Chapter 4
"..."
Riyan slowly closed his eyes.
He was alone in his room, reading by moonlight.
He had just finished the history book Haral had brought him.
"This is absurd."
His murmur was quiet.
More than a hundred years had passed.
He had no idea why he had awakened again after such an enormous span of time.
If he really wanted to force an explanation, he could probably invent several.
After all, the king...
No, the traitor who now had to be called Emperor...
Was still alive.
Such an unnaturally long lifespan could only be the result of sinister magic.
For all Riyan knew, the Emperor might already be nothing more than a puppet kept barely alive by magicians.
Magic used to be considered blasphemous.
During Riyan's previous life, magicians had been considered dangerous beings who brought harm to the world.
They injured innocent lives to satisfy their curiosity and desires.
They exploited nature.
At times, they reached without hesitation for corrupt powers.
Because of that, magicians were called witches or incarnations of evil.
When captured, having their eyes gouged out and tongues cut before being burned alive had been considered perfectly normal.
Those people had once hidden from the world as though they barely existed.
And now they had become the center of the Empire.
Of course, Riyan understood the reason.
Just as the current Emperor had betrayed him, the man had feared the military power represented by knights.
[Traitor Riyan]
[Knight Riyan, who once raised his sword for humanity, forgot the great favor His Majesty bestowed upon him despite his lowly birth. Instead, he reached for wicked powers, corrupted his soul, and dared raise a blasphemous blade against the sacred royal family...]
Fabricated history.
Riyan understood why they had done it.
At the time, the legion had been prepared to follow his orders even into hell.
But what had come from eliminating knights?
Had the new replacement grown in healthy?
No.
Riyan hadn't lived long in this era yet.
But even now, he could already tell that the Empire was far from normal.
Humans were thrown to monsters as entertainment.
Crowds cheered as blood sprayed and flesh was torn apart.
Monsters that should have been exterminated were assigned enormous prices.
Nobles bought and sold them to satisfy perverse desires.
Oppression and control.
The resentment created by them was soothed through entertainment built from violence and cruelty.
At the same time, the people were unconsciously reminded that they themselves could one day become the victims.
Again and again.
"The Emperor... and the magicians."
Those two groups had clearly shaped the world into this.
Riyan's slender fingers moved over the book.
He reopened a page he had marked earlier by folding its corner.
[Arcana Council]
[After expelling the knights who wielded corrupt power, His Imperial Majesty actively employed the prophets who had long suffered unjust persecution at the hands of those same knights. Through magic, these prophets opened a new world for the people of the Empire. The Arcana Council founded by these prophets continues to create a powerful Empire in accordance with His Majesty's will...]
The Arcana Council.
An imperial governing body formed by magicians who enjoyed the Emperor's absolute trust.
So the knights eventually...
They disappeared.
No.
More precisely, they changed.
Knights who wielded the special power of the old era had been erased.
The magicians declared the power used by those knights blasphemous.
They claimed it corrupted the soul.
Because of that, modern knights now borrowed magical power.
They were also monitored and controlled by magicians.
Of course, it was a lie.
Blasphemous?
How shameless.
They had survived because of that power.
Thud.
Riyan closed the book.
He stood and walked to the open window.
Cold early-morning air wrapped around him.
Accepting that chill with his entire body, Riyan raised his head and looked into the distance.
Lights filled the Imperial Capital like fireflies.
You wanted to make me a traitor that badly?
His gaze slowly lowered.
Those lights stood upon the land of the kingdom he had once protected.
Land countless people had bled to defend.
Thinking back, the Emperor's distortion of history had not merely buried Riyan.
It had insulted everyone who shattered themselves for noble beliefs, sacred vows, and compassion toward the kingdom's people.
"..."
Riyan's anger was cold.
He could still see them.
Pitiful lives that had thrown themselves into the battlefield and burned like flames.
The ashes left behind had become chains of memory he would carry for the rest of his life.
If anyone could answer him, there was something he wanted to ask.
Was it truly necessary?
Did they truly need to bury so many deaths beneath lies?
To sacrifice them all?
If that was the case...
If that was truly what they had chosen...
"Then becoming a real traitor in this life might not be so bad."
Riyan's white hair caught the pale blue moonlight and shone silver.
The wind was dry.
The sun hung high overhead.
Under the scorching light, the training ground was filled with sweat and dust.
Some fighters chose partners and sparred.
Others lifted and threw heavy sandbags.
Others gasped for breath while conditioning their bodies.
Every one of them appeared busy with their own training.
And yet their movements lacked their usual sharpness.
Their attention kept drifting elsewhere.
Naturally, the target of those stares was Riyan.
That was understandable.
He was sitting in the shade reading a book.
The fact that he was skipping training wasn't even the strangest part.
His entire appearance looked completely out of place.
For Riyan, however, it was an obvious decision.
His starved body was not yet ready for serious training.
He would only begin properly forging his body after his health had been completely restored.
Of course, not everyone knew or agreed with that reasoning.
"Riyan."
