23.

Mana like the white moon

Two people faced each other on the arena floor. Number 76, whom the countess had chosen at random, was big and stocky. 110, on the other hand, was a child younger than Aster with short, lavender hair and small, pointed horns, who obviously had not been eating particularly well. There was a clear disparity between their sizes.

The crowd was silent as they watched, simultaneously tense and disappointed. It could become a good show, but it didn’t feel like it would be.

Surprisingly, 110 made the first move. He charged in, dodging as 76 swiped at him with a huge hand. He made a fist and struck at the man’s midsection with his momentum.

There was silence for a split second, before 76 laughed and hit 110 in the stomach, sending him tumbling back. A pinprick like that would do nothing. 110 pushed himself up from the ground and gasped for air.

“Weak little thing,” 76 said.

“He’s a talkative one?” the countess remarked.

“Are they not common?” Dominic asked.

“They’re common,” she replied, “but they usually don’t last long. The crowd doesn’t like them.”

76 ran at 110, sending him flying with another resounding punch to the gut. Blood and vomit splattered across the ground.

“I would’ve expected them to be satisfied with the extra narration,” Dominic said.

“Well, gladiators are never the smartest,” the countess replied, shrugging. “They’re brutes. The things that come out of their mouths are not things anyone cares about hearing.”

“You’re like putty, little kid,” 76 remarked.

Dominic narrowed his eyes at the bulky man.

“I agree with you strongly on that, Madam.”

She chuckled. 76 brought his fist down on 110’s head, a sickening cracking noise resounding through the stadium. The boy fell to the ground, clawing at the sand.

“Is that it?” 76 said. “Disappointing.”

He turned towards the audience, holding up a thumb. The results were mixed. Some didn’t care enough to demand death. There had hardly even been a fight. Some just wanted it to be over with. 76 decided on his own. He turned back to 110, raised his foot, and brought it crashing down.

110’s neck had to have snapped. The distinct sound echoed through the stands. 76 stepped back, satisfied with his work, and in the next second, his foot was no longer there.

There was pure silence as every soul in the stadium took a moment to register what had happened. 76’s foot from the ankle down had disappeared, leaving only a bleeding red stump. He keeled over, off balance, and collapsed to one knee.

110, in a split second, had flipped around from his position face down on the floor. His fingers were covered in blood and gore. The severed appendage was resting in the sand several feet away. Not only was 110 not dead, he had somehow forcefully clawed 76’s foot off with his bare hands.

“What?” the countess said, eyes wide.

The crowd too, was in unrest. No one could understand what had just happened. A boy that was supposed to be dead was pushing himself to his feet in the middle of the arena, standing over the mangled 76.

“You…!” 76 said, grimacing in pain. “You dare! That’s not enough to stop me!”

He rushed forward on his knees and grabbed 110, bashing the boy back into the ground.

“Stupid son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You should’ve run away when you had the chance!”

He repeatedly smashed 110’s face against the sandy floor, the cracking of bones echoing once more through the stands. Half the crowd cheered. The smarter half was silent. They felt that something wasn’t what it seemed to be.

110, still face-down in the dirt, grabbed 76’s wrist weakly, and then tore it completely off.

“AGH!”

76 could only scream in pain, holding his arm. 110 got up, his face smeared with blood. It was horribly disfigured—teeth missing, nose crooked, red beyond recognition—but as the crowd watched on in horror and anticipation, the bones righted themselves, the teeth regrew, his face returned completely to normal. He smacked the side of his head and a bit of sand fell out of his ear.

Dominic was not the one doing this. He was not healing him. 110, from the beginning, had been a reinforcement mage—someone who could heal or strengthen their own body. He just hadn’t had enough mana to use it properly.

That is, until his ownership had been handed over to Dominic.

When he had injected his mana into the seal to take it from the countess, he had handed over enough to scare even Thelo.

“Fuck…” 76 mumbled. “Fuck!”

110 reached towards him with his hand.

“Get the fuck away from me!” 76 said, slapping it away.

110 grabbed 76’s wrist, and tightened his hold. A loud, crunching noise reverberated through the arena. The crowd slowly warmed, beginning to cheer again. Yes, this was what they had come for. It wasn’t like 47’s case, where he had had a single lucky break. 110 was slowly crushing 76 himself. He was becoming the dominant one here. They wanted to see more. They wanted blood.

“Get him, little guy!”

“Show him what you’ve got!”

76 collapsed, dragging himself weakly backwards in an attempt to make distance. 110 simply stood there, unmoving. He probably had never won before. He wasn’t sure what to do.

“I won’t forget this…” 76 said, voice low and threatening. “I’ll heal, and I’ll remember, and I’ll get you next time…”

110 didn’t respond. He looked up towards the stands, where thousands of people were cheering for him, and held up his hand.

