Chapter 4
I was about to make a big decision, but stopped.
No, seriously.
Because there was no way out of here anyway, and I'd realized the one who'd taken an interest in me was Renoa.
I knew all too well how reasonable the conclusion of “let's just die comfortably” was.
But I didn't. In any case, the immediate danger was gone.
All I had to do was get through this for now.
Wouldn't she just leave after the match was over?
Sponsorship? A sponsor?
That only applies to gladiators, not me. There's no way she'd pay attention to a slave like me.
They'd be the ones taking all the hits.
Whoever it is, they're fucking pitiful.
Not knowing what kind of person Renoa is, I offer my condolences in advance to the future sacrificial lamb who'll be fawning for her sponsorship.
Poor bastard.
Thanks to that, I'm alive.
"Hey, slaves! You're up next! Get ready!"
One by one, the earlier matches ended, and before I knew it, my turn was right around the corner.
The other three slaves and I put on our gear.
A tattered leather breastplate, soaked with a nose-stinging reek of sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
It only covers the vital spots. If you trust this thing and throw your body into a fight, you'll take the express lane to the afterlife. Still, it was better than nothing.
Next came the turn to choose a weapon.
The weapon rack held nothing but scrap metal in terrible condition: rusty longswords, toothless axes, bent spears, and the like.
Anyone would think this was a junkyard. I even doubted they'd function properly as weapons.
They probably figured there was no need to provide proper gear to a slave who'd be dead soon enough.
Still, we couldn't go out bare-handed, so each slave picked one weapon.
Instead of a weapon, I grabbed the pickaxe lying haphazardly in the corner.
The guard snorted at that.
"You're taking that out again? You're probably the only bastard in the world who brings a pickaxe into the arena."
I know.
But this is my best shot.
For someone like me, who doesn't know swordsmanship, a pickaxe I'd swung thousands of times felt far more natural than trying to awkwardly wield a sword.
I even have mining proficiency.
It's not actually mining, but it still helps me swing a pickaxe.
I slung the pickaxe over my shoulder.
"I'm ready."
"So cocky. Well, do your best. Bardik's eyes nearly rolled back after what happened earlier. It'll be tougher than usual."
"Since when was it ever easy?"
I had never once thought it was easy.
I always hovered on the brink of life and death, and every time I struggled with everything I had.
And every time, I survived.
That would be the case today too.
"All right, everyone! This match is just a little breather before the main event! Think of it as a light appetizer to whet your appetite before the main course, shall we? Hahaha!"
"Wahahahahaha!"
"Yeah! Kill 'em quick and get it over with!"
"Spray some blood around and make the booze taste better!"
The atmosphere in the stands was relaxed. Some people were gulping down beer, while others snickered and chatted with the person next to them.
It was worlds apart from us, who would be fighting soon.
"Today's sacrifice! Come on out!"
-Creeeeak.
Rusty chains screamed as the massive iron gate was lifted.
Through the gap poured the yellow glow of the mana lamps that lit the underground arena.
And then.
"Waaah!"
A wave of cheers burst forth as if it would tear my eardrums apart.
It was a heat you wouldn't expect from an underground arena.
I couldn't let it get to me. I took a deep breath and stepped forward as if kicking away the darkness.
"Boooooo!"
"That guy again!"
The instant I appeared, the cheers turned to jeers as if nothing had happened.
"Ugh..."
"I-I don't want to. I can't fight."
Insults and jeers thundered through the air. The three unfamiliar newcomers flinched.
There were the occasional skilled gladiator slaves, but most of them had never fought a day in their lives.
They were nothing but disposable slaves, used to excite the crowd and then thrown away.
I've seen more than a dozen slaves die that way.
That's what a slave is.
No human rights, just a fate of being used and discarded without a second thought for the master's sake.
If it were up to me, I'd like to encourage them and rally together. That would raise my survival odds too.
But unfortunately.
I'm not exactly in a good position myself.
My gaze naturally drifted upward.
3rd-floor VIP seats.
At the center of the lavish terrace sat Renoa, a black-haired beauty propping up her chin and looking down with bored eyes.
Bardik was trying hard to keep her entertained, but her expression remained ice-cold.
If it's boring, why doesn't she just go home? Why is she forcing herself to sit there like that? I'm stressed out to death because of her.
If I could, I'd love to throw the match and tell her to go to hell, but I can't.
======
『Master's Order』
Bardik desperately needs ties with high-ranking nobility. Please satisfy your master by making Renoa Edelheid take an interest in gladiatorial combat.
Reward: Choose one random A-rank skill
======
Because a quest popped up.
