Behind the hotel was a narrow alley.
Perhaps it was the nightly clamor of patrons at the Blaze and Blood Tavern that had prompted the residences on both sides of the alley to bolt their tavern-facing windows shut tight. Lorist glanced around, found nothing out of the ordinary, straightened his attire, and set off toward the royal colosseum.
The Imperial Guard Corps' camp was still ablaze with candlelight. One could even hear women's shrieks and lewd laughter drifting from within. The slave-hunting guild members and mercenaries who had been forced to form the Atonement Corps lived by the philosophy of drinking today because tomorrow they might die, and had turned the once-orderly military encampment into a cesspool of debauchery. The main gate saw a constant stream of people coming and going; even the sentries had abandoned their posts, lounging in twos and threes, dozing or drinking, letting people pass freely…
Lorist now cut the figure of a debauched, down-on-his-luck mercenary. He reeked of cheap liquor, his hair hung loose and wild, and he clutched a bottle of rotgut in one hand. He muttered to himself as he stumbled and swayed toward the main gate.
A sentry spotted Lorist, his eyes lighting up as he walked over. Naturally, all his attention was focused on the bottle swinging in Lorist's hand.
"Hey there, brother, you've had quite a bit, haven't you? Still on your feet?" The sentry made a show of steadying Lorist while one hand snaked toward the bottle. He gave it a tug, but Lorist gripped it tightly, and the bottle wasn't wrenched free.
Lorist slurred, "A toast to His Majesty! We're heading to the battlefield! Give me another drink… blegh…"
The sentry clapped Lorist on the back. "Brother, if you're going to be sick, go throw up in that alley over there. I'll hold your drink for you, and you can have it back when you're done."
This time Lorist let go, and the sentry snatched the bottle away. Eyeing the still-more-than-half-full bottle with satisfaction, the sentry gave Lorist a shove. "Go on, then…"
He wiped the mouth of the bottle and started gulping down the liquor.
Lorist staggered and groped his way toward the alley beside the military camp, making loud retching sounds as he went.
The moment he entered the alley, Lorist was startled. A dozen or so drunkards lay scattered across the ground in every direction. The air was thick with a nauseating stench — vomit and the sour smell of booze everywhere, making one's stomach churn.
Holding his nose, Lorist hurried through the alley. Before him stood the royal colosseum, looming in the darkness like a silent magical beast — vast, majestic, and exuding a faint scent of blood. It was the unique smell born of decades of blood spilled by thousands upon thousands of slave gladiators, soaked deep into the colosseum's earth…
From the darkness came faint roars of magical beasts — the cries of hunger from the creatures kept in the colosseum…
The main gate of the royal colosseum was locked tight. By the light of four torches inside, Lorist could make out two guards leaning against the stone wall of the corridor behind the iron doors, dozing. Lorist circled the colosseum quickly and found that the rear gate and all four side gates were sealed shut as well. Sneaking in from below was out of the question.
Lorist spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and began scaling the uneven stone wall. His body clung to the surface like a gecko, and he quickly reached the top of the arched decorative parapet before flipping himself over into the colosseum.
The spectator stands on both sides of the colosseum rose quite high — some ten tiers, each about a meter tall, lined with rows of stone seats. The two ends in the middle were the lowest points, but near the main entrance stood a tall tower that served as both a watchtower and an alarm bell tower. Opposite the tower was the grandstand and private boxes — the exclusive domain where nobles and other dignitaries watched the gladiatorial spectacles.
The center of the colosseum was a broad, sunken arena, sitting five or six meters below the surrounding stands. Unlike the rough outer stone walls Lorist had climbed, the arena's inner walls — the ones encircling the stands — were coated in green plaster and perfectly smooth. This was to prevent desperate slave gladiators from scaling the walls and harming the audience above.
