Chapter 131

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The magical moment sank into the depths of consciousness, passing without his even knowing it.

Yet it had surely left something deep within his heart, in that abyss. Or was it knocking on a door, calling to something beyond?

The world was full of mystery and wonder. And those things seemed to awaken something sublime and great that slumbered within humanity.

Yet most people turned away from such beauty and pursued only stimulation and pleasure.

Like turning their backs on fragrant flowers, cool breezes, and clear sunlight to bury their noses in a heap of shit in the grass.

True magic was not about twisting reality or conjuring falsehoods. It was about reaching toward something beyond human consciousness.

That much was certain.

"Cough! Cough! Gah! Ack!"

Ricard awoke where he lay, coughing up a little water. He rolled over and retched onto the ground, water mixed with saliva streaming from his mouth.

Breathless, he gasped for air, only to find his wrists shackled. What was this?

"And so, another journey into the real world."

A distinctive, deep voice came from beside him. He turned his head and saw the mage of the wilderness.

The man was no longer gagged, but his wrists were shackled just like Ricard's.

They were inside a cage. It was midday, and beyond the bars lay what looked like a city street.

People were walking about. Only now did Ricard hear the bustle. Some of those moving freely outside the cage were from the Empire, but most were Salaman.

Above all, the exotic smells in the air seemed to tell him that this was not the land of his birth, but somewhere unfamiliar.

"Your belongings are over there."

The mage pointed. Ricard's sword and the reliquary lay on a table beside the cage. The slave trader sitting in front of it was wearing his gold Viking bracelet.

Was that a silver lining, or did it make no difference in his current predicament? With no strength left in him, Ricard leaned back against the wall to rest. He slumped like a wet towel.

The mage watched him for a moment before speaking.

"Don't be too disheartened. The outside world is merely one great prison, after all. Being in a smaller one makes no difference to the fact that you are fundamentally imprisoned."

Sitting against the wall, Ricard caught his breath and chuckled.

"Do I look disheartened?"

"Hm? Well, if not, all the better. But tell me, don't I make you uneasy?"

"What's there to be uneasy about? Even if you really are a mage, you have arms and legs, eyes, a nose, and a mouth, just like anyone else."

"Hahaha. A wise answer to a foolish question."

The mage gave a light laugh as well.

"I'm Ricard. Just call me Riki. And you?"

"Hashmid Abhajid, Riki."

"Which is your family name and which is your given name?"

"The first is a sort of title, and the second is my name. I have no family name. I don't even know my father."

Salaman names commonly consisted of a nickname, the father's name, the person's own given name, and a son's name. Compared to that, the mage's was exceedingly simple.

In short, it was a name with no roots. But Ricard was a foreigner to begin with and paid little mind to such things.

He even took the liberty of turning the title into an affectionate nickname.

"Then may I just call you Hashim?"

"Hm? Would that be all right? I've never had an affectionate name. Or a nickname, for that matter. I've no friends."

"Then I'm your first friend, Hashim."

"Hmm... Not bad. I like that."

"By the way, Hashim, you seem to have put on some weight."

When Ricard had first seen him caged in Renova, he had been practically skin and bones. His cheeks were still sunken, but he certainly looked much better than he had then.

"I think I ate quite a few things in all the chaos, though I don't remember exactly."

"In the chaos? Ah... Hm?"

Had there been time to eat anything then? Ricard found that odd but accepted it anyway. He was a mage, after all. Had he caught and eaten rats? No, surely not.

As Ricard talked with Hashim, someone approached the cage. A prospective buyer, perhaps; he looked them over as though inspecting livestock.

The man wore fine clothes and a turban and gently waved a stick tipped with soft fur.

The slave trader hurried over to the customer, leaving his food. He pointed at Ricard.

"That one is healthy as can be, wouldn't you say? The blond hair, the well-proportioned features, the height and muscles—your typical Franken man. Very strong. Whatever use you put him to, I promise you will be satisfied."

By Franken, he meant people of the Empire. The designation 'people of the Empire' was relative, used by the barbarians living near it. To the Salaman people, who had a civilization of their own, they themselves were the people of the empire.

In other words, Ricard was a foreigner at best, and a barbarian at worst.

Ricard had never imagined being treated as a barbarian, and it felt strange. Not unpleasant, exactly—more of a novel shock. So things could look this way, too.

But never mind that: wasn't he about to be sold into slavery? The entire situation was utterly foreign to him.

"But from the look in his eyes, he hasn't been broken in yet."

"Er... Hahaha. Surely breaking him in is part of the pleasure?"

"Agreed. I used to appreciate that pleasure myself, but these days I can't be bothered."

The customer gave the place one quick look, then walked away, still gently waving his fur-tipped stick.

The slave trader watched him leave and muttered,

"New-money bastard. Ptoo."

Then he took his anger out on Ricard and Hashim for no reason, banging his club against the bars. It did them no physical harm, but it was distinctly unpleasant.

"Hey, you bastards! Having the time of your lives? What's all the chatter, huh?"

Ricard and Hashim simply looked at him calmly without a word. Neither showed the slightest fear.

"When a customer comes, at least try to please them, or stand up and show off your strength. The longer it takes to sell you, the more you'll suffer. Understand?"

After rambling on at length in this semblance of a lecture, the slave trader returned to his seat and began shoveling down something like porridge.

"Finding a good master is a blessing, I suppose," Hashim said.

Ricard burst out laughing.

"Not long ago, I sold a horse and wished it a good master. Now that I'm in the same position, I think I can understand how animals feel. Have you served a master before, Hashim?"

"I once taught a young noble girl. Not every slave works in a mine until they die or gets sold as a sex slave. I was treated quite well."

