TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 41

Although he had already had a vague feeling, when Albin examined the other up close, he was still shocked.

The black-haired boy in front of him seemed about the same age as he was. His messy hair hung down over his forehead, covering part of his face and making it hard to see his eyes. But the lower half of his face was covered by a strange iron mask—something that reminded Albin of the muzzles people put on dogs when taking them out.

Not only that—there were also iron shackles around the boy’s feet, their blackened surface streaked with rust.

Albin froze for a moment, unable to imagine why such unsettling things would appear on a child.

Then, remembering that the boy was a slave, he suddenly felt a sharp tightening in his chest, as if an invisible hand were gripping his heart. A sour, indescribable ache surged up within him, and his eyes began to fill with tears.

Why would a perfectly good person end up as a slave?

He thought of the baby he had secretly saved during the count’s hunt. If that child had grown up in the count’s household, would they have ended up like this too?

How many others in this world were like that baby… and like this boy before him?

The thought was like a thorn lodged deep in his heart.

“You’re hurt?” he asked quickly, catching the strong scent of blood lingering on the boy.

Slave No. 13 stood frozen like a suit of armor in a hallway, unsure how to respond to Albin’s concern.

He couldn’t understand Albin’s behavior, or even decide if he should shake off the other’s hand.

It was too dark in the room to see clearly. Albin got out of bed, pressed the boy down to sit on his own bed, and sternly warned, “No running off!”

Slave No. 13’s fingertips trembled slightly, uncertain what would happen next.

The last time he had heard such a warning, it was from slavers and guards—and nothing good had followed.

If he relied on experience, he should be running now.

But as he watched Albin’s back moving about, curiosity—the same spark that had arisen when he first saw him—returned.

Albin rummaged around the room, found some cloth, and tore it into strips. Worried it wasn’t clean enough, he filled a clay pot with water, boiled it with fire magic, and then used magic to remove all the moisture, leaving the cloth warm and dry.

He walked toward the black-haired boy, who was sitting obediently, and after thinking for a moment, took one strip of cloth and tied it over the boy’s eyes.

“There! Now you won’t see anything, and even if someone asks you about it later, you can honestly say you don’t know.”

Slave No. 13 sank into complete darkness. He was already used to the cold, damp dark and felt no discomfort—but this time, the darkness carried a trace of warmth.

“You’re really badly hurt…” The other boy’s trembling voice came from right in front of him.

Then he felt warm water gently washing over his wounds. The touch was so soft, but to him, it was like frostbite being touched—he jerked violently as if scalded, the shackles around his feet clattering harshly.

“No—your wounds must be cleaned, or you’ll get sick!”

Those hands pushed him back down again.

He sat stiffly, voice hoarse and muted. “It will heal soon…”

He didn’t even know why he was explaining himself.

“It still needs proper treatment.” As if worried he might bolt again, the white-haired boy held his wrist firmly, leaving him no chance to escape.

He heard him mutter, “How do you get these shackles off…” Then he felt a warm power seep into his wounds, the itchy sensation of healing starting to spread.

Blindfolded, he didn’t understand what was happening.

“Your arm…” The white-haired boy’s voice was startled, as if he had seen something unbelievable.

Slave No. 13 felt as if struck by lightning.

He instantly thought of the burn scars on his body, snapping awake and struggling violently to break free.

Even in summer, he wore long sleeves to hide the grotesque scars. He had assumed that in the darkness, they would go unnoticed—but somehow the other had still seen them.

He was used to being despised, but at this moment, a single thought still flashed in his mind:

He’s going to hate me.

“Don’t move—did I touch your burn?” The voice carried none of the disgust he had braced for. Instead, the boy said, “I’ve been burned before too. It hurts, right? Back then, I remember the burn felt hot and stinging all the time.”

The water changed from warm to cool, soothingly covering the scarred skin.

He froze in place, pressed down for the third time.

After all the moving about, the blindfold had loosened, slipping slightly so that faint light leaked in through its edge.

Light? Why is there light?

Through the gap, his eyes caught sight of something impossible—a dazzling, dreamlike river of stars in what should have been a pitch-black room.

Clusters of light like fireflies drifted in the darkness, orbiting strangely around the white-haired boy, illuminating the shadows—and lighting up a pair of ruby-red eyes that shone like jewels.

Water swirled in the air, cleansing his wounds, while pure white light seeped into them, accelerating their healing. Beads of sweat glistened on the white-haired boy’s forehead.

Never before had he seen the other’s face so clearly, so close.

Albin felt his magic running low. He didn’t have much magical power to begin with, nor had he properly learned healing spells—this was all trial and error. He couldn’t heal everything in one go.

