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

[NewRole]

You roll out of bed, and your bare feet touch down upon scorching sands instead of the carpet of your bedroom. You flinch at the pain, still not awake, and fall backwards, tumbling down a sand dune instead of back into your bed. By the time you reach the bottom, you're bruised and confused.

You don't sleep in a desert. You don't live near a desert. And yet the hot sands beneath you feel realer than any dream. You force yourself to your feet and look about, trying to get your bearings - but all you can see are towering dunes of sand. It takes several minutes of panting and climbing to ascend the sands that you'd fallen down in mere seconds, and you pause at the top, taking a moment to catch your breath.

The sun is all but blinding, reflected off the dunes, and your eyes water as you try to squint and catch your bearings. Your surroundings all look the same to you - featureless dunes of golden sand, stretching out to the far-distant horizon. Despair and confusion seize you; how did you even get here?

Then you catch sight of a small caravan - a few dozen people on foot, several more on horseback, and a pair of wagons. Your heart leaps to your throat. Safety!

They notice you at the same time you notice them, and three of the mounted people peel off and head towards you. As they close, you realize that they're riding camels, not horses, and that each is garbed in yellow, their pants tight but their sleeves long and loose enough to billow in the wind. To your surprise, each bears a sword on their hip.

They stop a few dozen yards away from you. One pulls a chunk of quartz from his saddle for some reason before leaning down over his saddle to shout out to you. To your surprise, he speaks perfect English. "Ho, traveler! Do you wander the Zeikhal alone?"

The Zeikhal? You've never heard of that desert. "I'm lost," you say.

"A terrible thing," he calls out. "Have your companions abandoned you?"

"I think I'm alone," you admit.

The mounted man looks down to the chunk of quartz, which shifts from off-white to a clear blue. He grins down at it, then stows the crystal and turns to whisper to his compatriots. You have sudden misgivings about this encounter.

The three camel-mounted men finish their discussion and move to surround you. Your instinct is to run, but - to where? Even if you could escape these men on foot, where would you go?

"No free man wanders the Zeikhal alone and unprepared," announces the man you spoke to before. "Only a slave or madman would be so foolish, and you seem sane enough."

"I am not a slave!" you shout, eyes darting for some possible escape.

The three men laugh uproariously, one doubling over his saddle as he fails to contain his mirth, as if you have told some great joke.

"You are now," says the leader, wiping away a tear of mirth from his eye.

You try to run.

You do not get far.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is hot above you, and the sands scorch at your bare, blistered feet, but the iron collar about your neck is what truly burns. There are two dozen other slaves around you, trudging through a sandy wasteland for which you have no name. You had asked where you were, of course, but your only answer had been a blow to the back of your head and a shouted order that slaves were to remain silent on the march. After that you keep your head down, lest you draw the attention of the guards once more. Soon enough it was all you could do to keep pace with the others, and every time you begin to falter you're driven back into position by a camel-mounted guard.

Your entire world has narrowed to the pain of your blistered feet and the sunburns on your exposed skin by the time the caravan comes to a stop. You look up for the first time in hours and realize that the sun has begun to set. The other slaves begin to line up at the back of the of the wagon which you'd followed for the entire day, but when you go to join them you're dragged aside by two of the guards.

They take you ahead to the next wagon, which is a solid wood construction painted with every color of the rainbow. The azure blue roof is sloped and tiled, like a house. The sides are carved with intricate geometric patterns, and are long enough that a half dozen glass windows grace each side. You have little time or energy to study the artistry of it, and are quickly dragged up a ramp and inside the wagon.

A wave of disorientation strikes you. The inside is, impossibly, larger than the outside - the space you find yourself in is large enough to fit an entire house, and there are doors and stairs set into the walls that indicate there's even more space you cannot see. It's also cool here, as if air conditioned, and you shiver as your sweat-soaked clothes turn frigid.

At the center of the room is a massive wooden desk, almost entirely covered in neatly-organized stacks of paper and leather-bound books, but for the center, which is dominated by a large map. A man sits behind the desk, making careful measurements with a protractor and entering notes into one of the journals.

He wears a loose robe dyed a deep blue, and each of his fingers is adorned by at least one golden ring, most of them jeweled. Unlike his guards, he wears no turban, leaving his shoulder-length black hair exposed. The man looks up at your arrival, and you're struck by how impossibly… perfect… he looks. Like a Greek statue come to life, with the sort of chiseled jawline and nose that you mentally associate with plastic surgery. Perhaps recent surgery, given the fine stitches that mar his otherwise perfectly smooth skin.

One of the guards grabs you by the shoulders. "On your knees before the Sheik!" The command is accompanied with a blow to your legs, sending you sprawling to the floor.

The Sheik observes in silence, golden-brown eyes flicking across your burned skin, sweat-soaked clothing, and bare feet. He calls out over his shoulder, "Livia, come."

One of the side doors opens, and a small girl emerges. She can't be older than twelve, but she bears the same statuesque features as the caravan master, and they look even more out of place and unnatural on the face of a child, even if you ignore the stitches. She wears a loose robe of the same style as the Sheik, though dyed a lighter shade of blue.

"Yes, Father?"

"Today you will learn how to assess the value of a new acquisition. As you grow in your Class, you may learn Skills that will aid you, but - "

"But I won't level if I only rely on my Skills," she finishes, with the air of something oft repeated.

Levels? What?

"Just so. Now - slave, attend us."

It takes a moment for you to realize he means you, which is moment enough for the guard to curse and cuff you in the back of your head for the perceived insolence. The guard hauls you to your feet before the Sheik's daughter, so that she can more easily inspect you.

The little girl with the creepy face peers at you through what looks like a jeweler's glass. "What is your Class, human?" she asks.

"Human?" you ask.

"You are human, aren't you?" she asks.

"Yes?" you answer, confused by the question. Then a terrible uncertainty seizes you. "Aren't you?"

Your question is answered with another blow to the back of your head from the guard, this one hard enough to send you back to your knees, your vision spinning. "Don't talk back to the Sheikha!"

"Marcus, I'm trying to study him," Livia says. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"Yes, Sheikha. Apologies, Sheikha."

Livia doesn't acknowledge his words. "Why would you think I'm human, slave? Have you never seen one of the String People?"

You shake your head, as much to clear your vision as to answer her question.

"Terrandrian, then," she says. "Our kin are common enough in Izril. Where in Terrandria are you - "
"Ah ah ah," interrupts her father. "Careful of questions you don't want the answer to."

"What - oh. Ailendamus."

The Sheik nods. "Just so. And they are not the only nation to become unpleasant if you are known to deal in slaves of their people, merely the most prominent. Ask no more of his origin, lest you be unable to swear upon a truth stone that you have never enslaved one of their citizens."

The girl nods her assent, then returns to her study of you. After a moment she scowls, then pulls the jeweler's glass away from her eye. "[Appraisal] doesn't work on him," she says. "I can't read his Class or levels."

"Uncommon, but there are several possible explanations," says the Sheik. "Continue your evaluation."

Livia puts the jeweler's glass away, then pulls a large piece of quartz from one of her pockets. It's the size of a baseball, and has been carved into a single sphere of translucent stone. It looks very much like the crystal that the caravan guard held when he first questioned you if you were alone. "Slave, you will answer my questions," states Livia. "The truth stone will glow blue if you answer with honesty, and red for falsehoods."

The stone flashes blue at her words.

"What are your Classes and their levels?"

You blink in surprise. "I… don't understand."

She glares at you, but the stone continues to glow blue. "Your Classes. You do have one, do you not?"

"I don't think so," you say.

"Interesting," interrupts her father. "Classless individuals are rare, but not unheard of. People who reject the idea of levels for one reason or another, though there's no real benefit to being without levels."

"Then what good is he?" she asks.

Her father smiles down at her. "Oh? Are you done with your assessment, then? He's not worth anything?" he asks, obviously implying she's missed something.

Her eyes narrow in thought, though the skin of her brow remains perfectly smooth instead of furrowing. "Ah… slave! What talents and training do you possess?"

Her father raises a hand to forestall your answer. "And why would that matter?"

"You can still learn how to do things, even if you don't have the Class or Skill," Livia says. "Knowing what foundation he has will help us decide what to do with him - train him further, sell him as he is, and so on. Mages want slave scribes, merchants will pay for trained cleaners, mercenaries for fighters, and so on. He won't be as good as someone with the Class, but having no Class at all is better than being a Terrandrian [Peasant]."

The Sheik smiles at his daughter's analysis. "Just so. You will answer her, slave."



--------------------



CHARACTER CREATION

Yesterday, you were a normal twenty-four year old on Earth. Today, you are a stranger in a strange land, and a slave to boot. Your captors want to know what useful skills you might have, so they can best judge how to use you. You have the distinct impression that telling them of your otherworldly origins would be a terrible idea.

