Emotionless Swordsmanship Genius

Chapter 5: The Cruel Game (3)

Thud!

“Ugh!”

One of the eight arrows soaring in a graceful arc struck a slave right in the chest. The young male slave, running just behind, gasped and glanced back in horror. In the distance, he could see the soldiers already reloading their bows.

“Grrr!” He gritted his teeth, abandoning his straight path and starting to run in a zigzag.

While this slowed him down, it made it much harder for the arrows to hit their mark.

Thunk! Thunk!

Just as he expected, the arrows either fell at his feet or whizzed past, missing him by inches. He was almost at the hill. Just a little more, and he’d be safe.

The young slave clenched his fists, using every last bit of strength to run harder.

Meanwhile, as the slave ran out of range of the archers, the leader, watching from the center of the two teams, raised his hand and shouted, “Victory goes to Kostanzo’s side! Damiano’s team, prepare 5,000 shillings by tomorrow.”

“Yes!”

“Well done!”

One team erupted in cheers, while the other was surrounded by an air of tension, their faces filled with anger.

They quickly mounted their horses, prepared to chase down the escaping slave.

“Wait.”

The leader raised his hand again to stop them. He unslung his own bow from his back.

The slave had nearly reached the top of the hill, far enough that it seemed impossible for an arrow to reach him. But the leader didn’t hesitate. Still mounted on his horse, he drew his bowstring back.

Groan!

The tension in the bowstring was immense, fueled by the leader’s enormous upper body strength. The bow bent to its limits, and the string stretched as if it would snap.

Twang!

The moment he released the arrow, it cut through the air with a thunderous sound. The arrow flew like a streak of light, arcing toward the hill before piercing the fleeing slave’s chest with precision.

The slave, having crawled to the crest of the hill, collapsed lifelessly.

“Whoa!”

“As expected of our captain!”

“Batiah is the pride of Tripolas!”

The soldiers around him showered him with praise for his impressive archery.

Batiah, clearly pleased with the admiration, held his head high as he passed by the convoy of wagons and resumed his position at the front.

Karon had watched every movement, not missing a single detail.

The raw power of Batiah’s upper body, his solid lower frame, the swiftness and precision of his actions, and his sharp focus—these were all things Karon realized he needed.

The Tripolas were one of the Rob Empire’s elite cavalry units, carrying out diverse missions including combat, reconnaissance, and patrol.

Currently, their task was distributing the many slaves from the Colosseum to different outposts, a mission that boosted the Empire’s influence.

The Tripolas unit used the slaves for entertainment daily, easing the monotony of their escort duties by betting on their lives.

They made the slaves fight each other to the death, tied them to horses to see who could survive the longest, or competed to see who could kill the most in a set time.

The slaves were given just enough food and water to avoid starvation. Karon, for his part, focused on conserving energy and recovering his strength.

Whether it was luck or something else, Karon was never chosen as a sacrifice during these games. But the real reason lay elsewhere.

A week after the convoy set out, during a bitterly cold night, the slaves huddled together in their cages, trying to endure the freezing winds and sharp chill.

That night, a man approached Karon.

It was Batiah, who gazed down at him from his horse.

Sensing someone nearby, Karon raised his head and met Batiah’s eyes. Batiah studied Karon with a curious expression.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Interesting.”

His deep voice rumbled in Karon’s ears.

“If you’d truly been struck by Montecorato’s blade, you should have died by now. The fact that you’ve survived for a week… I suppose your wound has healed.”

Batiah spoke as if he knew Montecorato well.

Karon continued to stare at him, remaining on guard. Batiah could easily be one of Montecorato’s lackeys.

But Batiah’s next words surprised him.

“I’m not a fan of Montecorato either, but your luck will run out tomorrow. Unless you can perform another miracle, boy who survived the Colosseum.”

With a sly smile, Batiah turned his horse and headed toward his quarters. Only then did Karon relax his guard, watching Batiah’s back without emotion.

The truth was that Batiah’s Tripolas unit had always been at the forefront of battle.

But Batiah, who had gained notoriety as a formidable warrior, had ignored the Senate’s warnings to remain humble. As a result, he was assigned this lowly task of escorting slaves to the Colosseum as part of Montecorato’s schemes.

For a year now, Batiah’s unit had been stuck with this humiliating task. While they barely maintained morale through their games with the slaves, the unit’s dissatisfaction was nearing its limit.

Batiah, who had noticed that Karon had piqued the interest of Prince Merka, was now hoping the boy could stir up a new wind of change.

He hoped to ride that wind to restore his own honor.

The following afternoon, the convoy of wagons reached Palemon, a border city.

Palemon was located just beyond the southernmost edge of the Rob Empire. To the south was a raging sea, to the east, an endless desert, and to the west, an abyss-like cliff known as the End of the World.

The only way out was to the north, through heavily guarded gates that could only be crossed with special permission.

It was a naturally isolated place.

While many slaves were sent here, none had ever returned alive.

Of course, some slaves became gladiators and were sent to the Colosseum in the capital, but they were a rare few.

Despite its desolate location, Palemon was home to many people.

Travelers seeking entry into the Rob Empire braved the scorching desert and treacherous seas to settle here.

Naturally, where there were people, there was a Colosseum.

The only local official in Palemon was a man named Altanic, who oversaw the Hellum Colosseum, where bloody battles took place every day.

Today, Altanic was seated in the Colosseum’s highest box, watching the fight with a bored expression.

With his scrawny frame and hyena-like features, Altanic was known for using violence without hesitation if it brought him profit.

He ruled Palemon like a king.

