He who does not work shall not eat—such is the way of the world.
The orc gladiators stared blankly at the ledger detailing their debts. Most were illiterate, yet even they could grasp the sheer length of the bill. The document plastered on the bulletin board resembled a scroll more than paper, hanging from ceiling to floor. The staff explained each item to them, speaking with great authority.
You entered through that passageway. Excavating it cost money, didn't it? Since the route became completely unusable after we received you, unable to be reused, fifty years' worth of road maintenance fees condensed into one night—that's roughly the amount apportioned to each of you. Customs duties must be paid to travel from Lake Rebe to the Southeast Corner. You can't evade taxes just because you took the underground direct passage. Document processing fees, lodging expenses, medical costs, and meals are non-negotiable. Add to that staff service charges and more. The Southeast Corner practices zero racial discrimination, providing only the finest service. Hence the price...
The newcomers had no concept of local prices, staring blankly as the staff recited figures. "Is this a lot or a little?" someone muttered privately. "I've counted all my toes and still can't wrap my head around it!"
"Just tell us what you want us to do!" an impatient voice snapped. "How long will we have to work here to pay this off?"
"That depends on the career path you choose," the staff member replied. "Different occupations offer different wages. Considering you're new here and may face challenges in job applications, Southeast Corner has prepared several options. We'll explain them in detail shortly."
Many factory positions were open to newcomers, though operating machinery required specialized knowledge, making job training essential. Once formally employed, pay increased with performance—every cent earned deducted from factory board and lodging expenses. The remainder could be used to repay debt and interest or exchanged freely for other goods. Exceptional workers might clear their debts in just over a year.
Military service offers the highest wages, but its training is both lengthy and demanding—while gladiators are exceptional fighters, warfare requires teamwork. Military academies aren't as relentless as gladiator schools, incorporating leave and recreational activities, which extends the otherwise compact training period.
If you're uncertain about your future path, applying for a student loan is a sound option. Schools across the Southeast Corner offer programs to outsiders. Passing the entrance exam secures room and board, and after graduation, working in a designated position for a period equivalent to your schooling fully repays the debt.
As long as they abide by the law here, their temporary residence permits will convert to citizenship after sufficient duration. Numerous benefits exclusive to Southeast Corner citizens will become accessible, such as insurance and low-interest loans. Usury rates targeting outsiders will become remarkably low thereafter. The system once applied to "circus" members has been refined and reapplied to the beasts, now more sophisticated, easier to manage, and conducive to professional growth.
All basic training instilled these beasts with knowledge of Erian's common sense and current realities, slowing the Avengers' pace to cool their fevered minds. Eyes blinded by tragic pasts and visions of futures were forced to see the tangible world beneath their feet. A touch of ideological indoctrination was woven in. Tashu wouldn't claim to offer a "step-by-step guide to rebellion," but honestly, compared to the gladiators' single-minded focus on combat, Earth's humanities textbooks seemed like golden wisdom.
They needed a buffer.
Those willing to settle down would only slow progress if swept along by the tide. Tasha offered them a place to call home in exchange for their labor. Those who sought to fight again must clarify their objectives, reorganize their ranks, and understand both themselves and their enemies—lest they crumble from within like so many failed uprisings throughout history. Passion was essential, but passion alone was futile. Those who envision nothing but the destruction of the old world, with no plan for building a new one, are merely destroyers.
Of course, talk of destroying the old world feels distant now.
Tasha cares little whether the gladiators are grateful to her; she only cares whether they are useful. She neither wants their fervor wasted nor a band of terrorists shouting holy war and seeking martyrdom.
The process of integrating the gladiators proved challenging. These warriors all carried psychological baggage, much like veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Initially, the staff assigned to receive them were all orc slaves purchased earlier. When the day of unified training arrived and they discovered their instructors were humans, many became decidedly uncooperative.
Clashes erupted on the very first day. Firefighter Jacqueline subdued several overreactors with her singing voice, while Dora, the Amazonian instructor doubling as security captain, pinned multiple individuals to the back of the classroom with arrows ("Next time I'll shoot for the arm. The time after that, the neck. I mean what I say."). An unescorted instructor was attacked. Unarmed and physically weak, he broke his arm during the assault. Had patrols not intervened promptly, the situation could have escalated further.
