Blood and Sand: A Wandering Inn Quest (Isekai/LitRPG)

The other [Slaves] are starting another round of betting. You can hear it as a sort of buzz in the background with only intermittent snatches of words. None of them seem upset about the dying girl. Nor do they seem surprised.

She's probably not the first they've seen. And from the way they're carefully not looking at her as the sands soak up her life's blood, they know she won't be the last they see, either. The next pit fight starts, and the [Slaves] roar and shout as they watch those who are being trained to be gladiators, but you can't look away from that dying girl.

You walk through the crowd and into the bubble of open space that the [Slaves] have left around her. You kneel beside her and reach out, but your hand hovers uncertainly over her. What can you even do for her?

She's shivering, even in the desert heat. Her eyes turn to you, and you see a brief spark of hope kindle there. "H-healing potion?" she asks, her voice soft and quiet. She has a nice voice, you think - not hypnotic, or beautiful, or commanding - just nice. You'd expected it to be harsh, strained, barely intelligible from her wounds.

You don't know how to tell her that you're not here to heal her. Maybe if you were a doctor you could stitch her back together, could keep the life from leaving her, but you're not. You're an economist, and the only thing you can do is calculate the simple math that means her life is worth less than a healing potion. Or maybe it's not the healing potion. Maybe she's worth more as a victim - as experience - for Barqus.

Something in your expression answers the slave girl, and that spark of hope fades from her eyes. She slumps back into the sands, eyes squeezing shut from the pain. "But… but I did - " she pauses, interrupted by a series of wet, hacking coughs. "I did everything they told me to do," she says.

You don't know what to do. You just… you don't want her to die like this. Alone and abandoned, thrown aside like so much trash.

A shadow looms over you, blotting out the setting sun. "First?" asks the shadow, its voice like gravel.

"What?" you ask.

"First sight of death?" asks Melanhir, squatting down next to you. He still towers over you, black feathers seeming to absorb the light and warmth of the desert, leaving you chilled.

"Yes," you say.

He leans over the dying girl, his predatory gaze sweeping over her. "Deep bleeding," he says. "Five minutes."

"Until she dies?" you ask.

"Until sleep. Death? Twenty."

The girl's eyes flutter open, unfocused. Her gaze shifts to Melanhir. "Executioner?" she whispers. "But I did what I was told. What I was supposed to. I was a good [Slave]."

Its hard for you to read Melanhir's expression. He has the beady eyes and beak of a bird, but something about him seems… not sad, but resigned. "Not Executioner," he says. "But if I was? You would not feel my scythe." It's the first time you've heard him speak a complete sentence.

The slave girl seems to take some comfort in that. "I'm cold," she says. "And it hurts."

"Is there anything we can do for her?" you ask.

Melanhir turns his black gaze upon you. "Why?"

"Because she's dying."

"So?"

You pause, blindsided by the question. You feel like something is wrong, like the world is off balance, or maybe it's just you, because you shouldn't have to explain why watching this girl die upsets you. "Because she's a [Slave], like us," you say. "Because she's a person. Because she didn't deserve this. Because… because!"

"If I was still… if there was a [Shaman]," Melanhir says. "Could help. But now? Only know one way to make her pain stop." He flexes the nimble, razor-sharp talons near the ends of his wings.

"Isn't there something else? Something we can say to her, some prayer, something, anything?"

"Prayer?" asks Melanhir.

"I'm not religious, but what about her?" you ask. "Does she worship some god or - "

"The gods are dead," Melanhir says.

"Oh," you say dumbly. You'd never even considered that gods might be real in this world. Magic was. But even with magic, it seems there are no miracles.

The dying girl is reaching for something. You take her hand in yours.

"So cold," she whispers. "Never wanted to be cold. Wanted to live in Baleros. Heard the swamps never get cold."

You can't do anything more than clutch her hand to yours, trying to share that tiny bit of warmth and humanity with her.

"She is a stranger to you," Melanhir says. "Not even human. You treat her as one of your tribe."

"She's a person," you answer, as if that says it all. And it does.