Under the silver moon, the arena floor held no hazy, silver moonlight. Instead, it was a dull, lightless black. The metallic tang of blood Lorist had been smelling emanated from this very ground. Night wind swept across the empty colosseum, and in its wake came phantom sounds — the clash of steel, the death wails of the dying, and desperate roars of defiance…
It was here that
If that was how they saw things, then there was no need to treat them as humans either…
A hint of blood-red crept into Lorist's eyes. The sight before him stirred an involuntary surge of killing intent. He looked left and right — no one on the tower. On a night like this, no one wanted to stand exposed to the wind atop a tower overlooking an empty colosseum. Lorist strode quickly up the tower. A flash of his sword, and the rope binding the alarm bell fell away.
After descending, he tossed the rope into the arena. Without the rope, the alarm bell couldn't be sounded anytime soon should something happen.
Beneath the colosseum lay a labyrinth of underground dungeons, said to have once held over five thousand slave gladiators at the height of its operation.
The iron gate was secured with an iron bolt and a heavy iron chain. No obstacle for Lorist. He drew his short sword, channeled his inner force, and with two sharp snaps cut through both the bolt and the chain. The gate creaked open. Lorist listened carefully — no sound from anywhere. He slipped inside, pulled the gate shut behind him, and rewrapped the chain around it. That way, even if a patrol passed by without looking closely, they wouldn't notice anything amiss.
After about a dozen steps, he reached a fork. Lorist thought for a moment and took the left passage. After several dozen meters, three more branches appeared. Now he was starting to worry — he hadn't even reached the underground level yet and there were already this many corridors. One wrong turn and he could easily lose his way.
Pressing his ear against the wall, he listened. From the left passage came the murmur of voices. Lorist crept through the darkness toward the left. Ahead, a patch of light appeared — two torches stuck into the wall. In their glow, two shirtless guards were wiping themselves down with hemp cloth. In front of them sat a large wooden tub filled with water.
"Come on, you don't need to scrub that hard. Let's get to sleep — we've got the morning shift down below tomorrow…" one guard said.
"No way. Tonight, Great Swordmaster Benag tortured that slave gladiator to death, and his blood splattered all over my neck. I feel sick — if I don't get this clean, I won't be able to sleep. I'll have nightmares…" the other replied.
The first guard laughed. "Ha! Who told you to get so close trying to kiss up to Great Swordmaster Benag? I knew nothing good would come of it, so I watched from a safe distance. You should know, Benag has always been eccentric. Even if you try to suck up to him, you won't get anything out of it."
"I wasn't looking for any reward. I just hoped Benag might put in a good word for me. You know, I've been in the Imperial Guard for seven years — long enough to be promoted to vice squad leader. But that squad leader bastard keeps blocking me. I know he's trying to push his brother-in-law into the position instead. But that brother-in-law has three fewer years of service than me and is still stuck at Bronze rank — completely unfit. So the squad leader just sits on my promotion paperwork and screws me over…" the soldier grumbled.
"Forget it, Stamm. You shouldn't have ticked off the squad leader back then. He's petty — of course he's not going to make things easy for you. But I heard something this evening from Sured at the front gate. Apparently, someone came looking for that sword-crazy kid today. The squad leader flatly refused and said the kid had already left. But Sured said the visitor probably wouldn't give up. In a day or two, some major noble might come asking questions. If you leaked the information then, the squad leader would be in deep trouble — he'd have no choice but to take the fall…"
"That's not a good idea." Stamm rejected it immediately. "You know that sword-crazy kid has caught the eye of Great Swordmaster Benag. I just don't see what Benag sees in him. Sure, he's Silver Three-Star, but his comprehension is mediocre at best, and he's too soft-hearted. He fights those slave gladiators with swords but can't bring himself to go for the kill. That's the problem with all those young masters — if you don't have a ruthless heart, how can you ever grasp the true essence of the sword…"
"Heh heh…" The first soldier laughed. "You don't know, do you? What caught Benag's eye was the kid's wealth. Behind him stands the Peterson Trading Company — one of the seven pillars of the Commercial Alliance. If Benag became his sword instructor, setting everything else aside, he'd be pulling in an annual stipend of two to three thousand Gold Forde.
