The servant soldiers quickly adapted to Lord Ice Storm's killing intent.
Even when the "Mithril Ripper" gave a shriek that tore through the air and swept over their heads, and icicle-like killing intent stabbed from the crowns of their heads straight into their spines, they could suppress the fear in their hearts and join Lord Ice Storm in launching an attack.
But there was something else that was not so easy to adapt to.
That was the Reaper's hands.
Even now, Spider still did not know where this mysterious and unfathomable "Reaper," with black hair and black eyes, had come from.
At first, everyone had been deeply grateful to him.
Because Ye Zi had told them that it was entirely thanks to the Reaper persuading Ice Storm that "trash" like them—crooked melons and misshapen dates who would never be chosen by other Gladiators—had been lucky enough to escape that dungeon that had devoured countless ratfolk lives.
The Reaper had brought them food with a smiling face and taught them how to adjust their breathing and sleep soundly. His seemingly harmless manner gradually lowered their guard.
Although the crisscrossing wounds all over his body were enough to make one's heart pound in alarm.
Still, with injuries that severe, he could not possibly do anything more to them, could he?
Such childish thinking was simply disastrously wrong.
In truth, the Reaper had not forced everyone through any excessively difficult training.
He had merely said that, after they had eaten their fill and slept enough, Lord Ice Storm had asked him to give them massages, loosen their muscles and bones, and adjust their force exertion.
Some well-traveled Ratfolk Servant Soldiers had heard that wealthy and powerful Clan Lords kept many Ratfolk Servants who were skilled in massage techniques passed down through generations. After