He looked at the wounds that had already improved, wrapped them in clean cloth, and said with hands on his hips, full of determination, “I’ll continue tomorrow!”

The lights disappeared, and the world returned to darkness. Albin fumbled to untie the blindfold.

“Your wounds aren’t fully healed. You’ve still got bruises and burns, and I don’t really know how to treat them properly. You’ll need to be careful for now. How did you get hurt so badly? The burns cover such a large area.”

The black-haired boy was silent for a moment, then said, “Because I had to cremate my mother.”

Unlike most people in Thorn City, who had no faith, his mother was a follower of the Sun God. The Sun God’s believers held that the dead must be purified by fire.

Cremation required a lot of fuel, but the forest land belonged to nobles, and commoners couldn’t just cut down trees. He also didn’t have the money to buy that much fuel.

Albin frowned. “Cremating your mother—how did that hurt you?”

“I burned the house down.”

His mother could read and write. Though branded as a slave, she had a relatively higher status in her master’s household and had managed to save enough to buy a small wooden hut. It was their only shelter.

Later, she fell ill and was driven out by her master. All their savings went toward her treatment.

To bury her, he had no choice but to destroy their shelter in flames.

He had watched as the blazing fire consumed her body. Heat and smoke roared toward him, and he kept rushing into the fire to stoke it, determined to keep it burning. In the process, he had been badly burned himself.

The god his mother worshipped had judged him guilty.

“That’s nonsense!” Albin said firmly. “You’re not guilty at all! Don’t listen to what others say. If burying your mother is a sin, then what kind of god is that?”

Albin ruffled his hair, as if to shake all the bad thoughts out of his head.

“I don’t think you’re guilty. Your mother wouldn’t think so either. So you can’t think that way about yourself!”

The black-haired boy stared blankly at him.

“My name’s Albin—you can also call me Little White. What’s your name?” Albin asked curiously.

The boy lowered his eyes to the brand on the back of his hand.

“My name… is Slave No. 13.”

“Eh?” Albin blinked. “That’s not a name. You shouldn’t be a slave, so your name can’t be that.”

The black-haired boy looked up at him, the faint moonlight outlining his face.

He couldn’t see clearly, but he remembered that in the starry light, the other’s gaze had been neither the look people gave livestock nor the look reserved for lowly beings.

That gaze was gentle—but not like his mother’s either.

He didn’t know what kind of gaze it was.

—My child, you were never meant to be a slave…

His throat tightened, and in a hoarse voice he asked, “Why? Why shouldn’t I be a slave?”

If he wasn’t meant to be a slave, then why did so many people treat him like one? Why had they branded him with a hot iron, locked him in shackles and collars, and chained him to that identity?

Even after running away so many times, he still didn’t know the answer.

“There’s no ‘why.’ It’s because—whether it’s you or anyone else—no one should be a slave.”

Albin’s gaze was steady. To him, the very existence of slavery was what was truly incomprehensible.

His words shook the black-haired boy’s understanding of the world.

“Some people want to make you a slave, but you must never believe their lies,” Albin muttered under his breath. “Some nobles are really awful!”

“Your mother wouldn’t have called you ‘Slave No. 13.’ What did she call you?”

“She called me Xiao Hei (Little Black),” the boy’s voice came from behind the iron muzzle.

“I knew you had another name! Then… can I call you Xiao Hei too?” Albin grinned, his smile like warm sunlight in the dark—impossible to refuse.

Xiao Hei nodded, then, as if worried Albin hadn’t seen it, quickly said, “Yes.”

“What’s with that muzzle and those shackles?”

Albin leaned in, studying the strange ironwork.

Xiao Hei wasn’t used to people being so close, and felt awkward and tense.

“They’re afraid I’ll run away.”

Albin gave a little huff. “What villains! I’m going to find a way to take these off you.”

But he had already exhausted his magic for the day, and couldn’t do it just yet.

“Oh right, I left you a gift! Can you eat with that thing on?”

Albin ran over, picked up a basket, and brought over the food he had saved.

Xiao Hei’s eyes fell on the food in his hands, but he said, “I don’t need…”

His stomach betrayed him, growling loudly after going half a day without food.

“Hehe, just eat! I’ve got more!” Albin placed the food in his hands.

Xiao Hei hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head and began to eat.

Because of the muzzle, he couldn’t eat quickly—he had to break the food into small pieces and push them through the gaps at the side.

Albin watched him the whole time, which felt strange to Xiao Hei.

“Why are you giving me food… and helping me heal?”

“Because you’ve been looking after me too. I don’t have anything else right now, so this is how I can thank you,” Albin said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t enjoy the service of slaves, nor had he ever seen himself as one.

