Riser
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🕑 Added 2025-10-11 22:46:21 +0000 UTCChapter 45: Slave Competition
Slave Competition
At the construction site on the outskirts of the village, where building work was in full swing, Buren arrived and delivered Milk’s message to Valen, who was overseeing the project.
“The chief says he’ll be treating the caravan leader to drinks tonight.”
“Drinks? I appreciate the offer, but... I have work to do.”
The truth was, Valen simply didn’t want to be in the same room as that brat for even a moment, but she couldn’t say that outright, so she made an excuse.
However, Buren insisted, relaying Milk’s request that Valen’s attendance was required. She spoke firmly:
“Yes, it’s not often one has the honor of being treated by the chief. Please make sure to attend. If you don’t, the chief will be quite disappointed.”
Buren, too, was speaking in a roundabout way. If Valen didn’t show up, the angry chief might cause serious trouble for future business.
Barely managing to keep her face from scowling, Valen forced a smile and answered Buren.
“I’m busy, but I can’t miss such an honor. I’ll make time.”
“Hahaha, you’re so agreeable. I’ll be off, then.”
Perhaps annoyed that Valen had dared consider refusing Milk’s invitation, Buren gave a final jab before turning and leaving.
Watching Buren’s back, Valen turned away as well, her face smiling but inwardly fuming.
‘How dare these damned demi-humans order me around?! Do they think I’m their servant?! Bastards!’
At that moment, a slave laborer tripped and dropped the materials he was carrying. Valen, who had been looking for any excuse, immediately noticed.
With a terrifying glare and a face like a demon, she approached the fallen laborer, took the whip from her side, and mercilessly lashed him.
“Slacking off, are you?! Get up! Work! I said work, you damned slave! Die! Die!”
“Aaagh! Oww! Aaagh!!!”
Whip! Whip! Whip!
Whoever Valen saw in that moment, it certainly wasn’t the man being whipped it was someone else in her mind.
The laborer, beaten nearly to unconsciousness, had to be carried away by two caravan members for emergency treatment.
Seeing Valen’s terrifying display, the other slave laborers and caravan members worked even more cautiously and diligently, as if walking on thin ice.
Huff! Huff! Huff!
Still not fully calmed, Valen breathed heavily, her face flushed with anger.
Smack!
She threw the whip to the ground, glared at the workers, then abruptly turned and went into her temporary quarters.
‘Drinks? Fine, I’ll drink. I’ll drink a hundred, a thousand times with that brat! And I’ll never forget this humiliation. You barbaric demi-human!’
Valen cursed Milk in her heart, and her feelings were relayed to Milk through the favorability system.
Although it was Sun Day, Milk had left the chief’s house to visit the forge. Mary was off today, but since he’d already told her he’d be using the forge, it was fine.
Of course, as chief, no one could object to Milk using the forge, but out of respect for Mary, he had informed her in advance.
Already gathered there were female blacksmith slaves who had been brought in. Milk wanted to see their skills, and since it was a day off, he’d called them together to give them some work.
“Come here.”
The slaves responded obediently, with the beautiful blacksmith Fatima at the front and the frightened slaves lined up behind her.
Fatima was just as scared as the others, but as the most skilled blacksmith and their leader, she stood before Milk with her head bowed but her posture proud.
Unlike the others, Fatima had a bit of spirit. According to her records, she was once a noble’s daughter sold from another noble family.
She learned blacksmithing purely to survive otherwise, she’d have ended up as a brothel slave, passed from place to place.
Desperately, she learned the trade, gradually improving until she became a blacksmith slave. Thanks to this, she received better treatment than the lowest slaves: better food and rest, though punishment for disobedience or failing quotas was just as harsh.
Now, however, she had been sold to demi-humans for her skill, and lived a miserable life as their slave. It was heartbreaking, but to survive, she steeled herself to obey every order.
At least here, they promised separate housing, good food, and didn’t treat her as harshly as some humans did. In some ways, it might even be better.
As she considered all this, Milk raised his voice so everyone could hear.
“The forge may be a bit old-fashioned, but this is the best we Holstaurus have. If you need any tools, make them yourself or ask Mary, the forge’s owner. When we trade with humans, I’ll get you what you need.”