This was deemed a serious criminal act, and the perpetrator was publicly tried and convicted. He would undergo psychological treatment in the hospital and subsequently serve three years of forced labor as unpaid labor.
This stirred considerable unrest among the former gladiators. Led by Zakari, the radicals were seething with indignation. Marion and Terence exerted considerable effort to prevent them from doing something foolish. Rumors and demands for pardon circulated among the crowd, but Tasha remained unmoved. She would offer every possible assistance to those with potential for reform. As for the stubbornly destructive, let them serve their time in the factories. Better they stay confined than harm others or themselves. She observed coldly until Marion burst into the victim's hospital room.
"What were you thinking?" Marion snapped, the door creaking loudly as she slammed it open.
The man inside, still in a cast, was clumsily writing with his good hand. Seeing Marion enter, he paused and said, "Good morning."
"Good morning?" Marion strode to the bedside, looking as if she wanted to grab the patient. "You provoked him on purpose, didn't you?"
"I won't accept such false accusations. " Samuel, the Son of Salo, frowned from his bed.
Marion snatched the notebook from Samuel's hands and tossed it onto the nearby table. Her eyes blazed with icy fury as she demanded, "You clearly view orcs as vermin, so why did you sign up to be some kind of teacher? What the hell are you playing at?"
"That was two years ago. Samuel replied uneasily.
"So what? Are you saying you've reformed yourself in these two years?" Marion sneered. "You still wear that armor to class, still preach about light and justice. Who would believe you suddenly harbor goodwill toward us?"
"You've been gone so long. Many things have changed," Samuel said. "I've tried..."
"The Reverend trying to bestow mercy upon us too?" Marion sneered.
Samuel's face flushed with anger. He opened his mouth, then took a deep breath to steady his voice. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I've been... reflecting, thinking things through."
Marion stared at him, astonished and uncertain, never expecting to hear an apology.
"You saw those orcs who came first," Samuel said. "When they arrived, I went to help."
He was referring to the orcs bought earlier—the hybrid servants and prostitutes now working as staff.
It had started simply because of a shortage of hands; the southeast corner always lacked doctors. When the dungeon's visitors asked if he'd assist, Samuel only realized upon arrival that the patients weren't human. He saw faces he'd glimpsed from afar before, now up close with eyes even more hollow and terrifying. The Son of Saro retreated with a grim expression, while the human attendants, thinking he was unwell, fussed over him, fetching warm water and a chair amidst their busyness.
Sitting there, watching the bustling activity, he felt uneasy all over. Later, Samuel couldn't resist performing surgery on a woman's deformed leg bone. She appeared entirely human, save for a few scales on the back of her hand. Quiet, docile, harmless—how could one tell she wasn't simply a sick person?
The priest lingered in the ward, torn between conflicting agonies. The wounds on these beings—both physical and spiritual—were undeniably at odds with light and justice. To let them suffer was against doctrine, yet they were not human—no matter how much they resembled it. This contradiction tormented Samuel, driving him to whisper prayers to Saros in the dead of night. Several pairs of eyes opened at the sound of his song. A few half-breed beasts looked up at him, their gaze reminding him of the suffering soldier.
The myriad questions arising from the battle before resurfaced in Samuel's mind.
Does humanity need Saros? What is a god, truly? After the gods departed, what purpose did the Saros faith serve on the lands of Erian? Did the god truly love all indiscriminately while hating all creatures beyond mankind? Among those doctrines, which reflected Saros's true intent, and which were distortions born of centuries of misinterpretation?
And so...
"You're preaching among the beastmen?" Marion exclaimed in surprise.
"I'm not preaching. Just telling stories, urging them to look toward the good, to distract them." Samuel paused. "Well, maybe I am preaching. I don't know."
"What exactly are you trying to do?" The wolf woman's brow furrowed deeply.
"Trying to dispel the confusion and gloom—both theirs and mine," Samuel admitted frankly. "I don't know, but perhaps once this attempt is over, we'll both understand."