All attributes start at 10.

Your captors will train you in a Class based on your Upbringing. The listed examples are not exhaustive, and will result in a follow-up vote to select an initial Class. Classes are gained by doing things, and there is a Class for everything from Ant Farmer to Drunkard to Innkeeper.


UPBRINGING:

Your childhood and the lessons learned there shape who you grow up to be. Some of those lessons - the value of sharing, arithmetic, history, athletics - are wholesome and approved by society at large. Other lessons, such as how to use weapons, lie, cheat at games of chance, and more - are not. But all are important.

You gain a +5 to the chosen attribute, and will be trained as a slave who focuses on this area.

[ ] Combat
You know how to fight. Your captors will train you in something that takes advantage of this, such as a [Gladiator] or [Bodyguard].

[ ] Might
You're tough and strong, with the type of build that draws second glances and words like "ripped." Your captors will likely put you to work in a physical role, such as a [Laborer] or [Farmer].

[ ] Agility
You're good with your hands and quick on your feet. A dexterous slave could be put to use in many ways, such as an [Acrobat] or [Tailor].

[ ] Intelligence
You're good at solving puzzles, applying logic, and remembering and using facts. Slaves are rarely used for their intellect, but can still be chosen for training as a [Scribe] or [Tactician].

[ ] Social
You're good at winning friends and influencing people. Charming slaves have many uses, and are often trained as a [Performer] or [Diplomat].


OCCUPATION:

In many ways, you are what you do. Your choice of occupation influences the skills you practice or neglect. You gain a +5 for an occupation's ++ attribute, a +3 for its + attribute, and a -3 for its - attribute.

[ ] Military
One of the few legal professions that actually trains you in how to fight on a personal and tactical level. Not the best at teaching you how to communicate outside of a strict hierarchy, though.
++Combat, +Might, -Social

[ ] Farming
The respected backbone of society, without which everyone would quickly starve.
++Might, +Intelligence, -Agility

[ ] Athletics
From the elite and highly paid athletes of the NBA and MLB to the countless leagues of less-televised sports, a career in athletics requires dedication to physical fitness.
++Might, +Agility, -Social

[ ] Mechanical
Plumbing, electricity, engineering, and more - all the trades that actually make things work. They require a steady hand and a solid education of underlying principles, and mean you don't have to play nice with people.
++Agility, +Intelligence, -Social

[ ] Crime
People lied; crime absolutely does pay. It's still a very unwise career proposition in the long term, but until then…
++Agility, +Combat, -Intelligence

[ ] Academia
The realm of advanced degrees and even more advanced egos.
++Intelligence, +Social, -Might

[ ] Fine Arts
Art takes many forms, from acting to song to painting and more, none of which generate money or respect.
++Social, +Agility, -Combat

[ ] Retail
A profession that hones your ability to interact with - or at least, withstand - the general public, while sapping your will to live with every passing moment.
++Social, +Might, -Intelligence


HOBBIES & QUIRKS:

You're more than just your upbringing and your job. You have any number of personal interests and quirks that provide you with an eclectic blend of experiences. What are they? This will have no mechanical effect, but will influence how your character is written/described.

[ ] Write-in

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: Vote results

[X] Plan: Educator
- [X] Intelligence
- [X] Academia
- [X] You are pursuing your doctorate, with the eventual goal of becoming a professor. Or at least, you were. While you possess a hunger for knowledge common in academics, you have always been interested in passing on that knowledge as well. Besides that, you enjoy playing the guitar.

Educator won handily, with 11 votes out of 13. I thought about letting you pick your academic discipline, but after some internal deliberation just went with mine because I'm not sure I'd be able to do justice to things I didn't study and don't understand.

Despite the Sheik addressing you, his attention remains on his daughter. This is a man who could have you beaten or killed, but as far as he's concerned you're nothing more than a convenient lesson for her in the family business. Which is slavery.

This… this really isn't just some savage backwater, is it? There's too much strangeness. The girl said she wasn't human, named nations you've never heard of, and is currently using a glowing rock to ensure you don't lie to her. But even the fact that this wagon is larger on the inside pales before the seriousness they're discussing Class and Level with. Those are video game terms, not things used to describe the real world.

Or, perhaps, not used to discuss your world.

You can't ask questions, or they'll figure out that you're not from here. From this world. You suspect nothing good will come of that, and you're going to have to choose your words very carefully.

You lick your dry, cracked lips as you organize your thoughts. You need to explain your credentials without going into any sort of specifics, and do so convincingly enough that that they don't ask too many questions. This is your one chance to sell yourself to them - quite literally - and there's a very real chance that you'll end up in some sort of gladiatorial arena if you can't convince the Sheik that there are better uses for you.

"I'm twenty-four years old," you begin, "And I've spent my entire life as an academic. Before today, I was nearing completion of a doctorate - "

"What is a doctorate?" Livia asks.

"An advanced degree," you state. "Where I come from, it usually requires between four and six years of study in a dedicated field, like engineering, mathematics, art, philosophy… any area of human endeavor. I was on track to earn mine in three years, and was editing my dissertation - "

The little girl frowns and interrupts. "Human endeavor? Not String People, Garuda, Drake, or any other people?"

"It's a figure of speech."

"A stupid one," she says, crossing her arms.

You're about to argue with her, but your gaze falls on the amused expression of her father. The man who holds the power of life and death over you. You bite your tongue. "My apologies."

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. "My apologies Miss Livia," she says, emphasizing the title.

You bite your tongue again. Harder. "My apologies, Miss Livia," you say. It's easier if you don't look at her. Then you can just pretend she's another arrogant postdoc you have to play nice with to stay in the academic program, instead of a twelve year old brat whose father holds the power of life and death over you.

Postdocs and slavers really have a lot in common, when you think about it.

The girl seems satisfied with your apology. "What was your area of study, slave?"

You hesitate, glancing towards the crystal in her hands, which is currently glowing a gentle blue. You contemplate lying, because you are not, in fact, a rocket scientist. Or a chemical engineer. Or a computer scientist. You had dabbled in many fields during your undergraduate studies, of course, ranging from philosophy to engineering to military history and beyond, but you had specialized in another. A field often derided as… evil.

"Economics," you say.

The girl looks at you blankly. "Miss Livia," she repeats, this time slowly enunciating the words, as if speaking to a particularly stupid dog.

"Economics, Miss Livia," you say through gritted teeth.

"What is economics?"

You rock back on your heels, surprised by the question. She appears wealthy - her clothes are silk, the wagon you ride in is clearly magical and intricately decorated, her father bears the title of Sheik and his fingers glitter with jeweled rings - and she doesn't know the term? Does it not exist in this world? They seem to speak modern English - an impossible tangent you can poke at later - and it's hardly a new word. Your eyes dart towards her father, whose expression is as blank as a statue, showing no surprise or curiosity. Ah. You've forgotten your audience, which is a bored and capricious twelve year old.

Her father probably knows something about the subject, and is waiting for you to overstep yourself.

"Economics is a social science that studies the allocation of scarce resources," you say. "At its core, it is about coming to the most efficient usage of those scarce resources, such as money, time, and labor. It requires an understanding of finance, how individuals respond to incentives, and how various statistics interact and complicate things."

"Oh, so it's like an accountant," Livia says, echoing the tragic oversimplification that all lay people give when confronted with your academic discipline.

Your natural instinct is to scoff and begin a rant about what you actually do. It runs into a newfound and rapidly developing instinct to not irritate the people who can have you beaten for their amusement. "In some ways, yes," you finally concede, with as much grace as you can muster.

The little girl frowns. "Marcus," she says, before gesturing vaguely towards you.

"At once, Miss Livia," says the guard behind you. Then he punches you in the kidney hard enough that your vision goes white and you collapse to the ground, curled into the fetal position in pure agony. You can vaguely feel several more blows to your back and legs, but the sense is muted by that initial all-consuming pain.

If there was anything left in your stomach, you would be vomiting it up right now.

The guard hauls you back to your feet, supporting most of your weight without any apparent effort. "As the lady said, you will address her as Miss Livia," he says, emphasizing the words with a slap to the back of your head. You nod shakily, and he slaps you again until you apologize out loud. With the title.

"Well," says the Sheik, clearly amused. "He was honest about his expertise, at least."

"He's rude!" Livia says, stamping one of her feet against the ground for emphasis.

"He's a brand new slave, Livia," says her father. "Of course he's rude. It takes time and effort to teach them the way of things. You're too used to locals who know the proper customs. A good [Slaver] can manage a [Slave] of any origin."

"Yes, Father."

The Sheik turns back to you, his expression speculative. "That said, this one has no class levels. We'll need to change that, if we're going to put him to any real use."

