The Whipping

Vero and Spartacus ate with such focus, as if they were nobles seated in a fragrant, comfortable villa dining hall, quietly enjoying delicious oysters and fresh fish (Romans favored anything that boosted virility), rather than eating rancid bread smeared with filth and stinking beef in this foul-smelling cesspit, where the excrement and urine reached their waists.

Then Spartacus closed his eyes to rest, while Vero simply sat in the cesspit and stretched comfortably, as if he were one of two lazy male lions beneath a shady tree on a summer afternoon in Africa's Okavango Delta, their bellies full of fresh meat and their jaws spread wide as they prepared to sleep.

"Damn, those two big brothers have iron stomachs and nerves of steel." Little Fatty felt outclassed.

Kirk thought for a moment, took a bottle of clean water from his Space Mark, and tossed it to Vero. These two brothers had pretty extreme tastes, but they couldn't drink urine. Fortunately, Little Fatty's Abnormal Metabolism talent made him hungry quickly. He'd packed his Space Mark full of all sorts of food and drink, and even had to use up his own space.

Vero caught the water and glanced at Kirk in surprise. Then he opened the bottle, took a drink, and tossed it to Spartacus. Spartacus opened his eyes—a rare occurrence—took a sip, and set it aside.

After that, the two sides had no further interaction. It wasn't until evening that someone came by, tossed down a rope, and told them all to climb out.

"I want you to start training at once and make up for the lessons you missed because of your stupidity!" The black trainer, Dochet, bared his teeth and roared, cracking a shiny black whip.

As for Kirk and Little Fatty, he ignored them completely. In his eyes, two raw materials for gladiator training weren't even worth talking to. Did anyone talk to a punching bag?

Fortunately, some slaves soon came to take them away. Before leaving, Kirk glanced back and saw Omos whipping Vero and Spartacus as they trained. The two men wielded long wooden practice swords and fought fiercely.

Kirk and Little Fatty were led into a "pen." You heard right: it was a place enclosed by logs, like a cattle pen. And inside were about twenty Contractors!

This time, Spartacus was set in Arena Mode. The Space had sent in a large number of Contractors. This was a kill mode, with bonus rewards. As the two men were shoved inside, many Contractors eyed the unlucky pair with ill intent. They were soaked in filth from head to toe and stank to high heaven. Some female Contractors frowned and kept as far away as they could.

Others watched them with envy, jealousy, and resentment. Contractors had been through thick and thin; what hadn't they suffered? If they could spend a day in close contact with the protagonists, some would gladly eat shit, let alone be tossed into a cesspit! As long as there was something to gain.

Kirk and Little Fatty found an empty spot and sat down. They knew this was a dangerous time and couldn't afford to let their guard down, so they took turns keeping watch. Little Fatty went to sleep first, while Kirk watched the first half of the night. They would switch for the second half.

Night fell and the moon rose. Huge fish-oil bonfires were lit throughout the camp. From the training ground came the constant groans of Spartacus and Vero. Both men were as tough as lions, with iron wills. Just imagining how much pain they had to be in to make those sounds was enough.

Kirk was deep in thought. No Contractors nearby seemed to be awake now; snores rose and fell all around him. But only each person knew whether they were truly asleep.

Things were grim. The Space's intentions were as obvious as those immortal masterpieces that Edison Chen had made of Cecilia Cheung: they were practically written in red letters.

Killing!

Not only had it made clear that killing would go unpunished, it had also increased rewards by 20%. Even more tempting to the Contractors was the guarantee that [Valuable Items] and [Soul Crystals] would drop!

A [Soul Crystal] (Fragment) had never been listed for less than 10,000 Survival Points on Las Vegas's Space marketplace, yet it was always unavailable. Kirk had asked the young woman, Yuqing, at the Upgrade Hall about it before. Soul Crystals were essential for raising a Contractor's skills above level six. Since every Contractor had run into the level-five bottleneck, and Kirk himself had five skills stuck at that threshold, it was easy to imagine how high the demand was.

And finally, at the end of the scenario, additional rewards would be calculated according to the number of [Soul Crystals] collected! It was like dumping another bucket of oil onto a blazing fire!

In this scenario world, all the Contractors were slaves, confined to the training camp. They had no chance to go out and farm, and no time to take on side quests or hidden quests. All their gains had to come from killing one another. A scenario world could only be entered once every seven days, so time was an opportunity cost. If you wasted this chance and came away with nothing, you'd fall behind by a whole world. The next time you fought an enemy, you might die at their hands over that tiny difference, becoming a cold, bloody key! A small gap could mean the difference between life and death.

