Arena of Sin

Sand woke to the smell of poultices and paints. He found himself lying face down on the medical bed, his head pillowed on a rolled-up bundle of cloth. Slowly, gingerly so as to avoid jolting his wounds, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and inspected himself.

Strips of greyish cloth had been wrapped around his back and chest, replacing his loincloth in its function as a bandage. A pair of dark trousers several sizes too large had been put on him while he slept. Reaching backwards, he touched the bandages on his back, wincing when the movement affected the wound, sending a dull twinge of pain shooting through him. The bandage was still wet with whatever herbal poultice the medic had slathered on his back before wrapping him up. His fingertips came away dyed green from the juice seeping through the cloth. Bringing them up to his nose, he sniffed.

A mixture of wolfsbane to numb the pain and some antiseptic herb to prevent infections – he was unable to distinguish exactly what. Although he'd had much to do with herbs his previous life, they had mostly been of the magical kind. As a Dungeon chef, the ingredients he had needed – whether the blood or the herbs – all shared the same characteristics: they were dangerous to obtain. His knowledge of mortal herbs was limited.

Even though he couldn't identify the constituents of the poultice, he didn't worry. He had been marked by Kreg as the Fool. Even if the medic had ten times the courage, he wouldn't dare to blatantly fudge his treatment. While the attention of the orc was the bane of his existence, if he leveraged it well, it could also be his strongest backing.

Sand turned his gaze to one side off the room where the blind medic was crouching beside a vat of lye, introducing some rags into it. He dangled his feet over the side of the bed, the tips of his toes just touching the ground, then got off. He swayed unsteadily on his feet as a spell of dizziness assaulted him from his loss of blood. Supporting himself by a hand on the bed, he waited until the feeling passed. Tightening the drawstrings of his oversized trousers to prevent them from falling off and rolling up his pant legs to avoid them getting in the way, he made his way towards the old man.

When Sand was within five steps of the man, his head snapped around. He studied Sand with those sightless eyes of his before turning back to his work satisfied that he was no threat. Sand could empathize with that kind of reflex. When you were a slave, sometimes the only way to survive was to take the lives of your fellows. The most fearful thing wasn't the orc slavers, their behaviour was predictable. No, the most fearful thing was a knife in the dark from someone you had put your trust in. Several human heroes had died that way in Sand's previous life. Sometimes, the thing hindering humanity's progress was humanity itself.

"W-water." Sand croaked out, his voice cracking due to his parched throat.

Without turning back to him, the medic nodded towards the desk he'd been working at when Sand had barged into the room. Walking around it, Sand found a wooden mug filled with water and a piece of hard bread placed on the wooden stool. Picking the two things up and seating himself, he dipped the hard bread in the water to moisten it, then slowly sucked out the liquid.

Water was precious in the desert. For a slave, it was a delicacy to be savoured. It wouldn't do for him to suddenly start acting like the orcs and straight up chug the water down, even spilling some in his haste. Over the hundred years of his freedom, he'd been able to let loose slightly. He'd been able to enjoy a meal without worrying about the next one. He'd been able to drink water without trying to savour each drop. But in his current situation, that kind of unrestrained behaviour would draw attention. He'd made that mistake once – ending up whipped within an inch of his life and sold off to the mines. He wouldn't make it again.

As he alternately dunked the bread in the water and chewed on it to soften the tooth-breaking lump of dough, he watched the medic at work. The man was taking up strips of cloth from the pile by his side and placing them into the vat of lye, hanging them over the edge so that the entire strip didn't fall into the vat. The solution had already turned a dirty grey from the accumulated grime from all the strips. Sand narrowed his eyes as he recognized the rag being dunked into the vat. It was his bloodied loincloth. He touched the greyish bandages wrapped around him. 'So, they reuse the discarded cloth as bandages,' he thought.

After putting the last rag into the vat to soak, the medic rose with a groan, placing a hand on the small of his back and bending backwards slightly to limber his creaking joints. "Aah, youth," he remarked as he drew up a stool and sat down across the desk from Sand. "Such serious wounds and you're up and about within hours. Me? These frail old bones of mine grumble every time I need to squat to take a shit. I quite envy you."

Putting the last of the bread in his mouth, chewing, swallowing and washing it down with the last of the water, Sand placed the mug down on the desk and said, "And I haven't seen many folks get as old as you, old man."

The medic grinned at that, revealing a gap-toothed smile. "Now, that they don't. I guess I am lucky in my own way."

"Oi, old man, how come you can see? Your eyes sure don't seem to work."

"Brat! Hasn't anyone taught you manners?"

Sand frowned, "Gura used to want us to look at the ground when we were speaking to him. You want me to do that too?"

"No, no… not that. Ok, just forget it. It's not a secret. Might as well tell you. It's a skill shard called Estimation. You know mages have skill shards, right?"

"Mage! You're a mage!?" Sand's eyes shone with undisguised desire and excitement as he leaned forward in his seat.

The medic chuckled wryly and shook his head. "Just a Red Mage, brat. Nothing too special."

Sand shook his head vehemently, "Gura was a Red Mage and look at him lording it over us all. And Garo, the leader of our caravan, was just one step higher, a Yellow mage. Everyone looked at him with so much respect. A Red Mage is plenty strong."

