With only a handful of goods remaining, it could hardly constitute an industry.
Over two centuries had passed since the war with the beastmen. Wild beastmen tribes grew increasingly scarce, and the beastmen slave trade gradually evolved from "hunting" to a hybrid of "hunting and breeding." Slave traders breed sought-after varieties for wealthy patrons, raising them to market age before shipping them like products down an assembly line to noble estates. These captive creatures spend their brief lives confined within ornate cages, never knowing the tribes or forests beyond.
What haunted the first generation of beastmen slaves as an obsession became nothing more than a hazy mirage to the second and third generations of hybrids. Freedom was an unknown world beyond the window. How could those who had never witnessed the beauty of a garden be willing to risk everything, leaping out of the pitch-black opening?
"I will make them see," Marion declared.
Tasha saw the werewolf girl's resolve in those emerald eyes. She knew Marion would do it, willing to stake her entire life on it, even to the grave. So sincere, yet so naive—as if merely letting her kin glimpse the outside world would solve every problem.
Would seeing the sky beyond the cage truly change everything?
Tasha wasn't optimistic.
Among the many half-breed beasts, some still carried the forest dream in their veins. Like the druid exiled for a century, like the dragon rider who abandoned his noble status to seek dragons for decades—many instincts could not be erased. They would gradually fall in love with the free skies and earth, or fall head over heels at the first sight of the forest, embracing freedom like a prodigal son returning home. Yet others shun it like poisonous snakes. They may fear freedom itself, dread their kin who fled beyond the cage, even harbor hatred toward them.
Time alters much—half a century can change a great deal, let alone two centuries of chaos and exile. Colonies returning cast wary glances at their motherlands; nations reclaiming independence after centuries still harbor lingering attachments to their former overlords for centuries afterward. New residents in occupied territories see themselves as former enemies, even when rulers treat them as second-class citizens. Such examples abound, too numerous to count.
Can we blame them? The stag-horned butler was drilled from childhood in the etiquette of servitude; in his mind, his master's wealth was simply the natural order of things. The fox-tailed maid knew nothing of her ancestors' past, a rootless driftwood adrift with the currents. Her world was as small as a single house, everything beyond it terrifying. The cat-eared pet girl believed she had escaped suffering. How fortunate she was to rise above, enjoying her master's affection and the privilege of commanding her own kind? This position was hard-won, and she had no intention of letting it go.
Did they know their own fates? They might not have witnessed the end of their kind who grew old (or never had the chance to grow old) within these grand halls, but they surely saw the contemptuous way humans treated them. They surely knew that no elderly members of their kind were ever seen here. Yet they rejected escape, choosing instead to deceive themselves. They turned a blind eye and deaf ear to all ominous signs, pretending their lives would remain as splendid and dazzling as the candles lit each night, the music played, and the feasts held—forever.
Why? Marion asked Tashu in confusion.
Because they've never seen freedom, Tashu replied.
That answer was only half the truth.
The colder, crueler truth was this: kneeling before the powerful to beg for shelter was far easier than rising to fight. Maintaining the status quo, though painful, required no leap of courage, no risk of shattering one's bones. In this world, there were heroes and villains, but far more were ordinary souls, lost and helpless. Perhaps as long as humans remained the rulers of Erian, there would always be those among the other races who genuinely wished to be servants.
When Marion truly realized this, she would surely be disappointed. She might feel disappointment, she might feel pain, but she would never fall. For Tash stood between her and this cruel world, like parents standing behind a child learning to walk.
If you cherish a young eagle, you must teach it to fly. While the simple, joyful Marion is undeniably endearing, confining her to being merely a pet or a obedient enforcer would be a profound waste. Tasha sent the werewolf girl out into the world; as Marion observed everything beyond their walls, Tasha observed her.
Marion's emotions—her joys, sorrows, anger, and happiness—were pure and unfiltered; she simply couldn't learn to play games or pretend. Her emotions were rich and sincere, her soul like a hard yet fragile gem—brave, resilient, and possessing a unique charisma. Rather than forcing herself to adapt to the rigid constraints of city life, suppressing her fiery nature to deal with merchants, Marion clearly belonged elsewhere.
Beyond prostitution and pet status, there was another path for beastmen slaves.
...
The iron gate swung open, welcoming new prisoners. As the group was escorted into the adjacent cell, Jacob lifted his head, scanning their faces with a faint sigh of relief.