----------

With that decided, the Sheik looks back to his daughter. "You said you earned your tenth level for putting the collar around his neck?"

"As I took my noon nap, yes."

He grins, the calculating expression turning proud. "A rare talent. I didn't reach the tenth level until I was five years your senior. At this rate you'll hit thirty by thirty with years to spare. I take it you earned the Skill [Enslave]?"

Livia ducks her head at the praise. "Yes, Father."

"It is the defining Skill of our Class, and almost always earned upon or before the first capstone. You need an advantage of at least five levels for it to take hold, and this man is conveniently skilled and level-less. Use it upon him," the Sheik says, gesturing towards you.

You don't like the sound of that. What does using a Skill like that on you even mean? You struggle feebly in the guard's grasp, but you're still dazed from the earlier beating. He cuffs you in the ear and hisses at you to be still.

And then Livia's hand is on your throat, touching the iron collar clasped about your neck. The little girl looks at you with a strange sort of focus that you don't normally see from children. And then you hear her whisper.

"[Enslave]."

The word echoes through the room, but more importantly it echoes through you. The command goes through you like a knife through butter, lancing through your being and into a part of yourself that you'd never known existed. For a single instant, you feel like you stand in a shrine to the potential of your soul, to the endless possibilities before you in this new world. And then that instant is shattered as the little girl's command storms through that place for which you have no words, staining it with the imprint of her class and leaving an invisible, indelible mark that will never, ever leave you.

[Slave Level 1.]

[Skill – Master's Will obtained!]

==========


Chargen Finalization:

STARTING CLASS

[ ] Clerk
The often-overlooked foundation of any successful organization. Somebody has to keep the records, push the paper, and keep things organized. Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat scorned.

[ ] Scribe
A professional writer and copyist. Scribes can act as combination personal assistants and representatives, trusted to record and convey the words of their employer.

[ ] Teacher
One who imparts knowledge. Teachers can uplift those around them into the best possible version of themselves, or they can crush you beneath the weight of your own comparative ignorance.


Gender

[ ] Male

[ ] Female


Name

[ ] Write-in

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: Vote results

Class: [Teacher]
Gender: Male
Name: Roger Davis

After some initial debate, [Teacher] pulled ahead of [Clerk], with 0 people even considering the position of [Scribe]. Male and Roger Davis were never seriously contested, so congratulations to GamingandReading for naming our Main Character.

Spoiler: Full Breakdown

Class:
-Teacher (11)
GamingandReading, Theaxofwar, NeoKami, Birthday, Not_Relevant, God and the Snake, Nevill, giodan, EagerListener, KnownParadox, Ashlar

-Clerk (4)
Gabriel_TFA, LotusPocus, JittottiJ, ThatGuyWithIdeas

Gender:
-Male (13)
GamingandReading, Theaxofwar, NeoKami, Birthday, Gabriel_TFA, LotusPocus, Not_Relevant, God and the Snake, Nevill, giodan, EagerListener, KnownParadox, Ashlar

-Female (1)
ThatGuyWithIdeas

Name:
-Davis: (11)
GamingandReading, Theaxofwar, NeoKami, Gabriel_TFA, LotusPocus, Not_Relevant, Nevill, giodan, EagerListener, KnownParadox, Ashlar

-Clayton (1)
Birthday

-Nasir Al-Ghalazi (1)
God and the Snake

-Sophia Anouilh (1)
ThatGuyWithIdeas

Your name is Roger Davis, and you are a [Slave]. You're many other things as well, but that's the one that echoes deep in your being, a word that feels like the color of blood.

Your master steps away from you, looking down at her hand. "Strange," she says. "It worked, but I don't feel any different."

Her father nods. "That is to be expected. Slavery changes the [Slave], not the [Slaver]."

Livia looks back to you, and you have the sudden intuition that she wants to know what effect her Skill had on you. "Slave," she says, her tone commanding.

"Yes?" you ask. Your intuition prods you, and you hastily follow with, "Miss Livia?"

She smirks, the expression somewhat ridiculous-looking on her - her features are slightly too large, as if made separately from her face and shaped so that she would grow into them, like a pair of shoes. You're so distracted by the subtle wrongness of it that you almost don't notice how you unconsciously corrected yourself… because you knew she wanted you to.

[Master's Will].

You shudder at the realization. That foul red stain in your soul is in your head. And it's… useful. She has power over you. Knowing what she wants from you will help you keep her from using that power against you.

"Tell me what happened," she says.

You consider lying or evading or trying to conceal the truth, because giving information to people who enslaved you can't be a good idea. But even without that magic lie-detecting stone, you wouldn't know what to hide. And as you try to think of what to say, Livia is growing impatient.

"I - I heard a voice saying 'Slave Level 1.' And that I had obtained the Skill [Master's Will]," you say.

The Sheik lets out a small noise of interest. "A common, but convenient, Skill for low level [Slaves]. Now, daughter mine, tell me - what do you intend to do with him?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and pointedly looks away from her father. "He said he knew about finance. He can teach that to me, since you're always too busy."

For the first time you see something akin to discomfort flicker across the Sheik's face, though it disappears quickly. "Much goes into this business that you do not - and should not - know, Livia. There are doors that would close to you if you knew everything I did; Ailendamus is not the only place that questions [Slavers] upon a truth stone."

"Hmph," she says, clearly used to the argument and just as clearly unconvinced.

The Sheik drums his fingers against his desk, and then a sly grin begins to spread across his face. "Well, that sounds like a good use of your [Slave]'s skills. Tell me, how do you plan to feed and house him?"

Livia's haughty disdain shatters, replaced with utter confusion. "What?"

"There are expenses associated with owning [Slaves]. You know that. So, how will you pay to keep this one cared for?"

You're being talked about like a stray dog that got taken in by a small child. It's as surreal as it is horrifying.

"But… but you pay for Sophie's stuff!" Livia says.

"Yes, I pay for your [Handmaid], because that is the duty of a father with no wife. A [Teacher] is something else. Why should I pay to support him? What do I gain from it?"

From his tone, it's obvious he's using you as some sort of teaching lesson. A problem for his daughter to solve, so that she can gain experience and level her class. Her [Slaver] class. You're being used to make this person better at enslaving others, and as her teacher you'll continue to be used that way.

Does that make you responsible for what she does with the knowledge she gains? You're just trying to survive.

"Um," Livia says, eyes darting about the room as she tries to think of something. You can feel your intuition - your [Master's Will] - tugging at you to help her find an answer.

==========

[ ] Livia can pay for your room and board by having you teach the Sheik's other slaves.

[ ] Livia can pay for your room and board by having you teach the Sheik himself, as well as her.

[ ] Stay silent. She can come up with something on her own.

[ ] Write-in

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: Vote results

Tutoring other people for money: 5
Tutoring the Sheik's other slaves: 4

A narrow victory for tutoring other people for money. Close one, though. We'll focus on teaching other people once we get back to civilization - right now you're still in a caravan in the middle of the desert.

Rolling…


Your entire body aches from the forced march and beatings. Your head is light from the heat and lack of water. Every part of your body is screaming at you to lay your head down and just pass out. You've felt exhausted before - academia runs on insomnia and overwork - but it's nothing next to the soul-deep weariness you feel right now.

You force yourself to ignore it, because the alternative is death or worse. The Sheik is using you as a lesson for his daughter, and you have no doubt he's willing to use your death as part of that lesson, should his daughter fail his expectations. After all, you're just a level one [Slave].

"Miss Livia?" you say, drawing her attention to you.

"Yes?" she asks, so desperate for some sort of intervention that she forgets to call you [Slave].

"Your father has presented you with an open-ended problem," you begin. You think you could just tell her the answer he's probably looking for - use your teaching services to pay for your upkeep - but then you'd just as clearly be undercutting the lesson he's set up. You don't think that would end well for you. "It usually helps to reduce the problem to simple numerical criteria, because then we're just trying to solve a math problem."

Her father lets out a single bark of laughter. "Ha! A natural fit for a [Teacher]. You picked well, daughter mine."

Livia's expression brightens at her father's praise, seeming to take confidence from it. She gestures to you imperiously. "Explain."

You clear your throat. "You want to purchase something from your father: room and board for myself," you say. Then, hoping you're not overstepping, "As well as clothing and medical care."

She looks to her father.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Am I negotiating with your [Slave] or with you?" he asks, giving no indication of which is the correct answer.

Livia stiffens, then glares at you as if it's your fault she looks like an amateur in front of her father. "With me," she says. "I desire such things for my [Slave] - food, housing, clothing, and healing."

Her father grins in amusement. "At what quality? For how long? Healing under what circumstances?"

