Slave girl and the grown-ups
Leaving Rebec, walking slowly.
A pace that’s quite slow—strolling, leisurely, that kind of pace.
Never walked this slow in this world before. Usually rushing somewhere, galloping across the wasteland, or lately, just taking the train.
…It’s itching.
Looking at the ruined land, it’s itching. Something has to be done.
“What kind of place would you want?”
I ask Nestor, glancing sideways. Can’t let my guard down—might slip into high-speed slow life otherwise.
“What kind of…?”
“What kind of village would you want to live in? What kind of farm? What kind of life? You know… that kind of thing.”
………………………… “A life without competition.”
“Huh?”
After a long pause, Nestor says it.
“A life without competition?”
"Yes. Thanks to His Majesty the King, the nation’s become prosperous. The harder you worked, the better life got. Everyone pushed themselves to work harder. But then it got too much—everyone scrambling for the same few jobs, fighting over scraps."
"...I see?"
So that’s how it was.
True, I hadn’t noticed that.
In the palace’s office, the Yuria Meter on the blackboard only showed three parameters: clothing, food, shelter.
No mention of job demand anywhere.
We assumed work was being created—through public projects, of course.
But we never thought about the quantity.
I’ll ask Yuria about this next time.
Anyway, I look at Nestor.
Nestor goes on.
"Couldn’t keep up with the competition. But staying in Rebeck? That’s not easy either... Sure, thanks to His Majesty, clothing, food, and shelter are guaranteed. But not working at all... well, the stares from the neighbors are unbearable."
"Why'd they be lookin' at me like that for not workin’?"
A silent nod.
Right. Makes sense.
"Got it. I’ll keep that in mind."
No idea how useful it’ll be, but—sure, whatever.
"Owah!"
A small voice came from behind.
I turned. There was Olga and the other adults.
Olga was carrying a massive house.
A house packed full of stuff Doreca made—basically anything that might come in handy someday.
Olga, my slave with a slave card, could carry it.
She looked about three years old, hauling a house that was ten to twenty times her size.
An absurd sight, but Olga was managing it.
—Was managing it.
Veeew.
"Owah! Owah!"
A gust hit her. She staggered.
The house didn’t care about weight, but the wind pushed her off balance.
Like holding a giant balloon that fights the wind—same thing.
"Slave girl, slave girl, put that down—let us handle it."
"That's right, slave girl, leave it to the adults, now."
The adults around her say to Oriha.
They can’t just leave it be, visually speaking.
"I’m fine—after all, I’m a slave."
A completely pointless reason, yet Oriha refuses anyway.
Well, in the end, Oriha’s the only one who can carry it.
That thing—
"Uuuhhh!
"Fiin-nyoo!
"Haa… haa… heavy…"
"Wow, the king’s slave girl really is something…
—If it weren’t my own slave, even ten adults couldn’t lift it.