Newly captured orcs were always easy to spot—their eyes held fresh anger or fear, some defiantly snarled at the guards, only to learn their lesson quickly. When the guards were in a bad mood, such defiance often resulted in fatal injuries—the guards weren't allowed to kill prisoners here, but they could gouge out an eye or break a bone or two, wounds that proved deadly in the gladiatorial arena the next day. Others feigned calm, submitting to their fate while their eyes darted frantically, searching for weaknesses in the cell walls, still clinging to the hope of escape. The ones before him were classic "newcomers."
So tonight would feature a "newcomer show." These untrained beasts were the arena's main attraction for the evening, meaning Jacob would survive the day.
The scrawniest one, with a tuft of brightly colored hair and a defiant glint in his eyes, spat at the cell door as he was shoved inside. The hulking figure with bull horns stood silently, his eyes cautiously scanning the others. The young lad anxiously twisted the shackles on his wrists, clearly terrified. The middle-aged man coughed, sounding as if his lungs were damaged or diseased. Jacob guessed he wouldn't live to see tomorrow. When his gaze fell on the last man, Jacob froze.
He wasn't the only one staring in astonishment. The cell, nicknamed the "waiting room," was divided by iron bars, allowing unobstructed sightlines. All the veterans craned their necks. The fifth person was a petite woman.
Jacob pressed his forehead against the iron bars, peering into the shadowed space nearby. If his heritage granted him any advantage, it was the ability to see clearly in this dimness. He saw short white hair, a delicate face, and a pair of triangular ears standing upright on her head. The woman barely reached Jacob's chest. Young and beautiful, she seemed utterly out of place here.
Had those people come up with a new trick? The audience's tastes grew ever more demanding, craving greater thrills and more blood. Yet the boss couldn't afford to let every fight end in death—the beastmen gladiators couldn't withstand such attrition. Amidst the crowd's expectations, they'd introduced more brutal weapons, worse terrain, untrained rookie gladiators, and even some brought in just to fill the numbers—Jacob had seen ordinary humans with beast ears sewn on. So the boss suddenly deciding to throw in a screaming beauty to liven up the arena didn't seem impossible.
The white-haired girl lifted her head, locking eyes with Jacob across the distance, as if she could see him clearly even in this environment. Her gaze was as cold and fierce as a beast's, instantly dispelling his earlier thoughts.
She was definitely not a woman who would cry and whimper. Her eyes, gleaming in the darkness... reminded Jacob of memories so distant they were nearly forgotten. Even if torn apart in the arena, her reaction would likely offer little entertainment to the spectators. Had she angered her master, leading to her being sent here?
The icy stare felt more like a conditioned reflex, softening within a second. As the guard stepped out and slammed the heavy iron door shut, the white-haired girl immediately approached her cellmate. "I'm Marion. What's your name?"
"Terence," the bull-horned giant answered first. Soon, others joined in.
They chatted, exchanging names and telling each other where they came from. Most newly enslaved souls, fresh to their fate, were too busy cursing. A few, like these, sought warmth in this cold human cage, pouring their hearts out to kinfolk as if that alone could grant belonging. Their illusion wouldn't last long before reality shattered it, and the aftermath was rarely pretty.
But for now, they were quickly getting acquainted. Their expressions grew animated as they talked, their unease tossed into unseen corners. The woman named Marion seemed utterly oblivious to her predicament. She was surprisingly spirited, radiating an energy unlike the others, making it hard for those nearby to look away. "It'll be fine!" she declared with conviction, making this simple reassurance sound genuine.
The scene floated feather-light in Jacob's mind, stirring a few grains of memory dust. He recalled people from his past, remembered who he once was, but the recollections were too faint to stir any real emotion. The fearlessness of the young wasn't such a remarkable virtue. Such people came and went quickly—either they couldn't survive or they changed. It was hard to say which was luckier.
"Hello?"
Jacob's thoughts drifted, suspended mid-air. The voice repeated several times before he realized it was directed at him. Marion gripped the iron bars, asking his name. The others who had entered with resentment and wariness now turned their gaze toward him too, as if this were some social gathering. They seemed to have successfully hypnotized each other, but Jacob? He couldn't be bothered with this game.
"No need," he shook his head. "No need to remember the names of the dead."