She flails for an answer before finally looking to you for help. You spend the next hour, still on your knees, walking her through the process of quantifying the cost of her demands, which comes out to three silver per day. You have no idea if that's a good price or not, just that it's a number you can start to work with.

"But I was saving for an enchanted comb!" Livia says, biting her lip as she contemplates how much it will cost to keep you alive for the month it will take the caravan to finish its journey through the Great Desert of Zeikhal.

"You don't have to spend money," you say. "I can work - you can have me work - to offset that."

Livia looks at you blankly. "You're a level one [Slave]. What exactly can you do that's worth three silver a day?"

You gesture broadly towards the scene that just transpired, where you taught her how to negotiate a business transaction. Really, this is fairly similar to the contract you signed with the university regarding teaching obligations in exchange for tuition assistance, except you're not somehow getting deeper into debt in the process. It's not like you can become more beholden to them than you already are as a [Slave], right?

It takes several subtle nudges to get Livia to realize that she can actually make money off of this, and not just mitigate losses. Her father is quick to crush her dreams of towering stacks of silver, pointing out that he's the only game in the desert - either she makes a deal with him, or she makes no deal at all.

"This is what economists refer to as 'monopoly power,'" you explain.

Livia scowls. "Papa's being mean," she says.

"Crying won't get me to open my purse, Livia," says the Sheik. He seems deeply amused by this whole exchange.

"Fine!" she says. "He can teach your stupid [Gladiators] to be less stupid for the next month, but after we get home I'm finding a better deal!"

"You seek a one month contract then," her father agrees. "But why should I agree to have my [Gladiators] taught by this [Slave]? They have no need to understand finance, and any time they spend with him is time they would normally spend with other trainers."

Livia dithers for a moment, before giving up and waving a hand at you. "Go on then, if you're so smart. What could you teach Papa's - Father's - [Gladiators]?"

You've had more than an hour to come up with an answer, though you didn't know until just now that her father specialized in [Gladiators]. Somehow you're completely unsurprised that the jewels and silks in this room were paid for off of bloodsport.

"I can teach them to think," you say, which is an incredible boast that really stretches the value of your one undergraduate course on the philosophy of logic. "Which would make them easier for your trainers to teach. Reading, writing, mathematics - a basic understanding of these things gives people tools that make them better at communicating, solving problems, and making decisions."

The Sheik drums his fingers against his desk. "Most are literate," he says, which surprises you. You wouldn't expect a medieval-looking society like this to have widespread literacy. "And I am unconvinced that [Slaves] of their ilk will benefit from education. But I do not know that for certain. And for three silver a day, I am willing to find out. Your [Slave] will tutor five of my [Gladiators] for at least two hours a day. [Students] rarely become [Gladiators] - perhaps there is some Class consolidation or synergy to be found."

Livia is about to agree, but then pauses. "Four silver a day. With a ten silver bonus for any Class consolidations."

The Sheik quirks an eyebrow at her. "Three silver a day, and a ten gold bonus for any such consolidations."

His daughter's eyes go wide. "Deal!"

"Foolish," he says. "Class consolidations before level ten are rare, and no one gets ten levels in a month. And I would pay more than ten gold just for that many levels regardless of a consolidation. If someone offers to pay you what seems like a large sum of money in the event something happens instead of a flat rate, it means they think it's unlikely to happen. Such deals should be viewed with great suspicion unless you know something they don't."

Livia's expression falls. "Oh. Yes, Father."

He reaches out and ruffles her hair. "Good job with the rest, though. Much better than some of my first deals. Do you know the name Breton Doomguard?"

"The Champion of the Coliseum of Monarchs?" she asks.

"I bought him as part of a bulk auction of Hemp [Slaves], back when I was just getting started. He was a thoroughly useless [Laborer], and completely unsuited to the agile fighting styles that were in vogue at the time, so I thought it pointless to try and train him as a [Gladiator]. I traded him to another [Slaver] for a bottle of cheap wine, and that bastard sent me a crate of the bottles after Breton made Champion, just to rub it in. Let that be a lesson to you - just because you don't see the immediate value of something doesn't mean that it isn't there."

She looks over to you. "Like a level one [Slave] with no Skills," she says.

"Just so," he says, before gesturing towards the guards.

Marcus hauls you to your feet, and you have to lean against the guard to remain upright, as your legs have long since fallen asleep. He doesn't seem surprised. You suppose he has a lot of experience manhandling [Slaves]. He guides you out of the tent and back into the general population of the [Slaves]. They've laid out a large canvas tarp onto a flat section of the desert, weighing down the sides with stones and [Slaves]. The rest are scattered about - you see some being led through exercises by one of the [Guards], others prepping the wagons for the night, and Marcus takes a pair of [Slaves] back to the Sheik's wagon once he releases you.

You try not to think about why he might be doing that.

The food wagon has long since been closed back up, and the brutal heat of the day is already fading to an equally brutal cold as the sun sets. It occurs to you that you have a very different idea about what qualifies as 'adequate' housing than the [Slavers] do, but you're too tired to even contemplate complaining. It would likely earn you little more than laughter and another beating, anyway.

You notice that several of the [Slaves] have already curled up on the canvas tarp and gone to sleep. You stagger over towards it yourself, collapsing down onto it. You can feel the sand beneath it shift, with small rocks digging into you through the thin piece of canvas. A chill breeze sends a shiver through you, and you curl up into a tiny ball of agony and cold, shivering.

Here and now, with nothing else to distract you, you can't put the thoughts off any longer. You're lost on another world. If you can't figure out some way to get back, then you'll never… never finish your degree. Never be Doctor Rogers, like your mom always wanted. You'll never see her again, or your brother, or your friends, or… or anyone.

Instead you're here. A [Slave]. The best you can hope for is to not die and to minimize the amount you're abused by the uncaring masters who've taken you.

It's not fair.

The thought fills you with a black, helpless rage. You cling to it.

It's the only thing keeping you from crying yourself to sleep.


[Teacher Class Obtained!]

[Teacher Level 1!]

[Skill – Basic Speaking obtained!]


The voice startles you awake just as you'd been about to fall asleep. It's the same voice you heard when you became a [Slave], but it's… different. It's not red. You might like it, if you hadn't heard it when it was red.

You do cry yourself to sleep, then.


-------------


Someone shakes you awake at some point. The sky is still dark, but the moons are high in the sky, filling the desert with light. The moons. Both of them. You take a moment to stare up at them. One's a sort of pale blue, and the other's a greenish yellow that your brain instantly identifies as Moot Green. Funny. You haven't had time to paint in years.

The grip on your shoulder tightens and shakes you again, drawing you away from the thought.

You roll over, then look up to see who's woken you. You see a giant lizard. It grins down at you, flashing needle-like teeth that are mere inches away from your face.

You let out a perfectly understandable shriek of terror and desperately flail and roll away from the monster.

The giant lizard bursts into laughter. "Oh, man, you should have seen your face!" it says. "Have you never seen a Lizardfolk before? I get stares from the String People but they're not as common as your folk are on Baleros. Have you ever been to Baleros?"

The questions come in a rapid-fire hail that only adds to your confusion. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. Now that you have a decent look at the lizard person, you see that its wearing the same knee-length red tunic that you've seen on all the [Slaves], though the moonlight washes out the colors somewhat.

Relieved that you're speaking with a person, and not some sort of monster, you slump back down onto the canvas, wincing in expectation of pain that never comes. You blink in surprise. "I… don't hurt?" you say, voicing the thought.

"Oh, yeah, the master's got a Skill!" says the lizard. Lizardfolk. "[Rapid Recovery]. Nifty, huh? Feel like you slept on a feather bed for a week instead of a few hours on sand. Means he can work us harder, but that's life. And we don't have to go running with the others this morning because of you!"

"What?" you ask. "Who's 'we?'"

The Lizardfolk slaps itself - himself? - in the head. "Oh, I totally forgot! Uh, you are the [Teacher], right?" He actually pauses, and when you nod he gives a sigh of relief. "That's good. I was afraid I found the wrong guy. I mean, there's only so many humans in the caravan, and I thought I knew them all because I'm good at getting to know people and - "

"Vox. Shut up," grunts another person. You look past the Lizardfolk and see four others behind him. The one who spoke is a squat, heavily muscled man with the sort of face that really would benefit from a beard to disguise it. You also see a relatively normal-looking man and woman, and behind them is a seven foot tall bird person with midnight-black feathers and a wickedly curved beak.

You realize your mouth is open. You shut it with an audible click, then clear your throat. "Ah, yes, I'm Roger Davis. [Teacher]. Are you the [Gladiators] I'm supposed to be teaching?"

"That's us!" says Vox. "And I gotta say - "

"Why don't we start with introductions," you say, interrupting the Lizardfolk. He doesn't seem offended by it. "Your names and something about yourself. You can go first."

