Marion had returned.
Her silver hair was cropped even shorter, her body marked with fresh scars, yet she was more robust than before. Her petite frame had shot up rapidly over the past two years. The gladiator school provided ample high-calorie food. The rigorous training and everything Marion did in secret hadn't worn her down; instead, she had flourished like a sword sharpened by grinding, a plant thriving in the storm.
She hadn't returned alone. Nearly two hundred beastmen gladiators, stirred by Marion, had taken up arms and charged toward an unknown future.
The gladiator school became Marion's rallying point for her kindred spirits, while the Ghosts stood watch over the secretly gathering rebels. Here, the fire still burned in some hearts, but without organization or leadership, it would either erupt in bloodshed or fade into silence. Thus, the ever-victorious Marion became a banner, a clarion call. She shouted aloud the reality everyone suppressed deep within: "Do you wish to turn blades against your own kind, become entertainment for others, and wait day by day for death? Or will you rise and fight?"
The cry was deafening.
Marion fought relentlessly, never defeated. She triumphed yet spared her opponents' lives. The arena owners found this amusing, periodically sending her into the pit, exploiting her stubbornness as a spectacle. They pitted her against beasts, against hordes of seasoned gladiators, stripped her of armor and even weapons, imposing ever harsher conditions. The spectators in the stands delighted in seeing her bloodied, graciously granting her requests to spare defeated opponents, eager to witness her eventual defeat and surrender. They admired her strength, mocked her persistence, never realizing these battles were mirrored in the eyes of other gladiators.
Veteran gladiators remained silent and cold—once they had fought until their bodies were scarred, but now they had given up, transformed from beasts into hounds, numbly attacking their own kind. Battle after battle had normalized death and slaughter for them, yet now someone shattered their despairing routine. In Marion, they saw strength, kinship, and hope—she seized every chance, tirelessly describing a safe, free paradise.
Her words were simple, even clumsy, repeating "Trust me" over and over. Could such a place truly exist? Could she be trusted? Yet her promised victories always arrived on time, her insisted mercy always fell upon the defeated, the trademark she described appeared in the stands, and indeed, merchants bought gladiators at high prices. So perhaps it was possible to believe, to hope.
People laughed and called her "Miracle Girl," while the gladiators referred to her as "Miracle," their voices carrying an unspoken reverence. Marion didn't just save their lives—that wasn't the most important thing; a gladiator's life was the least significant thing—what mattered was that she reignited their spirits from the ashes.
She reminded them they weren't born to be slaves.
The moment ripened that night when the beasts of the gladiator school rose in revolt. They stormed the arena, flames engulfing the bloodstained structure. Within the inferno, the earth split open, revealing a path to the southeast corner.
Marion stood before Tarsha, barely half a head shorter, looking every inch an adult. The wolf girl's eyes shone brightly, her face a canvas of countless unspoken words. So Tarsha stepped forward, draped the necklace—strung with wolf teeth and Angaroth lion fangs (something she couldn't wear while playing the role of a beastman slave)—around her neck, and embraced her.
"I'm proud of you," Tashar said.
Marion flashed a wide smile, her expression unchanged from before.
The arena owner suffered immense losses. Aside from a few loyal beastmen slaves, all his gladiators vanished during the uprising. Flames spread to adjacent buildings, and firefighters scrambled everywhere. Even after containing the blaze, the conflagration raged for two full days. When it finally ended, the arena was reduced to a hollow shell. Fortunately, casualties were concentrated among the initial guards, with few fire-related deaths—not exactly welcome news for many stakeholders who would have preferred finding two hundred bodies in the flames.
Only a few gladiator corpses remained; the rest vanished without a trace—even the beasts used in the animal fights disappeared. The inferno sent black smoke billowing skyward, throwing the firefighting efforts into chaos. Some guards claimed the fugitives had blended into the crowd, while others, utterly terrified, insisted the orcs had sprouted wings and flown away.
