Chương 56: 56：The Blood Colosseum

The captives shrieked, cowering and slumping into the mud. Amidst their panic, the steady squelch of heavy boots approached through the mire. Soren was helmetless, his dark eyes staring down at the huddled prisoners. The goblin scout, who had been dragged at the very rear of the procession, now stared wide-eyed, dumbfounded by the sight of the battle boots planted right in front of him. His gaze trailed up the boots until it met Soren's familiar face.

This little goblin—who had already suffered having his ears sliced off and fully expected to become crocodile food—began to tremble violently. His lips quivered.

"M-Master..." Scalding tears welled up in his eyes.

"Master really... came to save Little Ka..." Ignoring the tight noose chafing his neck, the little goblin frantically rubbed his head against the top of Soren's boots. Because the tip of his tongue had been severed, he could only let out muffled, agonizing sobs. Soren drew the bone-hilted dagger from his waist and delivered a precise slash. The tight knot binding the goblin scout's neck snapped instantly.

Wasting no words, he simply reached out with his broad hand and roughly but gently ruffled the goblin's bald, green head.

"As long as you're breathing."

"Head to the back. Ask Ein for a Minor Life Recovery Potion." Clutching the severed half of his rope, the little goblin scrambled and crawled his way behind Ein, weeping uncontrollably. This fierce display of protectiveness left the twenty rescued human captives absolutely dumbfounded. It also struck mortal terror into the hearts of the ten slaver mercenaries pinned to the mud. All this for a goblin? He mobilized over sixty heavy infantrymen? Just where did this madman of a lord come from?

Soren used his dagger to sever the ropes linking the rest of the captives. He swept his gaze over their shivering faces, his voice cold and blunt:"I am the Lord of Greywater Village."

"There are two paths laid out before you."

"First: you turn back right now. I will give each of you a hardtack biscuit to keep up your strength. But whether you make it out of this foggy swamp alive will be entirely up to your own fate."

"Second: you swear fealty to me. You follow me back to farm the fields, work the forge, and fight on the battlefield."

"I will arm you. I will keep your bellies full. And—" Soren pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the goblin currently getting bandaged.

"—As long as you are my people, I will never allow anyone to lay a single finger on you without paying the price!" Gulp. In the eerie silence of the canyon, the sound of heavy swallowing echoed consecutively. In this cruel, unforgiving world, they had just witnessed a heavily armored, elite military force march out solely to rescue a lowly goblin. The immense sense of security that provided instantly shattered any lingering doubts the human captives held.

"My Lord! I'll go with you! I used to be a butcher; I've got plenty of strength!" Ten of the relatively sturdier men dropped to their knees without hesitation, bowing their heads to the dirt. The remaining ten—composed of the old, the frail, and the sick—were still consumed by fear. They didn't dare join an army. Stammering, they begged to be allowed to leave. Soren had zero desire to retain cowards unwilling to fight for their lives.

"Gary, give everyone over there who wishes to leave a hardtack ration, and send them on their way." Having dismissed the dead weight, Soren turned around. Now, it was time to deal with the ten mutts who had sold out to the orcs. The scar-faced leader of the slaver squad was weeping, snot and tears running down his face as he frantically slammed his forehead into the mud:"M-My Lord! Please don't kill us! We were forced into this, we had no choice!

If you just let us go, we know the patrol routes around the Colosseum! We can tell you everything!" Soren walked over to Scarface and crouched down. His gaze drifted past the canyon, staring into the deeper reaches of the orc territory as his mind raced. Was this [Blood Colosseum] truly just an entertainment venue? No.

Logically speaking, with the frontlines locked in a state of high military tension, why would the Blackstone Tribe expend so much effort frequently capturing live prey just to throw them into an arena? It was highly probable that the high-ranking orc Warlords were conducting some massive, bloody ritual to their gods, or perhaps they were filtering out the strongest gladiators to serve as specialized cannon fodder. If his Greywater Village was going to truly establish a foothold, mere farming wouldn't cut it.