Melanhir sighs. "Arrogance. Foolishness. All people are not your tribe," he says. Then he reaches out with one of his wings, resting it atop your other hand. He grips you with the talons of his hands. They're sharp, and his grip is strong, like the predator he so resembles, but delicate enough to not cut you.

"But if you truly think she is… " he says. And for a moment, all of his attention is focused on the joining of your hands.

A moment later he pulls his arm away, and you feel like he took a piece of you with it. Your breath comes in labored gasps, like you've just run a marathon. And above his talons, a tiny speck of light hovers. It's so small it's barely visible even in the setting sun. A thing so very small, and yet Melanhir's arms waver as he holds it, as if he cannot bear the weight.

"Harder without Class," he croaks. "But possible." He leans over the dying girl, bringing that tiny light above her chest. And then he releases it.

The tiny speck of light sinks from his hand, falling through his feathers and into the dying girl's chest. Her shivering slows, then stops.

"Ah," she says. "It's warm."

Her grip doesn't grow any stronger, and her life's blood still stains the sands. But something is different, and you bow your head, tears welling in your eyes.

She continues to mumble weakly for several more minutes, and though you strain to hear her voice you can't understand anything else she says, until eventually she falls silent. Her shallow breaths grow uneven. Eventually they stop, and her hand slips from your grasp as the life leaves her and her skin fades to rough cloth. You look down at the pile of bloodstained hemp that used to be a [Slave]. And before that, a person.

The fighting in the pit doesn't stop. At some point Melanhir is pulled into the ring, though you're in no state to observe the fight. When the sun sets, lanterns are set up that glow with a steady, magical light that would be pretty if it wasn't illuminating something so disgusting. By the time the night's work is over, all the [Slaves] are bloodied and exhausted. They'll be fine in the morning, though, thanks to the Sheik's Skill. Then they can do this again tomorrow night, and the night after, and for every night after that.

They stagger back to the canvas tarp that is their only bedding. Apparently [Quick Recovery] doesn't work if they sleep on the ground, but the tarp doesn't count as such. If it were a game, you'd call it a clever abuse of mechanics. Now it just makes you sad.

You follow Livia and Sophie back to the Sheik's wagon. The Sheik himself is in grand spirits, seeming invigorated by how the night went. He expresses high hopes for the levels of some of his [Slaves], and points out the finer details of some of the matches with his daughter. His only mention of the girl who died is to caution Livia against relying on killing [Slaves] to level others, as it becomes cost ineffective by level twenty.

You board the wagon and lie down in your tiny closet. You're terrified of sleep, of hearing that voice calling out to you and calling you [Slave], but when sleep finally claims you it does so in silence.

In the morning, Sophie summons you to continue your lessons with the [Slaves]. You debate ignoring her, because teaching means helping Livia. Which means being a part of… all of this.

But what's the alternative? Refusing? Becoming fodder for the arena yourself? Nothing will change if you do. And at least as long as you're teaching them, the slaves aren't being forced to fight and die. So you get up, wash the dried blood from your hands, and go to teach your students.


----------


Rolling… 115



Two weeks pass this way. You teach philosophy to [Slaves] in the morning, rest through the height of the sun, teach economics to Livia in the afternoon, and spend your evenings watching the [Gladiators] fight. No more have yet died, though you know that won't last.

Today's lesson with the [Slaves] focuses on the dramatic-sounding Principle of Explosion.

"So, wait, there's no actual explosions?" Voxitel asks, sounding incredibly disappointed.

"Last thing we need is you bein' able to blow things up by thinkin' 'bout 'em," grunts Traban.

"Why is it called that, then?" asks Barqus.

You freeze for a moment, and you have to force yourself to look away from him before you answer the question. He's your student, yes, one you're forced to teach - but he's also a [Murderer] who enjoyed killing that girl.

"Because it 'explodes' any logical system that contains a contradiction," you explain. "The basic concept is that if you can prove a contradiction - that a thing and its opposite are simultaneously true - then you can use that contradiction to prove that anything, no matter how ridiculous or obviously false, is true."

