Dead for centuries, and he still had zealots trying to bring him back. Shane couldn't help marveling at the dark mage's pull.
"So this is what they mean by 'even villains have their own messiah.'"
As the thought crossed his mind, the air split with a sharp hiss. An instant later, a whip cracked hard across his back.
"You lazy wretch—who said you could stand there daydreaming?" roared a tall, bloated overseer, the leather lash in his hand stained a dark, filthy color.
The blow sent Shane staggering to the ground. The searing pain snapped him fully awake. Only then did he realize how conspicuous he was—standing motionless amid a swarm of laboring slaves.
He flicked his eyes up for a heartbeat, then dropped his gaze and, without a word, pushed himself upright and lurched toward a nearby pile of stone.
"Trash like you won't move unless you're beaten!"
Seeing no reaction, the fat overseer spat, turned away in disgust, and waddled off.
Shane hefted a stone with effort and dumped it into a handcart, all while silently watching the man's arrogant back, his face unreadable.
That lash had been merciless, but he hadn't made a sound. He knew the type—sadists through and through.
Whether you grit your teeth in defiance or break down in tears, any show of feeling is like bleeding in front of wolves—it only invites worse.
So the right move is measured numbness: make it boring for them.
He drew a quiet breath and scolded himself: same old flaw—lose himself whenever something catches his interest.
"In the end, that's on me," he nodded to himself, as if the whip had barely registered. "Didn't follow the rules. You don't space out on the job."
He glanced at Jellal and Wally's worried looks and sent them a "I'm fine" with his eyes. Then he bent to the work, throwing himself into hauling stone like he meant to make up for the mistake.
The blocks were huge, rough-edged, and each one took everything he had to lift. Every time a block thudded into the cart, the jolt tugged at the welt on his back and made it throb. It was brutal labor.
The blood and grime on his skin had clotted into the prison rags; every movement tore at the wound. The sticky feel made his mild neat-freak tendencies twitch. He swore to himself that once he got out, he'd soak in a hot spring and get his whole body sorted.
Only when the sun stood high overhead did he finally whittle his pile down to almost nothing.
No getting around it—an E– body was pathetic.
He paused for breath, watching with helpless envy as Jellal and Wally rolled past with carts piled high with stone, easy as you please.
It wasn't just them. Most of the slaves had strength that didn't match their "status." Even little Millianna handled rocks with startling ease.
If Wally and Jellal hadn't kept "accidentally" grabbing the bigger pieces, and if that steady warmth from the card wasn't shoring him up, Shane doubted he could have finished that quota while injured.
And he didn't need imagination to know what happened if you failed your quota in this stone tower.
"Yeah, a world with magic really is different. Even non-mages have sturdier bodies than in my last life." Lesson learned—his hands didn't slow even as his thoughts wandered.
A commotion erupted up ahead on the slope, snagging his attention.
A cart loaded with mud-stone filler suddenly tipped, spilling rubble in a clattering cascade.
A panicked slave pitched forward—the cart had slipped from his hands.
Unluckily, several overseers were chatting at the base of the slope. The stones were small, but a few bounced off the same fat overseer who'd whipped Shane earlier. They didn't truly hurt him, but dust and grit spattered him head to toe—made him look ridiculous.
Silence crashed down.
The fat man's jowls twitched. He didn't even brush off the dirt. His beady eyes locked on the slave who'd collapsed, color drained from his face.
"You little shit… looking to die?!"
The whip cut the air with a sound far fiercer than before, striking like a viper.
The man was scared witless but didn't dare dodge. He flattened himself, forehead knocking the ground again and again despite the pain. "Mercy, mercy—spare me! I didn't mean it…"
"Didn't mean it?" the overseer snarled, grabbing a fistful of his hair. "You saying I deserved to be pelted?!"
"N-no…" The slave's features twisted with pain, words tumbling. "I'm stupid… clumsy…"
"Now you beg?" The overseer's grin turned cruel, and the whip smashed across the man's face. "What were you thinking when you made me a laughingstock!"
Each blow landed with a sick, heavy thud, splitting skin wherever it struck.
Around them, the slaves went chalk-white, a suffocating pall of grim, helpless sympathy settling over the crowd.
"He's dead for sure…"
Shane's lids lowered; his face stayed blank. Just as he'd expected—any reaction from a slave only pours oil on the fire.
No one helps in a scene like this. The man would be beaten to death. And who would dare stick their neck out?
"Good thing I've always had nerve," Shane murmured. He scanned the crowd—every eye was fixed ahead. No one was watching him.
He eased to the back of the throng. A dark-gold flash flickered in his hand—a card appeared.
Shane wasn't the vengeful sort. He'd chalked that earlier lash up as "within expectations." So what he was about to do wasn't revenge.
The point was to test his ability, save someone while he was at it, and maybe pick up intel. If there was collateral… well, that had nothing to do with revenge.
Yep. Perfectly reasonable.
He nodded to himself. The card flowed and reshaped in his palm into a great bow, crimson as blood.
"Red, just as I thought." His face didn't change, but a spark of triumphant certainty flared in his chest. His guess at the spirit's identity felt even more solid.
Time was tight. He gripped the bow.
A wordless feeling of rightness flooded through his hands—as if he'd shot this bow for decades. A calm, almost mythic confidence swelled—like a legendary archer splitting a halberd at the gate.
This weapon came with bow-handling experience built in?
His eyes widened. Skipping past years of sweat and practice—unreasonable, yes, but that's a fantasy armament for you.
"Well, if it's my cheat, the more unreasonable the better." He smiled. Without it, a few afternoons at an archery club wouldn't give him the aim for what came next.
"In that case… let's pick a safer trajectory." He raised the bow, angling it toward the sky.
He mimed nocking and drawing an arrow with empty fingers—when the string reached a full moon's curve, a shaft of pure mana shimmered into being.
[Arrow Construction]
Whoosh, he added in his head, and loosed.
A barely visible red gleam cut into the clouds.
The fat overseer was still grinning, whip raised high. The slave beneath him was already on the verge of death.
The air screamed.
A streak of light plunged straight down from the sky, punching cleanly through the overseer's thick neck. It didn't stop—buried through his chest, burst out of his gut, and with a metallic ping sank into the ground, leaving only a smooth, round hole.
He froze where he stood. The whip slipped from his fingers. His triumphant smirk curdled into stunned disbelief. He tried to look down, but all he saw was the hot blood pouring from his throat.
His heavy body crashed to the dirt, kicking up dust.
Time seemed to stop.
Slaves and overseers alike were statues, eyes pinned to the corpse that still twitched faintly.
At the very back, Shane calmly let the bowstring go slack.
The crimson longbow scattered into motes of light and vanished—as if it had never been there.