Episode 5: Cruel Games (3)
Thud!
"Gahk!"
One of eight arrows tracing a graceful parabola pierced precisely through the slave's chest.
The young male slave running right behind startled and turned around, spotting someone reloading a bow in the distance.
"Grrk!"
Gritting his teeth, he stopped running straight and suddenly began zigzagging. Though slower, this increased his chances of dodging arrows.
Thwack! Thud thud!
As he predicted, arrows either landed at his feet or whizzed past. Just a bit further lay the hill. If he could just reach it!
The young slave clenched both fists and ran with all his might.
Meanwhile,
As the slave escaped bow range, the leader watching from between both teams raised a hand and shouted while pointing at one group:
"Costanzo’s side wins. Damiano’s team must prepare 5,000 shillings by tomorrow."
"Ooh!"
"Excellent!"
One team rejoiced while gloom settled over the other, their faces uniformly filled with rage. They immediately mounted horses to recapture the fleeing slave.
"Wait."
The leader stopped them with a raised hand, then drew his own bow from his back.
The slave was already climbing the hill. Though clearly beyond normal arrow range, the leader nocked an arrow while mounted.
Creeeak—
Snap!
His tremendous upper body strength bent the bow near to breaking as the thick string stretched taut.
Twang!
The arrow flew at light speed with an air-rending sound, perfectly piercing the escaping slave’s chest. The slave crawled uphill before collapsing.
"Oh!!"
"As expected! Our captain!"
"Captain Vatia is Triphoras’ pride!"
Soldiers rushed to flatter his archery skills. Not disliking the praise, Vatia stiffly raised his head and returned to lead the convoy.
Karon observed every detail—the powerful physique, swift precise movements, sharp eyes, and concentration. Everything Karon needed to possess, Vatia had.
The Triphoras unit was one of the Rob Empire’s cavalry divisions handling diverse missions from combat to reconnaissance. Currently, they distributed Colosseum slaves to outposts to elevate the empire’s prestige.
From that day onward, Triphoras relieved their convoy boredom by gambling with slaves’ lives daily—forcing them to fight to the death or run tethered to horses all day, betting on endurance or kill counts within time limits.
Slaves received just enough rations to avoid starvation. Karon conserved energy to recover his strength. Surprisingly, he was never chosen as a sacrifice—for reasons rooted elsewhere…
One week into the transport, on a frigid night huddled in cages…
A man approached Karon on horseback—none other than Vatia himself.
Karon looked up at Vatia’s intrigued expression studying him curiously.
"Fascinating," came Vatia’s deep voice piercing Karon’s ears. "Had Montecorato’s dagger struck true, you’d be dead already. Surviving a week suggests your wounds have healed."
He spoke knowingly of Councilor Montecorato. Karon remained wary—this could be one of Montecorato’s agents.
"I’m no admirer of that illustrious councilor either," Vatia continued unexpectedly, "but your luck ends tomorrow… unless you conjure another miracle… Colosseum-surviving boy."
Leaving a bitter smile, he rode off. Karon finally relaxed his guard, watching Vatia’s retreating figure…
The Triphoras unit, once the empire’s vanguard, had been reduced to menial transport duty for a year. Vatia’s arrogance—ignoring the Senate’s advice to remain humble—led to Montecorato’s schemes exiling them here. They barely placated their soldiers’ discontent through slave games, but even that had limits…
Having noticed Karon caught Prince Mercas’ eye… Vatia hoped this spark might fan winds of change to restore his honor…
The next late afternoon, the convoy arrived at Palemon, a border city just beyond the Rob Empire’s southern edge. To the south lay raging seas, to the east an endless desert, and to the west cliffs dubbed the world’s end.
The only exit—heavily guarded northern checkpoints—made this a natural prison. Countless slaves entered, but none left alive except rare gladiators returning to the capital’s Colosseum.
Though shabby, the city thrived with people braving deserts and seas to enter the empire. Where crowds gathered, an arena inevitably rose—here, the Helium arena owned by Altanic, the local administrator.
Hyena-faced and wiry, Altanic ruled like a king here, wielding violence freely for profit. That day, he sat in Helium’s VIP seat watching bloodshed with boredom until a servant’s urgent report sent him scrambling to prepare for guests.
Soon, dust clouds announced the convoy’s arrival. Vatia halted his horse before Altanic, who spread his arms despite the choking dust.
"Welcome, Captain Vatia!"
"Long time, Altanic."
Though regional administrators outranked cavalry captains, Altanic—a minor frontier official—deferred to Vatia, who brought valuable slaves. After a rushed meal, Altanic cautiously inquired:
"First time you’ve delivered slaves unannounced. Trouble in the capital?"
"All thanks to Councilor Montecorato’s whims."
Altanic hastily bowed, though Montecorato’s influence didn’t reach here.
"When will classification begin?"
"Immediately, likely."
"I’ll observe today."
Altanic stiffened. "You personally, Captain?"
"Problem?"
"N-none! I’ll oversee it myself. Let’s eat first—"
"No. Finish quickly."
At dusk, they stood on a terrace overlooking the training grounds. Nearly 100 slaves stood in lines, overseen by Markus—a scarred, bald man with a whip.
Women were sorted as servants or resold. Men deemed unfit for gladiator work were sent to fishing or construction. Potential fighters were grouped by age.
Altanic grew careless with the tedious task, especially as Vatia showed no interest. Why bother observing then? he thought, side-eyeing the silent captain.
When sorting children, Altanic waved his baton dismissively—training them was too costly.
"Next! Next!"
Suddenly, Vatia grabbed his wrist.
"Watch that one closely. The sole survivor of the Colosseum’s ‘Beast Onslaught.’"
Altanic scrutinized Karon—emaciated, lifeless, with vacant eyes. The ‘Beast Onslaught’ cherry-picked brilliant, talented children. Why was this wretch here?
Without questioning, he assigned Karon to the gladiator group. Fifty slaves were divided into teams of five and herded into oval cells.
As iron gates clanged shut, the overseer bellowed:
"Only one leaves each cell alive! Cells with多于one survivor in an hour will be beheaded!"
Clang!
Daggers clattered through the bars. In Karon’s cell, the blade landed precisely at his feet. Four pairs of eyes locked onto it.