But his reign was limited to this forsaken place.

Upon receiving an urgent report from his servant, Altanic hurriedly rose from his seat and made his way to the training grounds he managed. He sighed in relief when he realized the convoy hadn’t arrived yet and immediately began issuing orders to his subordinates and servants to prepare for the arrival of his guests.

Moments later, the convoy of wagons, raising a cloud of dust in the distance, came into view.

Batiah, leading the convoy, quickly rode his horse forward and stopped right in front of Altanic.

Despite the dust that swept over him, Altanic spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, showing no discomfort.

“Welcome, Captain Batiah.”

“It’s been a while, Altanic.”

Altanic, the local administrator, spoke with respect, while Batiah, the commander of the Tripolas unit, addressed him informally. Although, by rank, Altanic should have been superior, he was merely an insignificant official in a remote region, while Batiah was a recognized commander, even in the capital.

More importantly, Batiah was the one who supplied him with slaves, a crucial part of Altanic’s operation.

“You must be tired after such a long journey. I’ll have a place prepared for you to rest while you refresh yourself with some wine.”

“Very well.”

Altanic personally escorted Batiah, confident that his deputies and overseers would handle the rest of the convoy’s duties.

As soon as they reached the dining hall, Batiah began gulping down wine. Altanic, sensing the captain’s mood, cautiously asked, “It’s unusual for you to bring slaves without any prior notice. Did something happen in the capital?”

“Nothing but the whims of that insufferable Montecorato.”

“Ah, yes,” Altanic quickly bowed his head, not daring to delve further. Montecorato’s influence might not reach this far, but he was still a figure to be wary of.

“When will you start sorting?”

“It should begin shortly.”

“I’ll oversee it myself this time.”

Batiah’s sudden interest caught Altanic off guard. “You mean, personally?”

“Why? Is there a problem?” Batiah’s tone turned sharp, making Altanic quickly shift his demeanor to one of appeasement.

“Of course not. In fact, I’ll join you personally in the sorting. But first, let’s enjoy our meal.”

“No. Let’s finish this quickly. I need some rest.”

“Understood. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

At his command, a servant rushed off to relay the orders. As Altanic watched Batiah, he couldn’t help but feel a strange curiosity about the captain’s unusual behavior.

“How long do you plan to stay this time?” Altanic asked, attempting to gauge the situation.

“I’m not sure. That’s not up to me to decide,” Batiah replied with a cryptic smile, leaving Altanic more puzzled.

An hour later, as the sun began to set, Altanic and Batiah stood on the second-floor terrace overlooking the training grounds.

Below them, nearly 100 slaves were lined up in rows according to age.

At the front of the group stood a bald man covered in scars, as if his entire body were a canvas for tattoos. In his hand was a tough leather whip.

His name was Marku, the head overseer of the training grounds.

“Let’s begin,” Altanic said, and Batiah gave a slight nod in response. Altanic raised a long staff, signaling the overseer below.

Marku, seeing the signal, began sorting the slaves, starting with the oldest.

Female slaves were separated to serve as attendants or sold again if they weren’t valuable. Male slaves deemed unfit for gladiatorial training were sent to the coast for fishing or construction work.

The ones who showed potential for becoming gladiators were grouped together and further divided by age.

With nearly 100 slaves to go through, Altanic initially took the process seriously, but soon began to lose interest. Batiah, who had shown interest at first, now seemed indifferent, which made Altanic question why the captain had even chosen to observe.

‘What’s the point of overseeing this if he’s not going to care?’ Altanic thought, glancing at Batiah, who stood silently with his arms crossed, still observing the proceedings.

Finally, it was time to sort the youngest slaves, and Karon’s turn was approaching.

“Next, next!” Altanic waved his staff dismissively, barely glancing at the younger slaves as he sent most of them to labor assignments. They were too young to be worth the time and money it would take to train them.

“Wait.”

Batiah, who had been silent for the past hour, suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Altanic’s wrist, halting his movements.

“W-What is it?” Altanic stammered, startled by the captain’s sudden action.

Batiah leaned in close, whispering into his ear.

“You should pay more attention to that boy. He’s the one who survived the ‘Beast’s Assault’ in the Colosseum.”

Altanic’s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to study Karon more closely.

The boy appeared weak, his body thin and frail, with no signs of vitality. His eyes were dull, devoid of any spark of life or will to survive.

‘Is this really the boy?’ Altanic wondered.

He knew about the “Beast’s Assault” event—children rarely survived it. Those who did were usually sharp and gifted with natural talent for combat, often nurtured into exceptional gladiators.

Why, then, had this boy been sent here? How had someone like him survived? And why was Batiah so interested?

Though filled with questions, Altanic decided not to ask them aloud. He would find out soon enough by watching how the boy performed in the next trial.

In the end, Karon was selected for gladiator training.

Out of nearly 100 slaves, 50 were chosen. These were then divided into groups of five, creating ten teams in total.

Each team was led into one of ten small, oval-shaped cells. The slaves seemed clueless about what was happening, their faces reflecting confusion and fear.

Once all the slaves were inside, the overseer locked the iron doors behind them.

Standing in the center where all the cells were visible, the overseer raised his voice and shouted, “Only one of the five in each cell will walk out alive. In one hour, if more than one remains, they will all be executed.”

Clank!

As soon as he finished speaking, a small dagger was dropped through the bars of each cell.

Instantly, all eyes in Karon’s cell shifted to the dagger, which had fallen directly at his feet.

The four other slaves in the cell stared at the weapon, their gazes filled with both fear and desperate determination.

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