The slave traders were left speechless. The orc slave trade was an illegal enterprise to begin with. The annual tribute paid to the authorities barely bought their silence—how could they possibly request military assistance to track down these fugitives? Not to mention, their tribute had been funneled to the governor, who had been conspicuously absent lately. It seemed the power in Tasmarin Province was about to change hands. The slave trade was a gray area, like tax evasion—manageable if kept small. But letting orcs escape, especially armed gladiators? That crime alone was enough to hang every involved party.
No, of course no gladiators escaped. Lake Rebe was perfectly secure. How could vicious orcs roam freely? Ha ha, Ha ha ha. They said this, laughing nervously. The arena had caught fire, and the unfortunate gladiators locked inside had all burned to death. That was why the gladiatorial games could no longer be held. They had no choice but to grit their teeth and swallow their pride, painting a picture of calm for all who came inquiring. No matter what rumors circulated among the common folk, they clung stubbornly to the "fire theory." Bankruptcy was preferable to conviction.
As they scrambled to restock through various channels, the bosses discovered that nearby, not only gladiators but even decent-quality orc slaves had been snapped up. Buyers came in all shapes and sizes. When the remaining slave traders gathered to discuss, they dimly sensed a common destination behind the agents. They suspected the gladiators had also flowed to the Southeast Quarter, but they had neither proof nor a way to investigate. Petitions submitted to the governor were perpetually brushed aside, and obtaining a Southeast Quarter pass proved even more difficult than the former.
The Southeast Quarter welcomed new members.
The infirmary and doctors had been waiting for a long time, and the wounded received immediate treatment. The critically injured, clinging to life by a thread, finally relaxed upon seeing Mavis's ears—clearly not human—and slumped unconscious onto the beds. The quarter-elf bustled about the ward, applying ointment to wailing patients and subduing over-excited warriors who nearly attacked nurses ("There are humans here!! "). The bard Jacqueline's singing saved the chaotic scene; most people fell asleep to the melody, plopping down everywhere like dumplings dropping into boiling water.
Two individuals remained awake, vigilantly drawing their weapons as others collapsed. Marion stepped forward to explain the song's effect, lest someone slash at Jacqueline.
"Two percent practitioners? That's a surprisingly high ratio," Tash remarked.
"Mostly warriors. Signing them all up wouldn't be much," Victor countered habitually. "How pathetic—once commonplace warriors have become rare specimens."
The gladiators who had narrowly escaped death saw a new world at dawn the next day.
Jacob awoke from a dream filled with flames to find himself staring at a high ceiling. Something felt off about his body—it was a bit too... soft?
For a split second, he wondered if he was crippled. Jacob scrambled upright, only to see his intact limbs and the plush bed beneath him. The bed was large enough to stretch out fully. He wasn't missing any limbs—he was simply lying on a soft, clean mattress, hugging a fluffy pillow. It felt too soft. Still half-asleep, he tightened his grip.
After a few more seconds, memories of yesterday began to surface.
Gladiator beds were narrow and low, stacked one atop another. Roll too hard and you'd tumble off; rise too quickly and you'd bump into the bunk above or the ceiling. Clearly, he wasn't in that cramped, dim place now. A lamp on the table emitted a soft glow. Jacob groped around in the light for a moment, remembering he'd surrendered his dagger.
The lullaby had played in the infirmary last night as the sleeping men were carried into individual rooms. Jacob had helped with the task. He hadn't fallen asleep himself, but his weapons had been confiscated too. He'd been shown where to wash, given food and clean clothes, and assigned a private room. Too much had happened yesterday. Once he relaxed, he'd fallen into a deep sleep before he could think much about it. Now, waking from his dreams, Jacob surveyed the empty room with a sense of bewilderment.
He had seen several humans here, and the hypnotic song and the confiscation of weapons only deepened his suspicions. Jacob was a realist. He trusted Marion, but not entirely—what if she herself had been deceived? He couldn't imagine anyone helping orcs for free, especially a group of dangerous gladiators.
At least the food here wasn't bad, Jacob thought.