The people asked for blood.

“They’re more excited than usual today,” the countess remarked. “They don’t usually request the death sentence so often.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” Dominic asked, watching as 110 stepped closer to the scrambling 76.

“It’s good,” she replied, smiling. “It means they’re having fun.”

A hush fell as the distance between the challengers closed. Dominic turned to the countess.

“Is there any way to speak to the slaves?” he asked.

“Try activating the seal for a second,” she said. “It should go through if it’s quick.”

Dominic put a little more mana into the connection he could feel attached to him, and the seal on 110’s back pulsed gold for a moment.

110 noticed, glancing around. Dominic opened his mouth, and said one, concise line.

“Take his heart.”

The boy paused for a moment, then nodded. He turned back to 76 and stepped closer.

“You fucker, don’t—”

In an instant, his fingers had pierced through 76’s chest, crushing through his bones like sand, and wrapped around his beating heart.

It tore out with a sickening sound, the arteries and veins stretching beyond their limits, then snapping in a rain of red. It splattered all over 110, soaking him through. He stared as 76’s corpse fell limply backwards, then held the heart up for all to see.

He crushed it, the tissues exploding and dripping down his fingers.

The crowd went wild. They roared like they had never seen real victory before today. The ground rumbled with their voices. The countess hit the armrest of her seat with a fist, a huge smile on her face.

“Beautiful!” she shouted. “What a perfect finish!”

She turned to Dominic, still grinning widely.

“You really have a talent for this, Lio!”

He forced a smile back.

“Not as much as 110,” he said. “I just lucked out in choosing him.”

“You made a wise choice,” she replied. “Would you like to go down and greet your new gladiator? I can have someone lead you to the holding pens.”

“I’d like that,” Dominic answered. He’d take anything over having to spectate by her side.

The countess flicked her finger towards one of the maids at her side.

“You there, show him the way,” she commanded. The maid nodded, and he stood from his seat.

“Is it alright for me to leave you here alone?” he asked, hoping she’d say yes.

“Oh, don’t mind me, Lio,” she replied. “Take your time.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“You’re very welcome.”

He headed off with the maid, away from the ring. They went down into a corridor that tunneled underneath the stands, the roar of the stadium thumping above their heads, slowly fading until all that echoed was the sound of their footsteps.

When they reached a door, the maid unlocked it with a key she produced from her sleeve.

“It’s here, sir,” she said.

She held the door open, letting Dominic through. Before his eyes was a long room, a prison-like cell inside separated from him with a clear barrier that hummed with energy. Another hall extended from the other side, probably leading down from the arena. And inside, sitting on a stone step that had been cut out of the wall, was 110.

“I’ll wait in the hall, sir,” the maid said.

Dominic nodded.

“Okay.”

She bowed, then swiftly left, closing the door behind her. 110 was staring at him with piercing eyes, wary of what he was here for. The boy was still covered in 76’s blood.

“What’s your name?” Dominic asked, approaching the barrier.

110 didn't respond.

“Do you have one?” he continued.

No answer.

“If you don’t want to give me one, then I’ll just call you 110.”

Dominic waited a moment longer in that heavy silence, then nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “How old are you, 110?”

“You’re the heart guy,” the boy said all of a sudden.

His eyes, bright green, were striking as they fixed on Dominic.

“You told me to take his heart.”

He must have recognized his voice. Dominic didn’t hesitate to return the boy’s gaze.

“I did,” he said, taking a step closer. “Do you hate me?”

No response again. He glared, silent. The answer was obviously yes. Any slave would feel the same. But Dominic was fine with not making friends.

“Okay,” he said. “I got it. Can you tell me how old you are?”

110 studied him a moment longer before warily deciding it might be safe.

“Thirteen.”

“Your name?”

“None.”

He really didn’t have one? Dominic’s brow furrowed. He had already known the kinds of conditions Aster and his siblings had lived in while they were residents of Helwin’s slums. But this was a different kind of destitution. 110 was alone. He had no siblings, no family, no one to give him a name. He had nothing even to lose.

“Sorry,” Dominic said. “I misunderstood. Your mana…”

He paused for a moment, checking once more. It was the same as before.

“…it smells like an orchard.”

It didn’t feel like the mana of someone who had lived such a lonely, harsh life. 110 tensed, his fingertips digging into the ledge he was sitting on, cracking the stone.

“Shut up,” he said through gritted teeth.

His aura flickered, turning sharp like spines. He was subconsciously protecting himself. Perhaps those were memories he didn’t want to return to.

“Okay,” Dominic replied. Being yelled at was better than silence.