"What do you mean?!" The skinny man roared, lunging at the bars. Terence grabbed his flailing fist—see, now Jacob knew the horned man's name, unwillingly. Hopefully he'd forget it soon, rather than recall it later while staring at a corpse.
"No one will die," Marion said. "We'll get out alive!"
She understood Jacob's meaning, yet uttered such naive words. Jacob's lips twisted into a humorless grimace as he gestured toward the far side of the cell.
Clang! At that moment, the bell tolled.
Lamps had been lit during their conversation, transforming the indoor arena into a brightly lit space. After seven tolls, the massive gates on the floor crashed open, and tonight's spectators poured in. The indoor arena resembled an inverted cone with its tip cut off. Soon, the grand stands—narrow at the top and wide below—would be filled with noble spectators seeking entertainment. The beast-slaves, however, were destined for the area beneath the stands. From here, they could see: one side of the cage adjoined the base of the cone, the very arena where all eyes would soon be fixed. Gladiators temporarily confined in the holding area could witness their comrades bleeding out on the floor before them, and glimpse the massive wooden cages housing wild beasts on the opposite side of the arena.
The waiting period ended.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed. "We have the privilege of presenting a new breed captured from the jungle! We all know the orc's bloodline stems from beasts. So when these wild hunters from the forest meet the hungry beasts themselves, which side will prevail?"
The massive wooden cage rolled into the arena. The black cloth covering it was torn away, revealing a colossal brown bear. Starved for who knows how long, the beast was enraged by the flames. It reared up on its hind legs, slamming its palm-sized paws against the thick bars, making the entire cage rattle and creak. The crowd erupted in excitement. The polite decorum of the arena's exterior shed, their applause and cheers drowning out the bear's roar.
The newcomers' cage opened on the opposite side. Guards wielding sharp weapons drove them out, mirroring the beast handlers urging the bear forward. Shackles were removed as the newcomers were herded toward the weapon racks within the arena. All weapons for beast fights were made of wood, designed to inflict numerous wounds upon the beasts until either the gladiator or the beast bled to death. Tension returned to the newcomers' faces, while those left in the waiting room stared numbly at the arena.
Jacob chose to close his eyes, waiting for this bloody combat to end. He knew the names of two of them, had seen that look in their eyes, and felt a faint, thin thread of pity stir within him. What was the point? The surviving beasts would be sent to gladiator training schools, only to return to the arena once they became full-fledged gladiators. Marion had spoken foolishly, or rather, sarcastically. They would never leave this place alive, and every single one of them would die—if not in this fight, then in the next.
The arena fell suddenly silent. A second later, cheers erupted, piercing the sky with shrill whistles that threatened to tear the arena's roof apart.
Had someone died? It seemed far too quick, and the death-hardened crowd was far too enthusiastic. Jacob hesitated, then opened his eyes.
All five men stood unharmed on the arena floor. It was the bear that had fallen.
"What a beautiful strike!" the announcer bellowed hoarsely. "The new Orcess brought down the beast with a single blow!"
Marion stood beside the giant bear's corpse, pulling the wooden spear from its eye. She quickly turned her head and said something to the person beside her.
Her face lit up with excitement, and she wasn't talking about the bear or offering empty encouragement. Her mouth was directly facing Jacob's side, and he could read her lips.
"Look at the stands!" she said. "That man is holding the sponsor's flag. Their whistles bear the same logo. They come from the southeast. Our own people made them..."
The words that had drifted into his ears during his reverie slowly flowed back. Jacob recalled what she had said in the cell, how she had spoken with conviction of a beautiful land of safety and freedom. Marion had said the southeast corner held lands ruled by other races, where humans and other races lived in peace, dragons flew in the sky, and dwarves and beasts could walk in the sunlight. She said that anyone willing to live honestly could find peace and plenty there. She said... everything she said sounded like a daydream, utter nonsense.
She talked too much, weaving tales so beautiful that even Jacob, who hadn't wanted to listen, heard so much. Only now, as this information surged back violently, did he realize how much he had actually remembered.
"Trust me!" Marion said. "Just..."
Jacob saw the spark of hope light up the faces of those half-breeds who'd just suffered. Those with beastkin blood, raised among beastkin tribes, instinctively trusted powerful warriors. These fools—did being able to fight make them trustworthy? Jacob nearly boiled with rage—at the hope on their faces, at the stirring within his own heart. The numb, survival-driven gladiators lived longest here. Any unrealistic incitement only made the days ahead more unbearable. How could one endure hopelessness day after day while clinging to hope?