Think about it — the kid comes to our colosseum to spar with those slave gladiators and spends twenty to thirty Gold Forde a day. Add in tips, and in just over a month he's burned through nearly a thousand. And the kid didn't even flinch at spending that much gold. That's what really got Benag interested."
Lorist was elated. He had finally found Earl's whereabouts.
The two soldiers finished cleaning up and turned to enter a room behind them. But Stamm soon emerged again, muttering complaints about someone's snoring being too loud and disruptive, and went into a room across the hall.
Once things quieted down on that side, Lorist slipped over and quickly surveyed the area. The two rows of rooms facing each other here were all soldier barracks. Currently, some seventy-odd soldiers slept inside. Lorist reached the room Stamm had entered and pushed the door open.
"Who is it?" Stamm was already lying in bed, not yet asleep. He raised his head when he heard someone enter.
The room was dimly lit, but he could still make out about a dozen beds. Only Stamm occupied one. It seemed Dray's intelligence was accurate — the colosseum's garrison had been reduced from a thousand to just two hundred, leaving all these beds empty.
Lorist said nothing as he approached Stamm's bed. A flash of steel, and the long sword was pressed against Stamm's neck.
Stamm was terrified. "You — who are you? What do you want—"
Lorist spoke. "Never mind who I am. I just want to know where our young master is."
"Young master? How would I know where your young master is? You — you must have the wrong person…" Stamm replied, bewildered.
"I recognize you. Our young master entered the colosseum to train several times, and you were the one who escorted him through the gates. I remember our young master even tipped you," Lorist said.
"A bodyguard, is it? Well, you're right to come here looking for your young master, but you've got the wrong guy. You can't handle this — you need to have some major noble from the royal city step in, or have your trading company send a Great Swordmaster. Your young master is indeed here, but he's caught the interest of Great Swordmaster Benag, who wants to take him as a disciple. Your young master is too stubborn — he refused outright, which angered Benag. Now he's been placed under house arrest."
"Then why did your squad leader deny our young master was here when our trading company's people came looking for him this evening?" Lorist asked in a low, tight voice.
"Hey, brother, that's none of my business. Mainly it's because of Benag's eccentric temper. The squad leader was afraid that if Benag lost control and something happened to your young master, he'd be able to shift the blame early by claiming ignorance. If someone dies here, you just toss the body into the magical beast cage and there's no evidence left. Then it's a case of death with no proof." Stamm harbored deep resentment toward the squad leader and eagerly flung mud his way. He was thinking clearly — a young master with hidden bodyguards was obviously from an important family. If the squad leader got into trouble over this, his own opportunity might finally come.
"Get up and get dressed. Take me to see our young master. I need to confirm he's safe." Lorist tapped Stamm's cheek with the flat of his sword. "If you help with this, our trading company will reward you generously. Here's a deposit."
A flash of light, and a small torch appeared in Lorist's hand, illuminating the room. While Stamm squinted against the sudden glare, a gold certificate shimmering with golden light drifted down onto his face.
"You have two choices. One: take me to see our young master, and once he's out safely, you'll be rewarded handsomely. Two: refuse my request and be silenced by me, after which I'll find someone more cooperative. There are sixty or seventy men in here — I'm sure at least one of them will work with me." Lorist's hoarse voice whispered in Stamm's ear.
Stamm gritted his teeth, snatched the gold certificate from the bedhead, examined it in the torchlight to verify its authenticity, then kissed it. "A man dies for wealth. I'll go with you. But you can't go dressed like that — you'll be spotted."
Lorist pointed to the bed beside him, where a set of Imperial Guard Corps standard-issue equipment lay — pilfered from the soldiers' sleeping quarters. "I've already prepared. Put on this gear and I'll pass as one of your soldiers. This copper helmet even has a visor, perfect for hiding my identity. You and I will walk the rounds as normal. You take me to see our young master, and I just need to confirm he's alive."
…(To be continued.)