Chapter 149: The Gladiator Arena

With the relentless advance of the spikes, the distance between the "gladiators" inside the arena shrank continuously.

Bearing sharp blades and facing mortal peril, some people began to change in their eyes.

"Go to hell!"

White blade in, red blade out.

As the first person fell, the atmosphere shifted instantly. People who had been terrified and fragile moments before now seemed possessed by evil spirits, their faces contorted with ferocity and murder in their eyes.

Gazing at the corpse lying in a pool of blood, the survivors cast wary glances at everyone else. At this moment, no one could be trusted except the family members by their sides.

"The spikes have stopped!"

Someone cried out in pleasant surprise, discovering that the bizarre and terrifying spikes had actually come to a halt.

Hearing the voice, others looked around as well; indeed, the spikes had stopped moving.

We aren't going to be impaled to death?!

The thought had barely surfaced when it was smashed ruthlessly against the ground by reality, shattering into pieces.

The spikes began to move once more, though not as swiftly as before.

Darcytumon leaned back against his throne, his expression obscured by a golden mask covering half his face, though the upturned corners of his mouth remained faintly visible.

"Someone must die every minute, oh."

His sharp voice sent a chill down everyone's spine.

Inside the arena, some people panicked, dropping to their knees to plead for mercy from the surrounding nobles with a meager vocabulary. Others wept, burying their faces in the chests of their parents and elders. Some wore fierce expressions, tightening their grips on their blades and casting their gazes toward the others.

The spikes moved again. Constructed of sand, they could easily pierce right through them, and the danger of death compelled the people to huddle closer together.

When the cold blade could touch another, the air froze instantly. Everyone fell silent for a brief moment, and then the oppressive atmosphere of the arena exploded.

Roars meant to banish fear and wails of agony from blade-wounds drowned out the initial crying.

Blades swung toward those nearby. Centered around family units, a bloody gladiatorial combat involving nearly a hundred people officially commenced.

Aside from the children too terrified to comprehend, men, women, and old alike swung their knives desperately, their movements ruthless and every strike fatal. Their twisted faces showed none of the weakness they had displayed while kneeling on the ground just moments before.

In a society where only the most basic order was maintained, the law always protected the nobility and the ruling class, never the overwhelming majority of commoners. Commoners could only rely on themselves. Everyone harbored a savage native instinct, and killing meant very little to them.

They dared not resist the nobles, yet against their own kind, they struck harder than anyone.

Moreover, in such circumstances, once someone initiated an attack, others would instinctively retaliate immediately. When two parties became locked in a brawl, the body's defense mechanisms would subconsciously trigger the most violent counterattacks; at that moment, human reason was clouded.

It is difficult for a civilized society to imagine the darkness of an ancient, barbaric age, let alone to personally comprehend the sufferings of commoners and their ferocious nature.

The ruling class of the world held a very "clear" understanding of the lower classes, which could be summed up in a most apt phrase: the populace is foolish, base, and despicable; never foolishly attempt to trust the ignorant masses, for they will kill you over a loaf of bread.

The way to govern the common people consisted of the whip and the sword, coupled with a small piece of black bread.

Fresh red blood was splashed across the arena, the smell of rust permeated the air, and the emotions of the spectators were gradually ignited.

Some had excited eyes, some clenched their fists tightly, and others shouted aloud.

The spectators relished the impact brought to them by the slaughter below, displaying the ugliest and most primitive savagery of humanity. At first, not everyone had liked this barbaric bloodsport; some had even felt a degree of resistance, but they had no other choice if they wanted to survive.

Yet now, it was believed that the vast majority accepted it with pleasure. This most direct visual impact truly provided them with immense aesthetic enjoyment.

The slaughter among the ignorant masses actually seemed rather pleasant after all.

More than ten minutes later, the sounds of fighting gradually subsided. The grounds were already littered with corpses, and the only ones left alive were three people.

A petite teenage girl, an extremely robust and blood-soaked man, and another slightly frail-looking man.

The strongly-built man was covered in wounds, his left eye slashed by a deep gash that dyed his linen garments red. Holding a dripping blade in his hand, he walked step by step toward the man ahead.

The frail man was in no better shape; his injuries were even more severe than his opponent's. A short sword was thrust into his chest, but he knelt on the ground, supporting himself with the blade embedded in the earth.

As long as I kill him, as long as I kill him...

His remaining right eye drooped halfway, his vision growing somewhat blurred, yet his steps remained resolute.

"Don't... please..." the frail man begged in a hoarse voice.

"I don't want to die..."

"Neither do I."