He studied 110, feeling his mana bristle. It had a strange, convoluted scent. Soil and fresh fruit. Branches dappled with sunlight. A dusting of blood and iron from the sands of the arena. And behind all of it: an out of place, metallic tang. Something like regret. Something like betrayal.

“Is there a name that you like?” he asked. “I don’t want to keep calling you 110.”

“…No.”

Dominic thought for a moment. Fruit trees and dead leaves and gold sunlight. The boy seemed to dislike those things. He imagined it in his head—their polar opposites. A chilling wind blowing through a desert. Clouds rising in front of your mouth as you breathe. No sound but your own footsteps. In the dark blue sky, cold white stars twinkle down.

“How about Ian?” Dominic asked.

110 looked wary.

“…Ian?” he repeated.

Dominic nodded.

The boy tilted his head, thinking it over.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Dominic replied. “It just reminded me of the white moon.”

Uliana, the white moon, the smaller of Denea’s two moons. Unlike Ymara, the red moon, it glowed cold and clear, like a shard of ice in the sky. He could not think of anything as different from an orchard bathed in midday sun than that.

“Ian…” the boy murmured to himself.

He glanced up at Dominic.

“Okay.”

It felt a little strange to see the boy accept it. Naming someone felt like it came with heavy responsibility, but it had come and gone in an instant.

“Ian,” Dominic said, “can you come over here for a moment?”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before finally hopping off the ledge and walking over.

He looked even thinner up close. It was hard to imagine the strength he had summoned in the previous match coming from such a small body.

Dominic reached out. His fingers hit the barrier between them, but the magic instantly parted like water around his hand. It pulsed erratically where it had broken, rippling with red light, protesting his presence. He softly placed his palm on Ian’s head, then uttered a single word.

“Heal.”

A gold glow spread from his head to his feet like hungry tendrils, enveloping his entire body. It swallowed that huge black tattoo, destroying the circuits that had been drawn in with the ink. Mana would always give way to a stronger force. That was the first thing anyone learned about magic. Dominic swept the magic holding the boy hostage away like a flood.

He retracted his hand. The barrier closed, returning to normal. Ian looked down at himself, eyes wide in surprise.

“How do you feel?” Dominic asked.

He put a hand on his chest, then clenched it. The stone floor cracked slightly under his feet.

“Good,” Ian replied.

Dominic unhooked the fan from his belt and opened it.

“That’s good.”

The boy looked up at him, green eyes scrutinizing him carefully.

“Do you need something from me?” he asked. He probably thought such a favor came with a price.

“I don’t,” Dominic answered.

“Can I do whatever I want?”

“As long as you don’t kill anyone important.”

The countess wouldn’t care at all what happened to a single fighter among the scores that decorated her arena. Dominic still needed to stay on her good side for the time being, so as long as Ian didn’t go off and kill a noble and draw attention to himself, it didn't matter what he did. He was free now.

The boy looked up at him, and seemed to come to a decision.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Dominic opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to be Lio, but he couldn’t be Dominic.

“I’ll tell you later,” he finally replied.

Ian nodded.

“Can I come with you?” he asked.

Dominic frowned.

“No,” he answered.

“What should I do if I can't come with you?”

“Run as far as you want.”

“Then I’ll run behind you.”

Ian looked resolute in his decision.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

Dominic pursed his lips. He could tell from the boy’s mana that his mind would not be changed.

“You can’t follow me,” he said. “Not now.”

“When?”

“Not as long as the countess is alive.”

He closed his fan.

“So run,” he said. “Run, or else you’ll have to stay here.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

Dominic’s grip tightened.

“What?”

“I’ll stay until then,” Ian repeated.

“You can’t.”

“I’ll stay and then run to you.”

“You can’t, Ian.”

“I will.”

He was choosing to remain in this place instead of claiming his freedom. What made it even harder to accept was that his mana conveyed just how unmoving his determination was. Nothing he said was going to change that. This wasn't what he had wanted. Instead of cutting a slave free cleanly, they’d just ended up stuck even closer.

“…You won't be able to run anywhere if you die here,” Dominic said.

“Then I won't die,” Ian answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ll still do it.”

He frowned even deeper.

“Even if you do, I won't let you come with me,” he said. “I won't guarantee your survival. I won't make any promises.”

He took a step back.

“You should just run while you can.”

“Okay.”

Dominic studied the boy’s happy expression, his decision unmoved, and sighed in resignation. He turned away.

“I’m not coming back, Ian.”

“See you later, no-name.”

He took one more glance over his shoulder. The boy’s eyes were shining, his body still covered in 76’s dried blood. His mana was flickering, swirling like a brief wind, cold like the moon.

Dominic pushed open the door and left the holding room.