"I'm Voxitel!" he says. "You can call me Vox. I'm from Badani, near the southern tip of Baleros! It's a lot wetter than the desert here, and there's a lot more people like me. Lizardfolk, I mean, not [Slaves] or [Dirty Fighters]. Which is what I am."

Does he come with an off button? You plaster a smile on your face anyway. "Thank you, Vox. Let's go from left to right for everyone else."

The short man spits to the side, barely clearing the canvas. "Name's Traban. I'm a dwarf, not one of you humans. [Hammerer]. Formerly of Deríthal-Vel."

"We call him Tiny Traban!" interjects Voxitel.

'Tiny' Traban has arms as big around as Voxitel's entire torso. He looks like he's about to put those muscles to use beating the Lizardfolk to death, so you hurry things on to the next person.

"Barqus il-Nash," says the next person. "I used to be a [Tailor] - other String People would come from miles away to have me work on their hands and faces - but my shop was burned down and I fell behind on debts."

Voxitel quirks his head to the side. "Didn't your shop get burned down because - "

"Let's not interrupt when it's not our turn to speak, Voxitel," you say. "Next person, please."

The only woman of the group grimaces. "I am Katrin du Neshair, bastard daughter of Alouette du Neshair of the Hundred Families of Terrandria. I was exiled for announcing my true parentage, and was forced into slavery after I defeated a Prince of Nerrhavia's Fallen in a duel of honor. I am a [Fencer], though the [Slavers] took my silver bell."

You should have expected stories like this from a group of [Slaves]. You nod to her, then turn to the last person: the giant bird.

"Melanhir," he says, voice rough and harsh, echoing out of his throat like rocks dragged through gravel. "[Cursed Exile]."

Voxitel blinks. "That's your name? Neat! I've been trying to get it out of him for weeks! I think that's the first time I've heard him talk, honestly. Cool name, big guy. Can I call you Melan?"

Melanhir turns to look down at Voxitel, bringing the gaze of a merciless predator down on the chatty Lizardfolk. Melanhir makes no threatening move, voices no threat - he doesn't do anything but stare at Voxitel for several silent moments.

The Lizardfolk shrivels away from that stare. "Or we can stick with Melanhir, that's fine, it's a great name," he says, before turning back to you. "So, [Teacher] - what are you teaching us? The [Guards] didn't tell us, and we didn't ask, because - well, best not to talk to them at all, if you hadn't learned that one on your own. Ha; does that make me your teacher? That'd be cool."

You can feel a headache building already. You hadn't exactly spent the night coming up with a lesson plan, and gesture for silence, which you mostly get in the form of Voxitel turning his overwhelming motor-mouth upon the other students instead of you.

What are you going to teach these people?


==========

The caravan will take one month to reach civilization. You have three things to focus on until then:


What will you teach the slaves?

[ ] Basic Literacy. The Sheik said they could read and write, but there is a vast difference between that and actual reading comprehension.

[ ] Basic Mathematics. It's the foundation of all higher education and understanding the world.

[ ] Basic Science. The scientific method is a good, quick way to introduce people to education.

[ ] Basic Philosophy. Teaching them how to think and use logic will make the most impact.

[ ] Write-in


What will you teach Livia?

[ ] Language Arts. She seems to have some sort of basic education, so you can skip basic literacy.

[ ] Economics. She has a decent enough grasp of simple arithmetic, and you can use practical examples for anything she struggles with beyond that.

[ ] Philosophy. It would be helpful if she knew how to structure a logical argument, and you're also somewhat curious as to what the ethics of a [Slaver] are. If there are any.

[ ] Science. There a number of easy experiments that are hugely popular with children. She would probably enjoy this, though you're not sure how you feel about teaching modern science to medieval [Slavers].

[ ] Write-in


What will you do with your minimal free time?

[ ] Focus on teaching the [Slaves]. If they can get some sort of class consolidation (what is that, anyway?) then Livia will be thrilled with you.

[ ] Focus on teaching [Livia]. For better or worse, she's the most important person in your life right now.

[ ] Seek out opportunities to escape. You won't be stuck in this desert forever, and if the [Slavers] let their guard down...

[ ] Write-in

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: "Vote results"

Teach slaves: Basic Philosophy
Teach Livia: Economics
Focus: Teaching slaves

Rolling… 99


You consider, briefly, pretending that you have some sort of plan. That you're an infallible expert whose words should be regarded as the height of wisdom and not questioned. That would be nice. If it were true, anyway, except you're well aware that it isn't.

The only teaching you've ever done has consisted of following a lesson plan that an actual professor gave you, but you've had many teachers over the years. You know, from the eyes of a student, what good and bad professors act like. And it's not the towering geniuses, the unquestionable masters of their field, who give the best lessons.

It's the ones who are open and honest with their students. Who can say 'I don't know,' and be excited about the answer, because it means they've still got things to learn themselves. Those are the teachers you'd loved, and it was because of people like them that you'd ended up in academia.

You'd like to be like them.

So you swallow your pride, along with your nervousness, and smile at your new students. "Alright then. Thank you all for introducing yourselves. As I said, my name is Roger Davis, though you can call me Roger. I've never taught anyone who hadn't already been studying academics for years, so this is going to be a learning experience for all of us. If you have any questions at any point, raise your hand - "

Voxitel's hand goes up.

You blink in surprise. That was fast. "Yes, Vox?"

"Is it true that human women can spray blood from their crotch? Because I heard a rumor about it back home but Kat gets mad whenever I ask."

You ignore the offended spluttering coming from Katrin. "I meant questions about the lesson I'm presenting," you say. "Which will be on the philosophy of logic. That is - "

Voxitel raises his hand again. "What's philosophy?" he asks.

You take a deep breath. He's actually, genuinely curious. That's a good trait in students. You remind yourself of this two more times before answering. "Philosophy, the word, comes from 'philos,' love, and 'sophia,' wisdom, so it means 'the love of wisdom.' But the academic discipline of philosophy is more… the study of questions that can't be answered. What is real? What is true? What is good? What do we actually know, and how can we use logic and reason to form better answers to these questions?"

Traban spits to the side, in the general direction of the Sheik's wagon. "And why are we learning this? Yon Stitchfolk is going to send us to the fighting pits. Don't think logic and reason will be of much use there."

It's a fair question, and one that brings you back down to the sands. No matter how much you try to recreate a classroom environment, your students are still slaves who will be sent to fight and die for the amusement and profit of strangers.

Voxitel leans over towards the dwarf. "Pst, you forgot to raise your hand," he whispers.

You sigh. "The Sheik said that he was curious about potential class consolidations with [Student]. Though I don't actually know what that means."

"You don't know what class consolidations are?" asks Traban.

"I never had a Class before today," you say.

"You were a Rulebreaker?" asks Barqus, the String Person joining the conversation for the first time.

"Rulebreaker?" you ask.

He nods. "It's an old term for people who rejected levels. Certain Skills act strangely upon them, breaking the normal rules of how such things work. But if you went so long without a Class, why pick one now… " he trails off, his eyes going to your collar. "Ah."

"Yeah," you say.

"Well, anyway," Barqus says, awkwardly trying to shift the subject away from slavery, "A class consolidation is when two of your Classes combine into one, more advanced Class. A [Soldier] and [Tactician] might become a [Commander], a [Tailor] and [Socialite] into [Fashion Designer], that sort of thing. The combined Class is usually better, and it's easier to level because you're not splitting your focus."

"Better?" you ask. "How?"

Barqus looks at you strangely, like you've asked a very silly question. "They have better Skills. Almost every consolidated or advanced Class is better than the basic Class," he says. He must be able to read the question on the tip of your tongue, because he continues on. "And an advanced Class is when your Class advances. My [Sewer] became [Tailor] when I reached level ten, for example. Very high level individuals will continue to advance their Class; my great-grandmother was a [Tailor of Silk and Sky], and could fashion a dress from clouds as easily as thread."

That... sounds insane. Magical. Are all Classes like that?

But you've indulged your curiosity long enough. "Thank you, Barqus," you say. "So, back to philosophy. We're going to start with the philosophy of logic, which will teach you how to structure an argument and to recognize one that is flawed. You can all sit down if you want; there's no reason you have to be standing for this."

Voxitel immediately flops to the ground, kicking his legs up behind him as he watches you intently. The others sit on the canvas more normally, save Melanhir, who continues to loom in silence. You try to keep it from distracting you, but there's a tiny part of your hindbrain screaming at you about the giant predator that's right there and why aren't you running away screaming.

You clear your throat. "The most basic sort of argument is a deductive argument, which means that the conclusion must be true if we accept that the premises are true. As an example: All cats are mammals. All mammals are animals. Thus, all cats are animals."