He appeared calm and composed, while Marion seemed even more perplexed. She fell silent for a moment, as if making a decision, her expression hardening once more. Before she could speak again, she heard a call from outside the door.
"Marion." Tashan called.
She stood at the ward door, nodding briefly to Samuel before beckoning Marion. Marion approached Tashan, her steps hesitant and heavy. The wolf girl wavered, considering whether to plead with Tashan, yet sensed vaguely that she wouldn't change her mind.
Tashan gave her no chance to struggle further, simply saying, "Come. Let's go see Lake Rebe."
Sixteen and eighteen were hardly worlds apart. Tasha still recognized Marion's face instantly, still could wrap her arm around Marion's shoulder. But some things had changed. The wolf girl carried an added weight of maturity, yet beneath her wildness lay a new edge of ferocity. When the radicals spoke of slaughtering all humans, she neither joined in nor objected.
Mavis's rolling pin concealed their ears and wings. Merchants brought the latest fashions from Lake Rebe. Tasha guided Marion into a carriage, and they journeyed toward the lake. The ornate carriage didn't stop at the lake's entrance; it continued onward, deep into the city's heart.
Their destination was an art gallery.
Marion jumped down, glanced around, then turned to look at Tarsha. She'd been holding back all the way and was on the verge of bursting. Tarsha smiled, made a shushing gesture, and pointed to the "Keep Quiet" sign by the door.
Marion had learned to read and write the Common Tongue in the southeast corner; she recognized the massive sign next to the warning. "The Call of the Wild," it read—the theme of this exhibition. Marion watched elegantly dressed people stroll inside, instinctively frowning, but Tasha had already entered.
The interior was bright and spacious, mirrors reflecting light so every painting on the walls seemed bathed in sunlight. Marion had never been to such a place. Humans passed by intermittently, and the room exuded an air of opulence—both factors were enough to make her feel irritable. But Tasha led her along at a leisurely pace, and she had no choice but to patiently follow her stride, casting her gaze upon the paintings with nowhere else to look.
The first few paintings seemed baffling. If the standard for a "good" portrait was likeness, these were undoubtedly terrible. Marion saw vast swathes of green dotted with strange little specks. If not for the small inscription beneath the frame, she might have thought paint had spilled over the canvas. The fourth painting, however, was unexpectedly good. Delicate brushstrokes outlined a tranquil forest where a herd of deer rested beneath the shade. The play of light and shadow was exquisite, almost lifelike.
The next painting made Marion pause involuntarily. A full moon hung at the top of the canvas. Beneath the sky, a pack of wolves charged forward, their leader howling at the heavens. The painting wasn't intricate, yet it possessed a startling sense of motion. One could almost see the wind flowing in the shadows, hear its whistling and the wolves' howls. A wild power lurked within the still image, as if this scene had truly existed on some moonlit night, and the artist had stumbled upon it, sliced it out, and placed it within the frame.
"Do you like this painting too?"
A man with a small mustache approached, carrying that same irritating scent—the odor of a regular at the arena. Though he spoke to Marion, his eyes lingered on Tashar, a gesture that only deepened the wolf girl's displeasure. "Yes," her master replied lightly, seemingly oblivious. Soon, they were engaged in conversation, the topic shifting to the art exhibition.
"This is by Valke, the artist who contributed the most pieces to this exhibition," the mustachioed man said smugly. "Eleven renowned painters are participating in this show. I hear the theme stems from that recent incident... I imagine you've both heard about it."
Marion lifted her head, expressionless.
"'The fire,'" the man with the mustache gestured air quotes with his fingers. "A large number of beastmen vanished in that unfortunate incident. This exhibition expresses the artists' regret and caution—the escape of beastmen could spell disaster, much like the jackals running before us..."
Marion slowly flexed her fingers, her sharp nails glinting coldly at the tips. The man with the mustache didn't finish his sentence, though it wasn't Marion who interrupted him.
"Bullshit!" A scruffy young man burst forward. "You ignorant, art-illiterate, arrogant fool!"