You get a series of blank and confused looks, which you'd expected. It's not exactly an intuitive leap of logic.

"We're going to use another simple argument, like we started with: two premises that we'll assume are correct, and a conclusion that must necessarily follow. Our two premises are 'All humans are men' and 'not all humans are men.'"

Two weeks ago, this would have derailed the lesson for at least an hour as they pointed out, correctly, that not all humans are men. Katrin is a human who's not a man, and she's right there. But today, they simply think about the two statements for a moment, then shrug and nod. Progress.

"Now, given those assumptions, is the statement 'all humans are men or sand tastes like sugar' correct?"

They look to each other, confirming that nobody else seems to find this statement objectionable. Then they nod. Again, progress - they've learned that the others have better instincts on certain word games.

"However," you begin, enjoying the way Traban crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at that much-hated word, "We also know that the first part of that statement 'all humans are men' is incorrect, because one of our assumptions is 'not all humans are men.' So for the statement to be correct, the second half of it must be true. Thus, sand tastes like sugar."

You're not even surprised when Voxitel immediately bends down and licks the sand. He immediately begins coughing and spitting. "No it doesn't!" he says, sounding betrayed.

"No, it doesn't," you agree. "Which is the problem, and why you can't have an argument where you hold two opposites true at the same time. Now, does anyone have questions?"

There are several, mostly related to magic and Skills. You fumble your way through those, having no real answer for 'how does that work with Spells that alter reality' and similar questions. Part of the problem is that magic like that is legendary, and none of the [Slaves] here claim to have ever seen anything like it.

Though you note that Melanhir doesn't claim to have not seen it, either.

Either way, it's time for you to wrap up the lesson. You like to leave them with a logic puzzle, something they can think on in their own time. "Imagine a barber," you say. "He shaves every person who does not shave themselves. Also, he only shaves those people."

Your five students look at you suspiciously. In theory, such a person is fairly easy to imagine. There's nothing logically wrong with any of those statements individually. The concept of such a person doesn't seem unfeasible, not until you ask the question that actually forms the paradox.

"Does this barber shave himself?" you ask.

Voxitel raises his hand. "What's a barber?"

You resist the urge to palm your face. After a moment, you realize the problem: of your five students, three of them aren't human and don't have hair. Traban and Katrin are the only ones who actually understood the question, and neither are the type to speak up without being called on directly.

"Let me rephrase, then," you say. What's something you know they all know about? "Imagine a [Teacher]. He teaches every person who does not teach themselves. He only teaches those people. Does he teach himself?"

Now the question truly dawns on them. You get no small amusement out of watching their faces shift as they move through the problem, while Voxitel sounds out his thought process out loud.

"He teaches everyone who doesn't teach themselves. So obviously he teaches himself. But then he teaches himself, and he's supposed to only teach people who don't teach themselves. And… "

You let him flail for a few moments before interrupting. "Does anyone have an answer?" you ask. "Traban?"

The dwarf grunts. "There's a trick. The [Barber] can't do all of those things."

He's not wrong, and has the more-or-less correct answer. "But what part of it is false?" you ask. "You can't just say that the conclusion is wrong; you have to tell me why it's wrong."

Traban crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at you mulishly. But he doesn't have an answer.

"I thought we were talking about a [Teacher]," Voxitel mutters.

"Is there an assumption that we missed?" asks Barqus.

Your jaw clenches, and you hesitate before answering. "Is there?"

Barqus frowns, but doesn't expand on his question.

"The [Barber] shaves everyone who doesn't shave themselves, and only them," Katrin mutters, before leaning to sketch into the sands. Her usage of symbolic logic is crude, but better than you'd expect from someone who's only known the subject exists for two weeks.

"If he shaves everyone who doesn't shave themselves, then he isn't shaving himself. And if he isn't shaving himself, then he isn't shaving everyone who doesn't shave themselves. So if we reframe 'shaving' as X… " she trails off. "This is just 'X and not X,' isn't it? It's a contradiction. So it's impossible. Explosion."