He desperately needed to understand the movements and layout of the orc leadership. Not to mention, if this place was genuinely a lucrative entertainment hub, it was bound to hold mountains of orc wealth—perhaps even the anti-magic crystals he so urgently needed. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

A frontal assault was out of the question; if his sixty-four men were surrounded by thousands of orcs inside the arena, it would be an absolute death sentence. They had to use their wits. A glint of sheer madness flashed across Soren's eyes. Under the shocked gazes of everyone present, Soren suddenly unbuckled his belt and began shedding his black iron armor. He ordered one of the newly recruited human captives to strip out of his clothes.

Without a hint of disgust, Soren slipped into the man's ragged, powerfully sour-smelling hemp tunic. Next, Soren crouched down, scooped up a handful of thick black mud, and smeared it ruthlessly over his own face, completely concealing his striking features. In just a few swift motions, the iron-blooded warlord vanished, replaced by an ordinary, foul-smelling prisoner with dead, numb eyes.

"My Lord! What are you doing?!" Ein and Gary exclaimed in unison, both rushing forward in an attempt to stop him.

"This is our best opportunity to gather intelligence," Soren said as he stood up. He picked up a length of coarse rope and purposefully bound his own wrists with a loose, easily escapable knot.

"I am going to enter that Colosseum myself and get a look at what's inside. We cannot afford to stay on the defensive forever." He turned his head, locking his icy, murderous gaze onto Scarface.

"You mentioned earlier that you were tasked with delivering these captives to the Colosseum, correct?"

"Now, you are going to proceed with your original plan."

"The ten of you are going to escort me—and me alone—inside." Scarface's jaw dropped in absolute terror, his breath catching in his throat. He wanted them to escort this demon of a man directly into the orc stronghold?!

"Listen very closely." Soren raised his bone-hilted dagger, pressing the cold steel right against Scarface's eyeball.

"Once we enter the outer perimeter of the Colosseum, you will lead me directly to the holding pens. If you so much as show a hint of panic, or attempt to alert the orcs..."

"... Long before a guard's blade can even touch my head, my dagger will have already pierced through your skull." This vicious threat was far more than mere words. The suffocating aura of a man who had crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood radiated from Soren. It broke the ten slaver mercenaries on the spot; several of them literally wet themselves, a yellowish stain spreading across their breeches.

"U-Understood... We understand!! We would never dare betray you!!" Scarface nodded frantically, smashing his forehead against the ground with loud thuds. Gary tightened his grip on his longbow, urging desperately, "My Lord, this is far too dangerous!"

"That is an entire encampment of orcs!" Soren coldly shut down the objection and began issuing his tactical orders.

"Execute the command. This is war!"

"Gary, Ein."

"Take all sixty-four elites, along with our ten new human recruits."

"You are to follow us from a safe distance. Get into position within their visual blind spots, stay completely concealed, and maintain your combat formations at all times."

"The moment you hear the sounds of battle erupting from within, that is your signal." Soren took a deep breath, his eyes sharp as blades.

"When the signal goes off, do not worry about my safety. Ein, you will ignite all the incendiary materials we brought to create absolute chaos. Gary, you will lead the men and charge into the breach at maximum speed to extract me."

"Yes, My Lord!" The sixty-four warriors slammed their right fists against their breastplates in unison. A short while later. Within the dense fog. Ten slaver mercenaries—forcing fake sneers onto their faces while their legs practically turned to jelly—acted as though they were herding sheep with whips. They "escorted" a ragged, mud-caked prisoner, slowly marching out of the muddy canyon.

A mile behind them, deep within the heavy mist, sixty-four pairs of cold, unblinking eyes melted into the shadows of dead trees and murky bogs. Like a pack of dormant wolves, they locked onto the group's path. Up ahead, the faint, haunting wail of warhorns, mingled with the savage, bloodcurdling roars of wild beasts, drifted over on the cold wind. The Blood Colosseum. They had arrived.