"What did you say?" The man with the mustache frowned. "I've been appreciating art for ten years..."
"Ten years wasted on dogs! We depict freedom, yet slave owners see only threats and losses. We paint our hearts' cries, while vulgar lechers stand here spouting nonsense about things they know nothing about!" The young man pointed fiercely at the paintings, his words coming in rapid succession. "This exhibition expresses nothing but vigilance and regret! The wild always calls—children of nature should live in nature. If there's any regret, it's that this happened too late—that fire should've burned that damn place to the ground long ago!"
"You're truly vulgar," the man with the mustache said, his face flushing slightly as he folded his arms. "Are you suggesting the orcs escaping was a good thing?"
"Better than being used for entertainment by people with twisted tastes!" the young man declared.
The man with the mustache snorted and shook his head, turning to Tashar. "Listen to this nonsense!" Tashar regarded him with a half-smile, but the man misread the mockery as approval, his arrogance swelling once more at the imagined endorsement.
"In earlier times, you'd have been hanged for treason," he threatened. "How much blood did our ancestors shed to build the prosperous Erian we have today? This is the triumph of human civilization, yet you call it a 'perverse hobby'! You ungrateful youth..."
"Fine, so you resort to seniority when you can't argue your point!" the young man retorted, folding his arms.
"You ought to show more respect to your elders." The man with the mustache adjusted his cuffs. His posture was undeniably more dignified than the other's, a fact that pleased him greatly. "Let's return to the art exhibition. Are you suggesting all these painters are supporters of those filthy alien races?"
"The Orc Wars ended two centuries ago. Slavery was abolished among humans five hundred years ago. What did the Emancipation Proclamation state five hundred years ago? Yet today, anyone who dares question the orc slave trade is branded a traitor!" the young man declared, his voice thick with fury.
"Humans are humans, and alien races are alien races," the mustachioed man replied impatiently, clearly weary of the argument. "Natural rights. Our rule over these alien races proves the superiority of human civilization. Once orcs slaughtered and enslaved humans; now humans build orc gladiatorial arenas. That is our pride."
"Ha! You dare speak of 'human pride' to me?" The young man, seemingly overcome by rage, burst into laughter instead. "Our armies drove out all invaders and built prosperous Erian amidst enemies on all sides—that is human pride. Our inventors created cities where nearly everyone has food and shelter, freeing us from eating raw meat and blood, from scrambling daily just to survive—that is human pride. Our capital holds the world's greatest library, where works spanning millennia lie within its halls; at Lake Rebe, the arts flourish in full bloom, with diverse melodies played nightly, paintings and sculptures of every style finding admirers—that is human pride! Yet to enslave an intelligent race, to vent filthy desires and self-loathing upon them, to gloat over such wickedness—this vile, ugly act..."
His face flushed crimson. He drew a sharp breath and declared, enunciating each word: "This is humanity's shame!"
Marion tightened her grip on Tasha's arm.
Her eyes widened as she stared fixedly at the impassioned young man. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn't find a single orcish trait on him. "He's human," Tashar murmured understandingly in her ear. But how could that be? Marion couldn't comprehend it. Why would a human utter such words?
The agitated young man was about to come to blows with the man with the mustache when security guards swarmed in. Soon, a woman in peculiar attire and a man who seemed to be in charge approached. After a brief discussion, they instructed the guards to escort the man with the mustache out.
"This man is the troublemaker!" the man with the mustache protested angrily.
"We apologize, but Mr. Valke does not wish for you to continue your visit," the supervisor stated.
"On behalf of all the artists at this exhibition, we ask you to leave," the oddly dressed woman said with a smile.
The mustached man was thrown out, complaining incessantly, while the young painter named Valke remained there, still ranting angrily. The woman smiled and comforted him with a few words, then turned to talk to Tasha. "Don't let that man mislead you." "The theme is freedom and equality—but the boss thought it too radical and didn't let us write it on the sign."
They chatted cheerfully for a while. Marion stood beside them, clutching Tasha's arm, feeling as if she'd fallen into a dream. She froze in place, utterly bewildered, unable to snap out of it even after the two artists left. Tasha, however, wasn't about to let her off the hook. Patting the wolf girl's hand, she asked, "What do you think?"
