Surabar didn’t spare Garland “Sir” out of forgiveness, but because rescuing Jasmine required his cooperation, a necessary step toward their goal.
Yet, no matter how tightly reason reins in emotions, it cannot fully contain the outbursts of the moment.
Even the sturdiest reason is merely a fence holding back feelings.
Honestly, I was astonished by the captain’s restraint after hearing Sir Morik’s tale. Surabar didn’t kill him.
Had the captain roared in rage or erupted like a volcano, I wouldn’t have hesitated to charge to Mosul, behead the self-proclaimed king, and slaughter every soldier following his orders.
I held back not for any other reason, but because the captain did.
“In the Kingdom of Bers, they hold gruesome gladiatorial matches weekly—a form of entertainment for the king and nobles,” Morik explained.
“What’s that?” the captain asked.
Morik met Surabar’s rage-filled gaze briefly before bowing his head, trembling with fear and shame. Afraid? Of what?
“I’ve heard they force beastmen—male slaves—into the colosseum to kill each other.”
Good gods…
Such horrors in a neighboring kingdom, reachable in a day on horseback?
Unbelievable. Yet the more unbelievable a story, the truer it often is.
Traveling with the captain, I’d heard countless tales—exaggerations and truths alike.
The more you wish a story false, the more likely it’s true.
This was likely one such case.
“Why tell me this?”
To me, Surabar’s words sounded like: “Give me a reason not to kill you right now.” A beastly growl froze the air.
“Jasmine… that’s the name of your beloved, right? If she’s been sent to the King of Bers, he’s likely noticed her pregnancy. It’s impossible not to. Beastwomen are in demand there, especially healthy ones of childbearing age.”
“Why?”
“Their god, Hokhma, is an evil deity. Before the human empire, the Black Lands were ruled by seven great families—high lords. They sacrificed the living to their dark god to maintain power…”
No further explanation was needed.
Jasmine was an “offering factory” for the King of Bers, a source of new sacrifices through her offspring. That’s why she was sent as a gift.
No one said it aloud, not even Morik, but everyone around the campfire understood.
If Jasmine gave birth, her child would likely be a noble’s or the king’s “toy,” used until discarded, then forced to breed with gladiators or slaves.
Though unspoken, we all knew this future awaited her.
“We have to save Jasmine,” Surabar said.
“…Enter the colosseum as Garland’s champion. I’ve heard the king grants the victor’s wish in his name.”
…!
Now I understood why Morik revealed Bers’ dark side.
He was offering a way to save Jasmine.
But for the captain to become the gladiator of Garland, who abducted Jasmine?
“…Ah!”
I leapt to my feet.
All eyes turned to me.
Morik suggested Surabar use his strength and mercenary experience to win in the colosseum and claim Jasmine as his reward.
But the world doesn’t always demand a straight path.
You can take detours, and to achieve a goal, you don’t need to rely on fair fights.
In short, all we needed was to rescue Jasmine from the King of Bers’ clutches.
“Sir Morik, dear brothers, look at this.”
I drew my sword, conjuring a blue aura.
Morik, the captain, Perdual, Tenok, and our rowdy mercenary friends gaped, eyes wide as lanterns.
“Ahem… I’ve kept this secret, but now’s not the time for that. Captain, as Morik says, become Garland’s champion and stall in the colosseum. I’ll find and rescue Jasmine. Wouldn’t that make things easier?”
…
Morik dropped his fire poker, staring at me slack-jawed. The vivid blue aura under the night sky looked like magic.
***
For the “what if,” Surabar, before meeting Garland, loitered outside the city, playing the foolish beastman. He took a few arrows and willingly let himself be caught in chains and nets.
To me, the act seemed awkward and absurd, but the soldiers and knights serving some new god were startled.
“Where’d this guy come from?”
“Call a mage! We need sleep magic!”
“Damn, he’s strong!”
As planned.
While the captain bought time, I scaled the city walls—nothing’s impossible for a swordmaster—and searched the inner castle for Garland.
Hmph! Swordmaster sense, activate!
Focusing in the shadows, I tuned into vibrations, scents, and sounds, roughly pinpointing who and what was where.
It’s a great skill, but exhausting, so I rarely use it.
Still, with my swordmaster sense, I scoured the castle and found Garland.
“Sir Morik? I understand the situation. I’ll help. It’s partly my fault…”
After explaining, Garland nodded more readily than expected, swearing to aid our plan in Elon’s name—though he no longer wore Elon’s symbol.
As Morik said, Garland became our ally. I shared my own secret with him.
“A swordmaster! Now your skill makes sense… Perhaps this is Elon’s will, giving me a chance to atone.”
Garland naturally devised a way for me to stay close.
I’d pose as his guardian knight.
An impromptu but brilliant idea.
Wearing a spare suit of armor and lowering the helm’s visor, no one paid me attention.
Acting knightly wasn’t hard.
Moving stiffly like a tin robot and clanking along, no one questioned my identity.
My behavior even seemed to inspire awe.
No one asked who I was, not even the King of Mosul or the witch posing as his queen—an amusing oversight.
Garland claimed the freshly captured Surabar as his personal slave.
No one objected.
Who would dare challenge the prince’s wishes?
The next day, preparations to depart for Bers were complete.
We saw familiar beastmen from the slums locked in cages.
Thick, light-absorbing black cloth hid their contents.
Among those in the prisoner wagons were people I knew—friends I’d chatted with, clinked mugs of cheap, horse-piss-tasting beer with before heading to the Tishinos River.
I wanted to draw my sword, shatter the cages, and slaughter the Mosul king and Bers’ so-called delegation of knights.
But I couldn’t.
If I could save them, I would.
But Jasmine came first.
Her safety, her rescue—the Black Tails’ beloved queen—took priority. Only after securing her could we save the others.
Until then, I had to ignore them…
“I wish you a safe journey.”
“…Farewell, Father, Mother.”
Even without the helm’s narrow visor, I could tell the witch’s spell on Garland was no ordinary magic.
The lead wagons and horses moved. We left Mosul.
***
The Kingdom of Bers was a day’s ride away, but only with minimal luggage and pushing the horses to collapse.
Moving as a large group with beastmen slaves (soon to be sacrifices), their escorts, and Bers’ sword-wielding knights made it impossible.
“How long to the kingdom?”
“At this pace, three days, Your Highness.”
“Anything we need to watch for? Tell me now.”
“Nothing, just don’t stray from the convoy. There’ve been reports of Demon King’s Army scouts nearby.”
“Understood. I’ll be cautious.”
Garland finished the conversation and returned to the dining area.
I served him a thick stew I’d prepared.
“Thank you, Pamir.”
Like my disguise as a guardian knight, I tweaked my name—Paramir, minus the “ra.”
No one guessed my true identity from “Pamir.”
Luckily, the delegation was busy.
Servants were occupied cooking porridge and stew for the “sacrifices” in the wagons, while the knights focused on guarding the surroundings, not us.
This kept attention off Surabar’s wagon.
Garland opposed feeding his gladiator just enough to avoid starvation.
A weakened slave wouldn’t perform in the colosseum, failing to glorify the Mosul king’s name—an impeccable excuse.
Bers’ knights didn’t suspect the dangerous gladiator or the scheme to reclaim something precious to their king.
“Your Highness.”
“Yes?”
After eating, I nodded toward Surabar’s wagon.
Garland sighed, rose, and I followed, carrying the entire stew pot into the wagon.
Grrrr…
A terrifying tiger’s growl echoed.
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