Gladiator rations were nothing but high-calorie sludge. He couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten real food. The savory roasted meat and crisply sliced vegetables tingled his taste buds. The aroma of another thick soup filled the air. He scraped the bowl squeaky clean with his spoon, maintaining the last shred of dignity by not licking it.
His stomach growled at the memory. He stood up, pushed open the door, and found the corridor deserted.
This was strange. All the gladiators' quarters lined this corridor. He'd expected to see fully armed soldiers standing guard. The corridor lights made the underground bright as the surface, yet it lay utterly empty—no soldiers, no iron bars. The lack of defense was astonishing. What were the owners thinking?
Jacob closed the door, glanced back at it, and memorized the symbols painted upon it. He walked forward, rounded a corner, and saw two figures seated behind a counter, talking. They looked up when he approached.
"You're awake!" said the chestnut-haired woman, a pair of rabbit ears perched atop her head.
Both were female beastfolk. Jacob didn't know how to react, but they seemed highly trained. One handed him a wooden token, explaining it could be used to claim food; the other pointed to a map behind them, detailing which symbols represented which rooms. Jacob looked up at the vast map, his gaze settling on one spot.
"Exit?" he asked, pointing. "Is this the way to the surface?"
"Yes," the rabbit-eared woman smiled.
"We can still get out?" Jacob asked.
"You'll need to get an ID card first," the girl with goat horns offered eagerly. "Follow this path all the way to the end. Go through the identity registration and the relevant regulations test. Once the craftsmen have made your ID card, you can leave."
"Regulations test?"
"It's simple! Someone will teach you when you get there," they said. "Basically, just remember not to harm others' bodies or property, and don't damage public property."
"That's it?"
The two girls looked at him blankly, as if asking, "What else could there be?" Jacob stood rooted to the spot, holding his meal card and frowning at them until they exchanged uncertain glances. "Hold on a sec!"
They turned away, heads together, pulling out a crumpled note covered in scribbled notes. They counted on their fingers. After a minute of whispering, they turned back looking much more certain. "Nothing else!" said Rabbit Ears. "If you have any problems, you can come find us again!"
The time they'd spent with their backs turned would have been enough for Jacob to kill them ten times over. If this was their security, whoever ran this place must have water in their brain.
Confused, Jacob headed to the cafeteria, following giant signs painted with knives and forks. Breakfast varied yet remained delicious. It was still early, and the cafeteria was nearly empty. He encountered last night's sharp-eared doctor again (what breed were those ears, anyway?). The physician who could knock out gladiators with a rolling pin greeted Jacob with a smile and handed him a cup of drink. He cautiously licked the rim with his tongue—the flavor was quite peculiar.
More people gradually arrived. At one window, someone swiftly ladled porridge for those holding meal tickets, while the other side offered a self-service buffet. Jacob tried taking a piece of bread; no one stopped him. Most people at this hour looked bleary-eyed. Humans came and went around him, some glancing at his ears but showing no further reaction. A short woman, her eyes nearly closed, nearly bumped into him. When Jacob grabbed her collar to steady her, she even thanked him.
This place was too strange, Jacob couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was too strange. Until yesterday, they'd spent most of their time under surveillance, the rest of their lives meticulously planned out, no different from chickens and ducks awaiting slaughter in a slaughterhouse; Yesterday they'd still been fighting for the uprising, ready to kill or be killed at any moment. Then today, bang—he'd fallen into another world where everything felt utterly different. No hostile stares, no one dictating his actions, no fixed zone to roam, no prescribed tasks. It felt... empty. Not that he disliked it.
He stood for a moment in this strange cafeteria before continuing toward the room where they issued credentials. Jacob paused midway to ask someone for directions, merely to observe their reaction. There was no reaction. The person simply pointed the way as one would. He arrived at his destination. The staff asked him questions, stamped papers, wrote things down, and inquired about his future plans.