You nod. "Very good. The situation is impossible."

"That's a terrible riddle," Barqus says.

"It's not supposed to have a clever answer," you say. "It's supposed to point out how self reference can cause problems for logic. Which is why our next lesson will be on 'set theory.'"

"Oh, no," Voxitel mutters. "Not another new thing. I still don't know what a [Barber] is!"


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That evening, you're forced to watch the [Gladiators] fight once again. This time, it's Katrin against a pair of Hemp [Slaves] wielding blunted spears. She's exhausted from a day laboring beneath the sun, her arms shaking as she holds up a wooden rapier. The tip of the practice weapon drifts from one slave to the other, holding them back with the threat of it.

Then she commits, lunging forwards across the sand faster than your eye can follow. You hear her call out a Skill. "[Quick Step]."

"[Shield Block]/[Quick Thrust]," the pair of [Slaves] call out, speaking in unison. Katrin's thrust is pulled towards the shield of one, like a magnet, and before she can recover the other thrusts his spear towards her chest. She tries to duck out of the way, but ends up taking the blow to the head instead.

She crumples to the ground bonelessly. The catcalls and betting of the other [Slaves] comes to an immediate halt, and the two [Slaves] she'd been fighting look at each other uncertainly. Is she… ?

Katrin groans, pushing herself up to her knees. There's a gash along her scalp, and her blonde hair is matted with sand and blood. The [Slaves] let her fumble for her weapon and slowly rise, clearly relieved that they hadn't killed her. [Gladiators] are pushed to their limits, but carefully - the Sheik has invested deeply into each of them, and the life of a single [Slave] pales in comparison.

The exiled noblewoman runs her tongue across her split lip, then spits a glob of blood onto the sand. She takes a deep breath, then sets herself again. She raises her off hand and gestures to the two [Slaves]. Come.

It's a good taunt. Dramatic, and one that the Sheik had probably trained her in, but it still sets the crowd to cheering. However, even you can see that she's even unsteadier on her feet than she was before the fall.

But when the two [Slaves] inch forwards, Katrin gives them a bloody grin. "[Sword Art: Explosion Thrust]."

She lunges forwards, and for a moment you see a repeat of her last attack. The two [Slaves] call out their Skills once more - but when the spear thrusts forwards this time, your vision flickers. Katrin's not off balance and overextended, because she never moved. The sand beneath her feet is flat and undisturbed, as if she never took a step. The [Slaves] recover quickly, turning to face her -

And your vision blurs a third and final time, revealing Katrin standing behind the two [Slaves]. She had both attacked and remained still, even though doing both was impossible - and in that moment where she could have done either, she had a moment where she could do anything.

Principle of Explosion.

She smacks the two of them in the back of the head with her rapier, hard enough that you can hear the impact over the sudden roar of the crowd - but not quite as hard as she could have. The two [Slaves] toss their weapons to the sands, admitting defeat after being 'killed,' and the audience rushes the field, clapping Katrin on the back and cheering her turnabout victory.

You do not join them. You can feel the vicarious thrill of victory, the joy of your student's success. But you know too well that the emotions spring from a pit of blood and sand, and so you can't do anything but hate every moment of it. There's no glory here.

Katrin credits you, of course. In that moment where she was knocked unconscious, she consolidated [Student] and [Fencer], and is now a [Learned Duelist]. Livia looks incredibly smug about the news, and her father eyes you with intense interest. Then the next match is arranged, and [Slaves] begin attacking each other for the gold and amusement of their indifferent master.

No glory, indeed.

When you sleep that night, you're not surprised by the voice.


[Teacher Level 6!]

[Skill – Shared Reference obtained!]


==========


Livia intends to reward you for your success in teaching the students. What does she give you?

[ ] Something for you
Better bedding, clothes, food, or other comforts

[ ] Something to help you teach
A blackboard, pens and paper, books, or other teaching aids

[ ] Something for your students
She can't permanently improve their conditions - they're not hers - but she could get them something nice

[ ] Write-in
You could always ask for something more ambitious