"Ladies and gentlemen! Is tonight's entertainment to end here?" the announcer drawled.
"No!!" the crowd roared.
"No!" the announcer bellowed. "Beasts defeated by beasts—but how do they fare against their own kind? Who will have the last laugh—the battle-hardened gladiator or the untamed beast? Let's start with the bear-slayer!"
Another cell door swung open.
The beast show wasn't over; the blood spilled by beasts was merely an appetizer. Beast-on-beast combat remained the arena's staple event. Trained beast gladiators would defeat newcomers, kill those crippled in previous matches, and leave permanent scars on the survivors—just as they themselves had endured. Humans needed them to teach new gladiators a vital lesson: here, beastmen were destined to slaughter their kin for survival, fighting to the death for human amusement.
"Her opponent is—Ted the Black Bear! Can the girl who speared a bear take down this humanoid black bear with a single thrust?"
The gladiator from the adjacent cage stepped forward—short but solidly built. Under everyone's gaze, he picked up a short sword and a heavy tower shield. The shield covered his head and lower legs, heavy as a wall. Ted had once used it to smash an opponent's skull. Someone began chanting his name. "I bet on you to win!" a voice from somewhere shouted. "Smash her skull!"
At the crowd's urging, Ted donned full armor, leaving only his head exposed. His shaved scalp bore a pair of abnormally large, black ears that looked grotesquely out of place next to normal human ears. Marion opened her mouth as if to speak, but Ted had already roared and charged forward, his shield larger than Marion's entire body.
Black Bear Ted was no older than Jacob, but this scarred veteran gladiator fought with far greater brutality, even deliberately crippling opponents to boost his future survival odds—a tactic the owner loathed, yet the crowd adored. If Marion couldn't strike, Ted would surely finish her.
Marion stood frozen. Jacob waited for the naive girl's demise.
In the split second before impact, she sprang upward, leaping over the shield's sweeping arc, and suddenly swung her spear downward. The girl who'd insisted no one would die drove the spear into Ted's nape, sending him crashing forward without a sound. His heavy body slammed into the guardrail, the shield denting it significantly.
Jacob exhaled, unsure whether he felt relief or disappointment. Marion had survived, but her naive notion hadn't... Wait—was the man on the ground breathing?
Black Bear Ted lay unconscious, his eyes rolled back, yet his chest rose and fell. Marion had somehow reversed the position of her wooden spear. It wasn't the tip that struck Ted, but the shaft. Jacob expected her to hesitate, but she didn't. He expected her to deliver the killing blow, but she didn't.
The atmosphere in the stands grew even more frenzied. Only a few who'd lost their bets cursed Ted's name; the rest cheered loudly for the new star rising in tonight's arena. The announcer crowned Marion "Miss Miracle," shouting, "A dark horse!" as if on the verge of fainting from excitement. Jacob pressed his face against the railing again, his heart pounding, unsure what he was anticipating.
Marion's second opponent was also a veteran, clad in leather armor, wielding a net in one hand and a trident in the other. While the first two bears relied on brute strength, this one depended on agility. He darted around the arena, circling Marion until finally being struck down by a spear thrust. The orc girl's timing was impeccable, like the most skilled jungle hunter. The stands erupted. If gazes had weight, Marion would have been crushed into the ground. Jacob, however, kept staring at the fallen man, watching him breathe.
"Miracle!" the crowd shouted.
"Miracle?" Jacob murmured.
He shook his head as the cell door swung open.
"The final challenger!" the announcer bellowed hoarsely. "Our mountain lion, Jacob!"
His gear consisted of a small shield and a dagger. The crowd disliked seeing him in leather armor, so Jacob fought bare-chested, clad only in cloth shorts. As the grand finale opponent for the rookie show, they cheerfully dubbed him the Rookie Killer.
This is how things usually went: veteran gladiators took down the surviving rookies one by one, sending them off to the gladiator school or the morgue. Casualties were common in the arena. Typically, a seasoned fighter would battle through the newcomers sequentially. Rarely did a rookie win, let alone one who'd made it all the way to the final match like this. Marion stood like a shield between the other novices and the veteran gladiators, turning this brutal lesson into her solo performance. But that was as far as it went.
The crowd had witnessed a miracle; now they demanded blood.