Just as he had said—he didn’t believe anyone should be a slave.

Xiao Hei suddenly understood the look in his eyes.

It was an equal gaze—one that saw him as a person.

He couldn’t understand why such a person would exist.

Softly, he asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Albin’s smile was bright, his tone cheerful yet with a hint of nervousness.

“Because I want to be your friend. Can I?”

Xiao Hei was stunned. “Friend? What’s that?”

“It’s when you’re really close to someone, you can play together, and even share little secrets!” Albin held out his hand. “Will you be my friend?”

Friend…

Xiao Hei’s heart trembled. In disbelief, yet with great caution, he took the other’s warm hand.

“I will.”

“Yay!” Albin grabbed his hand in excitement.

Pulling him toward the bed, Albin said, “Let’s sleep together tonight!”

“But I—”

“Nope!” Albin cut him off. “I won’t let my friend sleep alone on a pile of hay—unless you take me with you. So, bed or hay, your choice.”

Xiao Hei could only obediently comply.

Lying next to Albin, he suddenly felt as if he were dreaming.

Could it really be that there was someone who didn’t see him as livestock, who looked at him as an equal, and was even willing to be friends with a burned, scarred person like him?

He turned on his side, looking at the figure who had fallen asleep at some point. He had never looked at Albin from this angle before—and perhaps because of that, the scene felt real at last.

—This was his friend.

He silently recited that strange, warm word in his heart, and the pain in his body faded from his mind.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he, too, slowly closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

The next day.

Though he was injured, Little Black still had to go to work.

His workplace was once again the sunless underground chamber, yet he felt no oppression in his heart.

He only wanted to finish the heavy labor as quickly as possible, then return to the room in the tower.

When he had woken up earlier, Albin was still asleep. He didn’t know if the other would regret it upon waking. He felt timid, yet urgently wanted to know the answer.

A nearby slave noticed he seemed to be in unusually good spirits today and clicked his tongue in surprise.

“How come you’re not the least bit dejected after being beaten?”

Little Black didn’t answer. He had no intention of telling anyone about Albin.

But suddenly, a thought came to him, and he asked, “What exactly is a Sin-Eater?”

“So you really don’t know.” The slave explained, “A Sin-Eater is someone who devours everyone’s sins.”

Thorn City is both the capital of sin and a land abandoned by the gods. Here, there are no temples or priests. Even if they believe in the gods, they cannot go to a temple to take part in rituals, will not be blessed by the divine, and cannot prove their devotion. As a result, people worry that after death, their sin-stained souls won’t be able to enter the divine realm and will suffer endlessly.

And so, the Sin-Eating ritual was born.

A Sin-Eater, after being paid, will eat bread placed on the body at a funeral—a bread that has absorbed the sins of the deceased. The sins are then transferred to the Sin-Eater, allowing the soul of the deceased to be purified.

However, the Sin-Eater becomes burdened with immense sin, doomed never to enter the divine realm. Thus, only the destitute or those with no way out would take such work.

Normally, Sin-Eaters appear only at funerals.

But seven years ago, the master of this castle nearly died. He was saved only because a priest from the Temple of Healing was summoned.

From then on, bedridden, he often felt Death’s shadow looming over him. He became obsessed with his posthumous affairs.

Knowing he was deeply sinful and fearing the world after death, he doubted that ordinary Sin-Eaters—already weighed down with others’ sins—could contain all of his. He feared his soul would not be completely purified, and he also believed that someone of his status should not use the same Sin-Eaters as commoners.

So he found an infant.

A pure, unblemished baby who had committed no sins—moreover, a slow-witted child. To him, it was the perfect vessel for sin.

He raised this infant as his personal Sin-Eater, making the butler ensure the child ate sin-laden bread every day, repeating the ritual over and over. In this way, he gradually transferred his own sins, easing his fear of the afterlife.

Others performed the ritual only once at a funeral; he performed it daily, firmly believing that his soul must be the purest of all.

“That child must have absorbed far too many sins. The two slaves who cared for him before both died.” The slave glanced sympathetically at Little Black, who had been assigned to tend to the Sin-Eater.

In his view, Little Black would not live long either.

Ordinary people believed that a Sin-Eater’s body was filled with sins and would bring disaster to those around them. Thus, they avoided Sin-Eaters at all costs.

Little Black didn’t care about such dangers. Upon hearing this, he thought only of how every evening, Albin would eat that so-called sin-bread.

That bread was meant to make Albin bear those sins.

He suddenly bolted back to the tower. The butler had already opened the door and was handing Albin a seemingly harmless piece of white bread, urging him to eat it.