"So even among slaves, circumstances differ. But you said it yourself: there's little difference between here and the outside world. Both are prisons."

"And?"

"Whether you're treated well or poorly, you're still a slave. Isn't the sorrow of slavery that your fate is not your own?"

"Quite right. But are you a warrior or a scholar? From that flaming sword, you are certainly a Jihadra."

"A Jihadra?"

"Hmm... What do your people call it? Blade Master? Sword Master? But a more accurate term would be holy warrior."

Apparently, the Salaman people had something like Sword Masters as well. But something about that grated on Ricard.

"More accurate? You make it sound as though we're wrong."

"Hmm... As far as I know, ours came first. But that hardly matters. Long ago, Franken and Salaman people all belonged to one empire. That is where it came from."

"You mean the ancient empire?"

"Your people certainly give everything such dull names."

"Do your people have another name for it?"

"No, we simply call it the old empire, too. The empire is the empire. It has no name."

What the hell? To Ricard, Hashim seemed immensely wise, yet somehow rather scatterbrained, too.

Despite the slave trader's warning, they kept chatting without a care. They seemed oblivious to their own predicament.

There was a row of other cages beside Ricard's, and someone in the neighboring one spoke up.

"You two. Aren't you worried?"

Ricard turned away from his lengthy conversation with Hashim to look at him. The man was sturdily built. His hair wasn't blond, but he seemed to be Franken, like Ricard.

"Worried about what?"

"You're good-looking enough that you might get lucky and be sold as a sex slave. Otherwise, you could be whipped until the day you die. Doesn't that frighten you?"

Being sold as a sex slave was lucky? Ricard found that hard to accept, but everyone had their own way of thinking.

"Sorry, but I'm not a slave."

The man in the neighboring cage burst out laughing.

"Hahahaha! That's not for you to decide. You really haven't been broken in yet."

"Being broken in is hardly something to boast about, is it?"

"True, but it does spare you some pain. Giving up and accepting it early would be better for you."

"I doubt that will ever happen, but if I find a reason to, I'll at least consider it."

Seeing that Ricard apparently refused to accept reality to the bitter end, the man gave a derisive laugh.

"You're an amusing fellow. But the whip will change your mind in the end. Here, look."

As though showing off, the man turned around and pulled up his shirt. His back was covered in whip marks, horrible scars where the flesh had split open and healed.

Ricard and Hashim merely stared blankly at his back.

Just then, another customer came to see Ricard. This time it was a noblewoman.

Silk draped her head, and a soft silk veil covered her nose and mouth. Only her eyes showed against her brown skin, and the black makeup around them made her look utterly captivating.

The slave trader had been gnawing like a dog at a large bone with no meat left on it. Now he approached the noblewoman, bowing and scraping.

"As for this one..."

But before he could describe his merchandise, she raised a hand to stop him. She merely pointed at Ricard and beckoned.

Ricard ignored her. He remained seated against the wall, looking quietly at the noblewoman. The slave trader banged his club against the bars.

"What are you doing? Get up and come closer."

Ricard sighed softly, rose, and approached the noblewoman with his hands hanging down under the weight of the shackles.

Standing before her with the bars between them, he was a full head taller. His shoulders seemed more than twice as broad.

She addressed him herself.

"Is there anything you want?"

"Nothing. Not from you, at least."

"Best not to put on airs. It makes you less attractive."

"I've no need to look attractive to you. May I go back and sit down now?"

"Depending on how you perform, I might even grant you freedom."

"I'm already free."

At his answer, the noblewoman gave an incredulous little laugh and shook her head.

"I thought you were a wild stallion. You're merely a fool."

Ricard snorted at her instead. He activated his Mana Drive, tensed his arms, and tore the shackles apart by sheer strength.

CLANG!

At the sharp ring of the shackles breaking, the noblewoman, the slave trader, and even the people in the neighboring cages flinched. Only Hashim watched quietly.

Ricard seized the bars and bent them sideways like taffy. Then he stepped out of the cage and stood before the noblewoman. There was nothing between them anymore.

It felt as though a lion she had believed safely caged had sprung out to confront her. She trembled like a leaf.

Fortunately, the lion wasn't thirsty for blood just now.

"Do I still look like a fool to you?"

"..."

Whether from fear or something else, the noblewoman's eyes wavered wildly as she looked up at him. Ricard calmly walked barefoot to the table.

There, he used the slave trader's key to remove the cumbersome shackles and retrieved his sword. After stuffing the reliquary into his pack, he approached the slave trader and held out his hand.

"Hand it over. The bracelet."

With trembling hands, the slave trader struggled to pull off the gold bracelet. Ricard snatched it away and put it on his own wrist.

Then, as though nothing had happened, he spoke to Hashim.

"Let's go."

"I wonder if we should. It feels rather like stealing."

Slaves were a kind of merchandise, and Hashim apparently wasn't accustomed to simply walking away. Nevertheless, he came out of the cage, and Ricard unlocked his shackles.

Ricard tossed the keys to the man in the neighboring cage who had told him to face reality. They landed with a jingle.

"Decide for yourself whether you're a slave."

With that, he strode off barefoot.

The man stared blankly down at the keys, then raised his head to look at the slave trader. The trader wasn't threatening him or even scowling. He merely looked dumbfounded.

The man turned to watch Ricard walk away. Before long, he disappeared into the crowd.

He looked down at the keys again. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. What if he left? How would he live out there? He felt utterly lost.

So he picked up the keys and, without unlocking his shackles, slipped them out through the bars.

In the end, what made him a slave was neither the cage nor the shackles, but his own consciousness.