"I'm the shoddiest kind of Red Mage… I wouldn't hold a candle to that orc master of yours. Let alone, my skill shard ain't for combat."

Sand shot him a disbelieving look but didn't press further. Instead he asked, "What's a skill shard? What does yours do?"

"Well, just being a Mage doesn't get you magic. You need skill shards for that. The kind you have determines what you can do. Mine, lets me see things and compare them instantly. Like, you put two piles of sand in front of me and I can tell at a glance which one has more grains. Can't tell the exact number, mind you, but I can tell which pile's bigger. My old master, before he lost me in a gamble to Kreg, got me this shard to better mix my poultices with."

"How does that let you see?" asked Sand doubtfully.

"It doesn't. It just lets me compare stuff. I just got good enough at using it so I could make up for my lost sight with it. I compare which part of the room has more air than the others, gives me the shape of the solid stuff. I compare which part is brighter and it gives me the light and shadows. I compare which colour is higher or lower up the rainbow and it lets me see in colour. Took me a while to get used to it, but now, I can do it as natural as breathing." He said smugly.

Sand didn't have to fake his amazement this time. With his life experience, acting out the role of a child wasn't that difficult. But the medic's magical achievement was truly shocking. There were innumerable skill shards in the world and they granted similarly varied skills. Some skills were common. Some uncommon. Some exceedingly rare. But a rarer skill wasn't necessarily stronger or more practical. A common Strength shard was much more practical than an Illusory Butterfly shard even though the latter was considered one of the rarest skills in existence. But above and beyond that was how well the Mage could utilize their shard. The slightly uncommon Estimate skill shard that was used by merchants and pharmacists to quickly compare quantities, in the medic's hand, had turned into his second sight.

'And it is only at Tier 1 right now. If he manages to promote it to Tier 2? Tier 3? Tier 5? To the level of a Dungeon?' Sand could only imagine what the man could achieve. A thought floated up in his mind, 'Can I use him?' He immediately discarded the notion. The man was too old. Too far past his prime to achieve anything significant. His natural talent was bad otherwise he wouldn't have remained as a Red Mage for all his life. And only this one skill wasn't enough to determine his value. If he wasn't equally talented in the other four of his major skills, he wouldn't be able to merge them to create his Dungeon in the end. Sand gave up on recruiting him but decided to maintain a good relationship with him in case he came in use later.

"But…" the medic seemed hesitant to say something before finally clenching his teeth and making a decision. "You… you want to be a mage, right?"

"Of course!" exclaimed Sand.

"Listen to this old man. Don't." Seeing Sand's scowl, he hastily continued, "Wait! Hear me out. Look, they'll give you a shot at becoming a mage… It strengthens the endurance a lot. It's so you can work for them more with less breaks. That's fine. But if you show too much potential, your fate will be very pitiful. Much worse than staying here. So, whatever you do, if you follow their instructions and see yourself getting quick results. Hide it from them. Keep it secret. Slack off. Just don't let them find out. Wherever they send you will be much worse than here."

Sand stood up angrily, knocking his stool over. "You're a mage!" he exclaimed loudly, "I don't see you any worse off. You're the oldest person I know. You have a comfortable place to stay and sleep. You get enough food and water. I think you're just scared! You're scared that I'll be a better mage than you!" Slamming the desk with his palm to emphasize his last word, Sand spun on his heel and strode towards the door.

"Wait!" the medic called out.

Pausing in his tracks, "What!?" demanded Sand irately without looking back.

With a deep sigh, the old man shuffled over to a cupboard and brought out a neatly folded tunic. "Just take this with you." he said as he walked over to Sand and handed it to him.

"Hmph." Snatching the clothes out of his hand, Sand stormed out of the clinic with a snort, slamming the door behind him. Once in the corridor, when he was sure no one was watching, his face became an emotionless mask, his eyes two portals into the abyss. He glanced down at the tunic in his hand and ran his fingers over the rough but well-worn cloth. He had been quite surprised at the medic's warning. By leaking such an important piece of information, the old man was putting himself in substantial danger. His concern was sincere, not a façade.

It wasn't that Sand was being over-suspicious. For the medic to live that long, become a mage and even get a shard, he must have been the Favour of his previous master. Who knew how many times he'd suppressed his fellow slaves with schemes and tricks – how much benefit he'd brought to the orcs by infringing on the benefits of the humans to finally crawl up to his current position. Trusting him outright would have been foolish to say the least. But now, it was different. He was the current Fool. Helping him was taboo. Leaking important information, to him, was nearly suicidal. Why did the man do it? The pangs of his musty conscience? Sand didn't know. He didn't care. But since he had tried to help him, Sand wouldn't implicate the man. That was why he had pretended to part on bad terms with him for the benefit of any watchers.

As for where the slaves who displayed excellent magical talent went? Of course Sand knew about it. It had become his goal the moment he had realized his situation. As a future Dungeon Mage, his magical talent was obviously extraordinary. There was no doubt he'd be selected. His next step towards freedom: becoming a Gladiator in the Arena of Sin.