And an A-rank reward, no less.
It was the first proper order I'd received since becoming a gladiator slave. Up until then, it had always just been "die."
It was an order Bardik gave to the gladiators, but since it applied to me too, it seemed anyone would do as long as they could catch Renoa's interest.
They're that desperate, I guess.
Either way, it was a precious chance that had come my way.
Who knew when an opportunity like this would come again? I had to seize it while I could.
If I could get a meaningful reward, it would be a huge help in my future life as a gladiator slave.
The problem was that my target was Renoa herself....
Would that woman really take interest just because I won?
She's the kind of woman who treats everyone except herself like mere puppets. There's no way she'd spare a glance for a slave's little performance.
If she were the kind of person to show interest just because someone won a match, she'd have watched the earlier gladiator bouts and sponsored them.
No, let's drop these pointless thoughts.
I shook my head to clear away the distractions.
This wasn't important right now. If I lost, I'd die. I'd do the best I could.
Survival comes first.
"And who is the opponent that will mercilessly crush those slaves?!"
The commentator's voice rose in excitement. As if someone had poured oil on the flames, the stands buzzed.
A gladiator's opponents here come in three forms.
One is another gladiator.
One is a beast.
One is a monster.
If you ask which is easier to fight, there really isn't one. They're all hard.
If I had to choose, I'd rather it not be a person. I didn't want to kill people anymore.
A beast, or even a monster like those goblins from last time, would be better.
Whatever it is, I just hoped they'd bring out something I could beat.
-Hissssss!
White mist billowed out from the iron cage on the far side. It was a dramatic entrance meant to stir up the crowd's excitement.
A silhouette appeared in the mist.
Two legs. Two arms.
A human-like silhouette.
-Clang.
Once the iron door fully opened, the thing walked out, parting the mist.
Skin yellow as ochre.
A thick, muscular body.
It was the perfect body for a gladiator, but the problem was its head.
It was the head of a bull, not a person.
"And the opponent is none other than—the Minotaur!"
I said I hoped it wouldn't be a person, and sure enough, it wasn't.
I said a beast or an animal would be nice, and they brought out one with nothing but an animal's head.
How on earth did they manage to bring out exactly the opponent I wanted?
Like hell it was.
It was twice my height and packed solid with muscle. Every time it exhaled, hot breath burst from its nostrils like a steam locomotive.
How am I supposed to beat that?
"Will the slaves be able to survive even against the Minotaur?! The match begins right now!"
-Ding—!
But unfortunately.
A bell rang out like a death sentence, showing not the slightest concern for the slaves' circumstances.
***
The match began.
A fight between four gladiator slaves, myself included, and the Minotaur.
We faced it with our weapons in hand.
Small bodies, meager equipment.
The slaves, who had never even fought before, trembled like aspen leaves even with the enemy right in front of them.
They looked almost pitiful.
"Hey! Quit pissing yourself!"
"Hahahahaha!"
But there was no one here who pitied them. If anything, they used the frightened slaves as bar snacks while they drank.
What should I do?
I couldn't just stand still.
I had to work with them somehow and break out of this situation...
"Hraaaaah!"
Then one of the men, unable to withstand the pressure of the situation, suppressed his fear with a shout and lunged forward.
"Wait...!"
There wasn't even time to stop him.
The man charged forward with a rusty longsword and thrust at the Minotaur's abdomen.
-Ting!
A light, absurdly light metallic clang rang out—so light it was almost despairing. The blade didn't sink in; it bounced off instead.
"Huh...?"
The man's face turned ghostly white. That was the last expression he'd ever make.
-Thud!
The Minotaur's massive arm swung lightly. With a dull impact, the man's body folded in half.
The blood-soaked man flew like a rag and slammed into the wall, where he went still.
Just three seconds.
That was how long it took for one life to go out.
"Ah... ahhh..."
The other two slaves screamed and staggered backward.
Their will to fight had already evaporated. They threw down their weapons and started to run.
But turning your back in front of a predator was no different from begging to be killed.
The excited Minotaur snorted and pounced on the backs of the fleeing slaves.
"Aaaagh!"
"P-please, save me...!"
Trampled, torn apart, crushed.
Utterly one-sided. A scene that was nothing short of a massacre.
It happened in an instant.
In less than a minute after the match began, every gladiator slave except me had been eliminated.
So brutally that it was hard to recognize their original shapes.
Before long, I was the only one left in the arena. The Minotaur glared at me, all alone.
..."I'm fucked."
Leon sure gets a lot of exercise.
He must be under a hell of a lot of stress.
He'll remember it before he dies.