“Yes, sir!”
“No need to be nervous. I promised you work hard and you’ll never be mistreated. Now, I’ll give you each some iron. Show me your skills. Make a needle, a farm tool, scissors, or a weapon whatever you do best. The most skilled will become the leader of the blacksmith slaves. I don’t care about your past status; from now on, only skill matters. Show me your best work.”
The forge had been expanded with human materials and now had ten anvils one for each of the nine blacksmith slaves, plus Mary’s.
The number of furnaces hadn’t increased, but they were larger and could melt three pieces of iron at once, so work wouldn’t be delayed.
As Milk watched from a distance, the blacksmiths hesitated, none wanting to go first.
Then, Fatima stepped forward and picked up a piece of high-quality iron ore not the cheap stuff Holstaurus usually used, but good iron acquired through recent trade.
Milk wanted to see what they could make with it.
Fatima’s eyes changed as she took up the ore and hammer. Gone was the trembling slave; now, only a blacksmith remained.
She used tongs to put the ore in the furnace, then brought it to the anvil and began hammering. Though her body looked small and frail, her arms bulged with muscle as she worked.
Forgetting Milk was watching, she entered a state of total concentration, and the iron gradually took shape.
She moved between the furnace and anvil, heating and hammering, until the metal began to resemble a sword.
The blade she produced was more refined, harder, and flawless than anything Mary or Milk had ever made.
At the final stage, she hesitated, unsure how to quench the blade. Milk spoke up:
“Quench it in the bucket of milk.”
Fatima and the other blacksmiths stared at Milk in shock, then looked at the bucket, which was filled with cool, if not top-quality, milk.
“We use this?”
“Yes. Use it to cool the blade.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Fatima quenched the sword in the milk, and the sizzle released a savory aroma that made her smile.
‘Even if the forge isn’t the best, as long as there’s Holstaurus milk, we can make top-quality goods here. This is an amazing opportunity. I might even make a legendary sword!’
Filled with hope, Fatima took the cooled blade to the whetstone. Milk approached her.
Fatima nervously bowed, worried she’d made a mistake, but Milk had only come to turn the whetstone for her.
“Humans use pedal-powered whetstones, but we don’t have those. Someone has to turn the handle. So, always work in pairs when sharpening. I’ll turn it go ahead.”
It might seem reckless to stand unguarded next to a slave sharpening a blade, but the slaves bore magical slave marks that prevented them from harming their master. Any ill will would trigger the mark, causing searing pain and mental shock, leaving the slave half-dead.
Slaves who disobeyed were used as examples, instilling deep fear in the others.
Knowing Fatima couldn’t possibly harm him, Milk confidently turned the whetstone.
Fatima never had such thoughts, but was touched by Milk’s trust, and her favorability toward him increased. The other slaves, seeing his kindness, also began to open up a little.
As the whetstone spun, Fatima sharpened her blade. When the edge was keen, Milk handed her a handle made from Devil Bear leather.
“We Holstaurus use handles made from Devil Bear leather. If you can make something else, that’s fine, but our warriors prefer this material they’re used to it.”
“Yes, master...”
Fatima assembled the handle and blade, pouring molten metal to secure the joint.
When she tried to present the finished sword, Milk stopped her and handed her a jar of fresh milk.
“Give it a milk finish.”
“What?!”
“Ah humans don’t usually do this, right? But this is a Holstaurus village. Remember, every job ends with a milk finish. Otherwise, it’s not considered complete.”
For humans, this was shocking. They knew a milk finish improved quality, but Holstaurus milk was a luxury rare and expensive, usually consumed by nobles. How could they use it on weapons?
But in this village, milk was abundant, so they could use it freely.
Hands trembling, Fatima took the jar, almost reverently, and poured some milk over the slightly heated blade, polishing it.
After repeating this several times, the blade shone with a glossy finish, its strength and sharpness further enhanced.
Fatima gazed at her creation, almost in tears, while the other blacksmiths swallowed hard.
“If you don’t hurry, Fatima will win first place.”
At Milk’s words, the others hurried to start their own work.
