Rebellious Grey: The Demon Girl Rises from Slavery
In the city of Granveld, where human greed turns flesh into currency, demons are born already condemned. Gurei—thirteen years old, horned, hungry, and utterly alone—has known nothing but the stinking gutters of the Ash Bottom slum. When a bounty hunter's iron grip drags her from the rain-soaked streets into the slave market's cold machinery, she is stripped of her name, her rags, and what little freedom she had left, reduced to nothing more than "property" to be priced and sold.
But something b
Rebellious Grey: The Demon Girl Rises from Slavery - The Weight Bearer
The arena's underground passage was dim even at midday.
The smell of sweat and blood and mold, soaked deep into the stone walls, stung the back of her nose exactly as it had three years ago. Gurei pressed a hand to the wall and let out a slow breath. The cold of the stone seeped into her fingertips. That chill alone felt like proof she was still here.
(I won.)
Today's opponent had been a hulking former murderer shipped in from the eastern mines. A brute who swung a chained iron ball, all strength and no finesse. The crowd had been hungry for blood. Gurei had ended it in under a minute.
She'd slipped beneath the chain, cut the back of his knee, and when he fell, put her blade to his throat. That was all. The crowd's frenzy rang deep in her ears now, like the far-off sound of the tide.
"Hey, feed."
The voice came. Before she could turn, a heavy impact struck the back of her head. A boot sole ground her face into the floor.
"Won again, did you. Don't get cocky, you monster."
Cold water poured down from above. It ran along her neck, soaked her back, seeped into the stone floor. Three years ago, she would have snapped the wrist that poured it. She would have bitten down and glared with murder in her eyes.
Now, it was different.
Gurei kept her cheek against the floor and stared vaguely at the puddle before her. Her own face reflected in the water. Long gray hair. Two bull-like horns. And dark violet eyes with no light in them.
(Ah. Right.)
(This one always steps on my head.)
She remembered the Kenpei's face. Close-cropped black hair. Patchy stubble. Black eyes that looked down on everything. The whip at his hip. That whip had struck her more times than she could count. The old scars on her back ached in the cold of the water.
But no anger rose.
Killing intent, hatred — all of it had worn away over three years. Something like silt settled at the bottom of her heart, smothering any fire of emotion. Only one thing remained, a rule she kept for herself: never forget this man's face.
"The rebel Gurei herself, gone all meek. And you used to bite, too."
Still pinning her head, the Kenpei twisted his heel against her. Her cheek scraped the stone. The taste of blood spread through her mouth.
"...I don't like it."
Her voice came out so flat it surprised even her.
"Huh? You say something, feed?"
"...Nothing."
The Kenpei snorted and finally lifted his foot.
"Get lost. Go get ready for your next match."
Gurei rose slowly. Wet hair clung to her cheeks. Her body had changed a great deal in three years. The bony shoulders of her thirteen-year-old self had broadened, her waist had taken shape, her chest had clearly filled out, her limbs had grown long and supple. At sixteen, she stood nearly as tall as a grown man. But the beast inside her still slept, curled up in its cage.
She walked the arena's underground passage. The roar leaking from the stands traveled through the ceiling like a vibration. Today's program was still running. Slaves waiting for the next match trembled at the side of the corridor, awaiting their turn.
Gurei didn't look at them. There was no need to.
She passed through the corridor and headed for the residential block behind the arena. Three years ago, when she'd first begun making a name for herself as a slave gladiator, Varudo had given her this room. Not a cage. A door without a lock. Iron bars on the window. But a space she could enter and leave by her own will. On paper, she was treated as a freed slave.
She entered the room.
It was small. A wooden cot against the wall. A little desk. A water pitcher. That was all. But it was far better than a cage.
Gurei stripped off her wet clothes and sat on the cot. The collar bit into the skin of her neck. The weight of black iron. Something that hadn't come off once in three years — a part of her now.
(Become free.)
Kain's voice surfaced from the depths of memory.
(Become free — and do what?)
Serafina's question followed after it.
Gurei glanced at the greatsword propped against the head of the cot. An executioner's blade. The double-edged sword, a hundred and fifty centimeters of steel, that the Queen of Cruel Blades had wielded. Since the day that woman died, Gurei had carried it on her back.
Heavy.
Every time she shouldered it, heavy.
But she couldn't set it down. If she set it down, everything — who she was, what she stood for — felt like it would crumble away.
—Knock, knock.
The door was tapped.
"...Who is it."
"It's me. Varudo."
Gurei raised her head.
The door opened and a man stepped in. A slender frame in a deep crimson coat marking him as arena staff. A scroll in his hand. Cold eyes. A gaze that appraised her like merchandise. Varudo. The man who ran the arena's operations as Varudo's right hand.
"Good match today. Attendance was excellent. That mountain brute brought in good money."
Varudo looked around the room. The water pitcher set down carelessly. Bandages left on the floor. The greatsword against the wall.
"Spartan as ever. I could arrange a better room for you, you know."
"...What do you want."
"Tomorrow, you're fighting in the Holy Knights' exhibition match."
Gurei looked at him slowly.
"The exhibition. A formal affair held before the nobility. The Holy Knights display their skill there. And by custom, a slave gladiator challenges one of them as the opening act."
"...A stalking horse."
"Glad you catch on quick."
Varudo smiled thinly.
"The reward is ten gold coins. And a verbal promise to remove your collar."
Gurei said nothing.
Ten gold coins. Less than the price of a single slave. A verbal promise to remove her collar. She had never once seen a verbal promise honored in this arena.
(Doesn't matter.)
(Money, honor, freedom.)
(It doesn't matter anymore.)