Could they kill the gladiators? Don't be stupid. First, these gladiators made their living by killing people. Contractors were human punching bags for them to practice killing on, so they were not to be trifled with. Second, gladiators were slaves and penniless. If they had money, they'd have bought their freedom instead of squatting in cesspits all day. Could you afford to get hurt trying to ambush slaves who had nothing to lose, feared no death, and were especially good at fighting?

Kirk sneered coldly. The Contractors probably all had the same goal now: turn everyone else into a blood-red key and stash them in their Space Marks, then claim the Soul Crystals for themselves.

Dawn came without a word exchanged all night. Everyone stayed wary of one another; nobody made conversation or tried to build a rapport. As for whether anyone had secretly made plans or formed alliances, only those involved knew.

"Raw materials! Get up!" A hulking man roared as he lashed his whip at the huddled Contractors. His name was Barka, a brutal, hulking gladiator skilled in combat. He was also Bartikos's bodyguard and sometimes served as an assassin. He was in charge of managing these "raw materials."

"Don't think about running away. Yesterday, someone already found out what happens when you try. I assure you, being thrown into a cesspit was a blessing from Jupiter! I spoke with Bartitas last night, and he agreed with me: we'll show zero tolerance for escape attempts. If anyone else runs, our rookie gladiators—who are itching to get blood on their hands—will have something to do. Maybe they've already grown impatient waiting." Bakar bellowed.

"Bakar's right!" A lazy voice sounded from behind them. It was Bartitas. In a gloomy tone, he enunciated each word. "Well, well, look at you. I spent a whole hundred gold coins buying you from the slave market, and now the training camp is in serious financial trouble. That price was even higher than what I paid for Cress, the God of War! You're all my personal property. According to the great laws of Rome, if you want to escape, you must pay the price! Bakar! Make an example of those two slaves from yesterday!"

Kirk and Little Fatty were quickly dragged out of the "cattle pen" by the attendant slaves and tied to a wooden post. Bakar grinned savagely and raised his whip!

"Crack!" Little Fatty began screaming after the very first lash. His Stamina was already up to 10 points and his Health Points had reached 140, but he still couldn't take even one hit.

Kirk couldn't help crying out either. The whip was vicious. It was braided from dozens of strands of the finest, thinnest cowhide, soaked in olive oil for ten days, dried in the sun, then soaked for another ten days. This process was repeated ten times, so the hide's toughness and the oil's softness were fully fused. The tip was then wrapped in lead-bearing metal. When the whip came down, it first clung to the skin as if a leech were burrowing into it. Then came the scorching pain as the metal tip tore into the flesh. With a flick of the wrist, the executioner stripped away a patch of skin, leaving bloody tissue and raw flesh. The leaded tip carried a mild toxin that prevented the wound from healing and left deep scars.

After twenty lashes, both men were on the verge of death. Kirk struggled to raise his head and saw pairs of Contractor eyes staring at them. Beneath the grins, jeers, indifference, and contempt lay a deep, bone-chilling greed. They looked like a pack of Arctic Wolves drooling over two wounded moose with injured hind legs!

So you're hurt from the whipping? Good. I'll find a chance to send you to your deaths, then gladly claim your Bloody Keys!

Kirk lowered his head. Blood dripped from his forehead onto the ground, where the sand was golden yellow. The Mediterranean breeze blew in from afar, and the scorching sun beat down on the wound on his head. Everything was so hot that he could barely breathe...

The bright red blood dripped onto the sand and was absorbed in less than a second, just like the lives of gladiators lost in the arena...

So this was Blood and Sand...

Mori's face was right in front of him, shouting. Kirk couldn't hear him, but he knew what he was saying!

Kirk's eyes reddened. Blood seeped from their corners, and his eyes became as fierce and violent as a lone wolf cornered and driven to desperation!

If you want my life, you'll have to pay with yours!

Kirk and Little Fatty were dragged over and dumped on the ground. Bartitas shouted, "You two are always so lucky. To protect my property, you can skip training today! You'll return to normal training tomorrow!" Then he turned to the black trainer, Dochet, and said coldly, "Get to work!"

Little Fatty was beaten until his skin was torn and he didn't even have the strength to speak. He'd grown up in a well-off family, pampered and sheltered. He'd never suffered like this before. He groaned and muttered, mostly about killing Bartitas and Bakar.

Kirk was calmer than ever. Here, the gladiators were not his greatest enemy, nor was Bartitas. They were private property, and Bartitas wouldn't let them die easily. But the Contractors were different. They had every reason to covet his and Little Fatty's lives!

Thinking of the last line of the System Prompt—"Beware your back"—Kirk clenched his fist tight.