Voxitel's hand is in the air before you're even done. "What's a mammal? he asks after you gesture for him to speak.

You add 'taxonomy' to the ever-growing list of sciences that are foreign to this world. You think for a moment - biology was a long time ago. "Mammals are a type of animal. They're vertebrates - which means they have a spine - and they produce milk for newborns. They're also warm-blooded and… I think they have to have fur or hair? I don't remember," you admit. "Now. About the argument I made. Does anyone have any questions so far?"

You receive a series of shrugs, and continue on. "We consider a deductive argument valid if it contains no flaws in its structure. The argument I gave follows the form of 'All A are B, and all B are C, therefore all A are C.' This is a valid argument, because if we assume that the two premises of 'All A are B' and 'All B are C' are correct, then it must follow that 'All A are C.'"

You can tell that you've immediately lost them, and so you go to write out the form for them to see - visualization helps - except you have no whiteboard. After a moment, you move off the canvas and over to the sand, where you spell out the argument form with rocks. It takes time, but with a few more examples you think you've gotten them back on track.

"Humans can bleed. All things that bleed can die. Thus, humans can die," says Barqus. He seems very pleased to have figured out how this works, even if his example is a little morbid.

"All Terrandrian nobles are human. All humans are fickle. Thus, Terrandrian nobles are fickle," says Katrin.

You gesture for Melanhir to give an example. The giant bird person has been staring at you, unblinking, for more than an hour, expression unchanging. After several moments of silence, Melanhir finally relents.

"All Garuda can fly. All people who can fly are free. Thus, all Garuda are free," he says, his voice still rougher than sandpaper and reverberating with an eerie sort of weight that sets your hair to standing on end. Which is, you've learned, how he always sounds.

Voxitel tilts his head to the side. "Wait, that's not right. You're a Garuda and you're not free. And I thought some of you couldn't fly!"

You smile, happy that you don't have to bring this up yourself. "But the argument is valid. The conclusion would be true if we accepted the premises - an argument can be valid even if it isn't true. Similarly, an argument will be correct but not true if the premises are right but the argument is flawed. An argument is only true if the logic is valid and the premises are correct."

"Word games," grunts Traban, before spitting on the sands. Still, he looks intrigued, which you consider a victory. You're beginning to wonder if the spitting is just a tick and not an expression of contempt. Or maybe he's just contemptuous of everything.

"Shaman games," says Melnahir, still staring at you.

You're momentarily stunned by the fact that he said something unprompted. "Ah… your shamans teach things like this?" you ask.

Melanhir remains absolutely still, giving no indication that he's heard your question, before finally nodding. "Yes. Different words. But same game," he says, before descending into a fit of coughing. He waves off your concern. "Seven moons silent. Rusty."

The horizon has started to brighten, and the other [Slaves] have finished their morning exercises and begun to help set up the food wagon. You tell your students that the lesson is over for the day, and you'll pick up tomorrow. Normally this is the part where you'd assign them about ten hours of reading, but without that option you just ask them to think about today's lesson.

The lot of you line up to receive your morning ration, which is a large bowl of some mashed vegetable called a yellat with bits of unidentifiable but heavily salted meat sprinkled throughout. It looks awful, but it's the first meal you've had since you ended up in this world and you devour it in seconds. After you've returned the bowl, one of the [Guards] informs you that you will attend Miss Livia this afternoon.

That gives you several hours to come up with a lesson for her. Economics, you think - she doesn't seem like the introspective type who'd enjoy philosophy, and you have little interest in teaching your captors how to better use reason. After all, some day you'll be free - one way or another.

 

[NewRole]

As soon as it's light enough to properly see, the [Slaves] are pushed into line and the caravan begins to trundle forwards once more. With a night's rest, you're able to observe it properly, and it baffles you. The wagons are drawn by teams of [Slaves], not camels, and the [Guards] work them until they collapse into the sands before swapping to another team. This brings the entire caravan to a halt for several minutes before resuming once more, with the exhausted team of [Slaves] moved to the back of the caravan.

If they fall behind there, [Guards] on camelback are quick to prod them back to movement with a mixture of profanities and beatings. [Slaves] who still can't rise are carried by those who can. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, every [Slave] but has had at least two turns pulling the wagons.

Every [Slave] but you, that is. Your status as Livia's property apparently exempts you from this task, and you quickly begin to draw envious glares from the other [Slaves]. You feel inexplicably awful for leaving the task to them, but it's all you can do to keep up with them as it is.

The caravan grinds to a halt beneath the sun, and a ration of water is distributed out to the [Slaves]. You drink yours greedily, lightheaded from the heat and budding sunburns already aching.

This is the least efficient way to move a caravan of [Slaves] through the desert that you can think of. Wouldn't it be faster with horses to draw the wagons? And to carry the [Slaves]? This pace, slow as it is, is grinding the [Slaves] down beyond exhaustion. You're no expert in desert survival, but you'd expect people to start dying before the day is out. The Sheik seems completely indifferent to the suffering of [Slaves], but he didn't strike you as wasteful.

The [Slaves] move to set up the canvas tarp you slept upon last night, though this time they erect a second one atop it to keep the sun off of them before collapsing into exhausted slumber.

Oh.

[Quick Recovery].

The Sheik can work them to the brink of death, and as long as they're not actively dying when they go to sleep they'll wake up with enough energy to do it all again. That Skill had seemed like such a boon when you woke this morning free of aches and pains, but now you see it for what it is: a guarantee that a [Slave]'s body can be pushed to the limit and held there without fear of damaging them. How long would it take, you think, before the agonizing, exhausting days blended together? Normally there's a limit to how much abuse can be heaped upon someone before their body gives out, but with that Skill…

You shiver despite the burning heat of the sun.

----------

Before you have a chance to rest, one of the [Guards] escorts you away from the other [Slaves]. He brings you to the Sheik's wagon, where you're greeted by a Stitch Person girl who looks to be the same age as Livia. She has the same stitch-marks outlining her features that the Sheik and his daughter do, though her face looks more natural for a girl her age than Livia's - her features are plain, almost rough, with no attempt made for inhuman beauty. Her skin is also darker, near the same shade as the sand dunes of the Zeikhal outside, and her dark, curly hair is tied back in a neat bun. Still, you can tell she's a slave by her bare feet and the long red tunic she wears, though hers is trimmed in blue.

She curtsies, lifting the edges of her tunic outwards as she gives a slight bow. "Thank you for bringing him, Marcus."

The [Guard] grunts. "Sheik Aurelius told me to bring him. I brought him. But he also said that your mistress should manage her own [Slaves], and not rely on his [Guards] to do it for her."

"I will let Miss Livia know," says the girl, head still bowed. When Marcus leaves, she rises from the curtsy and takes a moment to straighten out her tunic before turning her attention to you. Her nose immediately wrinkles. "Ew. You stink. And what are you wearing?"

There's something deeply offensive about the open and unreserved way that the little girl criticizes your smell. You cross your arms defensively. "Nice to meet you too, kid. My name's Roger."

She flushes, but stands her ground. "And I am Sophie, Miss Livia's [Handmaiden]. We cannot have you in front of her like… like that," she says, before pointing one of her fingers at you. "[Bound Spell: Cleanse]."

The accumulated sweat and grime of the past two days flakes away from you, falling to the ground in a patter of filth before turning to mist and evaporating away into the air. Your eyes go wide.

"Was that - magic?" you ask. It's the first time you've seen someone cast a spell. Is she a [Wizard]?

Sophie sniffs experimentally, then nods in satisfaction. "A bound spell from my [Handmaiden] Class. Miss Livia… used to make a lot of messes. It was really handy when we were younger. Come on, we'll find you proper clothes. Miss Livia said you were supposed to get some."

You follow the girl to one of the doors in the side of the wagon, which your brain tells you should lead outside into the desert, but which instead opens to a large closet filled with various boxes and chests. She finds a box of slave tunics, and begins rummaging through them for something that will fit you.

"You said you were with Livia when she was younger?" you ask, trying to fill the silence.

Sophie stops looking for a tunic and turns to glare at you. "Miss Livia," she says. "And I've been her [Handmaiden] since we were both babies. I'm very lucky to have her as my master."

Your heart falls. Sophie was born a [Slave], then. You don't want to think of what else a [Slave] girl her age might be doing if she weren't a [Handmaiden].

"Here," says Sophie, thrusting a tunic into your hands. "Change into this, and leave your other things behind."

You stand there awkwardly, holding the tunic as the girl stares at you.

"Well?" she asks.

"Could you… not be here when I'm changing?"

The question seems to baffle her, before she rolls her eyes and mutters, "Terrandrians. Fine. But hurry up! We can't keep Miss Livia waiting."