Their fight erupted the moment Jacob entered the arena. Marion was a clever hunter, but Jacob was far more experienced. His childhood was spent in the woods, his youth honed in brutal gladiator schools, his young adulthood forged in the arena itself—surviving to this day. His movements were swift, fierce, precise, devoid of flourish. His dagger pierced Marion's side the instant they locked in close combat.
She rolled away with lightning speed, narrowly evading the follow-up thrust. Her blood dripped from the gleaming blade onto the snow, reflecting in the spectators' eyes and sending a ripple of shock through the crowd. Like sharks, leeches, or flies drawn to the scent of blood, the audience's eyes glowed crimson in the lamplight.
Marion evaded, but Jacob was already within striking distance—too close for the spear to be effective. He wasn't as young as he once was; his bursts of energy wouldn't last long, and his stamina was no match for the newcomer. Yet his speed matched Marion's, and his technique surpassed hers. The dagger flashed like a silver fish, darting up and down along the werewolf's body. Each close encounter tore a fresh crimson line. If Marion's reactions faltered, Jacob would widen and deepen the gash.
This must have been a terrible experience for the girl. At such close quarters, Jacob could see her baring fangs. He smelled the increasingly potent animal scent on her, the wolfish aggression stinging his hair to stand on end, making his throat itch. Jacob nearly roared back when Marion growled, an instinctive reaction beyond training.
The dagger severed the wooden spear.
The spectators in the stands gasped and screamed, but it all felt distant to Jacob. As the spear snapped, he realized he'd made a fatal mistake.
The spear wasn't Marion's weapon—it was merely the skin worn by the beast.
Marion let out a bone-chilling roar as she lunged toward the dagger. Her suddenly elongated claws struck the blade, clanging against the metal. The terrifying force wrenched the dagger from his grasp, leaving Jacob no time to react before her razor-sharp teeth pressed against his throat.
He sucked in a cold breath beneath the wolf's kiss, the reddish-brown fur on his ears standing on end. His entire body trembled uncontrollably, a mix of terror and excitement. Jacob was utterly immobilized, facing the apex predator of the food chain. His faint beast-blood warned him. In his hallucination, he saw the silhouette of a colossal beast—an incredibly beautiful yet terrifying white giant wolf.
In the vision, the white wolf closed its jaws.
But Marion released her grip. Panting, she scrambled to her feet as her teeth and claws reluctantly retracted. The rest of the world returned, the arena's roar pounding in Jacob's temples. Marion offered him her hand, but he didn't take it, nor did he attempt to rise. Jacob knew it was over.
"Kill him!"
"Kill him!"
Countless voices echoed the command.
Jacob had once been a sensation in the arena, but now, past thirty, he was beyond a gladiator's prime. Serving as the finale for a rookie show was his only chance to survive. If he couldn't finish Marion, humans would dispose of him like useless trash. Lying on the arena floor, he felt no particular regret. If one of them had to survive, Marion would be the better choice.
In that moment, he realized what had excited him earlier. In a fleeting illusion, he sensed something within him that hadn't been completely consumed. As the cleanup guards dragged him by the arm, he thought: Too bad the giant wolf didn't bite through his throat. That would have been a better way to die.
"State your demand, Miss Miracle!" the announcer declared, his voice thick with incitement. "As the sole gladiator to survive the rookie trials, what wish shall be granted? A vacation? Treasure? Or—a pardon?"
"A pardon!" Marion declared, pointing at Jacob. "Pardon him!"
A chorus of boos erupted. Marion repeated her demand through the jeers. "Are you certain? You could ask for anything—even your own pardon!" the host insisted. "You could retire from combat forever and become the arena's mascot!"
"I'm certain," Marion affirmed. Jacob watched her mouth silently: "What I want, you cannot give." Her expression bordered on a cold smile.
Jacob survived.
He didn't know how he'd survived. By any measure, he didn't deserve such a miracle. Miracle—everyone was murmuring that word tonight. All the gladiators in the waiting room stared at the arena, stared at Marion, as if watching lightning or a shooting star streak across the sky, light illuminating their dark eyes. The departing crowd buzzed excitedly about the unexpected newcomer, treating it as a curious spectacle. Jacob watched the recruits being led to the gladiator school, watched Marion's straight, tall figure, and felt something was about to change.
Perhaps he could believe it, he couldn't help but want to believe... that this peculiar werewolf girl wouldn't just be a fleeting presence.