What were Jacob's plans? That was a good question. Ever since becoming a gladiator, his only plan had been to survive until tomorrow. Why were they asking him? Wasn't he the one supposed to be asking them what they planned for him? The clerk continued explaining under his blank stare, telling him that after learning the common knowledge and regulations here, he could choose to go to the military, school, factories, and so on. "Career counseling isn't handled at this window," the human across the desk stated.
He spoke with such calm certainty that Jacob began to doubt whether he'd made a mistake. School? Seriously? "I'm a gladiator," he reminded him, pointing to his ear. "I think you've seen that."
"Sorry, there's no gladiatorial combat here. You can't return to your old profession," the staff member replied in an even tone. "Not being human doesn't grant you any special privileges. If you wish to continue living here, you'll need to work or apply for student loans..."
That evening, Jacob received his identification card. He clutched it like a sleepwalker and made his way to the exit marked on the map. The staircase wasn't particularly long; daylight shone through at the bottom.
The orange-red afterglow painted the steps, momentarily reminding him of blood or flames. Jacob walked extremely slowly, his feet feeling glued to the surface, waiting for something to happen—like the stairs collapsing, fire igniting, the passageway doors closing, and then him waking up from the cramped bed... But nothing did. Outside wind blew through the exit, cool and fresh air carrying the sudden scent of grass.
His nose, numb from days of blood, sweat, perfume, and stench, suddenly awakened. The blades of grass emitted a unique, clean fragrance. Someone or some creature had walked over them, grass juice staining the damp earth. Unnamed flowers bloomed with fragrance, and somewhere, fruit released a sweet scent. His steps quickened uncontrollably, faster and faster, until he was running.
Jacob saw the sky.
The setting sun spewed rays of golden light across the horizon, setting half the sky ablaze crimson. Flaming clouds drifted with the wind, while flocks of birds streaked across the sun. The other half of the sky lay still as a lake, with a few stars twinkling faintly against the indigo backdrop. Was that pale crescent the moon? He burst from the underground only to plunge into midair. The vast expanse left Jacob dizzy. The sky was so boundlessly open! The earth so infinitely vast! After twenty years, the forest opened its arms to him once more—no high walls, no iron bars, no blood or fire.
After a brief pause, he sprinted once more. Here, boundless, blades of grass bowed beneath his feet, shrubs swayed in the wind he stirred. Jacob squeezed every last ounce of strength from his body and plunged headfirst into the grass. He gasped violently, his lungs filling with the forest air.
So that's it. So that's it. Jacob remembered. This forgotten, unfamiliar sensation—
It was freedom.
He rolled over, catching the shadows of those enormous birds with bat-like wings gliding overhead in his peripheral vision....
Victor had misjudged two more things. First, not all the professionals among those gladiators were warriors.
"Ranger Jacob, a former gladiator with a trace of orc blood. Having spent most of his life in indoor arenas devoid of sky and nature, rigorous training, relentless combat, and multiple brushes with death granted him the ability to enter the professional ranks. The moment he stepped back into the forest, he swiftly transitioned from a quasi-warrior to a ranger—proof that innate talent and nature still determine much." "
The resettlement of the orc gladiators proceeded with great urgency. Jacob proved the quickest to react and the most adaptable among them. Following Marion's advice, he readily signed an employment contract with the dungeon.
"A warrior class that was nearly complete suddenly achieves enlightenment and changes professions upon touching the forest..." Victor clicked his tongue. "With that kind of talent, if he'd been trained as a ranger from childhood, advancing to legendary status would be a sure thing."
The ranger profession is somewhat like a warrior attuned to nature, or a hybrid of warrior and druid. They excel in combat with military weapons while embracing the wild, adept at using terrain for concealment, tracking, and battle. They wield nature-based spells, befriend animals, and find forests their most natural battlefield. For a naturally gifted half-beast to be imprisoned in the Iron Forest for over two decades? Truly pitiful.
Like Samuel, the born saint, Jacob could be said to have been born in the wrong era.
So it's hardly surprising his innate skill turned out this way.