She steps out of the closet to give you some privacy, and you change into the provided tunic and… loincloth? It takes you several minutes to figure out how to tie the loincloth, swearing all the while, as Sophie repeatedly reminds you to hurry up. When you finally emerge from the closet, she eyes you up and down briefly.

"Good enough, I guess," she says. "But we can't be doing this every day - I have better uses for my Skills than cleaning you. I suppose I could speak to Miss Livia and see if we can let you ride in one of the wagon's closets, or something..."

==========

[ ] Spend the caravan journey riding in the wagon
This sounds much better than marching through the sands, and you'll get to spend more time with Livia and Sophie, but you've already heard the other slaves grumbling about favoritism

[ ] Spend the caravan journey marching with the other Slaves
You really don't want to do this. But it would let you spend more time with the other slaves, and might do something to bridge the gap that's already forming between them and you

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: Vote Results

Spend the caravan journey riding in the wagon

Some decent debate on this one, but with a final count of 15-8 it wasn't particularly close.

Rolling… 76


You try to not heave a sigh of relief. You're an academic, not a hiker, and you've spent more time walking in the past two days than you normally do in two months. "The wagon would be… better," you say. "It's hard to prepare lessons while marching through the desert."

Sophie looks at you skeptically, but doesn't argue. "This way, then," she says, before leading you up the stairs of the wagon and to a room at the end of the hall. She knocks twice, then waits patiently, hands clasped behind her back.

"It's not locked!" shouts Livia.

Sophie pushes the door open, then pauses in the entryway. From over her shoulder you can see Livia, lying in an overstuffed sofa at the other side of a small bedroom. A large silver mirror dominates one wall, with a desk and chair beneath it. You see needles and thread laid out in a haphazard fashion, with the only clear space devoted to two silken dolls. Livia yawns, her hair in disarray and her blue robes rumpled.

"Miss Livia!" Sophie says, sounding offended yet unsurprised. "You said you would be ready for the [Teacher] by now."

Livia waves a hand dismissively. "I'm awake."

Sophie sighs, then bustles into the room. She takes a hairbrush from the vanity desk and takes a seat on the arm of the sofa, next to Livia's head. The other girl allows the [Handmaiden] to coax her into sitting upright and having her hair brushed into something more orderly.

"Even silk can tangle if you don't care for it, Miss Livia."

"But I have you to care for it," Livia answers plaintively, before leaning back into the sofa and sighing in contentment.

You hate to interrupt, but you're feeling more and more out of place here. You clear your throat.

Livia cracks one eye open, then seems to remember that you're here. "Oh. Right. Um. Accountant [Slave]."

"Economist," you say, correcting her. "You said you wanted to learn economics."

She scowls. "I want to sleep. The noon sun is for napping, not thinking. But Papa says levels don't come to people who sleep through the day, so… fine. Teach me, [Slave]."

It looks like you have a less motivated student than any of the [Slaves] from your philosophy lesson. That's okay; you weren't expecting a beacon of academic interest from a girl her age.

"Alright," you say. You've had time to think your way through the lesson, so you start off with definitions you'd dredged up from long-ago undergraduate courses. "Economics is, like I said yesterday, the study of the allocation of scarce resources. A scarce resource is anything that has multiple uses, but you can only choose one."

Livia frowns. "Like?"

"The easiest example is time," you say. "You could spend your time doing anything - reading, sleeping, eating, and so on - but once you've chosen one of those things, you can't do the others."

"And right now I'm choosing to listen to you instead of napping," she says. "I could always nap later."

Sophie yanks the brush through Livia's hair a bit harder, then leans down to whisper something to the girl.

Livia pouts. "Papa doesn't need me to train his [Gladiators]," she says. "But I guess I should watch… "

You nod. "Exactly. If you took a nap, you'd be doing so instead of doing something else with your time," you say. "When people decide what to do with their time, they ascribe some sort of value to each of the things they could do, and then pick the thing that they value the most. This is how everyone makes decisions, whether or not they consciously realize they're doing it or not. Of course, 'value' can be hard to define - you want to sleep, but you also want to spend time with your father, and nobody can really say how you value those things except you."

Technically, a personal preference should be referred to as 'utility,' as 'value' is more accurately a market term expressed in currency. But you're trying to strip as much jargon as you can out of this lecture, and the slight clarification the additional terminology provides isn't worth the headache of explaining more terminology.

Also you've always hated the word utility and you will die on this hill. Suck it, Bentham and Mill.

Livia thinks about this for a moment. "This is why you insisted on pricing everything out in silver when we were talking to Papa last night, isn't it?" she asks. "Because silver is easy to compare."

Your jaw drops a bit. You can't help it. That's… such an impressive leap of intuitive logic for a girl her age. For someone of any age who just started learning economics, really. "Yes," you finally say. A suspicion creeps into your mind. "That's it exactly. If you don't mind my asking, how old are you? Miss Livia."

She seems somewhat mollified by the hastily-added title. "My twelfth birthday was three months ago," she says.

She really is twelve, then? Assuming years are the same length here as back home, that is. The day/night cycle seems roughly equivalent so far, so you'll assume years are the same for now. "That's very impressive, then," you say. "Normally this is a subject that isn't introduced to students until they're in their late teens, and even then most struggle with it."

Livia shrugs. "I'm Silk. We're the best and brightest of the String People. And Papa says I'm smart even for Silk!"

"And yet you still need a mere Hemp girl to remind you about your schedule," Sophie says, smiling from behind Livia as she begins to braid the other girl's hair into some sort of heavily ribboned design.

Livia pouts, but can't turn around to glare at the [Handmaiden] without interrupting her work. "Meanie," she says. "This is the thanks I get for years of being a good master. Don't take lessons from her, [Slave]."

"I'm sure I won't be braiding your hair any time soon. Now, an important principle of value is called the Law of Diminishing Marginal Value," you say, not having seen a way to cut the term. "Which is the idea that each unit of something is worth less, to you, than the unit that came before it. As an example, you said that you wanted to save for an enchanted comb?"

Livia makes a noise of agreement.

"You really don't need one," Sophie says, surveying her work. "Silk hair is so easy to work with already. All done!"

Livia tilts her head side to side, testing the balance and feel of the braids. "Yeah, but it would still be nice. And it would really help with yours; the curls tangle so easy. Now, switch with me."

"Miss Livia, you really don't have to - " Sophie says, protesting as she's pulled down to the couch and Livia takes up the comb.

"Hush," Livia says, then gestures for you to continue.

"How much would an enchanted comb cost?" you ask.

"Twenty-seven gold pieces and fifteen silver," Livia answers immediately. That's the first you've heard of gold. You assume it's more valuable than silver, but…

"What's the exchange between gold and silver coins?" you ask.

"Thirty silver to a gold, using Roshal's coins," Livia says. "Papa was complaining about how it used to be twenty five, but silver isn't worth as much right now."

You nod. If the value comes from the metal content of the coin, rather than a central government, it makes sense that the exchange rate would fluctuate some. "How much would you pay for a second enchanted comb?" you ask.

"But I only need one," Livia says.

"Would you buy a second one for a single gold piece?" you ask.

"Well, yeah. I could probably resell it for ten, easy."

"That's what Diminishing Marginal Value is," you say. "You're willing to pay almost thirty gold for the first comb, but barely ten for a second. Each marginal increase in the number of combs is worth less to you than the one before it. Until eventually you're buried beneath ten tons of enchanted combs, and wouldn't pay a single silver for another. All scarce resources follow this rule."

Livia nods to herself as she re-ties Sophie's bun. "Is that why we get discounts on buying in bulk?"

"No, actually," you say. "That's usually a function of what are called 'economies of scale,' which we'll get into later. But your question does lead into my next point: how do we match your willingness to pay for something with a seller's willingness to sell? There's an easy way to visualize it, if you have a pen and paper?"

She does, which means that even in another world, somehow you're still drawing supply and demand graphs. The lesson continues for another hour, at which point you leave Livia with the suggestion she practice some of what you've shown her today. You're uncertain if she'll actually do it or not, but at least she's not offended by the idea.

Sophie suggests keeping you around in the wagon in case Livia has any questions, which Livia is quick to agree to. She leaves the task of finding a suitable space to Sophie, who is quick to stow you away in one of the emptier supply closets. The room is dark, with the only light coming from the cracks at the edges of the door, somewhat dusty with disuse, and your bed consists of two empty crates that are slightly too small, leaving your feet sticking out into open air when you lie down.

But you can lie down, at least.

It's a luxury you're grateful for, even after less than twenty-four hours of life as a [Slave]. Some small part of you feels bad for it, when the others are outside suffering in the sun… but it's not like you're taking someone else's place, here. The only alternative would be to suffer in the sun yourself for no reason.