But—
"...Are the Holy Knights strong?"
Varudo's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Yes. They carry the kingdom's prestige. Every one of them a battle-hardened warrior. An ordinary gladiator wouldn't last ten seconds."
Something stirred, small, deep in Gurei's chest.
(A strong opponent.)
(Someone I can cross blades with.)
Only during a match did the murk in her head clear. Reading her opponent's movements, stealing their technique, driving home her own blade. Only in that instant did she feel alive.
"...I'll take it."
"Settled, then. Come to the outer gate tomorrow morning. I'll lead you."
Varudo stared at Gurei's face. That appraising look. The eye of a merchant weighing the value of his goods.
"You're a hen that lays golden eggs. At least try not to die before tomorrow."
With that, he left the room.
Gurei didn't move for a while.
(So I'm disposable.)
Varudo's eyes had said as much. Beaten by a Holy Knight as the stalking horse, delighting the crowd, killed in the end. That was a slave gladiator's role.
(That's fine.)
(If I can cross blades, that's enough.)
Gurei pushed her wet hair back from her face.
—That night.
For the first time in three years, she was summoned to Varudo's office.
The top floor of the arena. She opened the heavy wooden door, and the smell of tallow lamps and the clink of gold coins met her. Varudo sat behind his desk. A portly body. A flushed face. Jeweled rings on his fingers. His gray-green eyes studied Gurei as if pricing her.
"Well, Gurei. It's been a while."
Varudo's voice was polite only on the surface. The malice beneath showed through.
"...What do you want."
"Don't be in such a hurry. Here, sit."
Gurei didn't sit. She stood and looked down at him.
Varudo tapped a finger on something on his desk.
"Recognize this?"
It was a collar.
A black iron collar. Rusted, crusted with old bloodstains. The keyhole was warped — from being forced off, perhaps. Or from the neck being cut clean through.
"This belonged to the man who played stalking horse in the exhibition before you. His name was... well, I don't remember. A slave risen from feed. A gladiator who could win a fair bit, just like you."
Gurei looked at the collar.
"He challenged a Holy Knight in the exhibition. The crowd went wild. They held their breath watching the moment that knight's blade sent the slave's head flying. The betting odds — well, you can imagine."
Varudo chuckled low in his throat.
"He was struck down and died. Naturally. A slave gladiator can't beat a Holy Knight. You understand that too, don't you?"
Gurei didn't take her eyes off the collar.
(If I lose.)
(Like this collar.)
(My head will be cut off.)
The image came to her at once. The Holy Knight's blade catching her neck. The sound of bone severing. Blood spraying. The crowd's roar. Her collar becoming a lump of rusted iron, set on someone's desk.
(So that's the end.)
"Tomorrow, prepare yourself as if you're disposable. Understood?"
Varudo's gray-green eyes glinted coldly.
"...You think I'll die?"
"Who knows. Whether I think so doesn't matter. What matters is what you do."
Varudo flicked the collar on his desk with a finger. A dry clink echoed through the room.
"You make money. You have value. You're that kind of product. That's why I called you here like this. I never did this for the last stalking horse. You're special. At least give me a fight worth your price."
Gurei reached for the greatsword on her back.
Heavy.
Cold.
(Tomorrow, I'll swing this weight.)
(I can cross blades.)
(That alone is enough.)
"...Are we done."
"Yes, you may go. Wait at the outer gate tomorrow."
Gurei turned and started walking.
"Oh, that's right, Gurei."
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Your collar can't come off yet. Freedom isn't something you just hand over so easily. You understand that, don't you?"
Gurei opened the door without a word.
—The underground passage.
The arena at night was quiet.
As if the day's frenzy had been a lie, only the stone walls rose cold around her. The lamplight stretched Gurei's shadow long across the floor.
Gurei lowered the greatsword from her back.
She gripped the sheath. Gripped the hilt.
(Just once.)
(Just once, I'll try a swing.)
She drew the blade. The edge caught the lamplight.
The greatsword was nearly as tall as she was. At thirteen, she'd barely been able to lift it with both hands. Now she could swing it one-handed. Her body had grown. Her strength had grown. Her skill, too — stolen from Serafina.
But—
Gurei swung the greatsword through.
Whum.
The sound of air splitting. No resistance.
(Empty.)
(I'm cutting nothing.)
(What am I swinging this sword for?)
The feel of the day she killed Serafina came back to her palm. The sensation of flesh as she tore open the throat. The hardness of bone. The warmth of blood. And her master's face, smiling peacefully as her strength gave out.
(Why did that woman smile?)
(Killed by me — why?)
The feel of the hand that stabbed Kain surfaced with it. That day, Kain's blood had clung slick to her hand.
"Become free."
(Become free — and do what?)
(No answer yet.)
Gurei returned the greatsword to its sheath and shouldered it again.
Heavy.
She touched the collar. Cold iron. At the very end, Serafina had laid her fingers on this collar. The feel of those fingertips. What had that woman been thinking when she touched it?
(I don't know.)
(Three years passed without knowing.)
Gurei leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes.
(Tomorrow, I can cross blades.)
(With a strong opponent, I can cross blades.)
That single point was the only reason that moved her.
—The next morning.
The outer gate.
For the first time in three years, Gurei breathed the air outside the arena.
The morning light stabbed at her eyes.
The wind brushed her cheek.
Outside the arena was vast. The sky was high. A world not enclosed by walls. A morning smell, free of stone and sand and blood.
Gurei stopped for a moment.
(So the outside is this bright.)
For three years, her world had been only the underground and the sand of the arena. When was the last time she'd seen the color of the sky this close?
"Let's go."
Varud
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