The wheel of fun spun for a good while and made loud clicking sounds as it did. So loud, in fact, that it managed to catch the attention of a few people in the plaza—who started watching it with half-interested gazes, probably just using the ordeal as an excuse to procrastinate going to work.
Jenjo stood on the opposite side of the wheel to Midday, also fairly disinterested in the proceedings. To him, this was merely the first spin of probably more than a dozen that would happen throughout the day. Things had been fun at the start, when the new batch of slaves had come in with fresh and strong bodies, because just about everyone was able to meet their quota back then. The wheel only spun maybe every other day back then and so there had always been a sense of novelty to it.
Now though, due to nonstop overwork, chronic malnourishment, and a general lack of sleep, only the toughest slaves were still holding out. Most slaves had already become skinny husks just a step away from death—just like the surprisingly calm kid across from him who was spinning the wheel. It was a horrible system, really, and by no means was it sustainable, but Jenjo's boss had made it clear on several occasions that he was not permitted to modify it in any way. It was strange but, if it was what the higher-ups wanted, then that was how things had to be.
Jenjo sighed to himself, hoping that whatever punishment the kid landed would be one that was quick to dish out. Something like ‘EXECUTION’ or ‘PAIN AMPLIFICATION DRUG’ or ‘DISMEMBERMENT’ were his favorites not because the torture was anything special, but because they were quick and easy methods that would let him go back to his cabin and return to reading the book he had so rudely been interrupted from reading by this duty of his. Even the incredibly bland ‘SAFE’ option didn’t seem all too bad when faced with the fact that the coffee his assistant had brewed for him was getting colder with each passing second. It was true that his assistant had the Pyromancy Ability and could heat it up for him if he asked her to, but that always seemed to make the taste worse (and it was usually pretty bad to begin with). In any case, he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
Midday stood still and kept a straight face, his demeanor perhaps coming across as rather stoic to the steadily growing crowd of onlookers, but the internal landscape of his mind told a very different story: he found himself oddly ambivalent to the idea of experiencing pain, but Midday was nonetheless terrified of getting crippled or killed. The Elvanerean Ring required him to be alive and well to best be taken advantage of and so his hope was that the punishment would be something painful but not especially injury-inducing.
The wheel was slowing down. A few seconds more and his fate would be decided. Midday’s stoicism broke down at the thought of that, and he broke out into a cold sweat as his body became increasingly heavy. The wheel got slower and slower. Eight possibilities, two of them almost certain to be fatal and three with the potential to cripple him. He didn’t like his odds at all, but the wheel was indifferent to all but luck. It was too late to do anything but watch.
Finally, after almost a minute of drawn-out waiting that was torture in of itself, the wheel came to a stop. It had landed on ‘DISMEMBERMENT’.
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Midday tensed up, struggling to fully comprehend what was to come. Dismemberment? Dismemberment?! Fuck! He blinked rapidly, his heart racing. Anything but that! Midday had seen someone land ‘DISMEMBERMENT’ before. It had ended with the slave losing an arm. Please no! He reflexively took a step back, away from Jenjo—who had already drawn his sword and was walking calmly toward him.
“Alright, kid.” Jenjo frowned. “Pick one of your fingers, if you’d be so kind.”
“Umm…” Midday forced himself not to move. Running away would get him killed, he knew that much. “If I may ask, sir, why?” Midday knew exactly why. He had no idea why he had asked such a dumb question.
“I’m going to cut off whichever one you tell me to.” Jenjo’s sword, a gilded cutlass he had apparently looted off an infamous pirate during his career in the navy, began to glow in a dark red hue as he hoisted the blade up over his shoulder.
Midday had seen this before. Jenjo—who proudly proclaimed himself as a level 20 individual whenever he got the chance—had three Abilities (or maybe less, if he had any multi-tiered ones, but Midday had no way of knowing that kind of thing). In any case, this was one of them. Phantom Slice was its name, and he had seen Jenjo use it to cut off someone’s head while standing more than twenty feet away a few weeks before. Right away Midday understood that he only had a few seconds to think before the charge-up period was over.
“My… left middle finger, sir!” Midday didn’t have time to put too much thought into the decision. “Please cut off my left middle finger!”
“If you insist.” Jenjo swung his sword. An arc of reddish energy flew from the blade, matching the trajectory of his swing. Less than a second later, Midday’s left middle finger fell to the ground with a faint splat.
Midday screamed in agony, the pain unlike anything he had ever felt. He wobbled back a few steps, recoiling from the sight of a fast stream of blood spurting out from the open stub where his finger was supposed to be, and fell backward onto the ground where he writhed like a dying worm.
Jenjo shook his head. Based on the calm expression the boy had maintained until learning of his fate and on the fact that he had been decisive enough to pick which finger to lose in a span of maybe 3 seconds, he had hoped his victim would prove strong-willed enough to conscript as a potential combatant in the weekly fight club. What a shame it was that the kid’s reaction to the torture had been so typical. His hyperventilating lungs and feverish eyes demonstrated a pain tolerance that was only average at best. “Oh well,” he muttered. “You’re free to go now, kid.” Jenjo frowned. It should have been obvious from the start that anyone who couldn’t even manage to complete their daily quota on a consistent basis had no chance of being anything special.
Jenjo watched with some level of amusement as the boy staggered onto his feet and started hobbling away. Perhaps this boy has more willpower than I gave him credit for? It was by no means rare for someone to be able to walk away after getting tortured, but the people who did that were usually in much better health to begin with than this kid. Jenjo got his hopes up a second time, resolving to learn the boy’s name at some point if he managed to survive another month or two, but he gave up on this resolution a few moments later when the kid collapsed, evidently unconscious. Nope. Worthless.
The last thing Jenjo saw before leaving the stage and returning to his cabin were two people, one of which he recognized. It was Romulo, one of Jenjo’s favorite slaves due to his prowess as a combatant in the weekly fight club, and someone else—who carried a roll of bandages. Jenjo said nothing as the two rushed over to the kid’s unconscious body, scooped him up, and carried him away. He figured he could ask just Romulo about it later if he ever wanted to learn more, though he suspected he would never feel any inclination to do so.