"Are they human?" Marion whispered.
"Genuine as can be," Tasha replied.
"But I..."
She wanted to say humans shouldn't be like this, yet something felt off.
Humans, especially the wealthy ones, were always so disgusting.
Marion had never much liked humans. Her childhood had been destroyed by human soldiers. She had seen countless demons on the battlefield, and those in the gladiatorial arena stands were even more hideous. They had food, shelter, safety, and freedom, yet they killed for amusement, unwilling to dirty their own hands—the humans Marion saw all seemed to wear identical masks.
But these people were different. So very different.
Are painters special? Marion recalled their attire and asked in confusion, "Because they have no money?"
"Compared to those who go to the arena for amusement, they certainly have no money," Tasha chuckled. "So they couldn't have organized this exhibition on their own."
Tasha led Marion to meet the exhibition's sponsor.
She was an older noblewoman, her pampered face adorned with exquisite makeup, her neck and fingers adorned with expensive jewels. Tasha spoke to her as a sponsor (Southeast Corner was indeed collaborating with this wealthy lady), then finally pushed Marion forward.
"This is my daughter," Tasha said. "She has a question for you."
Caught off guard and thrust into the spotlight, Marion froze for several seconds before steeled herself and blurted out her question.
"Why? Why are you doing this... this," she stammered, gesturing wildly around the room, "Are you just like these painters? Why? Orcs have nothing to do with you. Aren't they just like furniture to you?"
By the end, Marion's words carried a note of accusation she couldn't suppress. The noblewoman smiled indulgently, completely unfazed by the offense.
"Many have asked me that question," she said. "I am not like those painters. Those children act purely out of righteous indignation or idealism. As for me... it's simply a matter of personal reasons."
Her gaze drifted to a portrait facing the hall, depicting a large cat in a skirt cradling a kitten.
"I had a nanny—a half-breed beastkin—who cared for me as a child. She adored me, played with me, taught me to read. I loved her too. In truth, she spent far more time with me than my mother, who was always off at balls." "The noblewoman spoke with a nostalgic tone. "Then one day, she vanished. I threw a terrible tantrum. My parents told me they'd dismissed her because she'd done something wrong. So I vowed that when I grew old enough to make my own decisions, I'd find her again and hire her as my housekeeper. When I finally reached that age, I learned that beasts aren't 'dismissed' at all."
She paused. "It seems Mother caught Father having an affair with her—which was probably true, for what slave could refuse their master?—and flew into a rage. To placate her, Father disposed of her. After that, my relationship with them deteriorated. They never understood why."
The noblewoman's tone remained remarkably steady. Time had buried that little girl's rage and sorrow deep within her, though they never truly vanished.
"I always wished beasts could actually be dismissed," she concluded with a faint smile. "Even though I couldn't really do much myself."...
The carriage ride back was long and silent for Marion.
Curled up in her seat, hugging her knees, she avoided Tashar's gaze, murmuring to her feet, "I've thought about killing every human."
"Including Amazonians?" Tashar deliberately interrupted.
"Ah, Amazonians are Amazonians," Marion said awkwardly. "I mean, every human not in the southeast corner. Their ancestors slaughtered ours. They committed so many unforgivable acts against us. I want revenge."
"It seems humans of the past thought much like you," Tashar remarked.
If ancestral hatred is clung to forever, if personal grievances are expanded to encompass entire races, then regardless of who emerges victorious, the outcome is merely an endless cycle of slaughter.
"What do you want me to do?" Marion lifted her head, seeking Tashan's guidance. "Please tell me!"
She looked utterly distressed. The resolute hatred and unrelenting fury that had defined her since their reunion had momentarily subsided, replaced by confusion—just like when she was a child. Tashan smiled, drew back the carriage curtain, and pointed toward Lake Rebe outside.
"I want you to see with your own eyes, hear with your own ears, and think with your own mind," Tashu said. "Marion, I am your contract holder, but only you are the master of your own heart."