The blade pierced his throat without hesitation, his carotid artery was severed, and fresh blood spurted directly out.

"I won!!!" The man raised both arms high and let out a roar.

The surrounding spectators excitedly rose from their seats and broke into enthusiastic cheers.

This was an exceptionally splendid performance.

"Daddy!" The little girl, who had been curled up at the edge, stumbled over and grabbed the man's thigh.

Tilting her head up to look at her blood-covered father, she let out pear-shaped tears sliding down her small face and said, "Daddy, you're bleeding so much!"

"It's... it's alright now..." The man dropped his weapon, reached out to gently stroke the girl's head, and comforted her, "Everything is fine now. Be a good girl, Fula, don't cry. In a bit, Daddy will take you to... catch mountain chickens... to eat."

Due to his heavy injuries and utter exhaustion, the man had to pause to breathe between words.

"Mm, Fula is very good," Fula nodded, wiping away her tears and fighting hard to keep from crying out.

Rustle, rustle, rustle...

A faint sound suddenly reached his ears. The man froze, abruptly lifting his head to see that those spikes were beginning to move again.

"Why haven't they stopped?!" The man looked upward, staring at the bigwig wearing the golden mask.

"Milord, I won! I won! Why haven't they stopped?!"

The man cried out in a breakdown.

Clearly he had won, and he could leave this place with his daughter, so why hadn't it stopped?!

Darcytumon grinned broadly and said, "The condition for victory was to kill everyone else."

"I already killed everyone else, they're all dead!" The man's voice suddenly faltered, his pupils contracting violently as he looked down and saw his own daughter.

"You go back on your word! You devil!"

The fury of being deceived instantly shattered his reason; the man actually dared to feel anger, to feel anger toward a noble.

Darcytumon did not care at all about this pariah's rudeness. His sharp voice was dripping with playful mockery: "That's right, kill her. As long as you kill her, you can survive. Come on, pick up the weapon, just a gentle stroke."

"Everyone, give this hero a bit of courage."

Darcytumon's words caused all the expressions in the audience seating to turn to entertainment; this outcome was also different from what they had imagined.

"Kill her!"

A plump merchant in the audience stood up, his face flushed and filled with excitement.

Once the first person stood up, a second would follow, and more and more people rose to their feet to "cheer them on."

"Kill her!"

"Kill her!"

"Kill her!"

In the arena, the most vicious entities were not the gladiators locked in slaughter, but the impeccably dressed spectators sitting in the stands.

They were like demons, their faces contorted, every breath seeming to carry a stench, every pair of eyes pressing down on him like a weight.

The spikes drew closer and closer, the shouts around them grew louder and louder, and cold sweat mixed with blood made the man's brain feel as though it had short-circuited.

Not knowing how much time had passed, the spikes were now only ten paces away from them.

The man stood completely frozen in place, while the girl continually shook her father's thigh, anxiously urging him on.

"Daddy, daddy."

Yet the man offered no response, as if his soul had left him.

Seeing that the spikes were about to touch them, the blood-stained dagger on the ground caught his eye.

At that moment, for reasons unknown, his mind went blank and his body moved of its own accord.

A cold flash of light, and the sharp dagger effortlessly pierced the skin and severed the artery.

Thud!

The girl collapsed to the ground instantly, blood flowing from her petite frame.

The man snapped back to his senses abruptly, dropping to his knees with a thud and hurriedly gathering the girl into his arms, trembling as he said, "Fula, what's wrong with you!"

What on earth had happened?!

At this moment, a dagger was stabbed into the girl's neck, one small hand clutching the hilt as fresh red liquid gushed out like a spring—this scene was identical to the one involving the person he had killed just moments before.

The girl named Fula opened and closed her mouth, making no sound and unable to produce any.

Daddy, Fula has been good...

She knew what the current situation was; that noble master had said if Fula didn't die, Daddy would be killed.

"Fula!!!" The man completely broke down, tears streaming from his fierce eyes as he let out a hysterical wail.

"Ah! Wuahhhhh!"

"Let us congratulate this hero!"

Darcytumon rose from his seat, a smile blooming on the corners of his mouth as he felt exceptionally pleased, gently clapping his hands together.

Clap, clap, clap, clap!

Enthusiastic applause rang out, and the spectators clapped to celebrate the victor.

To them, this was a most splendid performance, heart-pounding and gripping.

The spikes turned to dust, and the match ended.

Petals drifted down from the sky across the heavens, and this magnificent gladiatorial match came to a smooth conclusion.

Only the man remained, holding the corpse and wailing; the applause belonged to him, and the cries belonged to him as well.