Someone approached.
The man wore different clothes from the fighters.
It was Instructor Haral, the person who had obtained the book for him.
"Instructor Haral."
"Mind if I sit?"
"Go ahead."
Riyan tilted his head and temporarily closed the book.
"What about training?"
Riyan tilted his head again at Haral's question.
"Director Berka gave me discretion over my own training."
"I know. I was just asking. Is that book any good? You looked pretty focused from far away."
"I'm not reading it because it's entertaining."
"Then why?"
"Because I need to read it."
"Because you need to..."
Haral scratched the side of his head.
Why would he need to read that?
Haral knew what was in the book.
It was a dry history text.
Haral himself had already read it four or five times.
Not because he enjoyed history.
Most fighters trained here weren't Imperial citizens.
They were slaves brought from frontier territories or subject provinces.
Many of them hated the Empire.
And if that hatred ever erupted in the arena while important nobles were watching, the consequences would become extremely troublesome.
Because of that, the instructors educated them beforehand.
To stop problematic remarks, an instructor first needed to know the material he was supposed to teach.
That was only natural.
Of course, the "education" mentioned earlier usually included fists and kicks, making it somewhat different from ordinary lessons.
Haral rubbed his chin.
Then, on a sudden thought, he spoke.
"Well, fine. If you're reading that kind of book without being ordered to, you probably won't make any stupid mistakes."
Riyan tilted his head.
"What sort of mistakes?"
"Simple. You're fighters, right?"
"Yes."
"Right. Fighters who provide the audience with blood and steel. So what do you call a fighter who forgets his role and starts talking about how the world should work? An agitator?"
"I don't know. There are many names you could use. But agitator probably wouldn't be the right one."
"Why not?"
At Haral's question, Riyan turned toward the fighters sweating on the training ground.
Then he spoke quietly.
"Agitation only works between equals."
"..."
"If two people haven't lived in the same environment, stood in the same position, and gone through the same experiences, there is no foundation for it. To the listener, it would be no different from hearing a random dog bark."
Riyan knew that from experience.
The front lines and the rear command were a perfect example.
No matter how desperately field soldiers explained the situation, rear commanders treated human lives as numbers and gave merciless orders.
How many soldiers had run away while saying desertion was better than obeying?
And what had happened to them?
A person's environment could determine just how cruel one human could become toward another despite belonging to the same species.
Haral knew none of those thoughts.
He simply grinned.
Look at this kid.
"You understand pretty well. Good. Then I can get straight to the point."
"The point?"
"You'll be fighting in the arena soon."
"Understood."
Riyan nodded without much reaction despite being told he was entering a match where his life would be at risk.
Haral was the one surprised.
No matter how much the kid behaved like an old man, the person inside that body should still have been young.
Yet his face remained completely calm.
"...Are you simple, or do you just have nerves of steel?"
Berka had said something similar.
Remembering their conversation in the dungeon, Riyan answered calmly.
"Would anything change if I refused?"
"No."
"Then I have no choice but to accept."
"...Aren't you curious? Who you're fighting? What kind of match it is? How many spectators there'll be?"
Haral somehow sounded as if he wanted to be asked.
Riyan nodded.
"I am curious."
"Seriously... It's like forcing someone to beg for a gift. Anyway, I don't know the exact details yet, but you probably don't need to worry too much."
"Why?"
"You'll probably be used to warm up the crowd before one of the main matches. After one or two matches like that, you'll start getting bigger appearances."
"I see."
"Right. So you don't need to feel much pressure. Most of the people appearing in those matches are the same. Guys already close to dying. Guys half-dead already. Mostly fighters who aren't worth developing and are only being sent out to fill the numbers. Of course, there's also the opposite case."
"The opposite?"
"Some training centers deliberately debut fighters they actually intend to raise in those opening matches. There's no better place for experience. And if they can't even win there, there's no reason to invest in them. Doesn't matter if they die. Fighters like you."
Like you.
Riyan nodded.
So the match would be used to test his potential.
Haral continued.
"Listen, kid. I'm not going to tell you to win for the training center. I don't care that much. Think of it as fighting for yourself. There's nothing more valuable than staying alive. Still, you can't embarrass us too badly."
"Because of Director Berka."
Haral had intentionally called him "kid" to remind himself that Riyan really was young.
Yet Riyan had immediately struck the weak point of the situation.
"...Right. This isn't just about surviving. You need to put on a show for the customers. The Director will decide whether that performance is good enough. If you do well, there isn't much downside. He's strict about rewards and punishments. At least in that regard, he's honest. His temper's just a little quick."
Riyan narrowed his eyes.
A little quick?
He doubted the meaning of "a little" had changed that much over the last century.
Riyan quietly chuckled.
Haral seemed to understand the reaction and laughed too.
"If you need anything, tell me. I'll help within reason. Don't misunderstand. This isn't kindness. I just need to know what you're planning so I can make my own decision."
"...Decision?"
Haral gave him a crooked smile.
Then whispered.
"How much money I'm going to bet on you."
