Gregorian Empire, Province of Numidia – City of Cartag
I stood outside the tavern, watching men walk in and out without even glancing at me. The stench of beer clung to them—disgusting. My head was spinning with too many thoughts at once.
"Damn it… damn bastard boss. All those jobs I took with old Bang, all that money I saved… Wait— I've gathered 420 silver coins. I've got enough to free my family… but it's not enough. Not until the city project moves forward can I even go looking for them."
I sighed, put my hands to my head, and asked my assistant:
—Quincy, how long was I a mercenary?
[Exactly two days, 52 hours, master… but if you want precision, from the moment you were registered until you were fired it was 62 hours on the dot ( ͠⊙ ₃ ͡⊙)/ ]
—I can't believe it hasn't even been a week.
[Well, strictly speaking in guild terms, yes… you didn't last long at all ( ͠≖ ‿͠≖ )]
—Shut up.
[So… what will you do now, master? ( ͠• ‿ ͠• )]
—I've got an idea, but I'm not sure.
[And what idea is that? ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ]
As Quincy asked that, I noticed a few people nearby staring at me like I was insane.
"Damn it, stop staring at me! I'm not crazy! …Wait. What the hell's wrong with me? I'm not usually this awkward."
[Well, master, you're too weird. To most NPCs, in simple words: you're cringe (ಠ ͜ʖಠ)]
—I am NOT!
I shouted. Some people in the street turned their heads to stare. Never in my life had I felt so embarrassed.
[See? If your charm stat were higher, and your appearance wasn't so generic, maybe you wouldn't radiate so much second-hand shame (ಠ_ಠ)>⌐■-■]
—Are you my assistant or my hater?
[I'm both… but as your assistant, I want my master to look good ( ▀̿ ̿ - ▀̿ ̿ )✌]
—Fine… you want to see style, damn AI? I'll show you style.
[Oh no master, I'm about to die from cringe ( ಥ ‿ ಥ )]
I slipped into the alley behind the tavern and pulled the CI-Mask out of my pack. Once I put it on, the interface lit up beautifully. My shame evaporated, replaced with the thrill of remembering a badass track.
But my mind betrayed me… couldn't recall a single good song. So I just strolled with the CI-Mask on. People gave me weird looks, but the digital screen on the mask flashed: "Fuck You Bich."
No idea if they knew English or not. Didn't care. That's when I saw them—orphans, or so they looked. Chained together, being dragged by men who looked like medieval thugs.
Quincy's voice dropped bluntly into my ears:
[Master… what you see is the reality behind slavery. Their origins vary: orphans, debtors, prisoners of war, abductees, survivors of fallen kingdoms, children from isolated communities, etc.]
The image of Karen hit me… she had already lost so much. And still, condemned to lose more—even her life.
"Fucking scenario writers… I get it, darkness sells. But to imagine a life this miserable? What kind of fucked-up life must you have had to create characters that have nothing, nothing at all, to make them happy?"
I made my decision. Pulled out 300 silver coins, walked straight up to the thugs, and spoke with the distorted voice of the CI-Mask:
—70 silver for all the brats.
—"These bastards don't even have stigma yet."
—That's how I want them. I'll give you 90.
—"A slave buying free kids? Heheheh. Now I've seen everything."
They smirked, their intentions obvious as they started surrounding me. I slammed my foot down, hard enough to leave a crater in the stone street. They staggered back.
—100. Final offer. Decide fast before I start cracking skulls.
—"F-fine. Take them."
They grabbed the money without complaint and handed me the kids. Even in chains, they could walk.
Five of them, between six and eleven years old. Thin, clothes in tatters, eyes wide with fear. Once we were clear of the thugs and near the mercenaries' tavern, I tossed them a leather pouch filled with 200 silver coins.
—"W-why, sir?"
—Because you've got no stigma. You're free. Go to that tavern and sign up as mercenaries. That money's enough for you to survive together.
—"Th-thank you, sir, thank you!"
All five hugged me before I broke their chains. Then they bolted, running straight toward the tavern.
Quincy piped up again:
[That was a good deed… but master, check your pockets. And your backpack ( ͡≖ - ͡≖)]
I patted myself down… only to find a single damn silver coin left.
"Those little bastards robbed me!"
I was furious… but, fine. One coin was all I needed for the design anyway. Now I just had to find Artia, make some progress, and spend the rest of the afternoon prepping for tomorrow's spectacle.
***
The Children's Perspective
Cartag, a few minutes before meeting Sam.
The five kids were exhausted, their feet raw and bleeding from the chains dragging at their ankles. Most of their eyes were empty—except the eldest, a boy of about eleven, who still kept scanning for a chance.
Aby (8, whispering): —…"Hey, d'you think they'll sell us to a blacksmith, or to the Coliseum?"
Elton (the eldest): —"Shut up. If they hear us, they'll shut us up for good."
The thugs pulled at the chains lazily. To them, the brats were just cheap merchandise, "no stigma yet." But for the kids… every step was a nightmare of becoming fodder for the games.
Then they saw him: a strange figure in a glowing mask, words flickering across it in some language none of them understood. He walked toward them with unnerving confidence, like nothing mattered.
Elton thought: "Shit… another lunatic. Please don't let him mess with us."
But he did. And when he spoke—his voice distorted, metallic—the children froze. He was haggling for them. Like they were goats.
When he stomped and left a crater in the ground, their terror changed shape. This wasn't like guards or thugs. This one… could kill them all in a blink. And still, he paid.
Chains broken, they followed him trembling. The youngest, only six, sobbed quietly. Then the masked man tossed them a pouch of 200 silver.
—You're free. Go live.
They stared blankly. Nobody had ever spent that much on them. Nobody had ever called them free.
They hugged him. Pure instinct, desperate gratitude. Then they ran.
Hearts pounding. Tears of fear and joy mixing as they bolted.
The eldest opened the pouch once they turned a corner. His eyes went wide.
Elton: —Two hundred silver coins!
The rest gasped.
Bath (7): —"We can eat till we burst! We can rent a house!"
Elton (coldly): —"Forget what he said. We're not going to that tavern. If we walk in there, they'll use us, exploit us, same as those bastards."
Cinta (8): —"What about the masked man? Won't he look for us?"
Elton: —"With that mask and that weird way of talking… he's crazier than all of us put together. He probably doesn't even know what to do with his own life."
And so, laughing nervously, they decided.
—Robbing him was the right choice.—After all, the world had already robbed them blind since the day they were born.
They slipped away down an alley, clutching the pouch like treasure. None of them looked back.