Besides, you need more opportunities to prove your value to Livia. If you can earn her trust, you'll get more opportunities to act on your own. Your last thought, before sleep begins to take you, is that you just need to be useful to her.


[Teacher Level 2!]

[Skill - Detect Incorrect Learning obtained!]


The voice startles you from the edge of sleep. But before you've even had time to process it -


[Slave Level 3!]


==========

You now have more opportunities to interact with Livia and Sophie. What will you focus on?

[ ] Teaching economics
It's the skill Livia values out of you.

[ ] Finding out more about the world
You're still a stranger in a very strange land.

[ ] Finding out more about the caravan and the Sheik
The people who literally own you are your primary concern.

 

[NewRole]

You leveled as a [Slave]. Twice, even, skipping level two. Why? You're not… you don't want to be a [Slave]. You've only heard that blood red voice tell you that you've gained a level in the Class twice now, and each time has made you feel sick to your soul. It feels wrong, a sensation you have no words for that just constantly rubs at the edge of your mind.

There wasn't even a Skill. Does that mean you don't normally get a Skill every level, even though you got one with [Teacher]? Or is it just that the blood red voice is building up to something? There's no way to know, but the thought fills you with a creeping dread, of having that awful voice sink deeper into you.

Sleep is long in coming, and when it does it's shadowed in dreams of laughing [Guards] with faces like jackals and clubs that fall on you like rain.

You're woken by the sound of the door to your closet being flung open, light spilling in from the wagon's central chamber to stab you in your sleep-blind eyes. You raise a hand to shield them, blinking away tears.

"[Slave]! Come with me," commands Livia.

Your eyes adjust, and you see Livia standing in the doorway, Sophie sheepishly peeking out from behind your master. Your eyes narrow at the thought. Your master. It's what she is, isn't she? You even have a Skill that lets you know what she wants: for you to entertain her, because she's bored.

The thought of turning against the Skill surges through you. Of rebelling in some small, pointless fashion.

Another part of your mind tells you to bite your tongue and obey. You're not sure if it's the rational part or the blood-red Skill that constantly whispers Livia's wants at the edge of your thoughts. The part of you that's a [Slave].

For now - and only for now - you listen to that second part. You bite your tongue. And when Livia repeats her demand, you obey. She leads you and Sophie to the wagon's entrance, berating you for having to be told twice all the while. But she hesitates at the door, and you can sense that her desire is just to… vent. You're a convenient target, but she doesn't actually want to punish you.

Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to take the insults of a twelve year old girl in silence. Rather the opposite, really. But finally she calms enough to continue through the door, all without having ever explained where it is you're going or what it is you're doing.

The wagon is parked in the valley between two enormous sand dunes, and Livia begins to lead you up one of them. Her silken slippers give her little purchase on the sands, and she gestures for Sophie to steady her as she walks.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"[Slaves] shouldn't speak to their masters unless spoken to," Livia says.

"I was a student before I was a [Teacher]," you answer. "Asking questions is what I do."

"And now you are a [Slave], and what [Slaves] do is obey. But… what [Slavers] do is take and train and trade in [Slaves]," Livia says, slowly, with the cadence of an oft-repeated lesson. She hesitates for a moment. "If it will help you level, then fine, ask questions. Respectfully."

"Where are we going, Miss Livia?" you ask.

"To help my father level his [Gladiators]," Livia answers.

Your eyes narrow in confusion. "How are we going to do that?" you ask, mostly meaning how was Livia going to do that. You can think of several ways you might be forced to help [Gladiators] train, mostly as a punching bag.

Livia pauses, looking over her shoulder at you. "The same way all Classes are leveled: by living them. [Gladiators] are performers, not just fighters. And a performance needs an audience."

Then the three of you crest the sand dune, and you see the fighting pit at the base. A few dozen of the Sheik's slaves form an impromptu ring, while two gladiators battle beneath the setting sun. Three more lie unmoving, their blood staining the sands. One of them is missing an arm; another both his legs.

Livia leads you and Sophie down the into the fighting pit, her father's [Slaves] parting before her and leaving a wide space. Several look away from the fighting, curious eyes noting how close you stand to the Silk girl. You have no attention to spare for them, though, because you're now at the edge of the ring. If you took two steps, you would be able to touch one of the maimed String People on the ground. They're still moving, trying to crawl away from the fight as best they can, leaving behind limbs that have turned to flat, inanimate cloth now.

You realize that one of the remaining gladiators is Barqus, the String Person [Tailor] who's one of your students. You'd only known him for a few hours, but he'd struck you as a sort of… posh sort, about as out of place amongst the life of brutal slavery as you are. He certainly talked enough about the wealthy aristocrats who'd patronized his store.

Now he's in a fighting pit with a death grip on the dagger in his left hand and blood coating half his face. He and the last gladiator, a String Person woman wielding a wooden shield and club, slowly circle the pit, eyes locked on one another.

Until, eventually, one of them makes a mistake. The woman focuses too much on Barqus and not enough on where she's stepping, and stumbles over the legless body of another gladiator. Barqus seizes on the moment and lunges towards her, his red [Slave] tunic billowing behind him as he roars wordlessly, like an animal.

She recovers quickly, though, shifting her shield to catch his dagger. Then she pushes Barqus's arm out of the way, leaving him completely open as she swings her club towards his legs. But the dagger reappears in Barqus's other hand, and he's already in close. He turns the momentum of the other gladiator's parry into a spin that drives his knife into her gut, just before her club slams into his knee. Both crash to the ground.

"[Deft Hands]," comments Livia. "Good skill for a [Tailor]. Will Papa end the bout now, or…?"

Barqus is quicker to recover, forcing himself up with one hand and crashing down atop the other gladiator, putting his entire weight into slamming the dagger into her chest. Her cry of pain turns into a gurgling croak, and her club falls from numb fingers. Barqus yanks the dagger free, sending a spray of blood across the sand. You're almost ten feet away, but some of it still splashes against your face.

You flinch backwards, the iron tang of the [Slave] woman's blood overpowering. You raise a hand to your face, and it comes away speckled with red. You look down at it stupidly. There's blood on your hands.

You hear, as if from a great distance, Barqus still shouting as he stabs the woman three more times in the stomach before finally staggering away from her, hobbling on one leg.

"Victory to Barqus!" booms an unfamiliar voice. "Let's hear it for the Bloody Needle!"

Barqus raises his bloodstained dagger with something akin to triumph, and the [Slaves] forming the pit around him burst out in cheers. Some of them exchange tokens, grumbling.

You can't take your eyes away from the blood. Just… so much blood. Your stomach roils. You turn and look away, trying not to vomit.

"[Slave], don't look away," Livia commands. "The entire point of this is for it to be watched."

"I'm going to be sick."

"Psh. Only one of those [Slaves] is dying. The other two with the missing limbs will just need them stitched back on. We're String People; not humans. Cloth organs may be hard to replace, but an arm? That's just annoying."

"It still hurts, Miss Livia," Sophie says quietly, rubbing at her left hand.

Livia waves away the comment. "They're Hemp," she says. "Their senses are dulled. Especially for [Bait Slaves]."

"[Bait Slaves]?" you ask.

"They have Skills that make you want to attack them," she explains. "It helps train people who aren't used to combat. They're not really good for anything besides getting torn apart to train up a [Slave] who might be worth something."

You look down to the pit. Two of the downed slaves - the ones who'd had their limbs cut off - are stirring feebly while other slaves pull them out of the ring. The last one, the one that Barqus had stabbed repeatedly in the gut, is clutching at her stomach and moaning feebly. No one seems to care.

"You have them kill people to level in [Gladiator]?" you ask, horrified.

"Nah," Livia says. "[Gladiators] level more by performing than killing. But I guess Papa wants to level Barqus's other Class."

"What Class? Isn't he a [Tailor]?"

Livia laughs. "No, silly. Well, yeah I guess he is, but that's not what Papa wanted him for. He's a [Murderer]. He was bribing a [Magistrate] to look the other way, but couldn't keep the gold flowing once some of his victims' families burned down his shop. Idiot."

Another batch of [Slaves] are singled out and shoved into the center of the bloodstained pit. Someone realizes that the girl with the gut wound is still in the ring, and she's unceremoniously dragged outside the circle of spectator slaves before being dumped in the sands.

"I see Papa," Livia says. "Let's go, Sophie. [Slave], stay here and watch. Maybe place some bets. Everyone gets a chit for extra rations to gamble with."


==========


[ ] Go back to the wagon
Refuse to participate in this.

[ ] Stay and watch
It's what you were ordered to do.

[ ] Go to the dying String Person girl
You don't think you can save her, but can you really look away?

[ ] Write-in

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: Vote results

Go to the dying String Person girl

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.

 

[NewRole]

Spoiler: In progress…

Focus on teaching slaves

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!"


----------


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