[Nature's Call]:Standing at the world's center, you summon nature's presence—if it's in a generous mood, it might grant your request. This skill conjures natural elements in unnatural environments, like sprouting a few weeds on a prison's stone floor to offer solace to imprisoned nature-born beings.
Though its effects are modest, the skill's mana cost remains low. When druids and rangers engage in urban combat, casting this spell beforehand can marginally improve their battlefield conditions.
However, Jacob—with his mountain lion heritage—is the sole orc to have formally contracted with the dungeon.
Mixed-blood orcs have not contracted with the dungeon. Their composition is too fragmented to be classified as a tribal collective, lacking a figure capable of serving as a "tribal chieftain." Marion was the undisputed spiritual leader, though she functioned more as a figurehead, with actual organization and leadership handled by others. Two others could be called true rebel leaders: Terence, the massive man with horns, and Zakari, the older veteran with bird-like claws.
Terence and Marion entered the gladiator school together, steady yet fiercely loyal. Zakley, a veteran gladiator and the only other warrior besides Jacob immune to the hypnotic music of the bard Jacqueline, was a seasoned combatant. Though they had differences, they aligned on the broader objectives.
They must move on.
"We're deeply grateful for your aid, but we cannot linger here," Terence stated. "Countless kin suffer in human cities. Our fight must continue."
"Beasts don't escape one cage only to enter another," Zakari retorted bluntly.
"What do you mean, another cage?" Marion frowned.
"It means if you want to be a dog, go ahead. We don't need masters," Zakari sneered.
Marion yanked him up by his collar, and Terence rushed to break it up.
After the successful, unified uprising, divisions began to emerge among the half-breed orcs. Some gladiators wanted to settle here, while others still craved battle—Zachary being the most radical representative of the latter faction. He viewed those who wished to stay as weak and traitorous, believing Marion unworthy of leadership.
"You're just a puppet your master put up, a phony figurehead," Zakari had declared during one heated argument.
Tasha clapped her hands, signaling them to halt their escalating dispute. "Excuse me," she said, "setting aside my own views for now, what would you do if no external factors intervened?"
"We fight," Terence declared with certainty, "until every comrade is liberated."
"We take vengeance," Zakari said grimly, "humans should taste the suffering we endured."
"...," Marion opened her mouth, hesitated, and said nothing.
Tasha nodded, acknowledging she'd heard. She pressed on, "Then do you know how powerful humans are?"
"No power can stop our march," Terence declared.
"You misunderstand," Tasha countered. "I'm not questioning your resolve—I'm asking about your plan."
How much do you know about human troop strength across Erian?
How many soldiers garrison each region? What weapons do they possess? What stance do local commanders take toward the alien races? Which can be exploited, which can be co-opted, which must be fought to the death? If you don't know these things, do you at least possess basic knowledge? For instance, could you draw a detailed map of Erian?
How much do you know about the mixed-blood beastmen of Erian?
How many wild beastman tribes are scattered across the land? Which tribes seek only to hide, and which are willing to take up arms? Among the orc slaves, how many are capable fighters, and how many are the elderly, weak, or infirm who require protection? You aim to liberate all orcs—have you considered where to begin, or how to resettle the freed?
"It seems you don't know," Tasha shook her head regretfully. "If anyone knows the answer, they must tell me first."
The trio's expressions darkened with each question. Marion bit her lip, Terence furrowed his brow, while Zachary forced out, "How will we know unless we try?"
"Try?" Tasha arched an eyebrow. "With your lives?"
"That's still our choice," Zakari said stiffly. "Do you intend to lock us up in the name of 'protection'?"
Tasha laughed aloud, looking at Zakari as if he were a fool.
"You seem to have misunderstood something," she said. "Regarding your uprising, I advanced funds for weapons. Afterward, I provided shelter, food, medicine for your wounds..."
"You think that buys our loyalty?" Zakari frowned.
"No," Tasha smiled. "You are all free men now. Since I am not your master and you are not my property, whatever you consume must be repaid through labor."