or if you think you may have it better off here, hurry up and get back to your training. And don’t ever speak to me like an equal, until you’ve become a full-fledged swordsman that earns his pay.”